Chapter 58
her!”
The punk screamed at Becker, “Megan belongs to my friend Eduardo! You stay away from
“Where is she?” Becker’s heart was racing
out of control. “Fuck you!”
“It’s an emergency!” Becker snapped.
He grabbed the kid’s sleeve.
“She’s got a ring that
belongs tome. I’ll pay her for it! A lot!”
Two-Tone stopped
dead and burst into hysterics. “You mean that ugly, gold piece of shit is yours?”
Becker’s
eyes widened. “You’ve seen
it?” Two-Tone nodded coyly.
“Where is it?” Becker demanded.
“No clue.” Two-Tone chuckled. “Megan
was up here trying to hock it.”
“She was trying to sell it?”
“Don’t worry,
man, she didn’t have any luck. You’ve got shitty taste
in jewelry.” “Are you
sure nobody bought it?”
“Are you shitting me? For four hundred bucks? I told her I’d give her fifty, but she wanted more.
She was trying to buy a plane ticket–standby.”
Becker felt the blood drain from his
face. “Whereto?”
“Fuckin’ Connecticut,” Two-tone snapped.
“Eddie’s bummin’.”
“Connecticut?”
“Shit,
yeah. Going back to Mommy and Daddy’s
mansion in the burbs. Hated her Spanish
homestay family. Three Spic brothers always hitting on her. No fucking hot water.”
Becker felt a knot rise in his throat.
“When is she leaving?”
Two-Tone
looked up. “When?”
He laughed. “She’s long gone by now. Went to the airport hours ago. Best spot to hock the ring–rich
tourists and shit. Once she got the cash, she was flying
out.”
A dull nausea swept through Becker’s
gut. This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it? He stood a long moment. “What’s
her last name?”
Two-Tone pondered the question
and shrugged. “What flight
was she taking?”
“She said something about the Roach
Coach.” “Roach Coach?”
“Yeah. Weekend red-eye–Seville, Madrid, La Guardia. That’s what they call it. College
kids take it ‘cause it’s cheap. Guess they sit in back and
smoke roaches.”
Great. Becker groaned, running a hand through his hair. “What time did it leave?” “Two
a.m. sharp, every Saturday
night. She’s some whereover the Atlantic by now.”
Becker checked
his watch. It read 1:45 p.m. He turned to Two-Tone,
confused. “You said it’s a two a.m.
flight?”
The punk nodded,
laughing. “Looks like you’re fucked,
ol’ man.” Becker pointed angrily to his
watch. “But it’s only quarter
to two!”
Two-Tone eyed the watch, apparently puzzled. “Well, I’ll be damned.” he laughed.
“I’m usually not this
buzzed till four a.m.!”
“What’s the fastest way to the airport?” Becker snapped. “Taxi stand out front.”
Becker grabbed a 1,000-peseta note from his pocket and stuff edit in Two-Tone’s hand.
“Hey, man, thanks!” the punk called after him. “If you see Megan, tell her I said hi!” But Becker was already gone.
Two-Tone sighed and staggered
back toward the dance floor. He was too drunk to notice the man
in wire-rim glasses following him.
Outside, Becker scanned
the parking lot for a taxi. There was none. He ran over to a stocky bouncer.
“Taxi!”
The bouncer shook his head. “Demasiado temprano. Too early.” Too
early? Becker swore. It’s
two o’clock in the morning!
“Pídame uno! Call me
one!”
The man pulled
out a walkie-talkie. He said a few words
and then signed off. “Veinte minutos,” he offered.
“Twenty minutes?!” Becker demanded. “Y elautobus?” The bouncer shrugged. “Forty-five minutos.”
Becker threw up his hands. Perfect!
The sound of a small engine turned Becker’s
head. It sounded
like a chainsaw. A big kid and his chain-clad date pulled into the parking lot on an old Vespa 250 motorcycle. The girl’s skirt had blown high on her thighs.
She didn’t seem to notice. Becker dashed over. I can’t believe I’m doing this,
he thought.
I hate motorcycles. He yelled to the driver. “I’ll pay you ten thousand pesetas to take me
to the airport!”
The kid ignored
him and killed the engine.
“Twenty thousand!” Becker blurted. “I need
to get to the airport!” The kid looked
up. “Scusi?” He was Italian.
“Aeropórto! Per favore. Sulla
Vespa! Venti mille pesete!”
The Italian eyed his crummy,
little bike and laughed. “Venti mille pesete? La Vespa?” “Cinquanta
mille! Fifty thousand!” Becker
offered. It was about
four hundred dollars. The Italian laughed
doubtfully. “Dov’é la plata? Where’s
the cash?”
Becker pulled five 10,000-peseta notes from his pocket and held them out. The Italian looked
at the
money and then at
his girlfriend. The girl grabbed
the cash and stuffed it in her
blouse.
“Grazie!” the Italian beamed. He tossed Becker the keys to his Vespa. Then he grabbed his girlfriend’s hand, and they
ran off laughing into the
building.
“Aspetta!” Becker yelled. “Wait! I wanted a ride!”
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