Road Rules Online

Stan began swearing as he worked the wheel back onto the car.  “Dammit.  Two of the lugs are bent.”  The trunk lid bounced and rattled as he wrenched the wheel back and forth.  He stood up and slammed the lid shut before finishing.  “Man, I hope the buyer doesn’t notice this.”

“We’ve pulled a lug nut off the other three wheels,” said Mike.  “Of course he’s going to notice.”

“Who is this mysterious buyer, anyway?” said Cinnamon.

“Some guy named Franco,” said Stan.  “We’re not even meeting him. We’re meeting a guy named Loman.”  The wheel finally slid into place.  “This isn’t going to be even.  Think someplace will be open in Charlotte?”

“I would hope so,” said Mike.

“Hey, look,” said Cinnamon.

Stan looked up to see a Lexus with Ohio plates pull up behind them.  Out of the car stepped…

“Tim Mason, as I live and breathe,” said Stan.  He noticed the sudden scowl on Mike’s face.  “I see you and Mike have been staying in touch.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” said Mike.

“And why do you have your hand behind your back?” said Cinnamon.

Mason smiled at them.  “Having a little car trouble?”

“Just a flat,” said Mike.  “We can handle it, thank you very much.”

Mason’s hand came from behind his back, revealing the Beretta 9mm in his hand.  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”  He pointed the gun at Cinnamon.  “You.  Halle Berry.  Toss your bags out of the car.  You three are now hitchhiking.”

Stan gave the lug wrench a couple of turns.  “Mason, I can’t exactly give up the car.  And do you want to be holding a gun on us along a crowded Interstate?”  It was then he noticed how close Mason had come with the gun and that he had his back to the traffic, angling himself so the gun stayed hidden.

Mason pointed the gun upward and fired.  “No.”  He jerked the gun at Cinnamon again.  “Now toss out your bags, or Cleopatra Jones here gets it.”

Julian Franco bought the mansion in Bay Point Estates in the late nineties from a rapper now doing 10 to15 years for manslaughter in a New York prison.  It was as far from Little Havana as Franco could get without leaving Miami.  Anymore, he never had to leave Bay Point, though the club scene drew him out every Friday night.

He paused in his great room to watch a couple of sailboats bob on the choppy Atlantic.  In the distance, he could see bands from Hurricane Effie.  The storm had tracked northwest toward the Panhandle, but Miami still caught the far edge of it.  No matter.  Franco enjoyed the view outside regardless.

The view, however, hadn’t drawn Franco from his private chapel.  The screams had.  After his phone call with Mason, the screaming began.  He made his way down to the bar in the basement.

Loman waited for him at the foot of the stairs.  Tall and gaunt, Loman looked like a vampire.  Franco doubted the man saw direct daylight more than two or three times a month, and only if Franco had some task he couldn’t do after dark.

“That’s Ashby,” said Loman.  “Idiot drove right up to the gate and asked to see you.”

(continue reading…)

Mason was convinced the truckdriver in front of him had been the truckdriver in Duel in the Sun.  He might even have to lure this guy over the side of a mountain before he reached the North Carolina border.  For whatever reason, the guy in the Winn Dixie semi seemed to delight in riding his bumper, blowing around him, and cutting him off, only to let Mason pass once more.  The process would then start again.

Somehow, Mason jockeyed a position in the right lane after blowing through the Wytheville interchange.  The trucker began making his razor-close pass again, easing over to cut Mason off one more time.  Mason jammed his brakes, and let the semi blow by, harmlessly moving to the right a few hundred yards down the road.  He slowed to sixty to let the truck put some distance between them.

His phone rang.  “Tim Mason.”

“Mr. Mason,” said a low, slightly accented voice.  “This is Julian Franco.”

“Mr. Franco!  How are you?”

“I am displeased, Mr. Mason.”

A chill ran down Mason’s spine.

“I have received a disturbing phone call from our friend, Andre,” said Franco.  “He informs me the police and the feds have raided him twice in the last twenty-four hours, that you have failed to run sufficient interference for him.”

“Mr. Franco,” said Mason, “I can assure you, the Chest is on its way to you.”

“But will it get here?  That’s the important thing.”

“Mr. Franco…  Julian…”

“’Mr. Franco.’”

“Let me assure you, I am now in Virginia.  I personally will take over delivery from our mule and bring it to you myself.”

“You guarantee it?”

“I do.”

“That’s good, Mason, because if that Chest disappears, so will you.  Understood?”

Up ahead, Mason saw something that made his heart soar.  He reached over to the glove compartment and took out the Beretta.  “Mr. Franco, I will be in Miami no later than noon tomorrow.  If I’m delayed, I will call you and tell you exactly where I am.”

“That’s all I want to hear, Mr. Mason.  The Lord be with you.”

“Er… And also with you.”  He hung up and pulled the Lexus over behind the disabled Cadillac.  Seeing the look at Stan Yarazelski’s face did Mason’s heart good.

Sharon went with Mike while Stan unloaded the trunk.  They’d put a quarter mile between them and the wheel, so it would be quite a walk up the highway.

Thank God I didn’t wear stiletto heels with this get-up, she told herself.  The bra and Daisy Dukes were bad enough.  They were getting her cat calls and blaring horns from passing cars and semis.

One passing truckdriver shouted, “Nigger whore!”

Sharon turned to glare at him, even though he was long gone by the time she’d turned.  What she saw, though, made her stop.

Yarazelski was heaving something big out of the trunk.

“Mike?  What’s he taking out of the trunk?”

Mike stopped to look as Stan hoisted the crate over the guardrail, leaving it out of sight to passing traffic.  “He told me the buyer was having something shipped in the Caddie’s trunk.  It’s in that crate.”

Sharon shook her head.  “I don’t like it,” she said more to herself than to Mike.

“Relax.  You’re getting off in Daytona, and I’m ditching Stan in Miami.  Let’s go get that wheel and get on with it.”

Sharon started after Mike.  “Are you really staying in Miami?”

Chapter 11

Stan stopped for a potty/snack food break in Wytheville, Virginia.  Cinnamon offered to drive the next leg, which would take them to Charlotte, North Carolina.  To Mike’s surprise, Stan handed him the keys instead.

“You just gas her up next time we fill the tank,”  Stan snarled at Cinnamon.  With that, he headed to the men’s room.

They stayed only fifteen minutes, Mike and Cinnamon taking in the mountain scenery as they waited for Stan to emerge.

“Hope he didn’t get the clap in Charleston,” said Cinnamon.

Mike laughed.  “He is a trip.  Our senior class voted him class freak.”  Mike started laughing again.  “Next stop, remind me to tell you the snowman story.”

“The snowman story?”

He looked at his watch.  “I have to tell you the snowman story.”

“Is it sick?”

“Isn’t Stan?”

They leaned against the car laughing.  Stan came out and stopped, staring at the pair.

“What’s so funny?”

They both burst out laughing again.  Mike got behind the wheel before Stan could press him on the subject.  “Stop in Charlotte, right?”

“Yeah.  What was so funny?”

“Private joke,” said Cinnamon.

They had been on the road less than thirty minutes when Mike felt a vibration coming from the rear passenger side.  “That a good spare on the car, Stan?”

“I suppose.”  Stan craned his neck to see behind the car.  As he did, the car dropped in the back and started making a screaching noise.  “Fuck!”

Mike checked the rearview as he struggled to control the car.  Behind him, the wheel Stan had replaced back in Ohio rolled across three lanes of traffic, forcing a minivan and a semi to swerve in ways they weren’t designed to handle.  The wheel rolled into the guardrail, bounced once, then twice, off it, and wobbled onto its side like a spun quarter.  The surrounding cars and trucks slowed down and gave the Caddie a wide berth to get over.  Mike shoved the gear selector into neutral and let the Caddie drift onto the right shoulder.

“Fuck!” Pounding the dashboard, Stan kept shouting, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”  He stopped when Cinnamon smacked him in the back of the head.  “Hey!”

“Calm down,” said Cinnamon, her Southern twang suddenly gone.  “Let’s see if we can put it back on, then take it to the next town to fix it.”

“Who’s going to fix it out here?”

“Next town is Galax, above the Carolina border,” said Mike.  “It’s only two o’clock.  There has to be a garage open.”

“May I remind you,” said Stan, “we aren’t in Cleveland anymore?  We’re in the goddamn Virginia mountains.  Who’s going to fix this relic out here on a Saturday afternoon?”

“Let’s just try and get the wheel back on the car,” said Mike.