My monkey got a cue-ball head
A good attitude and them long skinny legs
No sooner did the lyrics escape than he felt the sheer disastrous lunacy of what he’d done. And the band hadn’t played the tune since forever, execution falling somewhere between rusty and half-ass, a dash of salt in an already screaming wound. The gleam in Feo’s eye turned glacial. The bottle of beer dropped slowly from his mouth, and the mouth formed an O, then reverted to slit-mode as he vanished. Chester thought maybe that would be it, a feeble wish, but then he spotted him at the bar between sets, and at the end of the night, like a bad itch, he turned up again, drifting across the parking lot as they loaded up the Flyer.
Approaching Chester, “Got time for a word, cabrón?”
Chester led him off a little from the others, not sure why. “Nice night-no, mon ami?” Cringing. Lame.
“You were supposed to write me a song.”
The boys in the band sidled up, watching Chester’s back.
Chester worked up a pained look, phony to the bone. “I thought I did.”
“That thing you played?”
“It’s called ‘Who Stole My Monkey?’”
“Bartender tells me it’s an old tune, written by some dude named Zachary Richard. Not you. You’re Chester.”
“He’s my uncle,” Chester lied.
“Still ain’t you.”
Chester tried an ingratiating smile. “How’s about a few more days?”
“And you insult my girl too?” Feo held Skillet and Geno with his eyes, warning them that he could take all three. “You diss me twice? Know how much money you could make writing me love songs, güey?”
Got a fair idea, Chester thought, just as he knew how many grupero musicians had been murdered the past two years by cats just like this. The situation had snuggled up next to awful, but before he could conjure his next bad idea, the Mexican turned away. Chester saw a whole lot of luck heading off with him.
Over his shoulder, in that inimitable mush-mouth Texican-Mexican, Feo called out, “Fuck all, y’all!”
Inside the car, Geno broke off his solemn humming. “I’m also guessin’,” picking up his thread, “that we ain’t gonna call the law on this.”
“If we were-” Chester began.
“We’d a done it by now.”
“Correct.”
You don’t call the law to help you fetch a stolen bus when there’s an ounce of coke on board, not to mention a half-pound of weed, a mayonnaise jar full of Oxycontin, and enough crank to whirl you across Texas a dozen times and back. Small wonder we’re broke, Chester thought. They’d stocked up for the road, a lot of away dates on the calendar. Sure, the stash was tucked beneath false panels, nothing in plain view, but all it took was one damn dog.
Getting back to Geno, he said, “Long as you’re in the mood for guesswork, riddle me this: think our friend the music lover, before skipping town, scooped up this chimp-faced punch he loves?”
Geno’s eyes bulged. “In our bus?”
“He’ll ditch it quick, trade down for something more subtle. Or so I figure. Skillet?”
As always, silence. In time, a stubborn nod.
True enough, they found the Flyer with its distinctive black-and-gold design sitting on the edge of the interstate just outside Houston. Maybe he feigned a breakdown, Chester thought, stuck out his thumb, jacked the first car that stopped. Maybe he just pulled over to grab forty winks.
“Ease up behind,” he said, drawing the.45 from under his belt. “Let’s see what happens.”
Geno obliged, lodged the tranny in park. “You honestly think he’s up inside of there?”
“That’s one of several scenarios I could predict.” Chester let out a long slow breath. “What say we not get stupid?”
Chester kept the gun down along his leg-wouldn’t do for a state trooper to happen by and spot two armed African American gents with their fat dago sidekick sneaking up on a fancy tour bus in evident distress. They lurked at the ass-end of the Flyer, waiting to see if the old in-line six turned over, a belch of smoke.
Geno glanced at his watch. “Wait too long, we’ll be dealing with po-po.”
Chester felt the engine panel, noted it was cool to the touch. “I’m aware of this.”
“Like, Rangers.”
“Indeed.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Duly noted.”
They ventured single file along the bus’s passenger side, Skillet in the lead, his crouching duck-walk straight out of some Jim Brown blaxploitation joint. Chester, lightheaded from fear, began imagining as a soundtrack a two-step rendition of the theme from Shaft.
Reaching the door, Skillet tried the handle and found it unlocked. He let it swing open easy. A glance toward the driver’s seat-empty-then a glance back toward Chester, who nodded. Crouching, pistol drawn, Skillet entered, the others right behind.
The stillness was total, all but for the buzz of flies. No one there, except for the seat at the back, dead center. She wore a black miniskirt with a crimson top bunched in front, no stockings, shoes kicked off. Long skinny arms you couldn’t miss.
Geno put words to the general impression. “What happened to her fucking head?”
Chester searched for Lorena while Skillet probed the hidey-holes, unscrewing the panels, bagging the dope he found untouched within. Geno kept an eye out for troopers. Chester could feel his heart in his chest like a fist pounding on a door, sweat boiling off his face, but the accordion was nowhere to be found. Thief wants me to follow, he thought, that or he’s got a mind to hock her.
Despite himself, he glanced more than once at the headless corpse, sitting upright at the back, like she was waiting for someone to ask her the obvious question: Why? The woman he loved so much, Chester thought, paid five hundred cash for a song, then this. Only way it made sense was if she was just a means to an end. And the end lay somewhere west.
Geno, suddenly ashen, said, “That Mex is tweakin’,” then stumbled off the Flyer and vomited in the weeds. Jackknifed, short of breath, he mumbled, “Oh Lord…”
A moment later, like a sphinx handing up its riddle, Skillet finally spoke: “’Less you wanna get us all sent up for that girl’s murder,” he told Chester, “might be time to make a call.”
In Houston they phoned the Port Arthur police, reported the bus stolen, fudged a little about when and where, claimed no notion of who-they didn’t want some cop getting hold of Feo before they got their chance-then dialed every local pawnshop, even called the Gabbanelli showroom, putting out word that somebody might be trying to offload Lorena on the sly. If so, a reward would be offered, no questions asked. But they got no word the Mexican had tried it yet. Still, the phone lines would be ringing all the way across the state. If he stopped to unload the accordion anywhere along his jaunt, they’d hear, unless Feo sold it to a private party.
“Which,” Chester noted despondently as they resumed the trip west, “I figure he might well do.”
“That’d be my plan,” Geno acknowledged.
“Just drive,” Chester said.
They were screaming past a little town called Johnsue when the cars showed up, two unmarked sedans, recent model, U.S. make. The men within remained obscure behind tinted glass. One car tore ahead, the other locked in behind. A window in the lead car rolled down, an arm emerged, gesturing them to the berm.
Geno glanced back over his shoulder. “What you want me to do?”
This business just ain’t gonna turn easy, Chester thought. “What I want and what’s wise would seem to be at odds at the moment.” He let out a sigh and pushed the.45 under Skillet’s seat. “Pull on over.”
Skillet and Geno tucked their weapons away as well, as two men emerged from the lead car; the crew behind stayed put. The visitors wore identical blue sport coats, tan slacks, but they walked like men who spent little time in an office. The one who approached the driver’s window did so almost merrily, an air of recreational menace. The other had shoulders that could block a doorway, a bulldog face, that distinctive high-and-tight fade, fresh from the Corps.