They’d set up to connect in a dive in Tucson, Dade had gone,
“Why can’t we do the deal here, in El Paso?”
Fer was drinking Sam Adams, the Boston brew, sucked remnants from the bottle, said,
“The federales are watching me.”
Put Dade in mind of Willie and Merle, going mano a mano on Pancho and Lefty, for days after, he’d abandoned Tammy, was humming
“All the Federales say...”
And couldn’t for the life of him bring up the next line, knew it was something about the cops catching the outlaw without too much effort. ’Course, he went back to Tammy, always did, she was like family.
He’d stared at Fer, then reached in his satchel, took out a bundle, half now, half on delivery. The satchel was from San Antonio, Dade had gone to see the Alamo and been hugely disappointed it was so small, what was with that? Was impressed with the plaques on the walls, to the Irish who’d died there, 176 of them... who’d have known that, the spud eaters, dying for Texas. The Irish were about to cross his path in the near future and leave repercussions he’d never have imagined.
The satchel belonged to a half-caste hooker, he’d beaten the living crap out of her, took the bag as a souvenir, she’d dissed Tammy, lucky he hadn’t killed her.
Fer had a woman with him, a feral creature who soaked tequila like a leech, she never spoke, just cut slices of lime, put salt on the side, and knocked back the Mexican hooch like mother’s milk. The deal done, Fer stood, said,
“Gotta piss, man.”
As it said in Pulp Fiction, this was probably more information than Dade needed. Fer lumbered out, his denim/leather creaking like bad news. Dade took a good look at the woman, she’d a set of knockers that put heat in his groin, she caught the look, asked,
“The fuck you staring at?”
He loved it, feisty was near his favourite thing. On the turn of a nickel, he’d have dogged her, then turned her over, cut her throat. He gave her the smile. She was a biker chick, a Mama, had seen badass up close and personal for longer than she dared remember. Psychos, loser’s stone killers, she’d partied with the worst of them. But this guy, this was a different species, he’d cut you and not even take count. He’d smile, ice in his veins, and now he said,
“I was wondering, your old man, Fer... what kinda handle is that?”
She wished Fer would come back, she was feeling something she hadn’t felt in a long time, fear, answered,
“Short for Lucifer.”
Dade loving it, soaking up every hostile vibe available, said,
“He’s the devil, huh?”
Fucking with her, she tried for hard, went,
“You better believe it, buster.”
Fer was returning, heavy boots thumping along the floor, his flies undone, urine stains along his left jean leg, like a badge of pride, Dade whispered to her,
“I’m a bit of a demon my own self.”
Physically, Dade had more than a passing resemblance to Christopher Walken, not the gorgeous specimen of The Deer Hunter... no, more the crazed face of later movies where he seemed to have cornered the market in psychos and whackos. Dade believed he looked like Jimmy Woods, especially the Woods of The Onion Field and Salvador. One of his favourite fantasies was the movie of his life... him portrayed as a Dillinger lovable scamp. He’d put J-Lo in there, not that the bitch could act, but he liked that body, get Oliver Stone to direct ’cos that dude was seriously out there.
Fer had suggested Dade stay at La Quinta in Tucson, Dade had asked,
“Why?”
Fer had sniggered, said,
“It’s like citizens-ville, lots of wetbacks working there, you get horny, you put it to the housekeeper, like who she’s gonna call?”
Where the fuck was it, he pulled up on an avenue, checked the sign, read,
STONE AVENUE
Tickled him. Got a flash of the biker chick, he’d asked her,
“You like Tammy?”
“Who?”
He couldn’t credit her, went,
“Who, an American icon, is fuckin’ who, Tammy Wynette is who.”
She’d been scared, he knew. Fear was near as vital as speed, cranked him way up, she’d said,
“I don’t, like, do country and western, I’ve got the Hole CD.”
Figured. Courtney Love, another space cadet.
He hit on her tone, prissy, a middle-class accent overriding the biker front. He let her remark simmer, dance around in the stratosphere, then said,
“Next time we hook up, I’ll play you some Tammy, maybe ‘Don’t Want to Play House,’ get you converted.”
Considering, after the business, maybe track them, get his green back, put the bitch in the ground, shove a Tammy tape in her mouth, go,
“Now you’re country.”
And Fer, it would be a real buzz to put out that dude’s lights, cancel his ticket.
Getting out of the vehicle, Dade liked the way his boots crunched on the asphalt, popped a Juicy Fruit, had the Walther in his waistband, watched a Mex with his wife and kids, hailed them,
“Yo, Pedro.”
The man turned, asked,
“Qué?”
Dade eyes him, giving him the yard treatment, thinking, spic city, the guy wearing cowboy boots, Yankees T, and Wranglers, like he was a goddamn white man, Dade decided to fuck with him a little, asked,
“What’s with the T, Speedy, like you’d know shit from shinola?”
The wife’s eyes widened and before the man could go macho, Dade added,
“Dónde esta La Quinta?”
The man conferred with his wife, the kids staring at Dade, he winked at them, made a gun of his index finger and thumb, dropped the hammer.
The man replied in a burst of Mex, Dade held up a hand, smiled, said,
“Whoa, easy, Miguel, that’s about all my spic rap, gotta like ration it, hit me again in Ingles, comprende, hombre?”
The man’s eyes glowed and Dade felt his adrenaline zoom up a notch, thinking the fuck’s got a knife in his boot. Dade could see it, the Walther up and spitting, take ’em down on Stone Avenue, waste the brats first. The man was saying,
“Ees not far, you make a right then along Beaumont, ees past the university, beside Denny’s.”
He pronounced it Dinny’s. Dade figured he’d grab a bowl of chili there, wash it down with some Lone Star, he said,
“Much obliged, pilgrim, I ever need like a gardener or someone to clean my pool, I’ll keep you in mind, and hey, great boots.”
He burned rubber outa there, got a jump from them. Five minutes later, he was checking into La Quinta, not flash but clean and white, he booked for five nights, asked,
“You got cable?”
“Sí.”
Grabbed his key, got squared away. Two beds in the room, coffeemaker, wide-screen TV. He got the coffee going, hit the remote. MTV. The Black Eyed Peas with “Shut Up,” he cranked some speed, sang with the hook,
“Shuddup.”
Sang loud.
Dade’s first serious stretch was when he was twenty, he’d burgled a house, could have been away clean but spotted a bottle of tequila. Never having tried it, he knew there was some shit involving salt and lime but opted for putting the bottle on his head.
Chug
Chug
That’s all she wrote.
Blew him across the room.
He’s slumped against a wall, vomit on his front, the empty bottle between his legs when the cops came. This was in Oklahoma, not the best place to be a burglar, especially an inept one. They take property seriously. Too, he was out of state and he was most definitely out of luck. When he opened his eyes, a state trooper named Jones was standing over him, said in a friendly way,