The Last JoyRide

Part 37

You know I can smell bull-shit a quarter-mile away if you know me. Whatever the hell it was, that stink of over-doused God-awful cologne should have been what sent me running for cover, but it didn't. No, just another foul smell coming from somewhere, like sweet sewage. I paid no attention as I crept closer to the little red Maserati, shining my flashlight in the window.

The heavy, machined metallic click of the hammer being pulled back was an unmistakable sound, also my first clue that I had stepped in it and how. And sure, you've heard it hundreds of times in the movies or on television, but let me tell you, it's not the same, not even close.

I stood there next to Sasha's car frozen, so puckered I couldn't have passed a rabbit pellet. I made no movement at all. I wasn't about to chance that. Pretty sure even my breathing stopped for a few moments.

"Turn around, dumbass," the words finally came from the shadows behind me.

I turned and should have known by the smell. It was Chihuahua Muchacho. He recognized me too and grinned. He smiled with a mouthful of gleaming gold teeth just like in the club. They even gleamed a little in the moonlight. It was distracting and odd, and I had to fight back the urge to laugh.

We stood face to face for a few moments. He finally lowered the shiny silver pistol and released the hammer slowly, then stuffed it down the front of his tan Chino's.

"Mother fucker, pendejo, You cost me a ten-spot," he said, crossing his sinewy muscular yet surprisingly tattoo-free arms.

"How's that?" I asked.

"I'll tell you how bitch, 'cause el Lobo said you were tailing us from the club. I said, 'no way anyone would be that fuckin' stupid.' So we bet on it, and it looks like I was wrong."

"Yep," I said.

"It looks like you were, so I'm in good company."

"Walk asshole," Muchacho said, sneering and pointing toward the hotel, then rested his hand on his stomach as if to threaten the removal of the revolver from his Chino's once more.

I shook my head but dropped my hands and walked. What would it hurt?

Sunday 3:20 AM

Well, hurt was not quite the suitable description. More frustrated at first. Muchacho insisted on riding the Peachtree Plaza's outside elevator up to the 28th floor. It scared the shit out of me; heights always did. That fool just laughed and pressed his fuzz-covered head against the glass. I have to admit I was terrified. Heights always bothered me. I could stand on Everest, no problem but introduce a man-made vertical structure, and fear gripped me instantly. So naturally, if being held at gunpoint hadn't done it, the elevator ride certainly knocked me off my game.

That wasn't even the worst of it, not by a long shot. We got to the room, and Muchacho, instead of using a key like ordinary people, performed a series of erratic yet intricate knocks and taps as if he were entering and secret Masonic lodge. And sure enough, the door opened. It was none other than the infamous el Lobo, the Wolf-man himself, who greeted me with a big smile and immediately asked Muchacho for ten dollars which he slapped in his hand and walked away, leaving us standing there.

"Come in, my lovesick friend," Lobo said as he ushered me into the relatively spacious and certainly first-class room overlooking the city.

We took seats on small tweed couches opposite each other, a mod-looking box to serve as a coffee table between us. My attention was drawn to Muchacho, who had given a quick unzip of the curtains so he could stand, head pressed against the glass as he had done in the elevator. He put his hand full of gold rings onto my shoulder as we walked into the seating area.