Shred of Evidence

“Liquidity.”

The voice came from the darkness near my feet. “What?”

“That’s your problem, Luke. Liquidity.” I felt Clay shift next to me. “A man sticks a gun in your face and asks for money it’s best to have some to give him.”

“I don’t recall you whipping out a wad of bills.”

“I’m unemployed. And lazy. Nobody expects me to have any cash. You, on the other hand, run a coffee shop. People expect you to have a certain amount of wealth at your fingertips.”

“I’m afraid all my wealth is tied up in investments at the moment. Groceries, electricity, rent—life’s luxuries.”

“I’m just saying, people have expectations. You’re lucky I stepped in and saved the day.”

“You told him we could hit my ATM and…”

“…and saved you from a severe butt-whipping.” He gave a dramatic sniff. “Without any thanks, I might add.”

“I think I’ll withhold my praise…” I thumped the metal a few inches in front of my face. “…since we’re locked in a car trunk.”

“Well,” Another sniff. “I can’t control everything.”

* * *

My grandfather, a World War II veteran, was a firm believer in “Buy American” and nowhere was this more apparent than in his choice of automobiles. When America went Japanese during the 1970’s oil crisis, he bought the largest piece of Detroit iron he could find: a 1976 Buick Electra. I inherited the car when he died in 2003. It had 175,000 miles on the odometer, drank gas like it was free, and cornered like a King-sized bed on wheels. I loved it.The trunk was larger than some apartments I’d lived in—a fact I was now appreciating. I was almost comfortable except for the cardboard box that kept sliding into my head.

“What’s in the box?” Clay asked.

“Misprinted flyers for the shop. I was taking them back to the printer tomorrow. The ‘Buy One’ part of my ‘Buy One, Get One Free’ coupon is missing.”

“Good coupon,” Clay said. “Except for you.”

The tire near my head—rear-driver side—scraped against something. A curb. “He’s parking.” I knew the sound.

A key slid into the lock and the lid lifted. We were beneath the lighted overhang of a drive-though ATM. I assumed it was my bank, but I was focused on the gun pointed at my face.

The kidnapper still had a ski mask pulled down over his face. I took this as a good sign. “Out of the trunk, coffee boy,” he said to me and then pointed the gun at Clay. “You stay here.”

Coffee boy? I couldn’t decide if he was insulting me or not.

“You know what to do.” Skimask handed me my wallet.

I withdrew $400 and handed it to him.

“That’s it?”

“I can only do $400 a day,” I explained.

“You gotta do better than that. How about a savings account?”

“Just checking.”

“Damn. I don’t think that’s good enough. I think—”

“What about credit card advances?” Clay called from the trunk. “He has a Visa.”

“Well?” Skimask asked. “What about it?”

My cash advance limit was $500. I gave the money to Skimask and wondered how I could ever “thank” Clay for his quick thinking.

“Back in the trunk,” Skimask said.

“You said you’d let us go.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say where, did I?” He pointed the gun at my head. “So, unless you want to call it a night right now…”

I climbed back into the trunk and ducked as the lid closed.

* * *

“I know who he is,” Clay said.

“What? Who is he?”

“His name is Burton. I see him shooting pool down at the Eight Ball sometimes.”

The Eight Ball was not the most savory of places. “What are you doing in there?”

“Excellent nachos. They drizzle melted cheese on a huge pile of chips and—”

“Enough about nachos.”

“You asked. Anyway, you see the burn on the back of his hand?”

“I was too busy looking at the big honkin’ gun.”

“My grandmother used to say ‘To him that watches, everything is revealed.’ ”

“What does—”

“She’s a smart woman. You’d like her.”

“—your grandmother—”

“That’s how I know it’s Burton. And that’s not good news.”

“Why?”

“Well, they call him Crazy Burton, but only behind his back. Want to know why?”

“Not really.” I couldn’t think of any reason that would make me feel better.

* * *

“I have an idea.” I reached into the box and pulled out some of the flyers. “You got a pen?”

“Uh…”

What was I thinking? “Take one of mine.”

“One of? You’re getting in deep with the corporate world when you carry two pens.”

I actually had three, but it wasn’t the time to bring it up.

“The trunk seal by my head isn’t too good; it leaks when it rains. I can slide some of the flyers out, so if we put a message on the back…”

“Gotcha. Hand me some paper.”

I scribbled “Kidnapped—Call 911” and my license plate number on the back of several flyers. It was pitch black, so I had to do it by feel. It wouldn’t be neat, but kidnapped beggars can’t be choosers. I slipped the sheets through the gap and onto the road.

“Give me what you’ve done.”

Clay handed me a single sheet.

“That’s it? What’d you write?”

“I put our names and addresses. Described Burton and the car. Oh, described us too.”

“You described us? Not the Star Wars thing again? You’ve done that since middle school.”

“I can’t help it. You frown and look just like Yoda. Only taller, with more hair, and not green. I want the cops to know who they’re looking for.”

“Worried that they’ll confuse us with another pair of kidnapped guys in a Buick?”

“Just being thorough. Chill out before you pop a blood vessel.”

“I’ve been kidnapped, robbed, and stuffed in a truck by a man nicknamed ‘Crazy’. I have the right not to ‘chill out’.”

The tires scraped another curb and a moment later the lid opened. A burned-out streetlight hung over the car and tall brick buildings rose on either side of the street. Downtown.

“Out,” Burton said. “You hit the pavement, I’m keeping the car.”

I started to climb out. Maybe we would survive tonight, after all.

“Thanks for not shooting us, Burton,” Clay said.

Everyone froze. Then Burton slammed the trunk lid back down on us.

“Clay,” I said.

“Oops.”

* * *

We’d been driving around for a half-hour before Clay broke the silence.“You think he’ll let us go?”

“Don’t talk to me right now.”

“I said I was sorry. It just slipped out. Besides, the cops will get us.”

“You think?”

“How many flyers have you done?”

“I don’t know. A couple hundred, maybe.”

“There ya go. Probably a multi-state manhunt looking for us by now.”

The car stopped and the trunk opened for the fourth time that night. This time, Burton had gotten rid of his mask. “Out,” he said.

Clay and I looked around. We were in a parking lot, surrounded on three sides by flat-roofed buildings.

“Awesome,” Clay said. “Westside High. I nearly graduated from here. ‘Westside is the Best Side’. ”

“Shut up,” Burton said. He waved the gun toward the buildings. “Over by those dumpsters.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “Take off now before you commit a major crime.”

“I don’t know,” Clay said. “Kidnapping’s pretty big.”

“Clay,” I said, “if we live through this, I am going to kill you myself.”

“Harsh,” Clay said. “I’m only—”

“Don’t worry too much about that, coffee boy,” Burton said. “Now move it.”

We were dead once we got out of the car, but I didn’t see any options. I grabbed the trunk lid and boosted myself into a sitting position. When I did, my hand brushed against the key ring in the trunk’s lock. Desperate times, desperate measures. “Duck,” I shouted to Clay, pulled the keys from the lock, and yanked the trunk lid down on us. Burton made a grab for the lid but pulled his fingers back at the last moment. Good thing he did. Four of them almost joined us in the trunk.

“Nice escape,” he shouted. “What if I just shoot the trunk?”

“Go ahead.” I scribbled on a coupon and shoved it through the crack. “But you might want to read this first.”

“This could take a while,” Clay said. “Reading’s not his strong suit.”

Not the best time for Burton to get confused. “It says you kidnapped us and put us here,” I shouted. “Unless you get lucky and shoot the trunk open, the cops will find more of those in here with us. If I was you, I’d just take off.”

It was quiet for a minute then Burton pounded on the trunk lid. “You! You haven’t seen the last of me! I’ll, I’ll—” There were several shots, followed by the sound of glass hitting the pavement.

“Dude,” Clay said. “I think he’s shooting your car.”

“Better it than us. He’ll probably leave when he’s out of ammo.”

There was one final shot then a blast of sirens. A loud voice ordered Burton to drop the gun. He must have listened because he was handcuffed on the pavement when the police opened the trunk.

* * *

The coffee shop was busy the next morning. Clay was sipping a double-espresso soy milk latte with light foam while I worked. “So, Burton’s future isn’t looking too bright,” he said.“Kidnapping, auto theft, robbery, plus a few more. He’ll be away for a while.”

“And the cops kept my flyer?”

“For evidence.” Of the dozens I’d tossed out of the car, it had to be Clay’s flyer they found.

“Good thing I wrote all that stuff on there, huh?”

I handed a large Sumatran decaf to a customer. “Yeah. Good thing.” I sounded sarcastic, but Clay was right. Once a patrol car found the Buick it followed us around until backup could join them.

Clay caught my tone. “You’re not still upset that Officer Mulroney recognized you from my description?”

“Lucky guess. I don’t look like Yoda. Next customer, please.”

“Think what you want. Let me point out that a government official agreed with me.”

I decided to ignore him and maybe he would drop it. “Next customer, please.”

A man in a business suit ordered a cappuccino.

“Your place is hopping. Never seen it this busy,” Clay said. “Putting away a lot of green today?”

“Not really.”

“You’re kidding. With this crowd?”

I held up an orange flyer. “Half the people in town must have found one of the ‘Get One Free’ coupons I tossed from the trunk.”

“Like my grandmother says, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity’.” He pulled a flyer from his pocket and handed me his empty cup. “I have another coupon. Can I get a refill?”

“I don’t suppose your grandmother has a quote about not mooching coffee from friends.”

“Harsh, coffee boy, harsh.”