Heist

It has been a few hours since we last stopped. All I am able to make out, when the buzz of the radio quiets, is the humming of an engine beneath me and the muffled sounds of two people. Bound at the waist and covered in a weighted canvas, I am unable to move.

From the dark void, I strain to listen when the radio cuts out.

“Carlitos, turn that shit off. We need to concentrate.”

The whirl of passing cars comes to a slow stop. The strumming of the engine pulsates beneath me, vibrating steadily, so that I have become numb. I picture the last moment I can remember - Larry’s Penthouse and the black booth.

An older gentleman, no younger than 70, dressed in an Italian, hand-tailored suit had ordered the finest champagne in the house. Salon Blanc de Blancs Le Mesnil-sur-Oger - a $900 bottle - two glasses, and a private dance were requested sometime near midnight.

“I’m sorry, sir. No cards accepted. Only cash.”

I accompanied the hostess, Cherry, to the bar and waited for her to ice the bottle. The lights above spun into hues of purple and pink; the music had me in a trance-like state. Like most nights, things were a blur until people got handsy with me.

“That’s Vegas for you!” the man in the suit cried out, pouring a glass of champagne and handing it to the stripper on his lap.

That’s when the lights cut out.

I can’t remember anything past that point except for a loud crash and the music coming to an abrupt end.

Now, I’m surrounded by darkness. It’s been like this for a few hours, but I can’t seem to remember how I got here.

“Okay, the music is off. Now what?!”

The car comes to a screeching halt. The buzzing ceases. I listen closely.

“Now we think of Plan B.”

“Plan B? We didn’t even have a proper Plan A!”

I can hear the sounds of big truck engines whirring heavy in the distance. Obscure voices mix with the sounds of fast passing traffic. Nearby footsteps tell me we might be at a rest stop. I have no feeling for where we are or where we might be headed. I can only remember the hands of the Italian man, and the ring of his finger slipping over me; his thumb a memory that seems so intimate and yet as distant as the sounds of the music in the black booth.

The voices from the void fade into focus.

“Fuck, oh fuck. Cherry! We left Cherry there! We have to go back.”

“No way. There’s no way. We have to make it out of state. In an hour, we’ll be in California. From there, it’s a straight shot. There’s no turning back now.”

The radio clicks on. Indistinct chatter muffles through the back seat; the weight of the canvas above me becomes heavier.

The engine starts back up. We are moving again. I am tightly wound; thick rubber bands coil around my center, cutting off circulation. The whirling of the tires lulls into a heavy haze, and again, I am reminded of Larry’s Penthouse. It happened so fast. I can hardly remember.

The reggaetón beats are tuned low. I can hear soft whimpers coming from the right side of me.

“I wrote the address down. Check the little black book. It’s under the bottles towards the left passenger door...Godammit Luana, stop crying!”

Fumbling happens above head. The shifting glass bottles clink together, echoing against the walls that surround me.

“I found it!”

“Good. Read me the address.”

“Avenida Revolución 52, Club Ani-mal-e.”

In the distance, sirens blare. Could it be? Will I be saved? Or spent?

“Shit! Shit!”

“Oh no, oh no.”

“Act cool, Luana. Keep it together.”

“You can’t pull over. You can’t stop. They’ll know.”

“I have to pull over Luana. Stay calm.”

The car rolls to a stop. The sirens taper off. I hear weighted footsteps on asphalt. I try to make out words, but the bands wrapped around me have constricted air flow. I peer around, but there is only darkness, except for a sliver between the canvas that filters a crease of light and from there a flash of red and blue waves hover.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening officer.”

“You wanna tell me why your girlfriend, there, is dipped over the backseat while you’re going 90 miles an hour in a construction zone?”

“I’m sorry sir, we’re in a bit of a rut these days; thought we’d be spontaneous and get away. She was just looking for directions.”

“It’s 4 in the morning on a Sunday. Why the hurry?”

Silence shakes at the void that is swallowing me whole. I’m in here! Look back here!

I scream my existence, but there is no response.

“Well, we just left Vegas, sir.”

“Nothing but mischief there. Bring anything back from Sin City worth noting?”

“No, sir.”

The canvas grows in heaviness, and the stale air inside is suffocating. Hey, hey! Please, I’m right here.

“I’m going to need to see your license and registration.”

The shuffling from my right side signals the opening and shutting of a glove compartment. Suddenly, a hard pound above sends me into a flutter.

“Anything in the trunk I should have a look at? Looks a bit beat up.”

“No sir. Just a rusty, hand-me-down Chevy my ol’ man gave me a few years back. The whole thing is pretty banged up.”

Footsteps on asphalt edge near. In the distance, I hear numbers called out. Behind, sounds of radio dials hum in unison with the running engine.

I can’t take it much more. The bands are tightening. Find me and hold me the way I wish to be held.

“I’ve got Carlos Fuentes, here. License number: x2SAB3S. Hispanic, about 5’4”. Requesting back up. Over.”

Time seems to slow; it stretches, until the whirl of a second car snaps me back to this moment. Two engines are idling at a steady pace. I can almost feel the heat from both ends, but the warmth from below has gone away; we are still stopped.

“Luana, it’s not looking good. Check what time Martinez is meeting us at the truck stop.”

I listen closely. Where are we headed? The weight above me is stacked against me, making it difficult to spread myself across the carpeted surface beneath.

“It says, 6am. Barstow. We have 2 hours.”

Silence enters the void. I watch with blind eyes, waiting to be saved. Someone, anyone, please!

“Carlos Fuentes, you’re going to need to step out of the vehicle.”

A door opens and slams shut. There is a thump - a body is thrust against the side of the vehicle. A slapping thud clashes above. Metal cuffs ping near the side of me and I shiver from the sound of the hit. The rumbling shakes the vehicle, rustling my body.

“Fuck, Carlitos!”

“Luana, chill, babe. Chill! Stay put.”

Another car door flings open.

“No! Fuck this, I’m going to handle it.”

Heavy steps come from the right. The cocking of a gun twists and rattles me whole.

An explosive bang erupts. The piercing sound ricochets, like a steel ping, vibrating through me.

And then, for a moment, there is a silence that weighs more heavy than the dark.

“Oh fuck!”

The static of a police radio skitters from the rear.

“Officer Johnson. Requesting confirmation on stolen vehicle. Come in.”

More silence. I’m in here! I’m in here!

“Johnson! Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“Shit. Man down, man down. He’s shot! Fuentes is on the ground.”

“And the girl?”

“She ran towards the truck stop. I can’t see her anywhere.”

“Grab the keys and sweep the car. Backup should be here any minute.”

Wait! Hey! I am in here. I’m here!

“Johnson, the trunk. Check the trunk.”

The sound of locks opening shift above. A bright light blinds me. A gust of cold air follows. Have I made it?

“Holy shit, Johnson. Come take a look at this!”

“What?”

The suffocating canvas above is pulled off. Two policemen hover overhead. Bright red and blue waves illuminate their faces. I am still bound, unable to move.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

An exchange of glances takes place. The nod of a head. Thumbs press at my center. A rubber band uncoils from around me. I am lifted from out of the trunk, held in his hands. I am free. He unfolds me and unstacks me, piece by piece.

“Jeez, that’s got to be at least 20k.”