How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back Read online

  “Okay, fine, I get it,” she snapped, and I had the sense she was more annoyed that I was making her feel guilty about her financial status. Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do about that? Not my fault she had no clue what it was like to be poor.

  “Where do you want to hide it?” she asked with an impatient gesture around her. “Need to do it sooner rather than later so we can get moving. And you have to promise not to freak if it’s not here when we get back.”

  My scowl deepened. “I won’t freak,” I muttered, stung. “I just don’t want to destroy it.” Part of me knew my freakout about the phone was avoidance to keep from thinking about the scariness of going to New York, but I still felt a weird hurt that Naomi wasn’t even trying to understand what it was like to always have to sweat finances.

  “There’s a post office half a mile down the road,” I told the others. “The lobby’s open twenty-four/seven, and I can mail it to myself.”

  Philip nodded slowly. “That’s a damn good idea, Angel.”

  Naomi grumbled something under her breath, but didn’t protest, though she made a big production over smashing her own phone and tossing the remains into the water. Philip rolled his eyes at her antics, but he followed suit. As we returned to the car Kyle suggested that it might be best if Philip didn’t drive, and, considering the incident moments before, no one argued. Kyle took the wheel and less than ten minutes later my phone was sealed within a priority mail box—addressed to myself at the Coroner’s Office, because I didn’t trust my neighbors not to steal packages left on my porch. The self-serve machine spit out the correct postage, I dumped the box into the slot, then returned to the car.

  “Damn it,” I muttered as I climbed back into the car. “I think I forgot to turn it off.” When nobody responded I realized the others were focused on Kyle. Still in the driver’s seat, he was dialing a number on his phone—which had obviously not yet been destroyed.

  “Calling Rachel,” Kyle said. “Giving notice.”

  I shot a baffled look at Naomi but she simply gave a helpless shrug in response. Philip appeared equally confused, so apparently I wasn’t the only one operating without a clue.

  “Rachel?” Kyle said. “Griffin here.”

  Kyle must have turned the volume up because I had little trouble hearing Rachel’s voice. “Griffin,” she snarled. “You need to come in so we can discuss this situation.”

  “That’s not happening,” he replied. Calm. Assured. “You have an insider. It isn’t me. It could be you. Griffin out.”

  “Me!” Outrage and fury filled her voice. “Griffin, this isn’t over. I swear I’ll hunt you down and—” Whatever else she had to say stopped as Kyle crushed the phone in a zombie-strength grip.

  There was a moment of silence. “Nice finish,” I finally said. “Kind of like dropping the mic and walking off stage.”

  Kyle and Philip turned bewildered looks my way, but Naomi gave a snort-laugh. “So,” I continued. “New York City. We flying there?” I kept my tone as light and casual as possible, though my level of inner freakout climbed a few more degrees. Not only had I never set foot in an airplane, but I didn’t even want to think about how much something like that would cost.

  “We’re not flying,” Naomi said, to my relief. “It would be too easy to nail us on arrival. We’re driving. We were deciding where to pick up a vehicle since we have to ditch this one.”

  They’d already discussed this, I realized. When I was off mailing my phone. Not that I had anything useful to contribute, but it still bugged me. “You gonna buy a car?”

  “No time for that,” she said, “and it could still be traced. We’ll have to ‘borrow’ one.”

  The look I gave her was nothing short of dubious. “You intend to steal a car, and then drive it to New York?”

  “I have vehicles stashed in long term storage in a few cities—including New York—for emergencies, but not here,” she said, totally matter of fact about having excess cars she didn’t use. “None of us have any here,” she went on, “so yes, we need to steal one.”

  My level of dubious went up a couple of degrees. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to steal a car. And then drive it on roads and through intersections and on highways—”

  “Jesus,” she interrupted with a scowl, “not a car that’s going to be reported any time soon.”

  “How do you know?” I shot back.

  “Because we’ll pick it up from an impound lot or long term parking at the airport,” she said. “Chances of it being missed over the next week will be miniscule. We’ll obey all traffic laws and not give any cop a reason to pull us over.”

  “But what if it does get reported?” I pressed. “What if we do get pulled over, or get in a fender bender? Hell, what if we go through an intersection that has one of those cameras that’s linked to the stolen car database, and the cops get notified?” Jeez, I did not want to once again experience the joy of being arrested for possession of stolen property.

  Philip glanced my way. “It’s a definite risk, but I don’t see that we have any other option.”

  I fell silent and stayed that way for a couple of minutes. I had an idea, but I knew damn well everyone would think it was really stupid. Screw it. “I know where we might be able to get a car.”

  “Where, Angel?” Kyle asked, without a trace of condescension or impatience.

  “My ex-boyfriend,” I said. “He fixes cars.”

  Chapter 10

  It was true, Randy did fix cars. Of course, he also dabbled in various illegal activities related to cars and parts and that sort of thing, but that wasn’t worth mentioning. It didn’t really matter at the moment, and they could probably figure that part out on their own.

  Naomi’s eyebrows lifted. “Randy?” she asked, disbelief thick in her voice. She’d heard a few of my tales about my ex. “Why would he help you?”

  But Kyle lifted a hand. “Give her a chance to tell us,” he said to Naomi, eyes on me.

  I shot him a grateful look. “I don’t know for sure that he would,” I said. “I’d have to feel him out first, but, well, we go way back.” I shrugged. “We dated, like, forever, and if we could get a car from him, then we wouldn’t have to worry about getting hooked for having a stolen car.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Philip said, and Kyle gave a nod. “Where do we need to go?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s Friday, so he’s probably at Pillar’s Bar, on Kapp Street.” That was the bar where we used to hang out the most. It was also where some asshole put a date rape drug in my drink, which led to my becoming a zombie in the first place.

  “Got it,” Philip said, making a turn. About ten minutes later we pulled into the gravel lot. The old neon sign on the roof simply spelled out BAR in big block letters like a beacon to outsiders. Everyone around these parts knew it was Pillar’s, so why waste money on the sign? Over thirty cars and pickups crowded the lot, along with half dozen motorcycles up near the entrance. Randy’s 1968 red Dodge Charger sat in the first space at the end of the building, where he always parked. Nothing had changed.

  An odd curl of nerves wound through my belly. I hadn’t set foot in this place in over a year, and I hadn’t spoken to most of the people from that old life in just as long, including Randy. “It might be best if I go in by myself,” I said.

  “Probably so,” Philip agreed. He reached into the bag resting on the console and pulled out a packet, handed it to me. “Eat that first. I’ll be right outside.”

  I obediently sucked it down, then scraped my fingers through my hair to get it to lie down in a slightly more orderly fashion. “Wish me luck,” I said, then slipped out of the car and headed toward the entrance. I heard a car door close and looked back to see Philip following me.

  “I’ll be right outside,” he repeated.

  My nerves eased slightly. “Thanks.”

&n
bsp; The people clustered by the door gave me a glance then returned to their cigarettes and low conversation. Music poured out when I opened the door, like hot air on a cold day. I quickly stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me, feeling as if I’d let all the music out if I left it open.

  The four piece band on the crude stage against the back wall kicked out a decent version of a Blake Shelton song while a cluster of worn lights flashed to the beat of the music, sending weak pulses of red and blue through the haze of cigarette smoke. Loud conversation, drunken laughter, and the occasional crack of pool balls surrounded me like a comfortable blanket. How much time had I wasted here?

  Winding my way through familiar faces with forgotten names, I returned glares and scowls with defensive ones of my own and made my way toward the man behind the bar. He gave an odd double take when he saw me, then pushed a beer toward a regular at the other end of the bar. He took the bills offered and stuffed them into the till, then came over to me and leaned an elbow on the bar.

  “Been a while since you been in here, Angel,” he said as I racked my mind for his name. Bill. Yeah, that was it. I’d scored Percocet from him a time or two. Bill had pills.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to raise my voice enough to be heard over the din without actually shouting. “It’s been a weird year. Can I get a beer?”

  His mouth twisted into a sneer. “I heard you got Clive busted. Called the cops on him.”

  Shit. Now I understood all the hostile looks. I narrowed my eyes. “Is that what he told you? That weasely little shitball. I guess he left out the part where he called the cops on me. And I can fucking prove that shit. That’s on motherfucking nine-one-one.”

  That took him slightly aback. “He told everyone you set him up,” Bill said, expression remaining accusing.

  “Why the hell would I set him up?” I demanded. “I was trying to get clean after fucking overdosing. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him.”

  A frown started between his eyebrows. “Huh. Yeah, I heard you almost died.” He picked up a rag and swiped at some unknown liquid on the bar.

  “You heard right,” I said. Kind of did die, depending on how you defined it. “Clive was a whiny bitch and was all butthurt ’cause I wouldn’t buy from him anymore.” It wasn’t a total lie. Clive had been pissed when I wouldn’t steal confiscated drugs from the Coroner’s Office and pass them his way. “He called the cops on me because he’s a little prick, then when the cops came and wouldn’t arrest me for his bullshit, he fought with them and got his own ass busted.” I couldn’t help but smirk. “And of course he had a car full of steroids, so they busted his stupid ass for that too.”

  Bill’s gaze remained hard and distrusting for another moment while the band shifted to a crappy cover of a Garth Brooks song. Finally he reached for a beer, popped the top off and set it in front of me. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

  Doing my best not to show relief, I took the bottle and sipped. “He’s a fucking moron.”

  “You still clean?” he asked. He glanced at the bottle in my hand.

  “No drugs, no pills in a year,” I said then set the bottle down and gave it a tap. “This is as hard as I go anymore, and not much of that.”

  A smile kicked up one side of Bill’s mouth. “That’s cool, Angel,” he said, and I decided he really meant it. “I got my one month chip last week,” he continued, ducking his head a bit as if embarrassed.

  “Yeah?” I smiled. “That’s fucking awesome. Must be hard to do while working here.”

  Someone called his name from farther down the bar. He held up a finger to him, then looked back at me and shrugged. “Nah. Not as long as I keep my head on straight. Every day I see how fucked up people can be, and it helps me remember why I’m doing it.”

  “I get that,” I said.

  “Look.” He leaned slightly closer. “You need to watch your back in here. Pretty much everyone thinks you fucked Clive over.” Then his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “I’m looking for Randy,” I said. “I saw his car out front.”

  Bill jerked his head toward the back. “He’s playing pool. Him and Carol Ann.”

  At the mention of that woman’s name, my face heated in a flush of anger that should’ve been dead. For the last two years of my relationship with Randy, she’d hung on the edge, trying to slide her loser self between us any time we had one of our breakups.

  “They’re together?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.

  He shrugged. “According to her.”

  In Carol Ann’s world, that was all that mattered. “Thanks.” I pushed a couple of bills across the bar to pay for the beer. “Keep the change. And good luck.”

  “You too. Watch your back.”

  With a parting nod I took my beer and headed toward the pool room. Now that I knew the reason for the hostile looks it was easier to glare right back. The band thumped out the last notes of their pathetic ballad and announced a break.

  The crowded pool room off to the left of the stage reeked of old cigarette smoke and a hint of sewage, with a touch of chemical-flowery air freshener thrown in for good measure. A chubby guy with flushed cheeks and a bubba buzz cut casually flipped me off as I descended the two steps to the grimy linoleum, then turned away to fish pool balls from the return on the farthest of the three faded tables. Most of the people in here were too focused on their game to give much of a shit about me, and I didn’t recognize more than a handful anyway. A few gave me quizzical looks, likely wondering why I deserved a middle finger, then apparently decided it would use up too many brain cells to figure out the mystery. A cluster of barely legal bimbos whispered and giggled by the cue rack, eyeing some young stud. A stud by their standards, at least. Hell, a year or so ago I’d have overlooked his slight beer gut and shaggy mullet too.

  I took a fake sip of my beer to hide my smile. Damn. At least I had standards now.

  A woman with screaming red hair leaned over a table to get a shot, giving everyone behind her a great look at her red thong underwear as her way-too-short jeans skirt hiked up. Carol Ann Pruitt. She hadn’t been “barely legal” in damn near a decade, but she still clung to it with her acrylic nails and over-whitened teeth.

  Carol Ann took her shot and missed badly, laughing as she straightened and tugged her skirt down—though only enough to barely cover the cheeks of an age-and-beer-widened ass. She swept a hopeful gaze around, probably to see if anyone was watching her show. Her slightly unsteady looksee went past me, then snapped right back, to my annoyance. Like I had time for this shit.

  “You!” She stabbed the pool cue in my direction. “You got some kinda nerve dragging your narc cop-lovin’ ugly ass in here!”

  I gave her a lazy look and shrugged. “I needed a laugh and figured I’d come see the chunk of hair on the back of your head that you miss every fucking time you do your color. Seriously, do you even own a damn mirror?”

  Titters went through the room in a wave, which didn’t ease Carol Ann’s mood one bit. She tightened her grip on the cue and started toward me with murder in her eyes. Shit. I’d forgotten just how much bigger she was than me.

  “I got a mirror, bitch, and I use it to see how much better lookin’ I am than you!” she shouted. “Randy don’t want nothin’ to do with you, so get your skanky ass outta here before I get pissed.”

  Behind her I saw the men’s room door open and Randy step out. My pulse quickened as he saw me, but I was too busy having fun with Carol Ann to spare him a second of attention. “Aw, will you turn green and get big and ugly?” I taunted her. “You got all but the color part down already.”

  This time the laughter and catcalls were unmistakably in my favor. Narc or not, this was a crowd that loved them some good putdowns. Unfortunately, Carol Ann couldn’t appreciate the finer social points of insult-trading. The only comeback she could muster was a rage-sputter
ed “Stupid bitch!” right before she swung the cue at me as if she was Babe Ruth driving in a homer.

  The air seemed to disappear from the room as everyone sucked in a breath. Logic and experience told them that Carol Ann was about to split my head wide open and probably be arrested for murder—or manslaughter at the very least—after which she’d no doubt end up as the head of her own prison girl gang with a few bitches willing to be at her beck and call in exchange for dubious protection from the other mean girls. It’d be a good step up for Carol Ann, an opportunity for her to take a strong leadership role in a way that she’d never been able to manage as a waitress at Jiggy Joe’s Truck Stop. She wasn’t a smart woman by any stretch, but with a little coaching she could pull off savvy, and after about five years she’d probably get paroled and maybe even go on to speak to underprivileged kids about anger management, being good, and staying in school. Hell, she might be held up as a positive role model—someone who made a terrible mistake in the heat of the moment and then turned her life around to become a good and decent upstanding member of society.

  All that went through my head in a flash, followed by: Pool cue. Coming at my head. With the help of some good ol’ zombie speed I shifted my beer to my left hand, ducked under the stick, then came right back up and drove my right fist into Carol Ann’s double chin, killing forever her chances of becoming a reformed murderess. Well, maybe not forever. I doubted this would be the last time she flew off the handle and tried to split a head open.

  The cue went flying out of her hand, and several people managed to dance out of its way before it smacked into Bubba Buzz Cut Guy’s shin. He let out a yelp and a curse as Carol Ann went down in a totally unattractive sprawl.

  “And stay down, bitch!” I said, mostly for effect, since everyone seemed to expect me to say something in that vein. I shook my hand out, even though apparently I’d finally managed to learn how to punch without breaking my hand. That was a nice change. Sensei would be so fucking proud. Well, maybe not with the whole bar fight thing without a shred of jiu jitsu. He’d sigh and get that pained look on his face. But, hey, I’d even kept hold of my beer. Now that took skills that weren’t taught in a dojo.