“Put these on, I like to hear those punks when I’m doing business, and this is my travelling pharmacy.”
He spilled the bag out and pills of every colour rained on the floor.
He gestured towards the boxes:
“And there is primo firepower, get your own militia started.”
Dade checked the music, the Ramones, put it on, and smiled as he heard the scream, “One, two, three, four,” then “Blitzkrieg Bop.”
Dade laid out rolls of bills, asked,
“You want to count it?”
Fer gave a full grin, green and gold teeth, a dribble at the corner of his mouth, said,
“Me... count it... no way, Jose.”
And before Dade could respond about trust and shit, Fer pointed at his woman. Said,
“My bitch does that.”
He was openly staring at Sherry, stroking his crotch, said,
“Got me an itch here.”
Sherry gave a bashful smile, excused herself, said she needed to get something in the bedroom. Fer looked at Dade, who gave him the thumbs-up. Dade, alone with Fer’s old lady, asked,
“You like the Ramones?”
They were into “Sheena is a Punk Rocker.”
She gave him an icy glare, adjusting those heavy boots she had, as if they were itching her, she said,
“They’re dead.”
He raised his eyebrows, asked,
“They sound dead to you?”
She was deep into the count... still fiddling with the boots and then back to the count muttered,
“Fuck you.”
He loved it, asked,
“Get you something?”
Without looking up, she snapped,
“Bourbon, rocks.”
There was an almighty roar from the bedroom, the woman, alarmed, looked up, Dade reassured,
“No biggie, she likes her men to howl.”
The woman was on her feet, worried as the sound of a body hitting the floor, then the bedroom door opened, Sherry, wearing only panties, covered in blood, staggered out, a knife in her left hand, gasped,
“Gutted, like the pig he was.”
Too late, Dade registered the gun in the woman’s hand... had come out of the boots, no wonder she’d been messing with them, having a pistol in there was sure bound to have been a bitch. The gun was in her hands, double grip and squeezing off rounds.
Four shots at Sherry, then turning to him. He dived behind the table, fumbled for his weapon, two rounds slammed into the wall behind him, inches from his face. He’d the Walther up, let off a full clip, the sound deafening him, and heard her fall backwards. Cordite, smoke, and then a stunned silence filled the room. He took a deep breath, stood up, moved to the woman, her head was half gone. Turning towards Sherry, he whispered,
“Tammy, babe, you okay?”
One round in her left eye, he sighed,
“Aw, fuck.”
He didn’t touch her, went into the bedroom, the angel on the floor, his jeans round his knees, his throat a riot of slashes, Dade moved back to the front room, opened the cloth bag, whistled. A kaleidoscope of dope, he did some crystal, figured he needed something fast, lethal. Waited for the ignition, he was singing quietly,
“Let’s get the blanket from the bedroom.”
Took him a time to get the bodies into the pickup, then he drove to the desert, buried them deep. Before filling the hole, he’d gotten the photo of Tammy, thrown it in, said,
“Hell of a show, babe.”
He drove Fer’s Dodge back to the dive, left it there. For the past week, he and Sherry had played music loud and mean to get the neighbours accustomed to raucous behaviour so when the gunplay went down, no cops would be called. Still, he kept a wary eye on the road. Back at the Villa, he opened a bottle of Easy Times, did two rapid shots, then some blow, a little speed and got to work. Cleaned the place from top to bottom, scrubbed the floors, put a fragment of brain in the bin liner, washed the walls, the chemicals in his blood pushing him till his fingers bled. Did another shot of booze, cranked with speed and hopped in the shower, scalded his own self, got a white T... with the logo “Twisted City,” a fresh-washed pair of Levi’s and got the hell out of there. He didn’t look back, not a habit he ever acquired. As he drove, he used his bleeding hand to gather the Tammy tapes, threw them out the window, shouted,
“Wreck on the Highway.”
A speeding Mack mangled the tapes as it burned towards Phoenix.
The next few days, Dade made plans to offload the spoils. His heart wasn’t in it. Without Sherry, he felt at a loss. Sitting in the pickup, running pictures of her in his head when it came to him: Finish her business for her.
The Irish guy she’d been expecting, fuck, he’d do it for her. He got in gear, went to the Lazy 8, hung out in the lobby. Two days of this before he choose his mark. One of the bellboys, late twenties, seemed to evade work at every opportunity. His name tag read “Willy.” Dade let another day slide by, then when Willy finished work, he followed him. The guy headed straight for the cantina, got a cold one, grabbed a table. Dade got two brews, sauntered over, took a chair, said,
“Howdy, partner.”
Willy gave a nod, cautious, Dade stared at him, asked,
“How much you pulling down there, William?”
“What?”
“The Lazy 8, the dead-end gig you got going, with tips, scarce in your case, I’d figure, tops, you’re maybe lucky to see two hundred bucks?”
Willy glanced round, see who else was involved, then back to Dade, tried,
“And it’s your business, how?”
Put a little muscle in there but it was halfhearted, he’d gotten a look in Dade’s eyes, it drained the tone of conviction. Dade laughed, he’d caught the hint of aggression and nothing he loved more, it was low-key mind fucking, kept his act sharp, he said,
“You’re the only white guy, what, they weren’t hiring at Denny’s? All the rest of the help, they’re like, wetbacks, can’t be easy.”
Dade had hit the nerve, Willy’s voice rose, “It’s only temporary, get me a few bucks stashed, I’m so outta there.”
Dade nodded, as if he approved the sentiment, then asserted,
“Like that’s ever going to happen.”
Willy glared at him, gulped his beer, made to leave, Dade had a hand up, said,
“Whoa, here’s a cold one, bring it down a peg, I might be the answer to your dream.”
A week later, Dade’s cell shrilled and he answered, went,
“Yeah?”
“An Irishman just checked in.”
Dade punched the air, asked,
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“Willy, get up to speed pal, like, room number?”
A pause, Dade could imagine the dollar signs in Willy’s eyes, then,
“I don’t know, that seems...”
“You want the cash or not?”
Got the room number.
Willy’s body was found in an alleyway, listed as drug-related homicide, twenty tabs of speed in his jeans.
Dade watched the Irish guy for a few days. Dude had that army stance, and cautious, discreetly clocking everything out. Dade withdrew into the shadows. Come evening, the guy went to a bar, had a couple of shots of Jameson, that shit cost, then walked back to he Lazy 8. Fourth night, Dade was ready. As the guy approached the motel, Dade appeared, staggering, reeling, holding his stomach, the guy let him close, asked,
“You all right?”
Dade sunk the knife in his belly, then with both hands, ripped upwards, bent over the guy, right in his face, the guy’s low moan, his hand on Dade’s shoulder, lightly, as if he were merely seeking support, then Dade withdrew the blade, pushed it deep into the throat, pulled it lengthways, said,