a little more forceful than that?”
That’s when I realized I probably should have kept my mouth shut.
“That’s your husband?”
“Yeah, of all the gin joints, huh?”
“Now I’m really done for. Crap!” He dragged me further down the sidewalk until we stood next to a red BMW parked at the curb. A man sat in the passenger’s seat looking a little bewildered. Randolph tapped hard on the passenger side window then shoved hard into my neck again. “Out of the car! Or I’ll shoot her!”
I couldn’t help but notice how quickly Randolph had transformed from blubbering, innocent prankster to villainous, armed hijacker.
The man in the car didn’t move fast enough for Randolph who banged harder on the window. “Now, man! Or she’s a dead mother. Leave the keys!”
The driver’s side door flew open and the terrified little man backed away with his hands in the air. Randolph ordered me to get in through the passenger door and slide across. Once in the driver’s seat, I realized that the car was already running and the radio was playing “Desperado.” The irony would have caused me to chuckle if I didn’t feel like tossing my tortillas all over the dashboard.
“Now what?” I asked as I peeked in the rearview mirror, hopeful that Howard was somewhere near, aimed to plug Randolph Rutter full of the FBI’s best ammunition. Unfortunately, he wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Randolph pulled the gear shift out of park and wagged the gun in my face. “Drive, you idiot!”
The car lurched. I did as he said and pulled away from the curb, viewing the side mirror for any glimpse of agents or vehicles ready to pounce. Not surprisingly, the speed of our departure wasn’t enough for Randolph. He shoved the gun into my ribs. “Faster!”
Determined to live another day, I shoved my foot into the gas pedal. BMWs, it turns out, have a lot of kick, and that baby took off like a shot. Great, I thought. My one chance probably ever, to test a sweet ride like a BMW, and it has to be at gunpoint. Then I panicked, realizing that if I didn’t control the situation just right, that gun could very well end my chance of driving any car ever again.
It was time to get a grip. I’d been in dangerous situations before. Not too long ago, long-lost Mafia boss Tito Buttaro had aimed his gun right between my eyes hoping to save his own skin. Did I die? No. And when a cross-dressing, fugitive bank robber wanted to drop me down an elevator shaft, I didn’t die either. And I wasn’t going to die now. I silently prayed that the FBI was smarter than Randolph Rutter. And until they came through, I determined that I would aid in my own survival by a) driving with the skill of a seasoned mother who had three appointments to make in twenty minutes, and b) talking down an armed lunatic the way you talk a cranky toddler into eating those last two brussels sprouts at dinner time.
That’s right. Randolph Rutter hadn’t chosen just any old hostage to make his getaway. He’d tackled a bigger opponent than he’d counted on—he’d taken on Barbara Marr, mother of three. Because mothers don’t get mad, they get even.
Roads in Washington, DC are a nightmare. They don’t follow straight lines, half the streets are one-way, and you never know when you’re going to hit a traffic circle. Traffic circles, in particular, are disasters waiting to happen. On a good day—one without a wigged-out maniac holding a gun to your ribs—you’re tempting death when you enter one.
I screeched to a halt at a traffic light and asked my captor: “Which way?”
“Don’t stop!”
Well, that wasn’t an answer to my question, but obviously I was supposed to ignore my training and break all laws to keep us moving. That made sense. Telling someone not to stop in DC, however, is kind of like telling Meryl Streep not to act or Robin Williams not to ham it up in an interview. It’s impossible. The streets are narrow and vehicles innumerable. But I gave it the old college try and flipped a quick right-hand turn, prompting the guy I cut off to lay on his horn. Somehow, when you have a gun poking you in the side, this doesn’t bother you as much. I weaved around cars, thankful that the hot little BMW was smaller and maneuvered better than my mini-van. I honked at pedestrians and screamed, “outa my way!” at several