Willa
I’m not sure what else to do so I go into work. My plan is to ask somebody for advice. It would have been Brittany or Peter, but both of them are out of the window. Maybe I’ll ask the head of the station, Sofia Silva. Rumor has it she’s a conscientious, empathetic person, but that’s only the impression of her I’ve heard on the grapevine. And anyway, it might seem crazy for an intern to charge up to the head of the station for that kind of advice. I even search for the address of the Skull Rider clubhouse on the internet. One of their members has left it on a forum post to a pledge, so I manage to get it that way. Maybe the leader, Grimace, can help. Somebody has to.
But I don’t get a chance to ask anybody. As soon as I get into the office, Peter’s head emerges from his door and he waves me over. “Willa!” he calls, his voice loud, causing several people to stare at him. “Will you join me in my office, please?”
I feel the eyes of everybody on our floor on me as I walk toward his office. When I get in, he leaps at the door and closes it with a slam. It’s clear from the way he stumbles back to his desk that he’s drunk, or maybe he’s on something stronger. His suit is crumpled, his tie loose and twisted to one side. Beads of sweat slide down his forehead despite the AC blasting ice-cold. He dances up and down the office, hands at his sides as if he’s afraid he’s going to fall over. Above his desk, the wall-mounted TV plays on silent.
“What have you done to me, little Willa?” he asks. “What spell have you cast on me? Did you ever consider that, when you were prancing around with your slutty legs out? Did you ever think about what effect you were having on me? Did it ever enter your slutty little mind that you might be driving a man insane? No, no, I suppose it didn’t, because that would mean you’d need to have a brain in your nut, wouldn’t it? I’m a human being, Willa. I have feelings. You can’t treat me this way.”
“Treat you what way?” I snap. “Okay, maybe moving in with you was a mistake. But here’s the truth, Peter. I don’t have to fuck you because you let me stay in your spare room.”
His mouth makes an O shape. “What?” he says, anger rising in his voice. “You were sending me a clear signal by taking that room. We both know it.”
“No,” I say. “In fact, I don’t know it. I know no such thing. And to be honest, I haven’t really got the time for this. My world is falling apart and the last thing I need is you making it worse.”
He dance-stumbles over to me. I step back out of his reach. He giggles, a high-pitched, squeaky noise which sounds strange coming from a man. “You’re going to give me what you have on this Skull Rider business, right now. I want his name, his crimes, his birthplace, his social security, if you have it. I want everything, Willa. You won’t mess me around anymore.”
“You’re drunk or worse,” I tell him. “I’m leaving.”
He leaps to the door, blocking my way, and then paws clumsily for my legs. I slap his hand away. “Ow!” he yelps. “Don’t be like that. I don’t give a shit if you’re knocked up. I know you’re a freaky slut if you’re hooking up with a biker. I can show you a good time.” His eyes are rolling back in his head. He doesn’t even seem aware of what he’s saying.
“Move out of the way,” I say, struggling to contain my anger.
“Move out of your way? And why should I do that? So you can lead me on again? Do you know what, Willa? I’ve really had enough of—”
I turn away from him, throwing my hands up, afraid that if I keep looking at him I’ll slap him across the face. “Shut the fuck up!” I growl. “Just shut …”
I trail off when I look at the TV screen. The words Breaking News cover the bottom half of the screen, with the subtitle: Prison Van Crash, Gun Fight in Progress. Shaky cellphone footage shows a prison van smashing into the wall of a house, and then five men advancing on the bus. Just before the footage cuts out, I catch Diesel’s face, pressed against the glass. The footage fades to a live helicopter feed. Peter is still droning on in the background but I barely hear him. I find the TV remote on the desk and turn up the volume.
“… appears a standoff between the gunman is taking place in several residences, with police en-route.”
I turn around. Peter is still blocking the door. I march over to him, staring at him with dagger eyes. “Get out of my way this instant. Right now.”
“You can’t speak to me like that!” he proclaims.
I lean forward, staring right into his face. “Listen to me, you drunk asshole. If you don’t get out of my way, you’re going to eat your balls off a plate.”
He laughs, but slides aside. I barge from the office and go straight to Brittany’s desk. Whispering fiercely, I ask her: “Can I borrow your car?”
“The Princess?” That’s right, I remind myself. I shouldn’t forget her name. She tips her head. “Why on earth would I let you borrow my baby?”
“Listen to me.” I know my voice is frantic but I can’t stop it. They might have killed him, and I am in no doubt of who they are. Chino’s men, ambushing the prison transport, intent on killing the man who’s been burning down their boss’s buildings. “The man I love more than anything is about to die, and your car can save him.”
She doesn’t look persuaded by that in the least. I reach into my pocket and take out the fifties, counting them onto her desk. “Here’s five hundred dollars,” I say. “Just to borrow it for a couple of hours. If anything happens to it, you can claim I stole it.”
Brittany’s eyes linger on the money. “You are stealing it,” she says, rolling up the bills and hiding them in her bra. She drops her keys onto the desk.
I snatch the keys and run to the elevator, my world feeling like it’s breaking into little pieces. If Diesel dies, my child loses a parent. That’s the thought which hounds me as I run across the parking lot to Brittany’s bright pink Mini Cooper, the pink tinsel wrapped around the steering wheel looking especially tacky. If Diesel dies, I’m an instant single mother. It doesn’t seem fair. The day after he decides to leave the life, this happens. Maybe Mom and Dad dying so young should’ve taught me that life is cruel. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. But as I start the engine and drive toward the clubhouse, I feel shocked. Life can’t be this brutal. It just can’t.
I drive through the city as fast as I can. Luckily the clubhouse isn’t too far away. I manage to get there in just under ten minutes, all the while aware that even one of those minutes could mean attending Diesel’s funeral. I bring Princess to a screeching halt outside the clubhouse and run toward it, barging through the door with my shoulder and barging through into a large bar area.
A few men sit around, drinking whisky and dealing cards. They all turn to me, two of them jumping to their feet and drawing their weapons. I recognize the man who hit on me at the bar, with the greasy hair. Maybe it’s because he’s the only one I’ve ever seen before that I address him, trying my best to ignore the guns pointed at me.
“Diesel is going to die!” I scream. “Diesel, your friend, your brother, a member of this club! He’s going to be killed by Chino’s men!”
The greasy-haired man waves at the bikers to lower their weapons. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
I explain quickly about the news.
“And these are Chino’s men?”
“Are they yours?” I ask. “Are they the club’s?”
The man laughs harshly. “The club ain’t in the habit of ambushing police vans. We own quite a few police in this city, sweetheart. What’d be the benefit in killing them?”
“Well, I guess Chino doesn’t have the same philosophy as you. Listen, we can’t stand around talking. Diesel might be dying. He might be dead. He needs your help.”
A door I didn’t notice at first swings open, a man almost as big as Diesel stepping out. It’s the man from the photograph in Diesel’s apartment, bald with a monstrous bushy beard. He wears Skull Rider leathers, his thumbs hooked in the pockets. “It took some real balls to come in here, missy,” he says. “You don’t know us. For all you know, we’ll kill you and dump your body someplace. Maybe that’s the sorta men we are.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Diesel is one of you, and that’s not the sort of man Diesel is.”
“Maybe he is already dead,” Grimace says. “How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“And where is it?”
I tell them.
“A five minute ride, if we push it.” He sighs, and then nods at his men. “Gather the troops. We ain’t letting Diesel die. I’m impressed with his lady here, I’ve gotta say, and Diesel has paid his dues to the club. We ain’t letting that bastard Chino take him out. Fuckin’ Chino.”
A minute later, I’m struggling to keep up with ten or so bikers in Princess, trailing behind them, hoping that we’re not too late. I keep seeing Diesel’s face, but instead of a grin or a smile or a look of intense pleasure, a bullet has carved it in half, making his skin red with blood, flapping away to reveal his bone. I think about sitting my son or daughter on my knee and having to explain to them how Daddy died in the same way Mom had to explain to me. I think about standing by Diesel’s gravesite, weeping.
And then I start to weep. Not uncontrollable tears, not hysterical tears. Silent tears, streaming down my face, and now I’m whispering to myself: “Please don’t let him die; please don’t kill my baby’s father; please don’t be that cruel.”