Brett gave Red an ultimatum. Either take us there or end up a maggot hotel. Red, being the practical sort, decided to be our guide once we got into Texas.
We hit some back roads, and finally broke out toward Amarillo, Red riding in the trunk. All the time we drove I hoped the little bastard wasn’t getting carbon monoxide fumes, and every so many miles I made Leonard stop so I could check on him. Each time I opened the trunk and asked Red how he was doing, he’d give me a little wave.
Finally Brett and Leonard wore out with that method and moved Red into the back seat next to me and replaced his position in the trunk with suitcases. Brett rode up front with Leonard, and for most of the trip to Texas the two of them talked about country music. Red even had some opinions. He seemed to favor the Roy Acuff era and thought the rock sound was fucking up country music and he didn’t like the way modern country and western singers danced around on stage. He thought they ought to just sing and go to the house.
One thing about Red, he was highly adaptable.
We arrived in Amarillo late that night. The town stank of slaughterhouses and stockyards. The air was absolutely thick with it. Sometimes breathing was like snorting a cow turd. It made me a little ill.
We stopped just outside of town and put Red in the trunk again, the suitcases in the back seat. Red was resigned by now and crawled inside without complaint, curled up next to the spare tire like a child crowding in close to his mother. He held his hat to his chest like a teddy bear.
We rented a cheap motel, because it had become part of our nature to do so, parked close to our rooms, and carried Red and his hat into Leonard’s room with the guns and the luggage.
Inside the place looked pretty much like every other cheap motel room we’d rented. I felt as if I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Like no matter where I went, I ended up in the same room.
Leonard went out then, came back about a half hour later with some groceries, a bottle of aspirin, and some children’s Band-Aids with Superman on them.
Red took about six aspirin and chased them with a Coke. I dabbed his bloody forehead with toilet tissue, slapped on a few Band-Aids. I stuck a wad of toilet paper to the head wound under his hair and left it there to dry.
“This is the sort of thing we have to deal with,” Red said.
“What?” Leonard asked.
“Little people. We deal with this all the time.”
“Getting pistol-whipped?” Brett asked.
“Abuse in general. And humiliation.” Red turned his focus to Leonard. “You thought of getting me Band-Aids, you immediately thought of children’s Band-Aids because of my size. You don’t take me seriously because I’m small.”
“They were on sale, asshole,” Leonard said.
“I take you seriously,” Brett said. “I pistol-whipped the shit out of you, didn’t I?”
Red shook his head. “You just don’t get it. None of you. Hap here, he might understand some, but ultimately, he goes with the flow. He’s not a man willing to follow his heart.”
“Were you following your heart when you strangled that woman who ran the whorehouse?” I said. “If you did do that.”
“Oh, I did it. But that had nothing to do with heart. That was business.”
“Consider this business,” Brett said.
“Are you getting paid?” Red asked.
“No,” Brett said.
“Then it’s not business,” Red said.
“I think it is,” Brett said. “In fact, I think it’s very serious business. And let me add this. I don’t find my daughter, you’re all out of business. Know what I mean?”
“Of course I do. Being small doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Nor does it mean I’m physically inadequate. Would you suspect I can bench-press two hundred pounds? I may not look it in these street clothes, but I’m well muscled. Perhaps this isn’t the thing to say in front of a lady—however, considering your actions of earlier, the idea of you being a lady might be questionable, so I think I can say it, and will. I have a big schlong.”
“How nice,” Brett said.
“Yeah,” Leonard said, “but you have to climb up on a chair to use it.”
Red was infuriated. “How much can you bench-press?”
“I don’t know,” Leonard said.
“I bet it isn’t much for your size. You consider my size and the fact I weigh far less than two hundred pounds, and you’re talking about me moving some real weight.”
“That’s good,” Leonard said.
Red began to snort and rattle on about this and that. After about fifteen minutes of nonstop bullshit we had had enough. Leonard decided to gag him, and I helped. We used a pair of Leonard’s underwear to do the job. We tied the drawers in place with a belt from one of Brett’s dresses. Then we tied Red to a chair with a lamp cord and one of my belts.
When we were finished Leonard gave Red a pat on the head, said, “Just be glad them ain’t Hap’s drawers.”
Brett put Red’s hat on his head. Red shook the chair by rotating his hips and kicking his feet.
“You turn that over, I’m gonna leave you there,” Leonard said. “You’ll be damn uncomfortable lying on your side tied to a chair. You settle down there and after a while I’ll let you loose for a pee break, otherwise you’re gonna be miserable. And remember this, you ain’t got no extra clothes with you if you mess yourself. Though, I suppose tomorrow morning I could run over to the children’s department at a thrift store and pick you up some short sets.”
Red quit kicking. His little shoulders slumped.
Leonard turned on the television. There was a rerun of America’s Funniest Home Videos on. Leonard picked up Red’s chair and sat him right in front of the television set. He took the Western novel Taxi Man had given me and stretched out on the bed and began to read.
“Well, that television show is our cue to depart,” I said.
I glanced at Red: he had his head hung, defeated. On the television the audience was laughing as a toddler fell over the edge of a plastic swimming pool and banged his head against the ground.
Brett and I went to our room, carrying our little bit of luggage.
“I bought him some aspirin, didn’t I? Paid for it out of my own money.”
“Jesus, Brett. You hit him in the head with a gun barrel. A piece of steel. Aspirin doesn’t make it okay.”
“Well, aspirin’s for a headache ain’t it?”
“You gave him the headache. And besides, you gave Leonard a couple dollars and sent him for the aspirin.”
“It don’t matter how the little fucker gets it, does it?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“He’s lucky I didn’t give him a new shape to his head. And don’t be so self-righteous. You were in on it.”
I went quiet. We were lying in bed, the light out. We were both well on our sides of the bed, leaving quite a space between us.
Brett said, “I’m sorry, Hap. Really. I shouldn’t have said that. Wasn’t for me you wouldn’t be involved. But you got to understand. This is my daughter we’re talking about. Whatever it takes, that’s what I’ll do, and it’s not like we’re dealing with the Pope here.”
“I know, Brett, it’s just seeing the little guy take it. Fact is, I kind of admire him.”
“Admire him?”
“Not for who he is. Or what he’s done. But just the way he conducts himself.”
“That prattling?”
“No, that drives me shit-crazy. But he has a sense of honor. Strength. Dignity.”
“Next thing you’ll be asking him to bench-press two hundred pounds and show you his pecker.”
“I didn’t say I liked him. I said I kind of admire him.”
“I’ll have to think about that one, Hap. You’re pitying him, not picking up on a sense of honor. I’ve done the same, so I know. I’m an expert at recognizing the difference between admiring someone and pitying them. You have some of my old personality.”
“How’s that?”