Motor Mouth

Beans.
    We sat in the SUV and ate the rotisserie chicken and drank the beer, then polished off the bags of cookies.
    “Do we have a plan for tomorrow?” I asked Hooker.
    “Yeah. We abduct Rodriguez and Lucca and beat the crap out of them.”
    “And we’re doing this why?”
    “To get information. And after we get the information, we’ll get them to confess to everything. I have it all figured out. I can put my cell phone on movie mode and send the confession to the police.”
    “Is that legal?”
    “Probably not. The police will have to beat their own confession out of Rodriguez and Lucca to make it entirely legal. Our video would be more of a
How to Solve the Crime Without Unjustly Arresting Hooker and Barney
guide.”
     
    I woke up tucked in between Beans and Hooker. Light was dim in the building interior where Hooker had parked the SUV, but the sun was bright beyond the open garage-bay door. Beans was still asleep, his warm broad back pressed against me, his breathing deep and even. Hooker had me in a stranglehold. His leg was thrown over mine, his arms tightly wrapped around me, his hands inside my shirt, one hand cupping a breast.
    “Hey,” I said. “Are you awake?”
    “No.”
    “You’ve got your hands inside my shirt…again.”
    “My hands were cold,” Hooker said. “And your boobs are nice and warm.”
    “For a minute there I thought you were getting friendly.”
    “Who me?” And he lightly brushed his thumb across my nipple.
    “Stop that!” I struggled to slide out from under him and drag myself up to a sitting position. “I’m starving.”
    I crawled out of the SUV and cleaned up as best I could in the sink. I washed my hair and finger-combed it dry. Hooker used my toothbrush, but he didn’t tempt fate a second time with the pink razor, so he was looking a little mountain man.
    We hit the McDonald’s drive-thru in Concord, and when Hooker reached for the bags of food, he was recognized.
    “Omigod,” the girl at the window said. “You’re Sam Hooker. The police are looking for you.”
    Hooker handed the bags and coffees over to me. “Sorry,” he said to the girl. “He’s my cousin. Family resemblance. Happens all the time. Sometimes I even sign autographs for him.”
    “I hear he’s a real asshole,” the girl said.
    Hooker rolled his window up and drove away.
    “That went well,” I said to Hooker.
    He cut across Speedway Boulevard and looked for a place to hide. It was Sunday morning and the shopping-center lot was empty. Not good for losing ourselves. We finally settled on one of the chain-restaurant lots and dug in.
    “So, how much do you know about this interrogation stuff?” I asked Hooker.
    “I watch CNN.”
    “That’s it? Everything you know about abduction and interrogation you learned from CNN?”
    “Darlin’, I drive cars for a living. I don’t have a lot of opportunity for interrogation.”
    “What about beating the crap out of people?”
    “I have some experience at that,” Hooker said.
    “We might need some equipment if we’re going to kidnap Rodriguez and Lucca,” I said. “Maybe we should get some rope to tie them up with. And rubber hoses so you can beat them.”
    “I don’t need a rubber hose. But the rope might come in handy. And some doughnuts wouldn’t hurt either.”
    Hooker found a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and ordered a dozen assorted doughnuts. When he reached for the bag, he was recognized again.
    “Hey, you’re Sam Hooker,” the girl said. “Can I have your autograph?”
    “Sure,” Hooker said. And he signed a napkin and pulled away, back onto Speedway.
    “Not going with the cousin routine?” I asked him.
    “It seemed like a good line at the time.”
    We finished eating and Hooker dropped me off at a Wal-Mart where I bought rope, some chains and locks, pillowcases (because CNN had shown terrorists wearing pillowcases), and a second flashlight. Minutes later, we were back in the motel lot with one eye on the back door and the other eye on the Taurus. And nothing was happening.
    “Why aren’t they out looking for us?” Hooker asked.
    “Maybe they’re taking Sunday off.”
    “There’s no Sunday off if you’re a hit man. Everybody knows that. I could do a lot of damage on a Sunday. I could decide to go to the police. I could talk to the press.”
    “All because you were ignored on a Sunday?”
    “It could happen,” Hooker said.
    “You should call them. Tell them to get their slacker butts out