Luke - Sex, Violence and Vice in Sin City by Aaron Cohen

Author:Aaron Cohen [Cohen, Aaron]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2013-11-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ben slides in behind the wheel, which is about the size of a trash can lid. It’s been about 30 years since he drove a stick. Clutch in, break off, gas on, put it into first gear. Is that how it works?

“You might need a new clutch tomorrow,” Ben says to Hank, who is busy tucking Charlie into a storage hold hidden below the king-sized bed in the back.

“Fantastic,” Hank says. He holds the bed up while Charlie lies down in the hold. His belly peeks up over the edge of the compartment. The bed will press his stomach down when lowered, flattening him like a big piece of dough. It isn’t going to be comfortable.

“You want a pillow?” Hank asks.

Charlie does not look happy. He is a giant in a giant coffin. His eyes are huge with fear. His arms are folded over his chest. He nods. Hank tosses him a pillow.

Meanwhile, Luke crawls into a space underneath the couch he was just sitting on. The couch is bolted to the hinged lid of the storage space. He pulls the couch back over himself, closing the hatch with a gentle click.

It’s pitch black. He can smell nothing but pot residue, reminding him of pool parties and camping in the desert with his friends from high school.

His phone rings in his back pocket.

Shit! Who the fuck is that!

He pulls it out and looks at the number. He doesn’t recognize it, and it’s from an Arizona area code. He assumes it’s another goddamn telemarketer. He makes a note to remind himself to change his number soon. He blocks the call and puts his phone on mute.

He can hear complaining just outside. Artie and Cecil don’t seem happy.

“We can’t argue about this,” Hank says. “You two are going to be roomies. Just shut up and get in the hole.”

“They are pulling up right in front of me!” Ben shouts. “Let’s go!”

Artie and Cecil ease themselves into the smuggler’s hold. Cecil, his arms cramped, puts his arms around Artie so they both fit.

“Always with the cologne,” Artie says. “You smell like a French whore’s cunt.”

“Truly I find snuggling with you no more desirable,” Cecil says. “But I do have a new appreciation for your minuscule size.”

Hank slides the kitchen cabinet over them and it clicks into place. Then he pulls up the carpet in the middle of the RV, opens a hatch, slides into the space and closes the trap door. But he has forgotten something.

“Ben!” he yells through the floor. “The carpet!”

“Got it!” Ben yells.

Hank hates confined spaces, but decides to be thankful he’s not a 300-pound Samoan or holding a grumpy midget in his arms. Things could be worse.

He hears the carpet rolling over the door and the old man tamping it down with his feet. Sounds like someone walking on my grave, Hank thinks then tries not to think about it.

Ben slides back behind the wheel, and watches the rent-a-cop car pull up in front of The Stork. Two buzz-cut, muscle bound, uniformed security goons are in the front seats.

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