Jump Cut by Ted Staunton Page B

I have to hand it to him: he’s a good actor; a little over the top maybe, but good.
    â€œRocco?” says Gloria Lorraine. “So you are mobbed up. I knew it. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll talk to him. He eats out of my hand. He’s seen Blond Trust eleven times.” She turns toward the service center.
    â€œNo!” Al grabs her arm. “You can’t. It’s complicated. See, I was supposed to, uh, pick up something for him—for them—just as a favor, you unnerstand.”
    â€œI’ll bet you were,” says GL. “Something that looks a lot like icing sugar?”
    â€œWell, yeah. But the delivery guy never showed up. Only they don’t believe me.”
    â€œI’m not surprised, given what’s in your trunk.”
    â€œAw, for the luvva—” Al smacks his own forehead. “I told them, I told you, I keep tellin’ everybody, that’s not—Aw, never mind. Point is, they think I tried to double-cross them, steal their merchandise, so they wanna ice me. Those two guys are Rocco’s sons, Vince and Tiffy; they snatched me and Mistah Bones this morning. Said the old guy wanted to do me personal. He’s extra mad because they need the classic right now. Word is, they’re doing some kind of three-way deal, with some fancy-named gang—not even a “gang,” a whaddyacallit—and a bunch of bikers, all outta state…guns, drugs, cash, the usual. I don’t know more than that and you don’t wanna. They kept me out of the loop.”
    Classic? I wonder. Maybe Al’s right; I don’t get out enough. Before I can ask what “classic” is, GL cuts in, waving a hand.
    â€œRocco shakes so much he couldn’t put a bullet in a barn. He’ll be in a better mood after he uses the restroom. Prostate problems. Look, he’s coming out now.”
    Sure enough, the old guy is shuffling back out with King Kong Wings. “Get down!” Al hisses. He crouches behind me at the picnic table.
    I sigh. For a second there I was into it, but there’s a little problem with this scene. Casually I say, “So, how did they know to come here?”
    â€œWho knows?” Al moans, from somewhere behind my knees. “How did they know where I was this morning when I went for the pickup?”
    AmberLea lifts her shades to the top of her head and looks at me, dead-on, for the first time. “A GPS transmitter,” she says. “Like in—”
    â€œ Red Means Go ,” I finish for her. “Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie, Jeff Bridges, 2008.” I can’t help it, it’s a movie. “And they tracked the guy by a GPS attached to—”
    â€œThe dog,” she finishes for me. AmberLea scoops up Mister Bones and grabs at his collar. He struggles and yips. I reach over and feel along the leather. There’s a bump under the metal buckle. I reach under and twist at it and off pops a button-sized something. What the…?
    â€œI bet it’s a magnetized transmitter,” says AmberLea.
    â€œDitch it,” Al babbles. “Whatever it is, ditch it, fast. ”
    â€œI’ll do it,” says AmberLea. “Nobody’s seen me.”
    She takes the thing from me, puts Mister Bones down and starts across the parking lot toward an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser. Meanwhile, Adrian Brody Wings has finished gassing up. He’s moved the SUV closer to the service center doors. He and King Kong Wings are putting Rocco Wings back inside the Lincoln again.
    â€œMaybe they’ll just go.” Al is peeking over the picnic table. “If they get ahead of us, we’re golden.”
    â€œThey won’t go as long as the GPS tells them they should be here,” I say. Then I remind myself not to believe this junk. For a second there, I was into it again. It’s hard not to get sucked in.
    Sure enough, KK Wings scans the parking lot. Now AB Wings heads for the