Tats Too (20 page)

So, I lean back like a pitcher on a mound and wind up. My aim is straight and true. My useless gun spins through the air like a knuckleball and conks Goodfella square in the back of his head.

His knees lock and he falls face-first into the gravel.

“I owe you,” Mikey says simply.

“Yeah, well, I sliced through all your fuel lines, sorry ’bout that!” I yell. I run to Viv, managing to grunt, “Third base, James Polk Junior High, two years.” I grab her by the arm, pull her to her feet, and we both sprint for my bike. We hit the saddle at the same time, I turn the key, start the engine and scream onto the road. I hit sixty before I even get to fourth gear and eighty by the time we pass the city limits.

I’m not wearing my glasses so water streams down both my cheeks and the road is like looking through an aquarium. I use my eyelids like windshield wipers blinking on high.

I hold steady around ninety, constantly checking my mirrors. After maybe ten miles, I slow and slide onto an onramp for a four-lane. I don’t know what highway it is or where it leads, but as long as it’s far away from gangsters and bikers, I’m happy.

After a couple of heart-throbbing, pants-pooping minutes, I ease down to eighty-ish and start to breathe easy. There’s only one pair of headlights behind us and they belong to a car.

The car’s coming up fast, though. I speed up to ninety plus and it still gains on me.

Goddammit.

It must be Toxic. Or even one of the Mafia guys. They’re harder to kill than some damn cockroach. I don’t know who it is, but they’re intent on catching us and I’m intent on not getting caught.

Shit.

I open my throttle even more.

They stay with me for a little, then speed up and sniff my ass.

They’re in a Nissan. Who knew those little fuckers could go so fast?

The striped yellow line turns solid, buzzes and lifts off the asphalt, lashing around curves like a whip. I ride in the passing lane, shooting by a couple of bleary cars to my right. A hundred and five. I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat above the rush of wind.

I lean into the tank and concentrate on the road in front of me with Vivian glued to my back. I’m coming up fast on two cars. They’re running side by side, one in the left lane, one in the right, going maybe seventy mph. They either don’t see me barreling down on their asses or they think I’m going to slow down.

They’re wrong.

Vivian sees what I’m getting ready to do and hugs me with her whole body.

I punch the throttle and ride the yellow stripe right down the middle of the two cars. I have maybe three inches of knee room on either side as I slice right between them.

I edge back into the passing lane and watch in my mirrors as the Nissan gets stuck behind the cars.

I open the throttle all the way, watching the needle hit a hundred and twenty and push higher. Gotta put some distance
between us and—

Headlights round the curve coming right at me.

Fuck.

This isn’t a four-lane. It’s a two lane.

And that’s a semi-truck coming at us.

In the next two seconds, I dump the gas and try to decide whether to get back in the right lane or head for the left right-of-way—

—I feel Vivian turn loose and leave the seat behind me.

My heart screams, I swear I actually hear it scream, or is that Vivian? No, it’s the semi’s brakes.

I’ve always heard that when you die you’re supposed to see your entire life flash before your eyes.

That’s not true.

What I saw was more like one of those little flip books. The ones where cartoon characters dance a little jig as you run your thumb across the corner of the pages. When you flip through it real fast you see the mouse dancing. But if you look page by page you notice big time lapses in between each page.

That’s what it was like to me. Picture after picture with big time jumps in between: Headlights. Bike sliding sideways on pavement. My legs stretch out before me. Bike flying though air. Double sets of tires on either side of me. My arms covering my face.

That’s all folks.

I know I’m in heaven because I hear angels singing. I float on my back and tune-dial my ears until the voices come in clearer. Angels sing something about teaching the world perfect harmony.

I’m craving a Coke.

My eyelids pop open. I’m not in heaven. I’m in a hospital bed with TV sounds drifting in from somewhere down the hallway. And what I really want is a Dr. Pepper. And a cheeseburger.

“And that’s number ten on our list of top twenty music moments that rocked television. Number nine coming up right after this commercial break.”

I sit up and my brain spin-cycles, knocking inside my head like an overloaded washing machine. I plop back down and close my eyes.

A tube bites into the top of my right hand. And another tube
is sinking its teeth into my you-know-where and not in a good way either. I use my left hand to yank them both out.

Better.

Where’s Vivian?

I open my eyes, but this time I sit up slower. I must still be drunk on that cheapo tequila present from Mikey because my brain’s all foggy soggy and I have to double-concentrate to make my body parts obey.

Where’s Vivian?

The bed next to me is empty. The blinds are drawn but I can see light behind the slats so I must’ve done some sleeping since the wreck.

A nurse bustles in, cooing stuff like “Lay back down, honey, you shouldn’t have pulled those out, that’s a naughty girl” and other shit I don’t listen to.

My words grate out through coarse sandpaper lips, “Where’s Vivian?”

“Who’s Vivian?” she asks, gently pushing me back onto the bed.

“The woman with me,” I say. “The other woman in the wreck. She bailed off the back of my bike. Where is she?”

“There was nobody with you, honey. It was just you and the trucker, but he escaped with just few bruises.”

“Vivian,” I mumble, pushing the nurse back and sitting up. I jump to my feet but have to grab the bed so I don’t fall. “Vivian was behind me. Where is she?”

“Sit back down,” she says firmly, grabbing me under the arms and trying to get me back in bed.

I push her and she stumbles back. “Where the hell is Vivian?”

I can hear the hysteria in my voice and it expands inside me, fills me up like a helium balloon. I float for the door, bouncing off the bed, chair and walls, yelling, “Vivian? Where’s Vivian?”

The nurse grabs me by my hospital gown, tugging on me, but I keep going, dragging her down the hallway with me one slow foot after the other, still screaming, “
Vivian!
”

The hall fills up with people, all of them in green or white, all of them trying to grab me. I ricochet off hands and chests and bellies, flinging my arms out each time I almost fall, and I never
stop screaming for Vivian.

And then I start hallucinating big time because I see Chopper. He saved my life one other time, back when I got shot trying to rescue Vivian from that bastard, Prince Charles. Him and his whole motorcycle gang rode in and saved my ass. Chopper can’t be here, saving me again, can he?

But there he is right in front of me. He’s real and he’s here. He takes my face in his hands and he looks horrible; he looks stricken, I fall into his arms, sink to my knees and he curls down with me and lets me nudge my nose under his strong shoulder and cry while he holds me tight against his body.

Chopper’s body is strong and holds me still like a vise-grip, sheltering me against the rest of the world, and I suddenly know what it feels like to be protected and have a father’s love shelter you from the world, and even though he’s not my real father, I know I couldn’t love him any more than I do at this second.

“Vivian’s dead, right? Vivian’s dead,” I sob. “I killed her in the crash.”

“Vivian wasn’t with you, kid,” he whispers to me, reassuringly. “I don’t know where she is, but she wasn’t in the accident.”

“She was!” I yell. I climb up Chopper’s body and the wall and somehow manage to get back on my feet. I grab the closest doctor by his stethoscope and jerk him toward me, screaming “All you motherfuckers tell me where she is! Tell me where my Vivian is!”

Chopper pulls me back into his arms, but a bunch of whitecoats pry me away. Two men hold him back while the rest grab my arms and legs and I try to wrench myself free.

I scream. I scream as they lift me up in the air and carry me thrashing and flailing back down the hall. I scream while they hold me down me on the bed and strap my wrists and ankles to the side bars. I scream while they give me a big elephant shot of something. And when I don’t have any voice left, I scream inside my head.

***

Next time I open my eyes, my brain is waterlogged with drugs. I have a fistful of cottonballs in my mouth. I can’t even feel my toes anymore. I can see them move under the sheet but I can’t feel them.

It’s dark outside the window. How’d it get dark so quick?

I think Vivian’s dead and they’re just not telling me.

She was on back of the bike, and I felt it the second she left the saddle and now she’s not here so that must mean she’s dead.

They have me tied down like I’m crazy. They only do that to the crazies.

So, it’s finally happened, I guess. My brain has snapped. My mind has unhinged itself from my body. I’m crazy. I’ve always heard that if you’re truly crazy, you don’t think you really are. I don’t think I am, so maybe I really am. But that means that I think I am, so maybe I’m not.

Oh my God, whatever drugs they’ve given me are going to make me crazy if I’m not already.

I’m pretty sure by now that I truly am crazy and that’s why when I see Vivian unbuckle my ankle and wrist restraints, I turn my face away and ignore her. She’s not real. I’m hallucinating. Or maybe she’s a ghost. I’m seeing dead ghosts just like those Winkle sisters.

She’ll go away if I pretend I don’t see her.

“Think you can walk on your own?” she asks.

Great. Not only do I see her, but now I’m having auditory delusions, too.

She shakes my shoulder a tiny bit. “You hear me?”

“Go away,” I say. “You’re a ghost.”

“I’m not a ghost,” she says. “I’ll explain it all. I just have to get you out of here first. We have to sneak out. Those Mafia bastards have guys posted out by the nurse’s desk in the lobby.”

I turn my head and look her over. For some weird reason she’s wearing a black cowboy hat, black jacket and black snakeskin cowboy boots with tight Wrangler jeans. “You’re dressed weird.”

“Get up.”

I lean up on my elbows. This puts me face to tit with her. “You’re not real,” I say.

“I’m real,” she says, taking a step back. “Now sit up.”

I reach out, place my hand on her tit and give it a squeeze. “You feel real,” I say.

“Get your hand off my tit,” she says.

“Get your tit off my hand,” I counter with a giggle.

Damn, these are some mighty fine drugs. It’d be a damn shame to let such good drugs go to waste. I reach out, grab her ass with both hands and pull her down on top of me. “I like the cowgirl thing. Let’s fuck. Keep the hat and boots on.”

I grab her by the back of her neck and force her lips to mine. It only takes me about four seconds to realize something’s not right. It’s all in the kiss.

This isn’t Vivian.

I push whoever away and whisper harshly, “Who the fuck are you?”

“You’re coming with me,” she says, flipping open her wallet to show me a shiny badge.

Cowgirl Cop hops off the bed and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, which offends me some, but I don’t have time to think about it too long before she grabs me under my arms and lifts me to the floor.

We slow dance for a few seconds until I realize she’s not wanting to dance, she’s wanting me to walk.