The Highway Kind(74)

“Where’s that sweet sled of yours, Pebbles?” Dr. Renku Murakama asked her at work. He was a fit surfing biologist in his midfifties who ran the lab and taught at the school.

Hastings was cleaning the glass terrarium of an iguana named Butch who was currently resting on the back of her neck and shoulders. She told Murakama what happened.

“Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“What are they gonna do, Ren? Finding my wagon isn’t going to be a priority with them.” Too, she wanted the satisfaction of solving this matter herself.

“He put a gat on you, homey.”

“Yeah, an old-school revolver out of one of those ancient cop shows you like to watch.” She stared off into space. Butch flicked his forked tongue, watching a fly buzz around.

“What?” Murakama said.

“The gun,” she answered. “I’ve seen it before. Better, I’ve got an idea where that mufa took my car.”

“Yeah, where?”


The house was on a narrow street less than three miles from the Hollywood Park Casino, which had nothing to do with Tinseltown. Its official address was on Century Boulevard in Inglewood, a working-to middle-class municipality of changing demographics, as the urban expression went. The area had been majority black and was now majority Latino, though black folks were still most of the local electeds. Scott Waid’s Uncle Ro had a modest but well-cared-for home with an old maple tree out front. The tree offered shade under its boughs, rich with gold and green leaves spread like large petrified butterflies. Roland Weathers used to frequent the racetrack where now only the casino was left. He was something of a sporting man who had made money as a boxing promoter, nightclub owner, and gambler, among other ways. He’d even gotten into the top one hundred of the World Series of Poker twice.

“It’s got to be in here, nephew,” Weathers said as he loosened the rocker panel on the passenger side of the Falcon. “She’d put money out on the street for information as to where this short was.” The two men and the car they were disassembling were in the backyard on the driveway where it ended at a detached garage. Two good-size toolboxes were open and tools were strewn about on the cracked, oil-stained concrete.

Waid had his hands on his hips, looking at the rear bench seat they’d removed from the car. The neoprene covering had been carefully pulled back and the stuffing was exposed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this. Pebbles is gonna kill me.”

Weathers made a sound in his throat as he used a penlight to look into the cavity he’d exposed. “The payday we’re gonna see on this, you can buy her two of these wagons tricked out however she wants ’em.”

“Oh, these motherfuckers,” a female voice groused.

“Shit,” Weathers cursed.

Pebbles Hastings stood inside the back gate, which they’d left open. Her aunt Debra Hastings was with her. The two women were unarmed but they had little fear of being shot by the men. Both had been here before and the niece recalled seeing the snub-nose that belonged to Uncle Ro. He’d once been married to a second cousin of her aunt.

“Baby, when we bust them greedy fools, they’ll come clean. Or I’ll knock some sense into that Ro’s head,” Debra Hastings had said.

“I know how this looks...” Weathers began, hands in front of him.

“I know exactly how it looks, sucka,” Debra Hastings said, pointing at him. “You two figured you’d be slick and beat Pebbles out of whatever reward or lost treasure map you geniuses angled to find in this car.”

“I wouldn’t have used the gun on Peebles,” Waid said. “It was just for scare.”

“Shut up,” the aunt said, moving forward.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Debra Hastings stopped before Weathers, who wore overalls. “After all this time, you suddenly believe that bullshit about the Hauler?”

“Who?” her niece said, something familiar tickling a corner of her memory.

“It was on the other night on Astonishing Mysteries, Dee,” Weathers said pleadingly.

“I oughta slap the shit out of you, Ro. You two simple Negroes were smoking weed and watching that show when you thought this brilliant idea up, weren’t you?”

Waid looked chagrined. “They showed the car. You know, on the what you call it, the re-creation.”

“Of all the stupid,” she began.

“Who are you talking about?” Pebbles Hastings asked.

“Hauler Kershaw,” her aunt answered, exasperated.

That elicited a tingle of familiarity. “The football player.”

“Yeah,” her aunt drawled.

The younger Hastings snapped her fingers. “You two were a couple in high school.”

Her aunt sighed. “Aw, shit, here we go.”

1998

Hauler Kershaw: “I told you guys, I’m not gonna hurt anybody.”

Police Detective Tim Guidry: “We know that, Hauler. We know that. We just want you to pull the car over.”

On television screens across the Southland and the rest of the country, millions of viewers watched in real time as the LAPD did what was later dubbed the first ever little-old-lady chase through the tony neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Black-and-whites on his tail, Fenton “Hauler” Kershaw was driving his mint silver-gray 1967 Jaguar XKE through the winding roads of Brentwood. Unerringly, akin to his actions in his previous career as a Super Bowl–winning running back dodging defenders, Kershaw evaded the numerous dead-end streets and cul-de-sacs of the area with seeming ease.