The Invisible Hand - A crime novel

Chapter 23

I return from the gas station across the street. Small ice pack for Sam's hand. She's saying it hurts real bad.

"Thanks for grabbing that. Wish I could just chop this thing off. Have an invisible hand instead," Sam says. Rubs her swollen hand.

I give Sam the ice. She struggles to balance it on her bad hand. I help her hold it in place.

"Better?" I say.

"A little bit."

"Got you this, too," I say. Pull out a pack of cheap cigarettes.

"Thanks again," Sam says.

I pluck out a peg. Help her light it. Yeah, she's an out-stater. But with Les's cash, I have more than enough on me to pretend to be a gentleman.

I wanted a little liquor anyway. Pull out a short bottle of cheap coffin varnish. It scorches my throat sweet.

"Your hand getting numb yet?" I say.

"Yeah. The cig helps, too," Sam says. "Thanks."

We sit on the bench in silence. Drink. Smoke. Drink and smoke some more. Watch the sun ooze into the horizon.

I feel the air temperature falling. Wonder where Les went. No surprise he took off, I guess.

Wouldn't be any use to call the police. To explain what happened. They'd peg us both as out-staters. There's only one policy for those situations. Drive and dump. We'd be just as stuck somewhere else.

The truck, though. That pisses me off. Yeah, it's not mine. But still.

Les makes his appearance a few minutes later. Wheels up the sidewalk. Face red as Sam's hand. Nostrils wide open. Wheel rails bent and abused. Each thrust a rapid shot forward. Doesn't give his wheelchair time to coast.

Les hooks through an opening in the gate. Skids to a stop in front of us.

"Where are they?" Les says. "They're here, aren't they?"

"Who?" Sam says.

"Those two fucker pigshits. Where are they?" Les says. Spit runs off his chin.

I take it he means the two hay bales.

"Haven't seen 'em since this morning," I say.

A damp shirtsleeve dulls the shine on Les's face.

"You're kidding me, right?" Les says. "They were supposed to come back with the truck. Your truck. Pick me up from the hospital."

Joe's going to be mad as hell.

"Sorry. Haven't seen them," Sam says. Lights another cigarette.

"Damn it," Les says. Takes his Navy Vet hat off. No hair underneath. Just sweat.

"They're probably just late," I say. Holding out hope I'm right. "Let's wait. I'm sure they'll show up."

Les shakes his bald head.

"No time for that. Help me find them," Les says. "We find them, we find your truck."

I don't feel like getting off this bench. Sitting and drinking are two things I've become somewhat of an expert at doing. I look at Sam. She shrugs.

"Might as well," Sam says. Turns to Les. "Where do I even start?"

Les unsheaths his steel cane from the side of the wheelchair. Points to a street in the distance. "Over there. Let's go. Hurry," he says.

Sam and I start out, cigarettes and liquor in hand.

Les doesn't move.

"One of you sorry bastards needs to push me. I'm tired," Les says.

Fine. I volunteer myself. No sense in Sam pushing with that bad hand.

We head out down the street. Sam follows behind Les and me. It's a quiet walk.

Les points with his cane. "See that alley? Go there," he says.

It takes a couple minutes to cross the street. It's near downtown and busy as hell. Wasn't like this growing up. You could play baseball in the street. Oil boom changed that.

Lots more buildings now, too. I didn't notice them before. Chain restaurants especially. Sandwich joints. Coffee shops. Bakeries. I'm used to seeing those things served in the same place. Made by one person, not 20.

We head down the alley. It opens up into a patch of grass. A metal shipping container sits in the middle. Tools are scattered on the ground. A tan truck is parked outside it.

"Abe? Tor?" Les says.

No response.

Sam laughs.

"What's funny?" Les says.

"That's their names? Abe and Tor?" Sam says. "Did they walk out of a Little House on the Prairie book?"

"It suits them," Les says. Points to the side of the container. "There's your truck."

I look at the tan truck again. Montana plates. Only vaguely looks like the truck I slept in last night.

"I see a truck. Not the truck," I say.

"Nope. That's the one. Take me to it," Les says.

I review the scratches, dings and other beauty marks on the truck. They line up. Yep. That's the truck. New plates. Paint job. Wonderful. Why is any of that necessary?

Les's accent is all I need to know. He's a fucking out-stater and he's up to no good. Which also means he can keep my interest. That's the thing with these out-staters. You can only ever really half like them.

I push Les toward the truck. Stop about halfway there. Spot something.

Sam stops walking when she sees it, too.

"What's the problem?" Les says.

I point the wheelchair at what I'm seeing.

"That," I say and point.

"Holy shit," Les says.

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This story will only be posted on Wattpad for a limited time. If you'd like the full version, head to your favorite online e-book/book retailer and pick up your own digital/print copy. Search for "Invisible Hand Sobieck." Or leave a review of the book on Amazon once you're finished reading on Wattpad. Thank you. ~Ben