The Winner: Part Twenty-Eight

“Why are we here?” Apple moans as I walk her through the doors of the Greyhound Station. I have one hand planted under her armpit to keep her from falling over or stumbling away from me. I really could have used another day or two to get Apple into a condition where she can be out in public. However, since my big day is tomorrow, I’ve got to jump the gun on rehabilitating poor Apple.

“We’re just gonna be here for a few minutes,” I say, and she doesn’t protest. She probably can barely process what’s going on. In order to get her on her feet, I’ve had to feed her about half a bottle of asthma medication loaded with pseudo-ephedrine. That got her conscious, but made her jittery and nervous and worst of all, unpredictable, so I feed her a couple Xanax that I’d stolen from my mother’s bag of medicine. I stuck her under the shower to hose off a couple weeks worth of grime off her body, then dressed her in a sweat shirt and jeans I picked up at Goodwill. I thought the garments I picked would roughly fit her body type, but she’d lost so much weight since I’ve had her bound and drugged at my apartment that even these size four clothes were hanging off her like sails. A cheap pair of gas station sunglasses covers the dark raccoon pits of her eyes. I figured if any authorities stopped me and questioned me about her, I’d just say she’s drunk and that I’m trying to get her into a program…blah…blah, and hope that Apple has enough sense to keep her mouth while I do the talking.

However, any fear I have of looking suspicious dragging around a half-conscious woman with me immediately goes away when we step into the bus terminal. I know that somewhere deep in my childhood I’d taken a bus cross-country with my mother to meet some obscure relative in some state I don’t remember (in fact, the only thing I vaguely remember about the trip was this obscure relative kicking us out of their house after just two days for reasons I was too young to understand). There is some disconnect between the bus station of my youth, which was fairly impressionless, versus the pit witness when I step inside. The first thing we’re greeted by is the sight of a homeless stewbum laying across a row of six plastic chairs. There is drool leaking out of his mouth, and on closer inspection, his mottled purple dick is hanging out of the fly of his stained and soiled pants. A tiny but insistent stream of urine dribbles out of it, soaking the front of his clothes and making a puddle on the finished concrete floor. You would think that there would be some sort of security here to toss the alcoholics out of the place before they made a disgusting mess like this, and there is. There are two young black guys wearing Wackenhut Security khakis standing off in the corner. Unfortunately, they were too busy playing the Area 51 and cursing at each other in ebonics to be bothered to move this drunken piss fountain somewhere where I don’t have to see or smell him.

“Nigga, I says you gots to lemme get da auto shotgun diz time!” One of the security guys yells at his partner holding the other gun. “I always get died by that alien motherfucka behind dat crate witout da auto shotgun.”

“Dat’s cuz you cain’t aim, cuz,” his slightly slower game buddy says. “Yo hole family cain’t aim. Dat’s why dey either in wheelchairs, in Heaven, or on da fuckin’ cellblock D!”

“Fuck you nigga!” the smaller, wiry one says, then tries to pistolwhip his shit talking partner with the plastic light gun. He dings him pretty good on the forehead, but rubber cord connecting it to the machine prevents him from doing much follow through and doesn’t do much more than piss his buddy off, who after the initial shock of the blow grabs the guy by his ears and drives his whole forehead into his face, splattering his nose flat and dropping him to the floor like a sack. Of course, the guy’s friends take that opportunity to swarm him and start kicking the shit out of him while he’s unconscious and on the ground.

Well, if that’s how the security here acts, I guess I won’t look too out of place here with Apple. I scoot her carefully towards the line at the ticket window, nearly tripping over some three year olds running around on the floor, screaming at each other in Spanish while their mother changes a baby diaper. Once we get in line, some impossibly thin teenager with a Mohawk comes up and tugs on my sleeve.

In a voice that comes somewhere between a cry and a whine, he begs, “Please sir, can you spare me a couple bucks? I’m not from this city and I haven’t eaten in three days. Please, sir, please…”

The kid is shaking, and from observing Apple for the last few weeks, I can easily conclude that the kid is dope sick and not starving or lost from home. I’m about to tell him to fuck off, when suddenly, an idea occurs to me.

I pull a five out of my pocket and say to him, “I’ll give you this if you go over to that bank of payphones over there and write down the number on the one closest to the Pepsi machine and bring it back here to me.”

Sounds pretty easy to me, but the kid whines, “But I don’t have a pen. Why can’t you just give me the money?”

Lazy fuck. I pull a pen and Burger King receipt out of my coat pocket and slap it down in his palm. “If you want this money, go and write down that phone number and bring it back to me. If the number you give me rings that phone on the end, I’ll give you this. Otherwise, try your luck scrounging up pennies from the other winners in this place.”

The junkie talks the pen and paper and grunts like he’s the one doing me a favor. I try to watch him out of the corner of my eye and he indeed goes to the phone I told him to. I turn Apple around and whisper in her ear. “See that junkie who just talked to us…”

Apple perked up. “You think he’s got some?”

“No,” I say dismissively. “Just watch which phone he goes to. This is important.”

The junkie seems to have to concentrate quite hard just to copy down a fucking phone number. Finally, he finishes up and heads back to me in the line. “Here’s your stupid phone number, yuppie. Now give me my five bucks.”

No wonder this shithead is out on the street. I snatch the phone number from his hand, then toss the five dollar bill on the floor. “Fascist fuck…” the junkie screeches as he snatches the money off the floor. I was worried this asshole might try and punch me, but he scurried towards the exit doors real quick, probably to get some more drugs.

I guess I could have gone over to the phone myself and copied the phone number. I could have saved myself the harassment (as well as five bucks). However, I pretty sure I’m still being followed. Their surveillance has become much more discreet. They probably swapped out Goatee guy and his driver once it became too obvious that I made them. Hell, they probably don’t even need to follow me any more. I’ve become so paranoid that I see them everywhere. Then again, with their plans so close to fruition, wouldn’t it make sense to keep an eye on me?

I figure it’s best to play it safe. They’re watching, but they can’t be watching too closely and stay anonymous.

Anyway, it’s our turn at the ticket window. There is a fairly clean-cut man behind the counter, maybe a few years older than me, with the smile of the thirty-something customer service representative that has lost all hope of ever getting out from behind the counter. “Hello, sir. How may I be of assistance.”

“I need a bus ticket for tomorrow,” I say.

“Okay, what’s your destination?”

“Well, here’s the thing. I need your help with that,” I say, leaning in closer. “I need a ticket on the first bus you’ve got leaving for the state line around two pm tomorrow. It can be going anywhere, I just need for her to leave exactly at three.”

The customer service guy types something into his computer and scrutinizes it for a moment. “We’ve got a bus leaving for Oklahoma City leaving at two-thirty and one leaving for Lincoln at three fifteen.”

I look over at Apple. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I don’t want to go to either place,” she whines.

“Well, if you had to choose, which one sounds better?”

“Oklahoma City I guess. My father lived there the last time I heard from him.”

I look at the ticket guy and tell him, “I’ll take that ticket to Oklahoma City.”

He types some more. “How many tickets you need?”

“Just one. For her. Or wait, how much extra is it for children.”

“Twelve and under is thirty-five dollars. Under two is free.”

“She’s got two kids under two. Is that still free?”

“Yes,” he goes back to his computer. “The total will come out to seventy-five dollars. Do you want to pay cash or charge?”

I’m about to dig out my credit card when I realize that it’ll just come back declined. The cashiers at McDonald’s won’t even take it as payment any more. I don’t know why I even carry the fucking thing with me. I start picking through the dwindling cash in my wallet. The ticket costs seventy-five dollars and I have exactly one-hundred in there. Paying that fucking drug addict five bucks to write down a phone number and curse at me now feels insanely extravagant. I pick out four twenties and hand them under the cashier’s glass. He takes it, types something else in his computer, then prints out the ticket and pushes by change back out the slot.

“Have a nice day sir,” he says. I take the ticket and start leading Apple away from the line and look for a nice quiet corner where I can talk to her unobserved. I luckily, after only having to shuffle around the station about three times, I found an area between a generic soda machine and some white trash guy sitting drunkenly on the floor with his backpack in one hand and a fifth of Black Velvet in the other (I figure he’s too loaded to overhear us, and I’m seriously doubting he’s one of Burke’s hatchetmen. I turn us so just our backs are facing out, just in case.

“Okay, Apple. Let’s go through the plan again…”

“What…plan?”

Goddammit. I’ve been repeating the whole thing to her for hours now. I’ve told her in detail what she has to do so many times some idiot with severe Down’s Syndrome could probably repeat it. “Come on, Apple. What were we talking about in the van over here?”

I’m shitting my pants that a whole lot of my plan hinges on her being able to follow my instructions. Luckily, with just a little prodding, her face lights up with recognition. “Oh yeah. That stuff about tomorrow. I have to come here tomorrow.”

“After you do what?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “I have to come here after I get my children back from the kidnappers.”

“Correct,” I say, since it’s almost just as simple as that. “You don’t need to give the kidnappers anything. I’ve already paid their ransom. What they will do is give you the kids, then have you make a call to me telling me you have them. After that, you get to this bus station as fast as you can,” I tell her, handing her the bus ticket, as well as a twenty dollar bill I had put away for just this. “Use this money to take a cab down here as fast as you can. Remember, this bus leaves at two-thirty in the afternoon sharp.”

“But Poopy, I don’t want to leave this city,” she whines. “I have nothing. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. I can’t leave my trailer. That and my kids is all I got anymore.”

I shake my head. “I know. But listen, the men who have your kids…well, I don’t think they’ll stop just because you’ve gotten them back. Some serious shit is going to go down tomorrow…”

“What kinda shit?”

I sigh, “Just trust me. By tomorrow night, you’ll know everything. It’ll be the only subject on every news channel in the country, I guarantee it. And then you’ll understand why you have to fly under the radar from now on if you want to live. Change your name, change your life, do whatever you can to stay out of the public eye. These men…let’s just say that they don’t like loose ends.”

“But how?” Apple protests. “I don’t have any money. You’re rich. Can’t you give me some money at least so I can move to a different town with my kids? I could do it if I had money. But this…” she holds up the twenty I just gave her. “This won’t get me very far.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically, though I don’t know how I can break it to her that there is no money left. That twenty she has in her hands makes up the bulk of my money in this world. Still, I have to tell her something. “Listen, once you get to Oklahoma City, give me a call and I’ll wire ten-thousand dollars to you. You can probably get set up somewhere pretty well with that.”

“Why can’t you give it to me now?” she says, her voice rising. I shush her with my finger.

“People are watching me. Just like the people were at the police station. I can’t withdraw much of my money now, but I will be able to after tomorrow, after this is all over. Please, you just have to trust me. The less you know, the less likely these people will need to come after you.”

“Okay,” Apple nods in resignation. “I’ll call you as soon as I get off the bus. I’ll need money right away or I won’t have any place to sleep.”

“I will, Apple. I promise.”

She smiles. She must believe me, that everything will turn out okay, and that just makes me feel worse for lying to her. Even if my plan goes off perfectly, Apple and her children will still be penniless, hungry, homeless, and hunted. At least they will be alive, which is probably the only thing I can ensure now.

I snap out of my daydream of my thoughts. “Apple, do you remember which telephone that junkie went to five minutes ago?”

“Um, he went to that one down at the end there,” she says, raising her hand to point at it. I pull it back down.

“Good,” I say. “Now, this is important. Once you’ve gotten your kids back and have gotten here to the bus station, you need to call my cell phone from that same payphone. Do you understand? That exact same pay phone. I’m gonna have the number programmed into my phone, so I’ll know it’s you.”

“Why does it gotta be that phone?”

“So I know you have gotten to the bus station safe,” I say. “Now, this is the most important part. If everything is fine, call me and tell me whatever. I don’t care. However, if you think you’ve been followed or you’re telling me everything is fine under duress…”

“What’s that?”

I sigh. “If someone is forcing you to say something, like if the kidnappers don’t give you your kids back or are still holding you, then I need you to say ‘I’ll see you on Friday.’ Can you remember that?”

“I think so,” Apple says. She stumbles into me while were standing there, and that doesn’t fill my heart with optimism.

“Seriously. If you feel there is anything wrong or you’re in danger, say the phrase ‘I’ll see you on Friday’ so I know what’s going on and I can do something to help you.”

“’I’ll see you on Friday’”, she repeats. “I got it. Can we go home now?”

“We can’t go home yet. I’ve got to see my mother first.”

Apple starts to whine as I lead her out of the bus station. The wino sleeping by the front is still pissing all over himself and the floor. How much urine can one human being hold? Even the diesel fumes of the buses smell sweet compared to inside of the bus station.

The minivan is parked around the corner in a no parking zone. Even though we’ve only been away for maybe fifteen minutes, there is already a ticket stuck under the wiper blade. I pluck it off my windshield and toss it into the gutter. If there is any privilege to it being the (possibly) day before the last day of your life, it’s that stuff like parking tickets don’t matter in the least. Besides, this car is a rental.

After getting Apple into the van (which is more difficult than it sounds, since I guess taking lots of Xanax fucks up you motor coordination), I drive down to the Lucky U Motel, carefully. Though I can I deal with parking tickets, I’d rather not have to deal with getting pulled over and having Apple blurt out something stupid. I watch all the cars in my rearview mirror, trying to see if any were familiar. I’m convinced there’s a white Ford Focus following me, but at a signal it turns into the drive-thru lane at Arby’s. I’m sure they are following me somehow. Maybe they have a GPS device on the van or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter at this point. I have to keep plowing on.

I approach the Lucky U cautiously. I don’t want to run into Sergei and waste time stalling him. I don’t see his rickety, tricked out Civic anywhere, so I figure the coast is clear. I pull into the lot and park in a space close to my mother’s room.

“Wait here in the car,” I tell Apple. “I won’t be long.” She says nothing. She’s obviously pissed at me. She’s gonna be even more pissed when I tell her we’re gonna have to walk back to the apartment from here. I pop the rear hatch and pull out a brown paper grocery bag filled with some clothes and food I bought earlier today.

I walk up to the door and give the secret knock so she knows it’s me. We figured it out the last time we met. Since she’s not too bright, I made it just a simple “Shave and a haircut” with the “bits” left off at the end. My mother has done like I asked her and left the blinds drawn so no one can look inside. After a second, I hear the door unlatch. I quickly open the door as little as I can and get inside, latching it behind me.

“Hi mom,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” she shrugs.

Actually, from where I’m standing, she looks more than okay. Most of her scars and sutures seem to have healed and her skin seems to fit her now. I was kinda pissed when I first brought her home from the airport. For all the money I spent on her surgery, I thought she came out looking like a space alien. Now with some time to recuperate, she looks good. In fact, for a forty-seven year old lady, she looks damn good. Then I stop myself and realize this is my mother I’m talking about and immediately I feel a little sick.

“Did you bring me any food?”

“Yep,” I say, reaching into the bag. I pull out a Styrofoam clamshell and some pita bread wrapped up in wax paper. “I got you some hummus.”

“Hummus? What’s that?”

“You’ve never had hummus before?”

“I don’t know what hummus is so I don’t know if I’ve ever had it before. What is it?”

Her logic perplexes me, so I simply tell her: “It’s kinda like bean dip for sand niggers. It’s pretty low in fat, so I figured you could eat it.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Couldn’t you have gotten me some more of that sesame seitan salad?”

“No mom,” I say. “I didn’t have time to swing by that hippie restaurant you always make me go to.”

“But their food is so goood,” she whines. “And it’s so low in calories.”

“Look, I’m not coming back here, so eat it or starve,” I grunt. “Don’t worry, it tastes good. Besides, eating some middle eastern cuisine might get you into character.”

I pull out the other contents of the bag…a big black cha’dor I bought at the Arab store I go to from time to time when I crave a gyro sandwich. The owner is a big, hairy, Lebanese dude who takes his sweet time making my order and always forgets to leave off the onions, but his sandwiches are pretty fucking stellar, so I put up with it. Thankfully, they also sell some traditional Muslim clothing at the store, since I don’t think there’s enough of a sand nigger community in this city to justify a Burqas R’Us.

My mother eyes the cha’dor nervously. “Poopy, I don’t know how much in character I want to be. I mean, I’ll do this if it’s gonna save your life, but I don’t want my soul damned to Hell for doing this.”

I roll my eyes. “Mom, you’re not actually going to be a Muslim. You’re just acting like one. You know, like how people act like different people on TV?”

“Poopy, I’m not retarded.”

I nearly say, that she sure could fool me on that most of the time, but I bite my lip. “Look, you need to wear this for my plan to work. You’ll should also say ‘allahu ackbar’ a couple times just so you come off even more convincing.”

“’Allahu ackbar’,” my mother says a couple times, trying to get her mouth around the syllables. “What does it mean?”

“I think it means, ‘God is great’ in Muslim.”

My mother claps her hands over her mouth like she just told a priest to go fuck a refugee child. “Oh my God, Poopy. I can’t say that. I’ll go to Hell.”

“No you won’t. You still love Jesus. You’re just acting like a Muslim. You’re not really gonna be one.”

“You know Mohammed was a child molester,” she says indignantly. “Did you know he married a nine year old? That’s so sickening.”

“Mom, back in Koran times people only lived until they were in their mid twenties anyway. Girls were old hags by the time they hit nine years old. It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re just playing a Muslim, you’re not going to be one. You have to do this or else I’m gonna die. Do you understand that?”

My mother sighs. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna do it. But instead of that ‘allahu ackbar’ thing you want me to say, can’t I say something like ‘all to the snackbar’? You know, so I won’t have so much to atone for to my Lord.”

I am constantly amazed by the depths of retardation people who believe in religion are capable of. “Fine, just say it quick so no one can tell the difference.”

I pull out my car keys and a slip of paper with directions from the Lucky U to the country club I will be going to tomorrow. I put them on the bed next to the cha’dor. “Now, are we clear on the plan? You know what time to be there and exactly what you’re going to say and do?”

“I do Poopy. I’ve been going over it in all my spare time here. Do you think I’m gonna get in trouble for this?”

“No, mom. You’re doing something good. Not only are you gonna save your son, you’re gonna save the President too. Why would you get in trouble for that?”

Of course, I don’t mention to her that the odds are pretty damn high that she might get killed in the process of saving my life and the President’s. But she probably wouldn’t help me if she knew how dangerous what I need her to do is.

My mother picks up the van keys off the bed. “This van is an automatic right? I don’t know how to drive anything with a shifter.”

“Don’t worry, it’s an automatic. It’s only got a quarter tank of gas too, so don’t drive it around too long before going to the country club.”

“What should I do with the car when I’m done with it? Should I return it to the rental place?”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Return it, keep it, or just dump it on a street somewhere and forget about it. In twenty-four hours, people are gonna have bigger things on their mind than a rental minivan…”