In Too Deep Read online

  “See you there!” she shouts over the engine, and I raise a hand as she peels away, driving out of the lot and onto the desolate road. I watch her recede in the distance and then make my way to my bike, the only one left. Jackie’s motor sounds fade away and the world becomes quiet as I climb on. I’m already sweating inside my leather jacket. Maybe I’ll drop it off at home before hitting the bar. Kicking my bike into life, I leave the warehouse lot and ride out onto the empty road.

  Trista

  I step out of the station, looking up into the sky as the sun just reaches the top of the skyline.

  Today was a long day. Captain Hartridge had me file all of 2002’s traffic reports, which kept me in the filing room from noon till five o’clock. I only had two hours to do the rest of my actual work.

  I think I may have overstepped the line at the meeting this morning. I didn’t mean to—I just thought that going after the drug suppliers would be better than trying to round up small-time dealers. I guess she’s been pretty stressed out lately. It’s understandable.

  My legs and back are stiff from sitting at my desk for so long. As tired as I am, though, I’m still excited to finally be going to Point Blank tonight. Excited and nervous. In fact, nervous is winning by just a hair. I need to make sure the Bullets notice me somehow. I need to get my reputation out there so tomorrow goes off without a hitch. I walk over to my bike and swing my leg over, get it running, and then leave the parking lot to go home.

  Traffic isn’t too bad—one of the few perks of working past rush hour—and I’m home inside of fifteen minutes. I park my bike and get off, going into my apartment and climbing up the stairs. The place is dark and quiet, as it usually is. I drop my police cap and gun off in my room, then walk down the hall to my mom’s room, turning the knob softly to go in.

  Mom is in bed, in the exact same position as when I left this morning. It seems like she never moves. I remember when she first came to stay here, how depressing the sight of her was. Now I’m used to it. I walk over and pull up the chair, sitting beside her. Taking one of her hands in both of mine, I give her a smile. She only just stares out the window.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say to her. “I had a pretty long day today. Captain Hartridge gave me all this drudge work to do … I think I pissed her off in a meeting this morning. And the Deputy Captain kept giving me looks whenever I was at my desk. I’ve told him no before, but he keeps hitting on me. It’s annoying.”

  My mom says nothing. I can feel her bones through the soft, papery skin of her hand.

  “I’m going to that bar tonight, the one I told you about.” I tell her. “I’m kind of nervous. Actually, I’m really nervous. Then tomorrow I’ve got the day off and I’m going to try to join that biker gang. Then, soon enough, I’m going to find out all the bad things they’re doing and I’m going to get them all arrested, and that’ll be the end of it. The gang that killed Sal will all go to jail, and I’m going to be the one who puts them there.”

  I smile at my mom, but she doesn’t respond. I look into her eyes—glassy, empty—and then drop my gaze.

  “Okay,” I say. “Are you hungry? I’ll get you some food.”

  Placing her hand back on her lap, I get up out of the chair and walk to the door, leaving my mom’s room.

  I get some beef and carrot stew for my mom and make a sandwich for myself, but I hardly eat a bite while I’m feeding her. My stomach is too tied up in knots. I have to keep reminding myself that this will be fine. It’ll be just like all the other bars. Just go in, play my part, get noticed. And then leave. Word will spread and tomorrow I’ll be a shoo-in for the Bullets.

  Of course, that’s assuming I don’t do anything to mess it all up.

  I give the last spoonful of food to my mom, forcing myself to take a third bite out of my sandwich. Even that is a struggle, so I get up and take the dishes to the kitchen, putting the sandwich in the fridge for later.

  I do the dishes and go take a shower while they’re drying in the rack. Once I’m clean I go into my room and get ready for tonight. My clothes are understated: jeans, a white tank top. I leave my hair down around my shoulders and shrug on my leather jacket. Even though it’s almost eight thirty, it’s still hot out—almost too hot to wear this heavy thing. But I need the jacket to show them I mean business. I slip on my boots and head into the bathroom to put on my makeup.

  When I’m finally ready my stomach does a flip and I put a hand there to settle it down.

  It’s going to be all right. This’ll be just like before.

  I leave the bathroom and walk back to my mom’s room. Going inside, I see her in the exact same position she always is.

  “Okay, Mom, I’m going now,” I say. She doesn’t respond; doesn’t look up my way. Swallowing, I lean down and give her a kiss on the forehead. “Have a good night,” I tell her, standing back up. Then I turn and leave her room.

  The sky is just beginning to get dark as I lock the front door to the apartment. Climbing onto my bike I start it up, then ride out of my neighborhood, heading northeast, toward Point Blank.

  The ride there would have taken me along my usual route to work, but I veer up north instead, circling around the station. I don’t want to run the risk of anybody recognizing me. The large PharmaChem building looms up on my left-hand side as I pass by it and begin heading east, turning down side streets, feeling the area around me become grittier the farther I go.

  Finally the houses spread farther apart and the sidewalks disappear as I slip down darker and darker streets. Heads turn to follow me; the eyes of men watching me move from my face to my body as I fly past them. I turn down one street, and the next, until the last house is passed and I see, isolated from other businesses, Point Blank.

  Part of me had figured that for a Sunday night, the bar would be a little less busy than it is. But I guess crime doesn’t sleep, since the parking lot is filled with cars and motorcycles, men and women standing outside with glasses of beer, drinking, smoking, talking amongst themselves.

  I slow my bike down and turn into the lot. My heart is pounding and I feel like I’m going to throw up. This is it. This is the point of no return. Once I get my face out to the Bullets then they’ll know me. All my research, all my time spent creating this new persona, going to all those other bars—they were all just practice. This is the real thing.

  I keep my expression a good mix of stern and impassive as people watch me find a spot. There’s some space down by the end of the lot so I park it there, then cut the engine and get off. My legs feel like they’re going to collapse at any moment, and I wish I’d forced down more of that sandwich. But I walk to the bar, keeping my head up, hearing my boots clack on the pavement.

  “Hey baby, where’d you come from?”

  I look over to see a group of guys around my age. One of them is staring at me, his eyes bloodshot, a few days’ worth of stubble covering his cheeks. The side of my mouth goes up but I don’t say anything, and when I pass by them I hear mutters, most of them about my ass.

  Good. Very good.

  I reach the door and push it open, stepping into the big, darkened room. There’s some AC/DC playing loudly from a jukebox, and below that I hear the dull roar of too many people talking at once. Staccatos of either yelling or laughter punctuate the din. I thread my way through the masses of people—burly men, strong women, people tall and short and thin and fat—head toward the bar. This place is packed, more so than any other bar I’ve been to.

  As I make my way through I scan around the room. The police instinct in me catches illegalities almost instantly: obvious drunkenness, illegal gambling, smoking what must be crack, given the kind of pipe. I could get this place shut down tonight and I’ve only been in here thirty seconds. But no. That’s not what this is about. This is about the long game.

  I finally reach the bar, against the wall opposite the door, and lean up on the edge. The bartender is busy serving a group of girls, so I wait for her to notice me.

  “Hey baby,�
� comes a voice beside me. “You walked away back there. I was asking you a question.”

  I look over and see the guy who called to me outside the bar. He must’ve followed me in.

  This guy would be a perfect mark, I think. But it’s too soon.

  “I know,” I respond. “I heard you.”

  I turn back and look at the bartender. She finishes up taking the order and sees me, starting to walk over.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he says, putting his hand on the bar with a fifty-dollar bill in it. I let him see me raise my eyebrows. The bartender reaches us.

  “I’ll have a bottle of Bud,” I say to her, reaching into my bra and taking out some cash. Looking at the other guy, I say, “Thanks, but I like to buy my own drinks.”

  The bartender grabs a bottle and twists off the cap as I hand her some money. The guy beside me slowly pulls his fifty away.

  “That’s cool,” he says as I get my change and leave a tip. The rest goes back in my bra. “I like a lady who’s empowered. I’m actually one of those feminists you hear about.”

  “Are you?” I ask, turning around and taking a swig.

  “Yeah. I always ask my ladies how they like their eggs in the morning.”

  I swallow the beer and look at him, but from his expression he looks entirely serious. I reach up and pat him lightly on the cheek.

  “Better luck next time,” I say before walking away, leaving him at the bar.

  Good, good, I think as I make my way through the crowd. I can expect to see him again.

  I reach the side of the open space and go up the few stairs that take me to the pool tables. There’s a game already in progress and I stand close by, leaning against the shelf along the wall. As I take sips of my beer, being careful not to drink too much, my eyes roam around the bar, assessing who’s here, and what’s going on.

  Almost all the people here are wearing leather jackets, but a fair few of them aren’t. Black leather jackets are one of the most popular pieces of clothing in Santa Espera—at least, among those within this subculture. People wear it like a badge of honor. It means you’re in, you’re a part of it. Those who aren’t wearing one … they’re probably just friends. Visitors, like me, even though I do have one on. Because those who are wearing them know what they’re about. And it’s good to be able to easily tell your friend from your enemy.

  As a police officer you have to know the ins and outs of this city. There are only three major biker gangs in Santa Espera: the Bullets, the Chains, and the Slingers. Other, smaller groups rise and fall, but they’re mostly just groups of friends who like to get drunk and play cards together. Those three, though, they’re the big hitters. I don’t know if Sal knew what he was getting himself into when he started up the Chains—maybe he just wanted to shoot off firecrackers with his friends, or maybe he wanted more. But it grew into something beyond him, and eventually … took his life.

  I swallow. My eyes are stinging, and I blink hard to get rid of the feeling. This beer is going to my head already. I’ll have to slow down my pace.

  There are no Chains in Point Blank, I notice, and only a few Slingers. Each of those gangs has their own bar, and this one belongs to the Bullets. I haven’t been to the other two—even when he was alive, Sal didn’t like his cop sister coming around to his gang’s bar—but this one seems more lively than how the others sound. Although as I’m looking around, I see that most people here are visitors. So far I haven’t seen any Bullets.

  I take a small sip of my beer and look to the side wall. There are leather couches pushed around a low table, and occupying them is a group of people. Almost all of them are wearing leather jackets with red shirts underneath. White stitching on the leather shows the insignia of a bullet, on both the breast and the back.

  Jackpot.

  I try to keep my cool as I take another sip of beer. I get more liquid than I intended, but I swallow it all the same. I act nonchalant and look over at the couch again, taking in who’s sitting there.

  Nine people. Eight with jackets, one without. The one without must be a friend, but he’s … oh my God, he’s hot.

  I swallow, watching him more closely. He’s sitting and laughing with the group of Bullets, but even though he isn’t standing I can tell he must be tall. His smile … it seems to make his face glow. Short-cut blond hair tops his clean-shaven face. And those eyes … a deep, hazelnut brown. They smile when he does.

  Just then his gaze slides from one of the Bullets to me and my heart leaps in my chest. I look away from him, realizing too late that my mouth is open. I close it, and then lift the beer to my lips, taking a drink and clearing my throat. When I glance back over he’s talking with his friends again.

  Jesus … take it easy, Trista.

  This beer must really be getting to me. I try not to look at that guy and watch a game of pool instead. I mean, it’s not his fault he’s so good-looking. I just need to keep my wits about me. Although I wish I’d met him any other day, though. Then maybe we’d have a chance to talk, flirt. Maybe go back to his place. Who knows? It’s been a long while since I’ve been intimate with anything other than my hand.

  Okay, focus. The game of pool ends and the loser throws his cue down on the table, storming off in a huff. The winner, a man with a shaved head and wearing only an undershirt, laughs as he picks up his beer. He looks over at me and I become my persona again, giving him a smile, flirty but not too obvious. Then I look away.

  “My turn,” someone says, and I look over to see a new guy approach the table. The bald guy gives a casual nod to the newcomer, then looks over at me and winks. As the new guy starts racking the balls, the bald one picks up his beer and comes over to where I’m standing.

  “You gonna be my cheering section?” he asks. I give him a look up and down, then lift my beer bottle and touch it to his glass.

  “I’ll be rooting for you,” I say, and he smiles before turning back to the table.

  The game begins and I stay where I am, watching idly as I scan around the bar. Time passes and every now and again I look over at the Bullets on the couches. And every now and again I see that guy looking over at me. The first time we lock eyes I feel myself blush as he smiles. The second time it happens I manage a smile back. But just as it’s about to happen a third time I hear a loud yell and my attention is taken away.

  “Hey! Baby!”

  I look to the stairs leading up here and see the guy from before, standing at the bottom of them. He’s with his friends this time and he looks much drunker than before. He’s staring up at me and a few people around him have stopped what they’re doing to watch.

  “Yes?” I say as he almost trips on his way up. His friends follow him.

  “You said you’re a feminist, right?” he says, much too loudly. The pool game beside me has stopped and I see the bald guy watching, his grip tight on the pool cue.

  “Actually, you were the one who brought up feminism,” I point out, putting my beer bottle down on the shelf behind me.

  “Yeah, you know what I love about feminists?” he slurs, walking up to me. “You can do whatever you want when you’re fucking ‘em. Those stupid bitches just beg for more and call it empowerme—”

  I grab onto his wrist and twist his arm behind his back, using my other hand to push his head down toward the ground.

  “Augh!”

  His friends all gasp and the guy tries pulling away. But I force him down to his knees, keeping his arm twisted, feeling the tightness of his joints.

  “AHH! GET OFFA ME!”

  “You might want to apologize for that last comment,” I say, bringing my head down close to his ear.

  “Damn, let go of Randy!” says one of his friends. I hear them coming forward but I swing my gaze over to them, making them stop in their tracks.

  “You little shits want to be next?” I ask, fire burning in my eyes.

  They look scared, uncertain.

  “Uh … no,” one of them says. “Just … just let him go.”
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br />   I twist Randy’s arm a little more and hear him moan in pain.

  “After he apologizes,” I say to the group.

  “I’m sorry!” Randy cries out. I’m aware of everybody around us watching.

  “What’re you sorry for?” I ask him.

  “For … for making fun of women!” he shouts.

  Good enough. I let go of his arm, stepping back so he can get up. My heart is racing and I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My muscles are tensed as I watch him for any sudden movements, any sign that he’s going to attack. But he cradles his arm and turns to his friends, and I know he’s been defeated.

  “Come on,” he says. His friends allow themselves to be ushered away as I watch them go. My breathing is coming in hard.

  I look over at the Bullets and see them all staring at me. Even that guy. He’s smiling and I struggle not to blush as I give them a smile back. Then I look away. Picking up my bottle of beer, I take a sip and feel the lukewarm alcohol make its way past my beating heart and down into my stomach.

  “Pretty impressive stuff,” the bald guy says, as though he’s seeing me in a new light. “I’d hate to run into you in a dark alley.”

  I smile but don’t say anything. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea, latch myself onto the wrong people. Instead I lean back against the shelf, watching over the bar again. Randy and his friends seem to have left, and everybody’s gone back to their own business. But every now and again I see people glance my way. And then, out of my peripheral vision, I see somebody walk up the stairs toward me. I force myself to remain calm as they stop.

  “Hey,” comes a deep, smooth voice and I look over—and up—at the tall man beside me. It’s the guy from the couch, the one without a Bullets jacket. He looks even better close-up than he does from afar.

  Trista! Stay in character!

  I smile up at him. “Hey yourself.”

  “I saw what you did to that guy,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “To be honest I wouldn’t have pegged you as an ass-kicker.”