Hit & Mrs. (8 page)

“I don't want to be here when the police come. Maybe they'll think we killed him,” Bette said.

“We did kill him,” Augusta said. “Oh God, can't we call the police and leave?”

Linda planted her hands on her hips. “Are you serious? We can't dump a body and take off. You didn't even want me to use Stuart's credit card to pay for this trip. Now you want to be involved in a hit and run?”

“Well, he started it.”

Linda pointed at the body. “We'll have to move him, or he's road–kill.”

“I can't touch him. I can't,” Augusta said.

“Grab his shoe, then.”

“But are we supposed to move a body?” Bette asked. “Won't the police want to draw a chalk line around him? You see that in movies all the time.”

“Never mind, Bette,” Augusta said. “I'm freezing. Let's just do it.”

The friends gathered around the body. They each took an appendage and attempted to lift him off the road. They dropped him as a group.

“He's a dead weight,” Bette said.

“Brilliant observation,” Gemma replied, “but he's not going to weigh any less in the next two minutes.”

“Let's drag him,” Linda said. So they reached down and two women took each arm and pulled with all their might. He moved another couple of inches.

“This is insane,” Augusta cried. “We'll be here all night.”

“We can't leave him now. Pull,” grunted Linda.

They pulled, and he slid a few more feet towards the ditch.

“This guy needs to go on a diet.” Gemma wiped the rain out of her eyes.

“Stop talking and pull.”

They finally developed a rhythm and were a little more coordinated as they reached the edge of the road.

“Uh-oh.” Linda stumbled backwards. “Damn.”

“What's wrong?”

“My heel broke.” She reached down and picked up her broken shoe, all the while hanging onto Gemma for balance. “Do you know how expensive these were? They're Jimmy Choos. Oooh, I wish this guy was alive, so I could kill him all over again.”

The others let the man's arms drop in the dirt, so they could examine the damage.

“They're ruined.” Linda leaned over the man. “Do you have any idea what you've done?” She put her newly flat shoe on and stuck the heel in her pocket. Just then, lights from an approaching vehicle came towards them.

“There's a car,” Augusta said. “Flag it down.”

“STOP! STOP!” They ran towards the car and waved their hands about.

The car slowed, but once the headlights hit the four banshees, the petrified woman behind the wheel put her foot on the gas and shot past them going eighty miles an hour, showering them with muddy water in her wake.

They stood like scarecrows for a few moments before beating the mud off their clothes with their hands.

“This goes from bad to worse,” Linda said. “Now my Dior suit is ruined.”

“Why didn't she stop?” Augusta cried.

“Would you? Look at us.”

“Gemma's right. No one's going to stop.” Linda headed for the car.

“Where are you going?” Gemma asked.

“To get my cell.” Linda grabbed the phone out of her purse and hurried back to her friends. “I've never called 911 before…hello? Yes, I'd like to report a dead man. Sorry? No, we killed him, but it was an accident. He was trying to rob us. What? I have no idea where we are. We're under an overpass and…”

“Oh my God, look.”

Augusta pointed down the darkened street. Coming at a fast clip was a gang of youths, headed straight for them.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Gemma yelled. “Hoodlums. Run!”

Linda ran back towards the car, limping on her uneven shoes. The other three took off in different directions. “Girls, get in the car! Get in the car!”

Linda hopped behind the wheel and turned the key. She forgot the engine was still running. A blast of metallic screeching put her in a panic and she shut the motor off.

The other three ran towards her. She turned the key once more. The engine sputtered. She tried again. No luck. Heart pumping out of her chest, Linda looked in the rearview mirror and saw the gang catching up to them. They were close enough for her to see their weapons.

“Get in the goddamn car now,” she bawled out her open window as the engine roared to life. Bette dove into the front seat. Gemma was a little too slow for Augusta's liking; as Gemma tried to climb in the back, Augusta placed her foot on Gemma's ample backside, shoved her in, and then jumped on top of her.

Linda took off with the back door still swinging open, tires squealing. Two pairs of legs hung out over the side.

“Hurry, Linda,” Bette shouted.

The car wove from side to side as it zoomed down the street and into the night.

The stickball players couldn't believe their eyes. Four crazy ladies jumped in a car and took off before they had a chance to help change their flat tire.

The catcher spied the body first. “Holy shit. There's a dead guy over here.”

“Are you sure he's dead?”

The catcher felt for a pulse and nodded.

The second baseman pulled out his cellphone to call the police.

The pitcher stopped him. “Wait. What if the police think we did it?”

“But—”

“Do you want to take that chance? The guy's dead. There's nothing we can do for him now.”

“Yeah, but…”

“We're black and the victim's white. Need I say more?”

They took off like scalded cats.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Can you see them anymore?” Linda kept her eyes glued to the unfamiliar road.

Gemma glanced out the back window. “No. They're gone. We're okay.”

“We're not okay,” Augusta said. “I'm sitting on a gun. What do I do?”

“Don't touch it,” they yelled at her.

“But it might go off. Can't I throw it out the window?”

“No,” Gemma said. “Your fingerprints will be on it. And what if a kid picked it up?”

“You're right.” Augusta scooted over and practically sat in Gemma's lap to get away from it, as if it were a huge black bug.

“I have to stop for a minute.” Linda pulled over and dropped her forehead onto her knuckles as her hands gripped the steering wheel. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

Bette reached over and massaged her neck. “You're all right, Lin. Good job back there. I'd still be running if it wasn't for you.”

“Where are we?” Augusta asked.

Linda raised her head. “I have no idea.” She looked around. “There's a sign, but I can't read it.”

“Just a sec,” Bette said. “Pass me my purse, Gem. I need my glasses.”

Gemma reached down and passed it over. Bette zipped it open, fumbled around inside, and took out a teddy bear.

“What the…”

Linda frowned. “What's that?”

“OMIGOD.”

“What?”

“It's the wrong bag. It's the mother's bag. She has my bag. I had six hundred dollars in that bag. What should I do?”

“Stop saying
bag
,” Linda said. “Calm down. Let's think.”

Bette shook the bear. “What a goddamn night this has turned out to be. I can never go home now. Ida will run me over when she finds out about the money…”

Augusta interrupted her. “Look inside and see if her name is in there somewhere. I'm sure she'll get in touch with you. What mother wouldn't be frantic at the thought of her child's missing toy?”

“A young girl who looks like she could use six hundred bucks,” Bette said. “Oh God, my glasses, my driver's license, my health card, and my money are all gone. Not to mention my airline ticket and passport.”

No one said anything. It was too much.

Bette remembered something and patted down her coat. “I have my cellphone, at least.”

Augusta squinted at the sign. “The only name I recognize is Harlem. Isn't this a bad neighbourhood?”

“According to the Lonely Planet, it's as safe as any part of New York,” Linda said.

“Well, that's cold comfort,” Gemma said. “We were accosted by a criminal ten seconds after we stepped outside the airport.”

Linda finally shut off the engine. “We need to call the police. I'm tired of dealing with this alone.” She reached once more for her cell.

“Wait,” Gemma said. “You can't call. They'll want to know where we are and we don't have a clue. How will they get to us?”

Linda hesitated. “You're right.” She looked around and pointed down the street. “That looks like a corner store at the end of the block. We'll ask what the address is and use their phone.”

“Wait,” Gemma said.

“Now what?”

“We can't leave the gun here. What if someone takes it? It's evidence.”

“Well, we can't take it. What do we know about guns?” Augusta said. “We'll shoot ourselves in the foot or worse.”

“If we're calling the police we should leave it here. We'll lock the car doors,” said Bette.

“What if someone breaks into the car?” Gemma asked.

“What if, what if,” Linda said. “We can't worry about every blessed thing.”

“You can't leave a gun lying around,” Gemma insisted. “It's not safe.”

Linda turned around to face the back seat. “Fine. Take the gun and put it in your purse.”

“But what about the fingerprints?”

“The police always pick it up with a pencil or a pen so the fingerprints don't smudge,” Bette said.

“Okay.” Gemma rooted through her purse and found a pen. “Crouch down, girls, just in case.”

They hunkered down. Gemma gingerly lifted the gun and slowly placed it in her purse. By the time she closed it, she was in a lather of sweat. “Okay. It's done.”

They sat up.

“Good job, Gemma.” Augusta patted her friend on the back.

“Let's go,” Linda said.

They got out of the car, took their suitcases from the trunk, and hobbled down the sidewalk, all of them staying close to each other as if that would make them safe. They breathed a collective sigh of relief when they were inside the store. It was small, crowded, and dingy. The man behind the counter didn't look particularly friendly. Linda approached him first.

“Excuse me. May we use your phone?”

“No.”

“
No
?”

“You heard me. There's a perfectly good payphone in the back. Use that.”

“Fine. What's your address?”

Before he could answer, two men in hoodies came through the front door and approached the counter. The owner got up off his stool. “I got customers, lady.”

Linda scowled and marched back to her friends, who stood around the coolers at the back of the store deciding what they wanted to drink.

“Do you want something?” Bette said. “We're dying of thirst.”

“I'll have some water.”

“So what's the address?” Augusta asked her.

“He wouldn't tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He's busy. I'm going to have to go outside and look for a street sign. And he wants us to use that payphone.” She pointed at the disgustingly dirty phone.

Bette passed Linda a bottle. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yeah, okay.” Linda opened the bottle and took a quick swig before passing the bottle to Gemma. “Get the police on the phone. We'll be right back.”

Linda and Bette started up the aisle, but they heard raised voices and a long string of cursing. Bette pulled Linda aside.

“Do you hear that?”

Linda nodded. They listened to the increasingly loud argument with growing alarm. They looked over and saw the other two beckon them to return, so they tiptoed back.

“Oh my God, do you hear them?” Augusta whispered.

Bette wrung her hands. “Is there a back way out of here?”

“Just be quiet,” Linda said. “If we start running around, we'll call attention to ourselves. Crouch down and keep your mouths shut.”

So the four of them sat on their haunches and looked like they were having a campfire at the back of the store. Augusta grabbed Gemma's hand. She was close to tears.

“If anything happens to me, Gem, please take care of my girls.”

“It's okay, Gussie, I won't let anything happen to you.”

“Put that knife away, you little punk, and get outta my store before I kill you.”

“Open the motherfuckin' till or you're dead.”

“NO.
You're
dead, you piece of shit.”

“NO.
You're
dead, old man.”

“Okay, that's it. I've had it.” Gemma stood up. The others tried to get her to sit down, but she pushed them away. She reached into her purse and took out the gun. She pointed it at the ceiling and fired off a shot.

The ceiling tiles fell down around their ears in a cloud of white dust, which made them scream. Gemma dropped the gun, grabbed her suitcase and Augusta's hand, and rushed to the front of the store. “Get out of my way, you little bastards.”

She was a raging bull, a raging bull with white powdery hair.

“Gemma, wait up.” Linda and Bette grabbed their things and Augusta's suitcase and charged behind Gemma as she tore up the aisle with Augusta in tow. The two kids wearing hoodies took off out the door.

“What the hell are you doing to my store, you crazy bitch? I'm calling the cops. Look at my ceiling.” The store owner jumped across the counter after them as they ran out the door. Their luggage bounced off the pavement behind them and made a terrible racket. The owner chased them with a cellphone in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.

“I'm never leaving the house again,” Augusta cried.

After half a block, Linda looked over her shoulder and noticed the owner running back towards his store. He probably thought better of leaving his property unattended.