Authors: Michael A. Kahn
Sheila giggled. “You're a real stitch, Gordie.”
Gordie finished his second beer and stood up. “Time for a refill.”
He paused at the bathroom door and turned toward her. “Another beer?”
She shook her head, holding up her bottle. “Still have plenty.”
Gordie used the toilet, brushed his teeth, did a quick sniff check on both armpits, sprayed on another layer of Right Guard, cupped his hand in front of his mouth and breathed out, rearranged his thinning hair, checked his front and side profiles in the mirror, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and reached for the door.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, the lights were way down in the bedroomâthe only illumination coming from a lamp in the corner that had a towel draped over it. Sheila was standing by the boxspring unbuttoning her blouse. Gordie watched from the bathroom doorway as she slipped it off, revealing a frilly black push-up bra.
“Have you ever done Bungee jumping?” she asked.
“Uh, no. I'd like to but I haven't gotten around to it.”
He watched as she unzipped her skirt, let it drop to the floor, and stepped out of it.
She winked at him. “It's very stimulating.”
Gordie stood transfixed. It was as if a Victoria's Secret model had just walked out of the catalogue and into his motel room. She was wearing black satin string bikinis cut high on the hips, a black push-up bra, and black spike heels.
She turned toward the dresser and reached for her purse. He stared. She was tall and slim and toned. Her panties were a snug black triangle framing a firm, round butt. She pulled something out of her purse, set it back on the dresser, and turned toward him. She gave him a mischievous smile.
Dangling from her left hand were four Bungee cords. She grasped the loose ends of the cords in her other hand and pulled them taught in front of her. It made her breasts swell against the cups of her black bra.
“Do you know what's even better than Bungee jumping?” she asked.
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She moved toward him, her smile shifting into a leer. “Bungee fucking.”
***
“You have to admire the purity of it,” Lou said.
“Why?” Ray leaned back and gestured toward the stars. “Unless you believe there's someone up there keeping score, Lou, the guy pissed away half his life on nothing.”
The topic was Ronnie, the roadhouse bartender that Ray had been talking to when Lou and Billy showed up a half-hour ago. The three of them were now upstairs on the rooftop patio, where they had a panoramic view of the highway and motel and, farther off, the cornfields and silos. They were leaning back on their chaise lounge chairs and gazing at the canopy of stars overhead.
“Still,” Billy said, “I do admire his dedication. He had a dream. He devoted ten years of his life to pursuing it.”
“And failed,” Ray said. “Totally.”
He popped the tab on a can of Iron City beer and took a sip. “Never got higher than Triple A ball. What's he got to show for it?”
“He knows he tried,” Billy said. “He knows he gave it his best.”
“No, Bronco,” Ray said. “All he knows is he's a loser.”
“That's not fair,” Lou said as he followed the arc of shooting star. “He gave it his all.”
“And failed.”
Lou said, “Just because you fail doesn't make you a loser. Failing to try is what does.”
Ray chuckled. “Since when did you start writing epigrams for Hallmark Cards?”
“I don't know why you are so cynical,” Billy said.
“He's not,” Lou said. “It's all a pose.”
“Pose my ass. Someone's got to maintain the edge.”
“Maintain what?” Billy asked.
“The edge. Look what's happening to our generation, dude. Loose-fit jeans. Low-fat ice cream. Lean fucking Cuisine, Led Zeppelin unplugged.” He paused. “Led Zeppelin unplugged? I mean, what is the point? I say plug 'em back in, crank 'em back up, and kick out the jams, motherfucker. We're only here for a short time anyway, and I sure as hell don't plan to spend it cruising down the slow lane and listening to some balding rock star play âHeartbreaker' half-speed on an acoustic guitar.”
“I kind of like the slow version of âLayla,'” Billy said.
Ray's voice filled with mock compassion. “Don't go soft on me, big guy.”
“Ah,” Lou said, “it's all coming clear to me now.”
“What is?” Ray asked.
“You.”
“What about me?”
“That you're full of shit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This cynical crap.” Lou shook his head good-naturedly. “A complete masquerade. You're a bigger sentimental fool than the rest of us.”
Ray snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Lou was smiling at him.
“What?” Ray said.
“This.” Lou made a sweeping gesture. “You, me, Bronco, Gordie, Sirenaâthis whole crazy quest. It sure wasn't my idea, Don Quixote.”
“Call me Sancho,” Billy said.
“I think we're all Sanchos on this bus,” Lou said. “Except our driver.”
Ray was grinning. “Only thing makes me sentimental, boys, is money, and there's going be a whole truckload waiting for us at Remington Field on June seventeenth.” He turned to Lou. “Speaking of which, what are you going to do with your share?”
“I've been thinking.”
“And?”
“I'm doing fine. The firm pays me well.”
“Go on.”
Lou paused. “I have this clientâa momâa widow actuallyâquadriplegicâtwo little kids. A terrible accident. It's a long story. I'm handling her appeal, but the odds are pretty steep.”
“You're going to give her your share?”
Lou shrugged. “Maybe.”
Billy suddenly sat up. He pointed toward the northern part of the sky. “Look.”
Another shooting star. The watched the night sky in silence.
After the star vanished near the horizon, Billy said, “That girl Gordie met is pretty.”
“Pretty?” Ray said. “She's a total babe. Probably screwing his brains out right now.”
“He's due.” Lou took another sip of beer. “Let's hope she makes it a memorable event.”
It was certainly off to a memorable start.
Gordie was naked and spread-eagled on the box springs, his wrists and ankles lashed to the bed frame by the Bungee cords. Sheila was straddling his waist, her knees on either side of his chest. Gordie gaped up at her, nearly blinded by lust, as she reached behind and unsnapped her bra. Every part of him felt aroused. He'd never been so turned on in his life.
Sheila tossed her bra onto the carpet and bent over him. Her swollen nipples brushed against his chest as she bit him gently on the neck. She raised herself until her perky breasts swayed inches above his face, her nipples like cherrystones.
She stared down at him, her eyes half closed.
“Bite me,” she whispered.
Gordie lurched upward, but the Bungee cords stopped him just shy of the target.
“Come on,” she teased. She raised herself a little higher. “Try harder.”
He strained against the cords, his body shaking, his mouth snapping closed on nothing but air. He fell back, gasping.
“I can't reach,” he said.
Her smile faded into something far more businesslike. “Good.”
She got off the bed and picked her bra up from the floor. Gordie watched, anxious for whatever was coming next. He felt as if he were mainlining pure lust.
Sheila walked around him, bending to study the bungee cord connections. She slipped on her bra and snapped it in the back as she moved toward the dresser.
“Come on,” Gordie said. “I'm dying.”
She reached for her purse and looked inside. He watched eagerly. Maybe she was going to pull out one of those sex toys. A French tickler? A cat-o'-nine-tails? He was up for anything.
Anything
.
She snapped her purse closed and reached for her blouse. He watched as she slipped it on.
“What's going on?” he asked.
She turned to him as she buttoned the blouse. “Sorry, Gordie. I think this is kind of shitty.”
A wave of dread passed over him. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “A girl's got to make a living.”
“I don't understand.”
She pulled on her leather skirt and zipped it up as she walked over to the door.
“Oh, my God,” Gordie moaned. “Don't do this to me.”
She paused with her hand on the doorknob, her back to him.
“Please,” he begged. “At least untie me.”
Her shoulders seemed to tense for a moment, but then she shook her head and opened the door. She stepped out without looking back, leaving the door wide open.
“Everything's ready,” he heard her say.
“Wait in the car,” a male voice answered.
Gordie felt a jolt of panic. Who was that? The voice was familiar.
And then Frank Burke stepped through the door. Behind him came Reggie.
Frank was carrying a flashlight and a small canvas attaché. Reggie had a walkie-talkie. Frank flashed the light in Gordie's face and then swung it around the room until the beam fell upon Sirena.
Smiling, he turned back to Reggie. “Nice, eh?”
Reggie nodded as he rubbed his hands together. “Outstanding. Most definitely.”
“You fucks!” Gordie said. “That statue is ours.”
Frank came over to the bed. “Not anymore, little guy.”
“Fuck you!” Gordie leaned his head back and shouted. “Ray!”
Frank reached into his attaché, pulled out a rolled-up sock, and shoved into Gordie's mouth. Holding it in place, he turned to Reggie. “Get me some tape.”
Frank looked down at Gordie. “This isn't horseshoes, Shylock. Close doesn't count.”
As Gordie squirmed and tried to move his head from under Frank's hold, Reggie pulled a roll of duct tape out of Frank's bag. He tore off a long strip and handed it to Frank, who taped it over the sock in Gordie's mouth and wrapped it around his head.
Frank nodded. “That's better.”
He straightened and looked over at Reggie, who was closely inspecting Sirena. “Let's get this show rolling.”
Reggie turned, shaking his head in admiration. “Great stuff, Frank. Great stuff.” He held the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Okay, gentlemen. I believe we are ready for liftoff.”
There was a crackling noise and then a voice: “Roger. We're heading in.”
Frank walked to the door and poked his head outside. “Everything's set,” he called into the darkness.
He turned back to Reggie and nodded. “Showtime.”
And then he stepped out.
A moment later two workmen came into the room. One was rolling a two-wheeled dolly, and the other was carrying several coils of heavy-duty rope. They glanced at Gordie as the moved past the bed toward Sirena.
Reggie paused at the door and turned toward Gordie. “I guess I win the prize this time, eh? Nevertheless, awfully sorry about this part, chum.”
Ray leaned forward. “What the hell is that?”
“Sounds like a helicopter,” Billy said.
Lou pointed. “Over there.”
A helicopter passed over the highway heading toward the motel.
“What's going on?” Lou asked.
Now the copter was hovering above the motel parking lot.
Ray scrambled to his feet. “I don't like this.”
A powerful spotlight beneath the helicopter flashed on. The shaft of light illuminated a figure in the parking lot motioning up at the helicopter.
“Shit!” Ray turned toward the stairs. “Shit!”
***
Reggie was in the driver's seat, hands on the steering wheel, engine idling. Sheila was in the backseat, twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills folded in the wallet in her purse. A good night's pay.
Both were watching Frank, who stood on the motel parking lot supervising final preparations. The helicopter hovered thirty feet above Frank, creating a gale-force downdraft that scattered gravel and litter across the parking lot like tumbleweed in an old Western.
WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA.
The noise was deafening.
The two workers had rolled Sirena out to the middle of the parking lot. They were finishing the job of trussing her with the ropes. She looked every bit the kidnap victimâbound by ropes, illuminated by the bright shaft of light.
Above her, a large metal hook slowly descended, unreeling from a spool of steel cable attached to the bottom of the helicopter. The hook wobbled and swung back and forth as it lowered.
WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA-WUPA.
One of the workers reached up and grabbed the hook. He guided it down and slipped it through a loop in the ropes around the statue. He checked the grip, turned toward Frank, and gave him the okay sign.
Frank stepped back until the pilot above could see him. He gave him a thumbs-up. The workers steadied the statue as the cable tightened.
There was a creaking noise above the pounding throbs of the blades. The helicopter engine revved higher, and Sirena rose off the ground, rocking in the air a few inches above the asphalt.
Frank jogged toward the car, opened the passenger door, and hopped in.
“Hit it,” he said as he slammed the door closed.
***
They were sprinting toward the parking lot, Lou in the lead. He could tell they weren't going to make it. They'd been at least a football field's length away when Frank gave the pilot the thumbs-up sign. They were maybe twenty yards back when the statue lifted from the ground and the car pulled out of the parking lot with a squeal of the tires.
Lou slowed to a jog as he watched Sirena glide across the asphalt parking lot at a diagonal away from them, gliding along a few feet off the ground, a fleeing ghost, shimmering in the shaft of light from above.
“Damn,” he said, slowing to a walk. Hands on his hips, gasping for breath.
Ray charged past him.
“No!” Ray shouted, running after Sirena. “No!”
It took Lou a moment to grasp Ray's intent.
“Ray!” He started after him. “Don't!”
“You fucks!” Ray screamed toward the helicopter, his arms and legs pumping furiously.
As he closed in on the statue, the spotlight clicked off and the helicopter seemed to shift into a higher gear. Lou was ten yards behind him and gaining when Ray dove for Sirena.
As Lou watched in disbelief, Ray got his arms around the base of the statue as it started to rise. He was grasping at the ropes, trying to pull the statue down, his legs churning crazily, as if someone had hit the fast-forward button. And then he was off the ground, his legs bicycling in the air.
“Let go, Ray!” Lou shouted. “Let go!”
The helicopter climbed higher, Sirena and Ray dangling from the end of the cable. The added weight had momentarily slowed the statue's forward momentum. But now the two of them were swinging forward in an arc at the end of the long cable as they headed toward a grove of trees.
Ray was ten feet off the ground.
Now fifteen.
Now twenty.
He was kicking his legs, struggling for a firmer grip on the ropes, trying to hook his right leg up on the base of the statue. The two of them now swaying side to side at the end of the cable.
Billy came trotting up from behind, out of breath. “Where is he?”
Lou pointed.
“Oh, my God.”
They stood at the edge of the parking lot, watching, helpless.
The trees were coming on fast.
Too fast.
Ray was thirty feet off the ground, now forty. He was clinging to the base of the statute, his feet thrashing in the air, when they smashed into the treetops.
The cable snagged for a moment, as if the trees were trying to hold on to their prize, which had disappeared into the leaves. The helicopter engines whined louder, and then Sirena leapt clear of the trees, swinging forward in a wide arc on the end of the cable, soaring upward into the night sky.
Alone.
Lou was running toward the trees.
“Ray!” he shouted. “Ray!”