Clyde's Last Ride

Clyde had done a seven-year stretch in Folsom, time he spent perfecting his craft. He’d pulled a few successful jobs here and there, but the money always came and went faster than the women in his life. Either being locked inside the bank vault by the manager or his getaway driver leaving him curbside for authorities, he realized what he really needed was a reliable partner and wheelman. If he was, after all, to make one more go of it.

Enter Lester, Clyde's former cellmate, a man twelve ounces short of a pint, but what he lacked in brains he made up for behind the wheel. Despite his obvious shortcomings, he made for good company. And was loyal if nothing else. The two, several months free of parole, set out with a head full of steam, a half tank of gas, and the inkling of a plan.

They parked behind the Palm Springs Credit Union, wearing ski masks in 115° heat, and went over the details one last time.

“Les, you listening? I had to work a guy over real good to get this info.”

“Thought you said your cousin worked here.”

“He did. But he ain’t involved none.” Clyde, irritated, tugged on his mask to speak, “Why’d you grab this heap of shit anyway? Couldn’t have lifted something with A/C? It’s hot as hell, and this thing smells rank.”

“You said grab something inconspicuous.”

“It’s a Pinto, man, pretty fucking conspicuous. How many of these things do you still think are on the damn road? Heaven forbid we get rammed or something, probably blow us the fuck up.”

“I think that's just a rumor. Sides, she’s a classic,” Lester replied, sliding his hand atop the dash.

They walked in, shouted something about federal jurisdictions that Clyde printed off the internet. With little to no fuss or fight, they left with just over $43,000 in small bills, and because Lester couldn't help himself, the teller’s Tuna sandwich.

Lester clicked on the engine and shoveled the two halves of white bread doused in mayo down his throat. Clyde popped the trunk and loaded the bags; he paused momentarily before slamming it and slumping into his seat.

“What's wrong?” Lester asked, through a mouth of mush.

“Get us out of here!” Clyde shouted.

Lester peeled out, kicking up sand and tread, swerving across the 111. Clyde shifted nervously, staring at the backseat through the rearview.

“Where did you get this pile of shit?” Clyde asked.

“Found it parked outside an airstream, just a few miles up from your place.”

“Fuck! I knew it looked familiar.”

“Whose car is it?”

“A man who goes by Doc.”

“A doctor?”

“No, a cook.”

“A cook got you sweating like that?”

“He ain’t a grill man dumbass, he cooks Crank, for them Barrios Niños boys. Not people we need to fuck with.” Clyde’s asshole puckered as he recalled hearing stories about them performing back-alley vasectomies on guys who owed them money.

“Well, we ain’t fucking with ‘em.”

“Tell that to the body in the trunk.”

Clyde worked the math inside his head; with his rap sheet, adding a dead body to the equation would most assuredly equal life if they got pinched. A fair shade better than Barrios Niños getting ahold of them, given their proclivities for scrotums and gardening tools. They approached a minefield of metal monstrosities, and he felt his fate twirling endlessly around the wind turbine’s propellers, contemplating their next move. He nudged Lester and motioned to head East.

The Salton Sea was a man-made ecological disaster that looked like God’s ashtray and smelled like the Devil’s asshole, which makes for a great place to dump a body. They parked behind a burned-out trailer and dragged the body out of the trunk.

Lester asked, “Think he floats?”

“Bastard's too damn heavy.”

They wrapped him in a tarp, tied it with jumper cables, and shoved him off a broken dock.

He floated.

“We need rocks,” Lester said, scouring through fish carcasses of varying decay that lined the shore.

“What we need is a plan.”

Clyde knelt and watched the sun’s reflection on the water melt into the hills off in the distance. His consciousness drifted along the rippling sea until he heard the sizzle and crackling pop of a fire. His focus shifted to Lester, who’d waded out, chest deep, to set the corpse ablaze.

“Let 'em burn, ain’t a damn thing tying him to us,” Lester shouted.

"‘Cept that fuckin’ bucket,” Clyde replied.

“Got that covered.”

Clyde turned and saw the flames rolling out the windows as the windshield burst into thousands of shards. Lester, dripping wet, took up beside him. They basked in its orange glow as the flames crawled over and out the edges of the Pinto’s charred black frame.

Clyde was as impressed with Lester’s handling of the situation as he was relieved. He let out a deep sigh, and then remembered, “And the money?”

“Oh shit!”

BIO: Peter Bertlessen was born of midnight movies, mixed tapes, and creased spine paperbacks. While he ventures to say he writes, a more apt description would be that he stabs the pages to watch them bleed. His previous works can be found in Punk Noir, Frontier Tales, Starlite Pulp, Bristol Noir, Close To The Bone, various literary journals, and random scraps of paper strewn atop the nightstand. The self-described historian lives with his wife and their four boys in Southern California.