The Object

Mary knew exactly where to find the bastard.

She pulled up to the side of him in her red BMW and honked her horn. JJ jerked his head to the right. She grinned at him like a poker player, reaching for the money in the pot.

In his eyes-dilated trance, JJ seemed unhabituated to the sudden letting go of a lever but acutely turned sideways. In front of him were the double doors to a bank.

“Uh-uh, no you don’t, JJ,” she yelled, barreling out of her driver’s seat, holding the side of the door to wrench herself upward.

He turned toward her again, and the hardness of her glassy face startled him as if she had rubbed superglue on it since the party.

“What the helldayawhat?” he demanded.

He leaned slightly backward, and his feet pulsed like metal music.

“You know what I want, JJ. I know you took it. Give it!” She let go of the open door and outstretched her hand toward his sunken chest.

“Shit, you’re crazy. I don’t know — ”

He faced the street again, his spectral feet thrusting him forward. Mary slammed the car door shut. He was too quick for her, his bolt unabated by the turbulent waves of scuttling pedestrians. A block up, the traffic lights turned red.

Now, at the corner of the intersection, he planted his planning hands in his jacket’s pockets. And, like giving a baton to the next runner, he found a girl of about 13 and handed her something.

The girl opened her hand, closed it, and sprinted into the corner pizzeria.

Mary thought chasing her down would be too risky. So, she got back in her car and let out a long sigh. She grabbed the steering wheel tightly. After a few helpless minutes, she motioned her hands clockwise and drove into the unceasing night.