Free Hot Wire by Gary Carson Page A

table. That's when I knew they weren't cops. The police would've used a female cop to paw me. Baldy folded his paper, dropped it on the bed, then leaned forward and got to his feet, pushing himself up like he was doing a squat or a deadlift. He looked even bigger than he had the night before, all shoulders and chest and biceps, with slits for eyes, a cleft chin and this nasty, leering grin. Scarred like a soccer thug after a two-day riot, he was dressed like a banker in pleated gray flannel slacks and a pinstriped shirt with suspenders and rolled-up sleeves. He carried a cell phone on his belt, a revolver in a button-flap shoulder holster, and he had some red stains on his collar.
    "Sit down," Crewcut said, pushing me towards an easy chair by the TV. He sounded bored and tired, like he'd been up all night. I sat down and the two of them just stood there looking at me for a while. Amused, I guess. Curious. Crewcut lit a cigarette and blew some smoke at the ceiling. He was an older guy – forty or fifty – with crow's tails around his eyes and clipped hair turning gray at the temples. He looked military, buff with a beer gut, his face weathered like he'd spent years staring into a sandstorm in some Middle East rat hole. He was strapped, too. Glock. Shoulder holster. I figured he was in charge.
    Baldy slurped at his coffee, then walked over to the desk and started going through my wallet.
    "Emma Martin." He dropped my driver's license on the desk. "Car thief and nobody mixed up with a couple mooks running hot cars and smack through the Port of Oakland. How about that?" He gave me a drowsy grin, flipped through my wallet, then put it down and inspected the keys on my key ring. "Looks like she's five years old," he told Crewcut, shaking his head. "A runty little tom-boy car thief. Hard to believe."
    "Yes." Crewcut nodded. "It is at that."
    "Kind of a mess, though," Baldy said. "What happened to you?" he asked me. "You get in a fight with one of your dollies?"
    "Go screw yourself."
    They just stared at me, bored.
    "She's a regular Snow White," Baldy went on. "Assault with a deadly weapon, possession with intent, trafficking in stolen goods, known organized-crime connections. She spent 11 months pretrial detention on Grand Theft Auto a couple years ago, but they dropped the charges on an illegal search and seizure." He frowned at the wall mirror, scratching his chin. They both needed a shave. "That's the American way," he said to me. "You're no carjacker. Kind of impulsive, though. Your sheet claims you're smarter than the usual smash-and-grab joyrider, but you fucked up last night, didn't you, squirt? Boy, did you fuck up. You really had us going until your buddy told us who you were."
    "Arn?" I blurted. "Where is he?"
    "Never mind Willis," he said. "Who put you up to it?"
    "Up to what? Who are you?"
    Crewcut glanced at him. Coded signals passed back and forth.
    "You know," Baldy said. "The Lexus."
    "I don't know what you're talking about."
    "C'mon." He smirked. "I saw you drive it away. Even followed you for a while, but you didn't want to stop for some reason. Ring a bell?"
    "Who are you? Show me some ID."
    "Somebody hired you to steal it," Baldy said. "You might as well tell us what you know. We're going to find out one way or another, so just give us a break, OK? I'm not up for any child abuse until I've had some lunch."
    "Nobody hired us," I said. He'd seen me take the car. No point in denying it. "It was pure chance we saw you drive by."
    "That's what Willis told us, but we didn't believe him, either."
    "Where is he? You got some ID?"
    "Yeah," he said. "I got some ID."
    "This is a waste of time." Crewcut snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table, then leaned closer to me. "Listen, Emma. We already have a good idea who hired you to steal the car, but we'll leave that aside for the moment. We're not interested in your extraneous activities and we don't intend to pursue your connection with Deacon and