"How'd you know it was us?"
"Unlike the cops, I don't need proof. Garvak, the one you kicked in the truck, described the size of one of the men, and it matched Napoleon Graham. And of course how the other gunman was so concerned for this wounded man's condition." He smiled, stepping closer. "And that championship run up the hill could only have been you, Zelmont. Now let's get that money, yeah?"
"Sure."
One of my neighbors was coming home. I recognized the putt-putt of the beat-to-hell car that always dropped her off at this time. She was Guatemalan or something, and she worked swing at some bindery. The car door closed and her footsteps were coming down the walkway.
"Oh," she said when she came into the crowded stairwell.
"Hi," I said, moving to the side.
Chekka looked at Cannon, who was picking up homegirl off the ground.
"Hey, baby, I told you to be cool on that Hennessy" He was bent over, trying to lift her cold-cocked ass up.
The little Latina started hurrying up the stairs, smiling nervously at us as she went. I was gonna toss her like I did with hook knife woman, but Chekka was wise. He patted the gun in the deep pocket of his leather coat. I let the chick go on up.
"Let's go." Chekka twitched his head toward the street.
Cannon let my girl drop with a thud. That was cold.
"Who's driving?" I asked.
"The coach. You and me will ride together in back."
"Great."
So off we went to fuckin' Oz. Now maybe Dorothy and Toto and the Tin Man might have had an idea of where to go, but I sure as shit didn't. I didn't know if Wilma was in town or had skipped off, making me the biggest dupe of all time. I was more upset about that than the fact Chekka had a rod on me and was gonna gat me as soon as he figured out I had no clue as to where the dough might be.
"Where we going, Zelmont?" Cannon played with the rear view mirror, looking at my face in it. "You give up the money and everything's cool, right?" He started his ride, a Navigator with a dented bumper. He clicked the automatic floor shift into drive and we took off.
"Of course." Maybe coach wanted to really believe Chekka so it would make his guilty conscience feel better. But both of us knew Chekka wasn't planning on letting me so much as scratch my balls for one second after I showed him to the swag. As if I could.
"We gotta jet down to Alhambra."
"Why?" Chekka jabbed me in the gut with the barrel of the gun.
"That's where we hid it, at this clinic that Doc Burroughs owns a piece of."
"Who is this?" Chekka growled.
"He's a needle freak players go to when they're starting to lose their edge. It makes sense, Rudy."
"Very well," he said, sounding like he bought the lie.
We rode along, the night passing by with me trippin' off the notion that it might be my last look. But I figured I still had one chance left, and I made my move as we hit the on ramp to the 105 going east. I kicked out with my heel at the floor shift, hoping to send the car into reverse.
"Watch it," Chekka screamed.
As I kicked, I had fallen against Chekka, hoping to wrap up his gun hand. The kick was good, and the Navigator slammed into reverse. Someone driving behind us had to swerve wickedly as the Navigator smashed into the concrete wall lining the on ramp. I kept kicking Cannon as he tried to get the car going forward.
Meanwhile me and Chekka were mixing it up. I had ahold of his arm and was shoving myself against him for all I was worth. The gun went off and ripped a hole through the roof. Cannon had the SUV in the right gear again and got going.
''Nigger," Chekka hollered. He hit me on the side of my face with his free hand.
But I did what he wasn't expecting. I lurched forward, holding onto him as the car took off up the ramp again. We were moving onto the freeway and our bodies slipped into the opening between the two front seats. Cannon put a hand on the gear selector to keep it in place, but that meant he had to steer with one hand while me and Chekka went at it.
"Get him off me." Cannon batted at me with his arm while he concentrated on keeping the car straight.
The gun went off again. The bullet penetrated the front windshield, a spider web spreading out from the center where it had punched through the glass.
Me and Chekka were all over the back seat, throwing blows and yelling at each other. Traffic kept whizzing by us. Maybe the people in those cars didn't see what was going on inside, or maybe they did and figured with all the road rage in L.A. it was best not to get involved. I threw another kick, catching Cannon upside his temple. At the same time, Chekka got me good in the stomach and I went slack for a moment or two. He was bringing the gun around on me. Thinking he was gonna pop one of my knees, I twisted my body and threw all my weight against him, grabbing his arms with whatever strength and energy I had.
"Get him settled down," the coach yelled. He was looking back at us and swerved the SUV into another lane. A big-wheel truck blasted its horn at us.
Like it was when I was on the field, the action seemed to slow down. I was in the zone and I could see the opportunity present itself as Chekka brought the gun up. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears and the blood rushing like lightening through my torso. As his finger twitched on the trigger I rammed his forearm with the heel of my hand. Chekka's gun now pointed at the back of the driver's seat and the barrel jerked when the bullet left it. The shot went through the seat at an angle.
"Fuck, you idiot, you shot me." Cannon gritted his teeth but managed to keep both hands on the steering wheel. I did my best to grind my foot into the wound in his stomach, and also tie up Chekka's gun hand.
"Zelmont, for Christ's sake," Cannon shouted, beating at my foot and ankle with his hand. Chekka got on me and I rammed against the back of the passenger seat. Our weight made the seat back snap forward, and I shot up against the dash. Cannon was trying to control the car as he drove on the freeway, but I could tell out of the corner of my eye the wound was bothering him.
"Black nigger," Chekka screamed. He pumped off another shot, blowing out the car's radio.
"Watch out," Cannon hollered. The blood was leaking from his side and had stained his shirt and pants.
I grabbed Chekka and rolled us into Cannon.
"Goddammit." The steering wheel came loose from the coach's hands as we plowed into him. The SUV swerved toward the concrete divider as cars hit their breaks and tires screeched. Somebody rear-ended us as the Navigator bounced off the divider. The SUV shot back into the number two lane as some chick in a red Mustang came barreling along. She made to zoom around us but clipped the coach's vehicle on the ride side, dead across the door.
By this time more cars were honking and screeching to a halt. The chick in the Mustang was pointing at us to pull over, like three dudes duking it out in a Lincoln Navigator was something ordinary.
I got hold of the steering wheel and whipped the front end into the Mustang. The cars came together in a 'V' and slid along the freeway. A Lexus rammed into the Mustang's bumper and the Navigator went up on the divider going too fast. The damn truck skated along on two wheels and then tipped onto its side. This was getting to be a habit. Our momentum kept us going until we slammed into the rear of a pick-up truck.
The front windshield exploded as I got a grip on Chekka's jaw. I propelled the top of his head into the door handle and didn't wait to see if he was disoriented or not. I latched onto the coach and started to wiggle past him to get out of the driver's side window, which was now pointing up towards the night sky.
"Zelmont, you've got to help me." His seat belt was still clicked in place. He had his head back on the seat, holding himself with his arms crossed. It was as if he were afraid his spirit might leave him forever.