Page 32 of A Handsome Devil

His gorgeous face lit up as he heard the shrieking of rubber one street over. “Let’s get our car and get closer to the action.”

The takeover intersection was so packed we had to practically part the sea of guys in hoodies with our own front bumper.

When I finally gave up and cranked off the key, Alessio said, “Did you see the ’22 Charger we passed? That’d be amazing.”

Did my eyes shine too? “I’m with you.”

Leaping from my poor old Honda, I pounded on the roof as a way of saying goodbye. I took some Tums and Chapstick. The blankets we’d stolen from the motel, the Les Paul, our daypacks. I mean, they’d know it was my Honda immediately. We couldn’t, nor did we want to, wipe it clean. I left the keys in the ignition, knowing it’d encourage the new owner to pretend to be me, confusing anyone tailing us.

Already smelling the smoking rubber, I grabbed Alessio’s hand so as not to be separated. It was difficult to see the actual cars burning out, spinning and sliding, what with the ocean of lifted spectator cellphones filming the action. Smoke billowed from tires as we passed a cop car. The pig just leaned with arms crossed, blandly eyeballing the action, probably knowing he could do nothing about it. In California every TikTok video and Snapchat post was evidence they could nail people with later, but no one seemed to care about the threat. Even if you were a hundred feet away you could face felony charges if you posted about anyone getting injured, but people just got bolder. A few weeks back there was a takeover on the Bay Bridge, shutting it down for an hour at midnight.

As we squirmed our way closer we saw the spins at high speeds, the skidmarks, the fireworks popping off. Acrid stench wrinkled my nose. When a figure eight came too close for comfort, people ahead of us nearly bowling us over, we backed up a bit, and that’s when we saw it.

A person on fire.

Literally a guy on fire, with flames roaring two feet from his body. He must’ve been standing originally, now fallen onto his back, his intact hands and feet splayed. No newspapers, fast food containers, or used tissues nearby caught fire. There was nothing in his hands to indicate what had set him off, like a cigarette, but a guy yelled,

“He just burst into flames!”

“Fireworks must’ve flamed him!” shouted another, as people’s terror vaporized and they stepped closer to the aflame man.

“No! I was standing right next to him! He was drunk, but didn’t spill any!”

I shouted at Alessio and yanked his arm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

We lost no fucking time in weaving through the mob away from the burning man. The bystanders boiled together in a blob like a pot of bacon and beans. No one was inside the metallic purple Charger, but Alessio urged me to the passenger side as he leaped into the driver’s seat. I threw the guitar and other shit into the back seat. It sure roared like a 797 horsepower when he turned the key, as people’s palms thudded against the roof and windows.

Guys pounded on our hood as we slowly backed out, shouting things like “Dood!” and “That guy spontaneously combusted!”

I don’t know if Alessio was as thrilled as I was, but his agape, blissful face showed me he was. We shared our spirits, eyebrows raised.

“Dood!”

“That guy was fat! His fat caught on fire!”

“Like a wick!”

We breathed freely once out on an empty street. “Where we going?” I asked.

Alessio shrugged. “Find a barn?”

There’d be enough of them between Tulare and Barstow, but it was already past midnight. We needed to find Les Moore the next day, rehook up with the others, make sure Denmark had a new visor.

As Alessio drove serenely down 99 in the slow lane, only passing trucks when necessary, I looked for news on my phone, particularly for Jack Hoffman to see if he’d received my postcard. Sure as shit, I quickly came to a video of ol’ Jack striding around Leonard Skinner’s taped-off house, neighbors and various other lowbrow rubberneckers. I turned the phone up as high as it would go.

Jack proclaimed, “With celebrity comes controversy. It’s true, the Undisputed Truth Club robs fentanyl dealers. News coverage deifies and demonizes them. But dealers aren’t sympathetic figures. They’re considered enemies by many Americans. Dealers have no consideration for patients who need these drugs to kill pain. For these folk, Messina and Oakley offer revenge, sticking it to the rich and powerful.”

My heart actually swelled with pride. Hoffman had figured out who I was, and even flashed a not-too-awful photo of me, taken from the Establishment Club webpage. I looked like the square do-gooder that I was, or had been until recently, slicked back salt and pepper hair.

Jack Hoffman cut to a few people raving about us. Fans, I guess you could call them. There was an NA counselor who pointed angrily at the ground. “These guys are doing a much-needed service! ****tards like this can’t be allowed to get away with this ****!”

They’d interviewed Dr. Stringfellow Hawk, the guy I’d left in charge of The Establishment Club. “Truman Oakley had his heart in starting this rehab center. We’ve saved countless addicts who would’ve just died on the street, successfully rehabbing them into the mainstream. If Truman is on the road doing this, it’s for a very good reason.”

Another anonymous chick, speech slurred and spiderweb wrinkles far too many for her age, concurred. “I was like that for years, man. Truman’s club gave me a new life. Now I work at the Humane Society saving dogs, like Truman saved me. I can’t say enough good about him. And of course, Alessio Messina rocks.”

Alessio queried, “I wonder how long ‘til they figure out what we just did?”

“Well, hopefully whoever steals our car will send them on the wrong track.”