Chapter 3
The sky as cleared and the heat and humidity of the Louisiana summer has given way to the more subtle warmth of autumn in subtropics. I walk out of the hospital, “I still can’t fuckin’ believe you are the one who is picking me up from the hospital, me” I say to Gemma as she makes me carry my own belongings despite my still aching ribs.
“Just shut up and say thanks, bitch. Always with that mouth. Besides, this is a change of pace, babes…I’m usually putting you in the hospital, not taking you out of one,” Gemma replies with a giggle. I want to grab her by the hair and ram her forehead over and over into the obsolete blue mailbox in front of the drop off/pick up zone, but I just glower at her. In my condition she would take me apart and toss the pieces in the river. I hate feeling so helpless.
“So, have you found Wormgirl, or whatever the hell she calls herself?”
My glower turns to anger, but I bite my tongue. “It’s Batgirl, and no, I haven’t. I’m really worried about her,” I reply, turning my face away to hide the fear in my eyes. “I’m really worried about her, Gemma.”
“Worried?!?! A week ago you were chasing her around the Quarter with a tire tool! Doesn’t sound much like ‘worry’ to me!”
“That was in case I ran into those bikers.”
“Yeah right, dumbass. You know you can’t fool me, now get in the damn car before I stuff you in the trunk.”
One can never be incognito when riding with Gemma. Her royal blue Mini Cooper with a Union Jack on the roof sticks out like a sore thumb…even here in New Orleans where the unusual is the usual. And then there is her driving style, “We drive on the right side of the road over here, Queen Elizabeth.” I say as I brace for impact with an oncoming garbage truck as we head west on St. Charles. In her usual blasé manner, Gemma whips over at the last moment to avoid impact. I think about asking her to turn around and head back to the hospital for whiplash treatment. Gemma drives like she fights…full speed ahead, damn the torpedoes, all guns blazing. I envy her for her lackadaisical outlook on life. As much as I despise her, I wouldn’t mind stepping into her shoes for a while. However, I know she has her demons too. We all have them.
“How did you know to pick me up?” Curious who tipped her off I was even in the hospital.
A sly grin crosses her face, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked. “Joe asked me to. He said he would have been afraid if he had come himself.”
I stare at the side of her head, her grin in place like an evil Jack-O-Latern. “Joe sent you?” I ask, nearly incredulous. I lower my eyes as she nods her head. I turn forward and say under my breath, “Bastard should have sent Kitten….”
The car nearly runs into oncoming traffic and I grab the wheel as Gemma howls in laughter. “She would so kick your little ass. I don’t care how much of a subbie she is!”
“Fuck you!” I growl, my cheeks turning dark red. “I’ll get that little cxnt someday!” I say with such venom and conviction that Gemma stops laughing. She soberly straightens the reeling car and turns toward US Highway 90.
“You told me at Mt. Rushmore that you were over him,” she says in a quiet voice. My eyes lift slowly and watch the highway as we cross the start of the Atchafalya River wetlands. I bite my lip and ask, “What happened in South Dakota?”
“I’ll tell you someday. I can’t believe you don’t remember, but I guess remembering wasn’t on your mind as you popped Oxy’s and chased them with cheap red wine.”
I blush deeply again and turn my face toward the window to hide my shame.
We ride in silence for almost an hour when Gemma suddenly announces she needs to stop. We pull off the highway into the parking lot of a shady looking pawnshop in Morgan City. A sno-cone stand and daiquiri bar sits adjacent to the pawnshop with two motorcycles sitting out front. We walk into the pawnshop and Gemma goes immediately to the jewelry display. “What are you looking for?” I ask, more to have something to say than out of curiosity. She replies in her normal evasive manner, “I want something special for someone special.” I vaguely wonder whom she is talking about as I turn to look at a wall display of guitars, banjos, and fiddles (those are violins for the uneducated).
I check out a nice Fender Telecaster while Gemma harasses the poor clerk about a piece of jewelry. I hear them haggle then Gemma say, “Ok, I’ll take it.” All the while neither of us notices the rather large, muscular woman with blonde hair walk into the shop. I don’t realize someone is behind me until I turn around to inquire about the Telecaster. I walk straight into a leather-clad woman who looks like she was carved out of granite, and is in the midst of a homicidal rage.
“Excuse me,” I say in a small voice and start to walk around her, but she grabs my shirt and hurls me across the room into a drum set.
I land with a clatter of drums, cymbals, and various other instruments and immediately curl into a protective ball to guard my smashed ribs. The large muscular blonde stalks toward me saying, “Rylie wants to talk to you. Imagine my luck when I saw you and the cockney bitch come right to me.” I try to get to my knees to scramble away but a large boot to the butt sends me reeling face-first to the floor. I manage to roll over just in time to see Gemma yell, “What the fuck?!?!” and rush at the monster. She manages to land one punch but then the giant biker grabs her by the neck with both hands and lifts Gemma completely off the ground. With the British girl gasping, gagging, and kicking her feet, the blonde runs across the room and slams her victim back first into the wall. The light, and what fight she may have had, leaves Gemma’s eyes as the monster pulls her back and slams her back and head into the wall over and over. Without thinking of my own safety, I grab the closest thing I can find…a banjo. Running across the room as fast as my little legs will carry me, I slam the banjo into the back of the biker’s head. The sound reverberates throughout the building and pieces of the stringed instrument fly in each direction. The giant turns to look at me then she collapses to her knees. I hammer the neck of the instrument into the top of her head. Her eyes roll back and she falls to the floor.
The proprietor of pawnshop is screaming in a mixture of Cajun and Creole. Understanding the word ‘sheriff,’ I grab Gemma’s purse, wrap my arm under hers, and rush from the shop. The little Mini Cooper screams westward on Hwy 90 just as the first St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s cars pull in from the east.
To be continued…..
