“I never kid about dope.”
He had to know, asked,
“Where’d you get them?”
And she turned, her eyes with a cold slant, said,
“My old man was in the business, let’s say I took some samples.”
He was delighted, went,
“Bring it on.”
She did.
A black vanity case, opened it, his jaw dropped. In alphabetical order, neatly arranged, more dope than in a Hunter S. Thompson trip. She went to S, pulled out some cellophane, dumped a rash of pills on the bed. He was mesmerised, said,
“Let’s start at A.”
She shut the case, put a finger to her lips, said,
“Sh... sh, God doesn’t like greedy boys.”
He dry popped a pill, crushed it with his prison molars, tasted the acrid bent, asked,
“Like you believe in God?”
Kidding, gently fucking with her, lust in his blood, he could play around and she gave the answer that bought his soul, said,
“He gave us Tammy Wynette, what’s not to believe?”
He gave the only answer available:
“Amen, sister.”
On the Sonoran Desert in Arizona, sixteen Titan II
missiles bearing nuclear warheads stood through
the Cold War in a circle of power around the city of
Tucson.
A day later, Dade went to La Quinta, checked out, he’d tops... spent half an hour there. The manager looked at the dollar bills and Dade went,
“Got a problem, buddy?”
Let just a little edge slide into his tone.
The man, from Baja, sighed, said,
“We, how you say, anticipate credit card?”
Dade liked the dude, the way his hands shook as he handled the crumpled bills, with obvious distaste, Dade went on the offensive, not feeling it but just for practice, growled,
“What, you have a lot of American Express in Wetback-ville or where ever the fuck you crawled out of, huh, that it, you implying there’s something with my cash money, with the currency of these here UNITED STATES...?”
Roared the latter, spittle flying out to land on the guy’s collar, the guy eyeing it but hadn’t the balls to wipe it, he’d
given one brief look into Dade’s eyes and that was plenty, said,
“No, ees fine. I get you receipt.”
Dade fired up a Lucky, his usual Kools had run out, no smoking decals were all over the lobby, Dade said,
“What you can get me, amigo, is a reduction. I never even slept in the goddamn room.”
The manager split the bundle in two, moved one wedge to Dade. Picking up the cash, Dade said,
“You could pass for white, fellah, I tell you, bro, I run into you at any of the watering holes, I’ll let you buy me a brewski, how does that work for you, that grease your wheels?”
The manager thought if he ever saw Dade again, he’d head for the hills. He said,
“Buena suerte.”
“Yeah, like, whatever.”
Back at the villa, he heard Tammy with “Apartment Number Nine”... he loved that tune. He was feeling something totally alien, he was feeling admiration, for Sherry. It was not a concept he had much trade with, his norm, if such a term could be applied to a stone killer, was gratification and aggression. What he wanted, he wanted now and if heads got bent in the process, then all the better.
Sherry brought him to a low dive, the kind of place that catered to the outcast, spit on the floor, blood on the counter, a happening joint.
Plus, it had a jukebox, oh Lordy, cranking out, Hank Williams, AC/DC, Kid Rock, White Stripes, Vegas, and yes, Herself, Tammy.
What they call... an eclectic mix.
Sherry was explaining to him the formula for Long Island Tea, that type of rap, where logic never darkened the flow, he listened then sneered,
“Fucking yuppie shit.”
She was looking across the bar, a bunch of renegades mixing it with some Mexicans, you could tell one of the parties was on Crystal, the body language shouted blood. She turned to Dade, asked,
“You ever hook up before?”
For the thousandth time, he’d reply as he near always did to her with the tiresome,
“What?”
Like some broken down parrot who’d squawk the one word and squander it mercilessly. She was on Easy Times, the bottle on the table, that kind of place and it was sliding down smooth, she said,
“You ever buddy up, like, have a partner?”
He felt he was a level up, a bottle of Makers near his Zippo, nice as a Democrat and he laughed,
“What, I’ve got one now?”
The what word still in currency.
She let it cruise, waited.
Dade had never shared, never was long enough with anyone to tell them details. But Sherry had him turned inside out and to his amazement, he began,
“Time ago, a woman, Karen with two kids, separated from Glen, her old man, I was with her for like...”
Jeez, how long, he couldn’t recall. The woman had been hurting and he slid in there, Mr. Nice Guy, all laid-back concern, no push, chilled, and she’d bought it. Hadn’t moved into her home but real close. Took Ben, the kid, for ball practice, came to really connect with the boy, started to believe it was his kid, the battered mitt, he imagined it had been in the family for generations. The girl, though, now okay, some problems there. She never took to him. He’d given her a CD of Tammy and the cunt went,
“She’s like, old.”
Let that go, treated the mom like fucking royalty. He’d been having the time of his life, buying fully into the whole scenario. One day, in the park, the picnic, the whole nine, gingham table cloth, Tupperware, fried chicken, apple pie (home baked).
A woman passing going,
“Nice to see a family.”
Then to hell and gone.
Ol’ Glen came back, the prick. Got himself on some goddamn 12 Step program and Dade... Dade was like yesterday. So he’d hung around, hung around a lot, made some, okay, threats.
He was kiddin’, c’mon, as if he’d hurt his own kin? What they do?
Took off is what.
Upped and ran. In the old SUV.
Dade had come ambling towards their front door, nice and mellow, no biggie. The Walther held real loose in his right hand and so okay, maybe he’d let off a round, nothing major, not like he had a MAC machine gun in his arms and was spraying willy-nilly like some pissed-off postal stiff.
He was just, what do you call it, getting their attention, I mean goddamn it, they weren’t taking his calls, so like, what’s a guy to do?
Write them a letter.
Yeah, right, that would work.
Wiped his brow.
And what they do, were they willing to come out or better yet, invite him in, have a few brews, maybe not Glen, a soda for that alky, and talk the misunderstanding over. Thrash it out as his dad used to say and he giggled, remembering how his ol’ dad thrashed as he put him under the water for the last time.
No, the mad bastards, they jumped in the vehicle and took off. No see you soon buddy or water the lawn for us. Nope, just upped and lit out. He roared after them,
“NOTHING WORKS ON IT, THE BELT’S FRAYED, THE LOCK’S FUCKED.”
And well, he guessed they didn’t hear him. But hey, guess what?
He caught them.
Sweat was pouring down his body, getting in his eyes, Sherry squeezed his leg, said,
“Okay baby, it’s okay, they fucked you good.”
And he near upturned the table, snarled,
“No, I fucked them good.”
Too loud.
The roughnecks looked over, she continued to massage him and he reined it in. She moved, wiped blood from his mouth, he’d near bitten through his tongue, she got another splash of drinks, and he pulled way back. She studied him, said,