Road Rules Online

“See?” said Koradovich, his sizable feet propped up on his desk.  “That wasn’t so hard.  And with less than a week before we get paid, you’ll never miss the cash.”

Mason stood before the desk and held onto the wad of cash.  “I’m not sure about this, Andre.  We had a deal.”

“That we did, my friend, but the police are altering the deal.  I agreed to this originally on the assumption you’d run some sort of interference for me.”

“I can only do so much.”

Koradovich dropped his feet to the floor and clucked at Mason.  He picked up his phone and made a show of looking though his day planner.  “That’s too bad, Timmy.  I’m afraid I’m going to have to call Mr. Aston after all.”

Mason shoved the wad back into his jacket pocket.  “I don’t care.  You’re a two-time loser with a questionable business rep.  I, on the other hand, am a good citizen.  I’m married, work a decent job, and pay my taxes.  The most egregious thing I have on my record is a speeding ticket.  What were you in for again?”

Koradovich grinned, sort of like a wolf about to attack.  “Armed robbery the first time.  Assault the second.  I’d sure hate for your bloody and battered body to be the reason I become a three-time loser.  But that’s how I usually deal with welshers and deadbeats.”

“Alright, alright.”  Mason took out the wad again.  “Before I give this to you, who’s your mule?”

“My what?”

“The mule.  The courier.  Who’s taking the Chest to Franco?”

“One of my best repo guys.”

“Who is it?”

Koradovich held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.  “Money first.”

Mason huffed and handed him the cash.  “Who?”

“Mason, you are so easy to fuck with.  You know that?  Our mule’s name is Stan Yarazelski.”

Mason paled.  He started to sway.  “You’re entrusting a five-million dollar stolen holy relic to him?  Are you fucking insane?”

“You were the one who sent him to me for a job.”

“As a repo guy.  Not…  this.  Fuck.”

“Look, he’s done right by me so far.”  Koradovich counted the money.  “And you’re two hundred dollars short.”

“It’s all I could get on such short notice.  Andre, do you know what a complete fuckup he is?  He sold weed to the same undercover cop twice.”

Koradovich laughed.  “Yeah, I like them nice and stupid.  Like I was telling Beamer yesterday, idiots follow orders.”  He shoved the wad into his pocket. “Relax.  He has no idea what he has.  As far as he knows, he’s running a little errand for me to Miami.  By the time he gets back, we’ll be paid, and he’ll think all he’s done is bring me back a 1968 Cobra, or whatever the hell Franco’s giving up from his collection.”

Mason started to say something when his phone began to play “Lips Like Sugar” by Echo and the Bunnymen.  “Mason.”

Mason’s face began to change.  He smiled now, ready to sell some unsuspecting soul enough bullshit to turn Nevada into a rain forest.  “Good morning, Lieutenant.  What can I do for you?”  His expression changed again, the slick smile becoming a silent “Oh, shit.”  “Really?  Andre the Giant.”  He glanced at Koradovich and nodded.  “So he owns Cossack, eh?…  Ride shotgun?  Tell you what, Lieutenant.  I just got out of the shower.  I’ll never get up there in time.  Why don’t you go ahead and question him, and I’ll check in with you later…   Yes, I agree.  It’s a big break.  My best to Father Petrelli.  B’ bye.”  He folded the phone.  “That was Lieutenant Estevez from Major Crimes.  He’s coming to talk to you.”

“So much for keeping the police out of my ass.  I’d say you misspent your forty-eight hundred dollars.”

“Maybe.  I gotta go stop Yarazelski before he fucks us over though.”

“You do that, Mason, and you’re on your own.”

“So are you.”

Koradovich patted his pocket.  “Yes, but I’m nearly five thousand dollars richer.”

“No, seriously.  If there’s this much shit hitting the fan, I should take the Chest to Franco myself.  Where’s Yarazelski now?”

“Well, he said something about leaving at eight this morning.  Since he’s on a tight deadline, I’m assuming he’ll take the fastest route to Miami from here.”

“I-77.”  He looked at his watch.  “I can catch him.”

“Do you know what he’s driving?”

“How can I miss it?”   Mason turned to leave.

“Mason.”

“Yes?”

Koradovich had his hands laced behind his head.  “Try not to fuck this up if you find Yarazelski.  I may be forgiving once the police finish giving me an anal probe, but Franco….  He’s a very strange man.  And he’s not as forgiving as I am.”

Mason glared at him.  “Who the fuck do you think you are?  Darth Vader?”

As soon as the office door shut, Koradovich said, “Stupid prick.”

Sharon cursed herself for oversleeping.  The previous night, she had parked her car in a vacant lot near the forgotten Bates motel where Yarazelski lived.  The alarm on her cell phone went off at six, but she’d found herself too tired to move.  By seven, she realized she needed to get a shower and a quick, if rather unhealthy, fast food breakfast.  She went over to the truckstop at the end of I-76 and used the truckers’ facilities to clean up, more than once getting propositioned by lonely over-the-roaders with twenties in their hands.

By the time she returned to her spot, Yarazelski had started toward Wadsworth.  Thankfully, he took the old US route instead of the freeway, which made him easy to follow.  She only caught up to him when he stopped at his friend’s apartment around eight.  Parking in a factory lot down the street, she could watch where he went.  He drove past and turned onto the main highway toward the freeway interchange.  She fell in behind him.

They headed toward Akron.  Sharon wondered if they intended to go to Youngstown or maybe Pennsylvania.  The state line was only an hour or so to the east.  Yarazelski, however, opted to take the bypass through Akron’s southside.  For a moment, she thought they might be going into one of the more depressed neighborhoods.  If so, getting those keys might mean getting her car stripped.  One more thing to make her question this little adventure.

Yarazelski and his friend didn’t get off the freeway, except to hop onto I-77 toward Canton to the south.  She followed suit.  Maybe they were going to Canton or even West Virginia.  Or maybe…

They couldn’t be going to Florida.  Could they?  Did she want to keep this up?

If she wanted her job back, she sure as hell had no other choice.

Stan Yarazelski pulled up to Mike’s apartment complex at eight sharp.  To his surprise, Mike stood there waiting, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.  True, he’d never taken the proverbial road trip.  He obviously knew how to pack for one, though.

“Throw it in the backseat,” said Stan.  “The buyer’s got something in the trunk he wants kept under wraps.”

Mike hesitated before opening the back door.  “He’s not running drugs or guns, is he?  Who is this guy, anyway?”

Stan shrugged.  “Don’t know.  The guy paying me said I could have the cops sniff out the car with dogs if I wanted.  Sounds solid enough to me.”

“If you say so.”  Mike tossed the bag into the backseat and got in up front.

Stan eased the car back out into traffic.  A couple of turns and a mile up the road later, they reached I-76.  Stan pointed the car toward Akron and opened up the four-barrel carburetor before he even cleared the entrance ramp.

“I might not be coming back,” said Mike.  “I’m thinking maybe I’ll stay down there.”

“You never really did leave home,” said Stan.  “Did you?”

“I went to Miami.”

“Of Ohio,” Stan said, wondering why in the hell they called it “Miami” when  it had nothing to do with Florida.  “Down by Dayton.  You never really left Ohio.”

“No.  And frankly, I couldn’t care less if I come back again.”

Stan laughed.  “Mike, you’re going to need this trip more than me.”

Fifteen minutes later, on Akron’s decaying south side, they reached I-77 and headed south for Florida.

Chapter 6

“Do you miss me, Mike?”

Myron Blake cradled the phone while he rubbed his temples.  The hangover pounded his skull.

“Shit,” he said under his breath.

“What?” said Deanna on the other end.

“Not you,” said Blake.  “I’m just not feeling well.”

“Oh.  Mike, is this a bad time?”

He looked at clock on the DVD player.  It flashed “12:00.”  He turned his attention to the microwave oven.  It read “7:12.”

“It’s seven AM on a Saturday morning,” said Blake.  “What do you think?”

“Oh, sorry.”

Blake decided to bite the bullet and got out of bed.  “Why are you calling me now, anyway?”

He found a fairly clean shirt behind the dresser.  Holding it up, he decided it had no noticeable stains and tossed it over his shoulder for when Deanna finally got to her point.

“Mike, I miss you,” said Deanna.

His jeans.  He’d spilled beer on them at the bar the other night, but they seemed to have dried.  He tried pulling them on while still cradling the phone.  “Uh-huh.  You miss me.”

“Doesn’t that mean something to you, Mike?”

“Deanna, why are you calling me at seven in the morning?  What’s going on?”

“I’m lonely.”

Oh, Christ, he thought. Here we go again.  “And what am I supposed to do about it at this point in time?”

“You know the Comfort Inn over in Guilford?”

Mike smiled in spite of himself.  He and Deanna had gone there for a few lunchtime lays back in the day.  “Yes.”

“Why don’t you meet me there today at noon?”

Mike froze.

“I’ll wear my black teddy,” she cooed.  “The one you used to like to rip off of me.”

Oh, yes, Mike did indeed like ripping that teddy off Deanna.  Then he liked punishing her for being a naughty, naughty girl.  Deanna would squeal and giggle as he pinned her down, then squirm and protest as he had his way with her.  That was then.  And now?

“Deanna,” he said, “you’re a married woman.”

“I married you, silly.”

“That’s not the point.  You’re married to someone else now.”

“You didn’t mind being with me the night before my last wedding.”

That’s because I wanted your new husband to find out, he thought.  “Deanna, it’s over.  You made your bed.  You can just fuck Timmy in it.”

“Mike…”

“Stop calling me.”

“But, Mike…”

“I mean it.  I’m tired of this bullshit.  Working with him is…  was…  bad enough.  Did you have to leave me for him?”

He hung up, fastened his jeans, and pulled his shirt over his head.

The microwave now read 7:16.  Stan, if he could be trusted, would be here in less than forty-five minutes.

“Goddammit,” he muttered as he tossed what few clean clothes he had left into a bag.