3) A little notebook in which the hit man kept track of mileage and maintenance on the Saturn.
Jack flipped through the notebook. He had to admit that he was impressed-the hit man actually changed the oil every three thousand miles.
He tossed the notebook aside. The situation was pretty clear now. He was being tracked by an anal-retentive oil-changing dog-beater with a car named after a planet who liked to listen to the Jack Kerouac hit parade. Somehow, it didn’t seem like hate was too strong a word.
Not that he was in a benefit-of-the-doubt kind of mood or anything, but Jack figured he’d make one more dip into the pond. He pushed the cassettes aside, fumbled the map out of the way, and came up with a cellular phone.
If he’d been a cartoon character, a glowing lightbulb would have appeared above his head.
He pulled onto the shoulder of the road. Pictured the hit man regaining consciousness back there in the motel parking lot-spitting loose chunks of gravel out of his mouth, his backside and neck electric with pain as he rose and stumbled to his motel room. Keying the lock like a drunk, cringing at the sound the door made when he closed it. Kidneys aching while he pissed. Then looking at himself in the mirror, figuring what a sorry way this was for such a smart guy like himself to start the day.
Jack kind of felt sorry for the guy. He flipped open the hit man’s wallet and found his Visa card. Grabbed the phone. There was only one 800 number that he’d committed to memory, but he figured that one would be more than enough.
He made a call.
Okay. Fun was fun. . but now it was time to play some mind games of the mucho serioso variety.
Jack phoned information. A minute later he had the number he needed. He punched it in. One ring later, he was through.
“Pipeline Beach Sheriff’s Department.”
Jack stared down at the name on the hit man’s driver’s license. “My name is Woodrow Saad Muhammad. I’m a guest at the Saguaro Riptide Motel. I’m staying in room 21.”
“How may I direct your call, sir?”
“Someone stole my motherfuckin’ wallet and my motherfuckin’ car,” Jack said. “Oh, yeah. . and he beat the motherfuckin’ shit out of me, too.”
“All right, sir, let me transfer you to-”
“And one other thing: the motherfucker who did it is a guy named Vince Komoko.”
Woody’s head was feeling pretty fucked up when he answered the door.
Two cops stood there.
Two women cops.
Two white women cops.
Shit. Woody hoped that he was seeing double. Seriously.
“Are you Woodrow Saad Muhammad?” the first cop asked.
Woody almost laughed. Stood to figure that they were after the monk, the self-righteous prayer-sayin’ nigger who shared his head. They didn’t want him at all.
Be a bitch explaining that one, though. So Woody just nodded.
The second cop smiled. “Mind if we come in?”
“Whatever pops your cherry.”
Both bitches glared at him.
The taller of the two entered first. Woody checked her out-blond hair pulled tight against her skull and a long braid that almost brushed her outstanding little ass. Her uniform shirt seemed tailored to show off a perky pair of titties. Put the whole picture together and she kind of reminded Woody of the Valkyrie from the old Incredible Hulk comic book.
“We’re here to follow up on your phone call,” the Valkyrie said, her painted lips expressionless. “You’d like to report a robbery?”
Woody didn’t say spit. This whole thing was fucked up. Like hearing the punch line without hearing the joke. Ever since he awoke that first time at the gas station, he’d been certain that he was tuned in to everything the monk said and did. Of course, it didn’t seem to work the other way around-the monk was real surprised to find out about him-but, hey, that was the monk’s problem.
But this-Woody sure as shit didn’t remember the monk making any phone call. Especially not to the goddamn cops. He wondered how the monk had managed to pull it off. Maybe he’d underestimated the stiff motherfucker.
“I’m waiting,” the Valkyrie said.
“I was robbed,” Woody said.
Shit. A man had to say something. Besides, Woody knew that it was the truth. The monk’s wallet was gone. His gat, too. Even that fucked up whitebread car of his. And all those stiff clothes that made the nigger look like he should be hocking a stack of Muhammad Speaks newspapers on some corner in Vegas.
The Valkyrie didn’t say shit. She was busy following her pert titties around the room, checking things out. Woody figured that was okay. There was nothing to see. Everything had been stolen.
Then he glanced at the bed. Shit. Rewind on that last part, homes. Because the monk’s shoulder holster lay on the cheesy spread, empty.
The Valkyrie must have seen it, but she didn’t say a word.
Woody decided that he’d better ease on over toward the open door.
That was when the other cop crossed the threshold, closed the door, and leaned against it.
This one was shorter. Her titties were actually larger than her partner’s, but her uniform shirt was way too baggy to show them off.
“My face is up here,” she said.
Woody blinked and found the woman’s eyes.
Shit.
Her eyes were blue and very angry.
The Valkyrie said, “What’s your real name, anyway? I mean, you registered here at the Riptide as Woodrow Jefferson. But when you called our office, you said your name was Woodrow Saad Muhammad.”
Woody blew a sour breath her way. The monk had really fucked it up. That’s how bad Woody’s note had rattled him. The church-goin’ motherfucker had actually written Woody’s name on a motel registration card. And that blew Woody’s cover cold. Man, just when he was ready to start off fresh, after all these years.
“Don’t you understand, boy?” Big Titties said. “The sheriff means, What did your momma name you?”
Both women stared at him, waiting for an answer, the heels of their gunhands resting on their pistols. Woody wanted to laugh. Seriously. Shit, he thought every word these bitches said was true. He hated all that Muslim crap. But these bitches thought that he was the monk. . and the monk wouldn’t appreciate talk like that.
Man, this was sure as shit getting complicated.
The Valkyrie smiled. “You can talk, can’t you?”
Big Titties said, “Maybe he speaks Swahili or something.”
“Maybe we could call in the United Nations-”
“Or try Esperanto.”
“I’m a Muslim,” Woody lied, trying to sound like the monk. “I changed my name when I converted.”
“Is that so?” The Valkyrie wrinkled her brow. “I gotta admit that I don’t quite get it. Not that you changed your name- that’s okay-but it’s the part you didn’t change that bothers me. See, I’d understand if you’d changed your name from Woodrow Jefferson to Ali Baba Muhammad or something like that. I mean, if you’re going to change something, change it. Go whole hog. Hell, sticking with Woodrow. . that’s lame. I mean, you might as well be Moe Saad Muhammad or Curly Saad Muhammad or Shemp Saad Muhammad. What’s the point? You’re still Moe or Curly or Shemp. You’re still one of the Three Stooges.”
Big Titties said, “Scratch a Saad Muhammad, find a Jefferson.”
Woody wanted to laugh so bad he almost pissed himself. These bitches were sure enough his kind of folks.
But he had to keep a straight face so he could get this shit over with. “Mostly I use my old name for business,” he explained. “Sometimes it makes things easier. Especially when I’m on the road. You’d be surprised-ain’t everybody as enlightened as y’all.”