Chapter 3

Other than the bowling alley, there was only one place for the minors of Elston to frequent--a place affectionately called "The Hole." There, in the secret darkness of the basement below one of the local bars, teenagers came to shoot pool, smoke cigarettes and make connections for paying off an older teenager to buy beer for a weekend party. No adults were allowed in, except for the owner; not that any adults would want to choke on the smokey air or drink in the musty odors of the damp cement walls that sponged up the summer rains. No females either, except for the very loosest, the ones looking for a lay.

Above the two pool tables hung bare light bulbs, attached to the ceiling where the plumbing pipes criss-crossed and gurgled. That and a cigarette machine, plus a broken chair that had fallen victim to too many fights, were the only adornments in the place.

"The Hole" was nearly emptied now except for two young boys, one tall, lean and blonde; the other with curly dark hair, shorter and stockier, he was far more animated than his watchful friend.

With the pool cue tucked under his left arm, the tall-boy named Jim flicked the match head over the zipper of his fly, lit his cigarette, and watched the legs scissor past the ground level window where lead bars gave the dimly lit room a prison-like effect.

"Chuck's late," said Jim somewhat nervously, taking a deep puff off his cigarette and then leaning down to eye the eight ball. The cigarette dangled from his lips, sending swirls of smoke above his head. This was one of his first really big deals and he'd made too many plans to have it crumble now.

"What's the stakes?" Mark wanted to know, smiling at his friend's sloppy shot, watching the eight ball slip past the striped one and roll into the pocket.

Jim straightened, his forehead lined with a frown. "Damn it, he hissed, "I told you never to talk about this in public. Now look what you made me do."

"Public? What the hell's public about you and me?" He shot his buddy a questioning look and took another sip off his tepid coca-cola that sat precariously on the rim of the pool table.

His knuckles whitening, Jim clutched at the pool cue, grinding and twirling it in slow circles like he was trying to screw it into the floor. His lips drawn taut, the fuzz on his upper lip glistened yellow under the naked light bulb. "Man, I told you before that if you're gonna go into business with me, man, you're gonna have to be cool. Like this is no half assed job we're tryin' to pull off. This is lots of bread, you understand? Lots of bread and lots of dope. Got that?"

"Yeah," sputtered Mark with a crooked smile, "if this is such a big deal and I'm your partner, then why can't you tell me what's goin' on? I mean I got a right to know." Mark's deep brown eyes pooled into darkness as he spoke. "How stupid do you think I am? I ain't riskin' my neck for your trip," he spat in retaliation, recognizing Jim's arrogant bent.

"Okay, okay, okay," conceded Jim, knashing out the barely smoked cigarette with the heel of his boot. He tried to invision how his father, a lawyer, would handle this situation. Should he tell Mark the truth, tell him that there was more involved in this operation than just meeting someone at "The Hole" and going home to break up the pound? Should he tell him that they'd planned to abduct the undercover cop's wife and hold her hostage to keep the heat off while the U-Haul van slipped by with six hundred pounds of fine-grade marijuana straight from the sun-kissed fields of Mexico? Could Mark handle it, or would he act like a typical fifteen year old kid and chicken out?

... Like John had done back East and blown Jim's cover, ending up in his arrest, making his family move half way across the country to leave the stigma of a bad record behind--just when Jim's father was running for Senator?

Jim squinted against the darkness, pooched out his lips, his chin wrinkling as he studied his friend. Shifting his weight from his right foot to his left, he plunged his hands deep in his levi pockets and stared hard and long. Drawing a deep breath, his facial muscles relaxed and a slim, but evident, smile crossed his lips. "Okay, I'll tell you anything you want to know. You're a big part of this," he conceded, running his slender fingers that might have belonged to an artist of pianist, through his baby fine blonde hair. For Jim was only sixteen himself, a curse he'd have to live with, he realized, until he turned the magic age of eighteen when he could do anything legally.

"Can you ride a motorcycle?" he stared Mark in the eye.

Mark answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, sure. Why?" Reaching down for the warmed bottle of soda, he clutched at it tremblingly, then raised it to his lips for one long unsatisfying gulp. For some ominous reason, he had the hunch that getting involved in business with Jim wouldn't be such a good idea after all. Instinctively, he had the feeling that there would be more to this buy than the usual running through alleyways with a brown bag under one arm and, meeting in his father's garage at two o'clock in the morning to break up the pound.

An astute judge of character, Jim reached out to rest his calming hand on Mark's shoulder. Mark was uptight, that was obvious. But then, didn't every bank robber, every smuggler get nervous when they faced the law? Wasn't that what made them act intuitively, do things they never could have done under normal situations? Yes, Mark could handle it. All he needed was a little breaking in, that was all.

"Here's the scoop, partner. You know how much we're figurin' on getting' out of this deal with Chuck?" Jim grinned crookedly.

Mark shook his head, a vacuuous look in his dark liquid eyes.

"Ten pounds," he enunciated meticulously. "A big one zero, kid."

Mark's eyes saucered and Jim watched his friend's Adam apple rise up to chin and fall abruptly in a gulp of shock.

"Yeah," Jim smacked his lips, nodding his head. "You know what that means?"

"Yeah, that means if we get busted we get sent to juvie for the rest of our lives... no women, no music..." His voice cracked and he tried to pull away from Jim's grip. "I don't want no part of it, Jim. It's too big, too much."

"Hey, come on Mark," purred Jim solicitously. "You gotta think big, man! You know what we can do with all that money?"

He leaned down, resting both hands on his partner's broad shoulders, his face inches away from Mark's, close enough so that Mark could count his blemishes. "We invest it back in our business. Christ, if we keep multiplying our investments, man, we're gonna be ownin' our own smuggling planes by the time we count eighteen candles on our birthday cakes. You hear me, man?"

Resignedly, Mark lowered his head. Jim was right. But still there was something fishy about it; it was too easy, too simple. Life just wasn't like that, according to what he'd heard from his father, and he trusted his father. He'd worked hard his whole life, did things in small measures, never risking more than he could lose, and they'd gotten along okay in life. Was this necessary?... Putting all the eggs in one basket... was that really such a good idea?

But Jim was too convincing, too conniving, too much like his lawyer father whom everybody in Elston knew was a wheeler-dealer from the East. Talk was he'd planned on running for the Senate but moved out here to the Midwest for some suspicion-provoking reason.

"Look, all you gotta do is drive a motorcycle... simple as that." Jim raised his hands from Mark's shoulders, stepping back to gesture with his delicate hands that had obviously never seen a day's work of mowing lawns or emptying garbage. Mark noticed then for the first time now as he watched his partner's gestures and mannerisms with measured concern.

"Yeah, well what do I do with that motorcycle? Where do I go?"

"Hey, you'll like this..." Oh, oh, thought Mark. He's sounding too sweet again: I have a feeling I'm gonna be doing the dirty work..." You know what you do? You go pick up a lady, a very pretty lady."

"Who?" Mark's mouth ovalled, and he stared hard at his blonde friend.

"Art's wife..."

"Art's wife? Are you crazy man? Art's that undercover cop, ain't he? The one who's always lookin' like he's gonna punch somebody out?" Mark thrust his hands deep in his levi pockets, and studied the cigarette butt-dirty cement floor, eyeing the sordid "Hole" where he'd first met and gotten involved with Jim. He remembered with regret, how innocent he'd been until he met Jim. Suddenly he wished he were back there again, watching television with his parents, eating popcorn, studying his Sunday School lesson. He swallowed hard, recalling a saying his mother had always chimed when he made a wish that couldn't come true: 'If wishes were horses, the beggars could ride.' It had always seemed foolish and nonsensical, but now he was beginning to understand the wisdom of those words.

"Art's wife, huh?" he repeated staring down at the floor, scraping the toe of his boot in circles around a crumpled butt.

"You pick her up and take her for a ride, that's all. That's all you have to do for five pounds of dope--free." Jim snickered and shrugged his shoulders. "From there you take her to a place that's safe and then Robert will be there to take care of her."

Still no positive response came from Mark.

"Look, man, if you don't want to do it, I can find a lot of other guys who'd pick up that offer in a second." Jim snapped his fingers, the sound cutting through the smoke-filled room like the sound of thunder.

Both heads raised and the words hung in the air as the sound of heavy boots clomping down the steps stung through both of them. Had someone been listening? Jim had heard their paid informers floating around town, but, of course he didn't tell Mark that.

A slow, long exhalation of relief cooled the room when Chuck, the owner of the bar overhead, stooped through the doorway.

There was no changing his mind now, realized Mark, almost with a sigh of relief. At least now the decision was not his; he'd been forced into it, he told himself.

At eight-fifteen the next morning, Art was alert and sitting at his desk at the police department in the county seat fifteen miles from Elston, across the street from Juvenile Hall. He took a bitter sip of the acrid black coffee, swearing to the gods above that he'd never buy coffee out of a vending machine again, and leaned back on the legs of the chair. With a grunt and a wince, he pushed the coffee to the side of his desk, its sloshing liquid polluting the desk mat. An acidulous belch, and he was back on all four legs of the chair. Grunting, he pulled open the top drawer of his marred wooden desk and rummaged amongst the unsharpened pencils and paper clips for his Rolaids. All he could find was a dirty, crumpled up empty wrapper.

Damn, nothing was going right. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in defeat. Jesus H. Christ, he thought, when is the last time things went smoothly. Rubbing his forehead with his massaging fingertips, he thought it might have been a couple weeks back... what was wrong? He always felt jumpy, nervous, twitchy. Like he had too much energy. But why was he tired and tense all the time?

A fleeting image of Kathy lying in bed dressed in the black nightie she'd blushed so shyly over when he first gave it to her... and the movie... she'd wanted to go home. What was it she'd said? 'Let's go home and have our own gang-bang!' Sex... that was it. He hadn't had enough lately. Well, damnit, it was his own fault, he realized. Probably was the cause of the heartburn that had been eating away at him lately, too.

It struck him like a bolt of lightning against a rotting tree trunk. Kathy... he'd been neglecting her lately. Christ, she never complained, never said anything. What a wife! Art shook his head in self-deprecation. And what a lousy husband he'd been lately!

Self-recriminatingly, he remembered how when they'd moved into their rented house he'd promised to till the postage-stamp sized garden. Kathy loved roses and had always wanted a rose garden. That was it! He'd hire somebody to go out there and plant her a garden. Hot damn, Voltaire's Penteguel couldn't have done any better!

He grabbed at the telephone directory, flipping through the yellow pages. "Gardeners, gardeners," he chanted to himself trying to remember the name of the horticulturist who lived across the street from them called his business. Tracing his fingernail down the listings, he found it, called it, and made arrangements for a young man to come out that afternoon to start tilling the garden.

Fifteen miles away, Kathy awoke to see the sun filtering through the lace of the curtains to form a bright pattern on the pale blue walls of the bedroom. She yawned, realizing she'd over slept again, sat up and stretched. It was good to be alive, she thought. It was good to have slept well, to awake refreshed, despite the tormenting feelings she'd fallen asleep with; but her dreams had cleansed her, she thought thankfully. Now, in the warmth of the sun and the cheerful light of day they seemed ridiculous, those guilty feelings last night. In fact, she realized with a grin, she felt much better for having satisfied herself.

She got up and slipped on a sundress that was discreet yet managed to set off the delicious curving slope of her firm round buttocks, her firm thighs and slim, tapering legs. The lipstick she painted on with such care matched the pink dress, making her pink cheeks shine with vibrancy. She ran a comb through her hair and dusted her nose with powder before she went to the kitchen to turn on the heat under the tea kettle. Today, instant coffee would do just fine. It was one of those rosey days when she expected little and wanted nothing. Life was rich.

Hearing a slap against the side of the house, she went to the kitchen door to retrieve the morning's newspaper. With unerring accuracy, the newspaper boy, as usual, had managed to heave it too far to left and it had landed in the hedge. One day, she thought stooping down and leaning over the hedge to retrieve it from the prickly brambles, I'm going to catch that little brat...

The phone rang as her fingertips were scraping at the folded edge of the paper, like a cat scratching in a litter box. With a feminine grunt, she leaned over further and, in her careless haste, caught and tore a fingernail. "Ohhh," she spat, deciding there was nothing but local gossip in the newspaper anyway. She pivoted and ran up the cement steps, letting the door slam shut behind her. Kathy caught the-phone on the fifth ring.