The Nirvana Blues

by John Nichols

  “This is important: don’t hang up! I got no more money.”

  “Joey, are you completely nuts?”

  “What did you mean about the septic tank, the rubber suit, and the snorkel?”

  “What did I what about what?”

  “The septic tank, the rubber suit, and the snorkel, dammit!”

  A puzzled silence greeted this exclamation. “Heidi, are you still there?”

  “I’m here. But the question is, where are you?”

  “The Seven-Eleven phone booth.”

  “I mean inside your head, Joey. What do you mean—septic tanks? Rubber suits? Snorkels?”

  “In the hospital parking lot you said Tribby would need a rubber suit and a snorkel.”

  “You mean a scuba suit?”

  “Is that what they’re called?”

  “Joey, it’s two A.M.”

  “But what did you mean?” he sobbed.

  “About what?”

  “About the fucking rubber suit and the snorkel!”

  “Apropos what, exactly?”

  “Apropos the stuff that came in on the bus.”

  “The cocaine?”

  “Must you, over the phone? Don’t you have any regard for security precautions?”

  “If this is a lecture, pal, I’m hanging up.…”

  “Please,” Joe pleaded. “Just tell me, and I promise, I’ll never bother you again.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Joey, because I haven’t the faintest idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Did you flush the cocaine down the toilet or not!”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  Click.

  Benumbed, Joe stared at his feet. He was standing on a large, rather pretty feather. Stooping painfully, he plucked it off the dirty concrete and twirled it in his fingers, puzzled. From what sort of bird had it fallen? Nothing he had ever seen around here. It could have belonged to an eagle, perhaps, but what eagle had such creamy, pearl-colored plumage? The burnished feather was luminescent; it seemed to glow as if infused with some kind of other worldly, quasi-electric energy.

  Tribby Gordon’s ancient Volvo eased into a parking place near the phone booth. “Hey, José. What time is it?”

  “Time?” Joe blinked uncomprehendingly into the single headlight. Ralph Kapansky rode shotgun beside Tribby—he crickled the fingers of both hands at Joe by way of greeting. From the back seat, Rimpoche snarled uncertainly.

  Tribby said, “Yeah. I came in for cigarettes, but the store is closed. My watch must have stopped.”

  Dazedly, Joe said, “I think she flushed it down the toilet.”

  “My watch?”

  “The cocaine.”

  “Who?”

  “Heidi.”

  “I’m out of cigarettes and you’re wasting my time with cocaine stories?” Tribby yanked his stick shift into reverse, and swung around, calling as he did: “It doesn’t matter, man. Ralph and I are on our way to check out the helicopters. But first we gotta catch the La Tortuga before they call it quits! Come on out to the Floresta helipad behind the district headquarters on Valverde in fifteen minutes! We’re developing a foolproof plan!”

  Joe paddled away the exhaust fumes with his rarefied feather. The empty parking lot jeered at him heartlessly.

  Nick Danger turned a corner, glanced surreptitiously in Joe’s direction, shifted his suitcase from under his right to under his left arm, and scurried into more protective shadows. Then the Chicken River Funky Pie van cruised down the street, veered into the 7-Eleven parking lot, and accelerated suddenly, heading straight for Joe. But even before he had time to react, the driver spun his wheel, and, as the van fishtailed, a package sailed out the passenger window, landing at Joe’s feet. For a split second, as the two earthbound tires squealed, Joe thought the odd vehicle was going to flip. Instead, aiming in the opposite direction, the van settled onto all fours, and screeched away.

  As for the package?

  Just another toy monkey with a miniature toy .45 automatic in one hand, and yet another cheerful exhortation pinned to its chest:

  We will bury you!

  * * *

  BEFORE JOE COULD ESCAPE, a mauve Datsun coasted through the stale penumbra to enrich his nightmare.

  Resplendent as always in one of his ULC custom-made velour jumpsuits, Scott Harrison appeared less than arrogant as he contorted his tall, athletic frame out of the little vehicle and brushed a speck of tarnish off his fuzzy lime-green outfit before addressing Joe.

  “Mr. Miniver, I presume? What has you out amongst all the nocturnal creepy-crawlies, pal? Scouring around for a million dollars? Planning, perhaps, to take a powder on the little wifey before your court date lands on the docket?”

  “Hello, Scott. Spare me the rod, huh? I’m pooped.”

  “And well you should be, according to all I hear. The grapevine’s been positively ecstatic over your exploits.”

  Scott ran a hand through his short, barber-clipped blond hair. His face reminded Joe of famous retired football quarterbacks gone soft as TV announcers who hailed from Oklahoma Baptist neighborhoods. His jumpsuit was unzipped to expose an ample expanse of sexy chest curls, his fingernails were cleanly manicured, he wore an expensive Seiko digital watch and Nacona cowboy boots. He exuded an impeccable smell of male after-shave lotion. And seemed—curiously—somewhat ill at ease.

  “Scott,” Joe mumbled, “I was just leaving.”

  “This will only take a minute. But it could salvage what’s left of your life.”

  “This town is positively reeking with altruists.”

  “You need an altruist, my friend.” Scott’s enormous quarterback hand adjusted a bulge in his tight crotch. “From all the info I’ve accumulated, I’d say you have just about played out your string. You know, for a very unimportant fingerling in the Chamisa Valley’s fishbowl, you sure have stirred up a passel of enmity, Joe. Not since the Richard Nixon dartboard became a best seller have I witnessed so much antagonism directed toward a single personality.”

  “I’m through with the telephone, Scott, so it’s all yours.” Joe started to swing around him, heading for the bus.

  “Not so fast, man. We have things to discuss.” Scott’s ham hand touching Joe’s shoulder suggested the cramped power of somebody who had perhaps worked up to a karate black belt in Japanese health spas.

  “Bueno. Have at it, I’m all ears.”

  “Good. For the moment we’ll forget the little contretemps between you and Heidi. That’s all cut-and-dried, and one for the courts. And I certainly wouldn’t want to violate my client’s trust by hashing out the divorce logistics with you.”

  “I can certainly appreciate your integrity.” Joe wondered where was it, the assembly line that produced all these hypesters?

  “On other fronts, I think I can speak frankly, however.”

  “Such as?”

  Scott frowned, brushing another distasteful fleck off the raised nap of his carefully brushed shoulder. “Such as, for starters, the fact that your insistence on trying to buy Eloy Irribarren’s land is making a lot of people very uncomfortable.”

  It was too late—Joe hadn’t the heart, or the stamina, to prolong a snide and sardonic repartee. Dully, he allowed his listless eyes to roam the cigarette-and-Coke-can garbage littering the parking-lot gutters. Let the big lummox wheedle to his heart’s content, it was no skin off Joe’s exhausted butt.

  “Maybe I should outline the impasse just a bit,” Scott continued. “We all know you’ll never peddle a single gram of coke in this town—that’s an irrefutable given. In fact, you may never even get the shit back from Heidi—she’ll hold it as collateral. But as long as you keep Eloy Irribarren on a string, thinking you might come through, the works remain mighty bollixed for the rest of us interested parties.”

  “Apologies to the pope. What else can I say?”

  “Say nothing until I’m finished. Let me outline a few repercussions your stubbornness could
cause, that’s all.” As he adjusted his crotch again, a highlight sparkled off his diamond-inlaid fraternity ring.

  “You probably know, Joe, that various parties are interested in Eloy’s primo spread for a number of diverse reasons. Cobey Dallas, Roger Petrie, yourself, the hospital, the bank—the list goes on and on. As Eloy’s lawyer these past two years, naturally I myself have come to feel an intimate concern for the future of that beautiful property.”

  “Though not, of course, for the beautiful man who lives on it.”

  “Eloy’s irrelevant, Joe. His day is over. He had a good life, but it’s time to push on. You can’t stop progress. That land is simply too valuable to remain in the hands of an unambitious agricultural octogenarian. It’s being wasted.”

  Joe said, “Scott, I really would like to hit you, or knee you in the balls or something, but I’m afraid you’d beat me to a pulp.”

  The lawyer ignored him. “So we come to the heart of the problem. Theoretically, Eloy’s property belongs to me. He owes thirty thousand in legal fees. I have the water rights tied up in a separate deal, just to be on the safe side. Your wife has retained me to defend her in divorce proceedings that she’ll pay for in Eloy’s property should you successfully land it despite yourself.”

  “But if you’re disbarred for making a deal with embezzlers on those water rights, how the hell will you claim that property for legal fees?”

  Scott chuckled self-assuredly. “I’ve covered myself. When I heard that Skipper was gonna nail Cobey and Roger, I went to Skipper and offered to turn state’s evidence against them both to make it look like he’d never colluded with Roger to burn Cobey’s ass. Naturally, he had to agree, because if not, I could have taken him down with me. That’s just simple business arithmetic, Joe—nothing to it.”

  “So now you’re allied with Skipper and all the other monkey freaks and gangsters—big deal. They’ll make you a stockholder in the Simian Foundation, but that won’t buy you a Universal Life Church in Eloy’s back pasture.”

  “Correct, it won’t. Which is where you come in.”

  “Me again? Oh my.” Though he had little strength left for laying it on thickly, Joe tried anyway. “Don’t tell me, lemme guess. With my help, you could bypass all the convolutions, snagging the property fair and square and all for your little old lonesome. Here’s how it works. I convince Heidi to turn over the cocaine to you, now, and you lay it on Ray Verboten, who gratefully hands you half its street value—let’s say fifty Gs. To that you add ten grand of your own bread, and we strike a deal—you and me. I buy the land from Eloy before all the grace periods expire next Monday, and we own it, half and half. Only I won’t own it for long, because you’ll see that Heidi gets my half in the divorce proceedings, and she’ll have just enough time to quarter it once before you claim it in legal fees. How am I modulating, good buddy?”

  Scott swung around abruptly, contorted back into his peppy little gas-saver, and fired it up. “You’ll be sorry,” he grumbled petulantly. “I don’t think you even remotely understand the power or the antagonism of the people lined up against you.”

  “If you’re not afraid to try and double-cross them,” Joe called after him, “why should I be?”

  Or was that Why be I should? He needed lessons from Skipper Nuzum!

  * * *

  IT WASN’T MUCH bigger than the basketball playground on Sixth Avenue at the Fourth Street subway entrance, Joe thought, drifting, with his engine cut and the lights extinguished, into a U.S. government parking place, labeled Naylor, RB, near the chain link fence surrounding the Forest Service helipad. Two small utility bubblecopters were chained down on the white-lined macadam. In the northeast corner stood a prefabricated forest-green tin shack and a gas pump. Beyond the fence loomed a large, open-faced aluminum hangar.

  Already engaged in nefarious skulduggery, Tribby and Ralph pawed over a copter by flashlight, apparently impervious to the dangers of discovery. When Joe stepped from his bus, Rimpoche lurched up from his servile stand directly underneath the bird and barked. Joe hoot-whispered, “It’s me, shut that damn dog up!”

  He heard Tribby snarl, “Stow it, mutt!” Ralph replied, “He’s no mutt, the dog has pedigree!” “Pedigree!” Tribby scoffed. “That bloated mongrel’s genes couldn’t paw their way out of a paper bag!” “I beg your pardon,” Ralph joked noisily. “How can you cast an aspersion on such a felicitous incarnation of canine regality?”

  During this exchange, Rimpoche continued barking.

  “Hey,” Joe cried bewilderedly. “He’ll blow our cover!”

  “Shuttup, Rimpoche!” Ralph yelled. “I’m sick of your atavistic stupidity!”

  The dog collapsed into a sort of Uriah heap, whimpering unctuously.

  “It’s all right now,” Ralph called boldly. “He got the message.”

  Joe cringed. “You don’t have to shout. Christ, you make more noise than the dog!”

  “I’m making noise?” Ralph blustered, offended. “Look who’s shouting at me!”

  “Why don’t you come a little bit closer?” Tribby suggested in a loud, echoing voice that no doubt could be heard the length and breadth of Chamisa County.

  “Sure,” Ralph chorused. “After all, you’re our kind of man.”

  What’s the penalty, Joe wondered as he climbed over the fence and dropped noiselessly onto the helipad, for trespassing on government property, for tinkering with government helicopters? Five concurrent life sentences? Immediate execution for being a Communist spy?

  THREE MOUSEKETEERS SURPRISED BY GOVERNMENT AGENTS AT FLORESTA HELIPAD! BULLET-RIDDLED BODIES SENT TO WASHINGTON D.C. CRIME LAB FOR IDENTIFICATION! SURVIVING MUTT DRAWS LIFE SENTENCE FOR BEING WATCHDOG!

  “Oh shit!” The flashlight clanged to the floor of the copter, rolled out the open door, and dropped to the pavement, shattering.

  Joe jumped a mile; Rimpoche shrieked.

  “You clumsy oaf,” Ralph giggled. “How can I show you all this stuff in the dark?”

  “Hand me back that lamp,” Tribby said. Joe obeyed, eyeing the deadly rotors above his head. He had heard stories of people who had been decapitated, walking into the still-whirring blades while boarding or disembarking. They gave him the shivers. Then he turned his attention to the shattered glass on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Tribby asked, banging the flashlight against his palm, hoping for a miracle.

  “I’m collecting all the pieces so they won’t have any evidence. Are you guys touching anything up there? Try not to leave fingerprints.”

  “I touch these choppers every day,” Ralph said lightheartedly. “These are my babies. I oil their gizmos and grease their whatchamacallits. I center their little mechanical souls so nobody will fall out of the sky. Don’t worry about fingerprints.”

  “Well, I hate to be obtrusive, wiseass,” Joe said petulantly, “but what’s the plan?”

  “Easy.” Tribby patted a dark, gleaming handle that resembled a gearshift lever. “I can fly this baby, no problem. And there’s a basket back there, with a rescue rig, according to Ralph. Chains, steel cables, grappling hooks, wounded litters—the works. All we got to do is fly over to Eloy’s place, grab the monkey, buzz off into the hills, and drop it into one of the Little Baldy Bear lakes.”

  “When?”

  “You’re not gonna like this.”

  “Try me.”

  “About a half-hour before they unveil the Hanuman on Thursday.”

  Joe sat down with a thump. “You’re right—I don’t like it. Couldn’t we figure out a better time?—like at the height of the Easter pilgrimages? Did you call up all the leading national newspapers and magazines, asking them to send reporters for the show?”

  “That sarcasm is very puerile, Joe.” Ralph waggled a chiding finger. “The time slot, as anyone with a little less of a knee-jerk reaction might have guessed, isn’t exactly of our choosing.”

  Tribby explained: “The two copters are signed out across the board except for a couple of afte
rnoon hours on Thursday.”

  “But that’s insane. You can’t snatch the statue in front of all those people!”

  “We got no choice.”

  “It’s an absurd plan. They’ll shoot you out of the sky. They’ll see who we are.”

  “We’ll wear masks.”

  “It’s too dangerous. How could it possibly work?”

  “I figure it this way.” Tribby slipped from the pilot’s seat and settled in the doorway, legs dangling, kicking against a metal strut. “First off, we have the element of surprise on our side. Nobody could possibly imagine that a helicopter would swoop out of the sky in broad daylight and cop their precious idol.”

  “Oh no? Suppose somebody on their side is planning the same thing? I told you about that helicopter I saw over at Bonatelli’s place. Well, listen to this. Diana told me tonight that Bonatelli and Smatterling and God knows who else are concocting a plan to steal the Hanuman for the insurance. And to create a caper that would give Iréné Papadraxis a best-selling book that’d keep the Simian Foundation in shekels forever. She also told me that rumors have it Ephraim Bonatelli is piloting one of these babies with a grappling hook to grab the U-Haul and drop it into a high-country lake until the heat’s cooled off.”

  “You’re kidding. You made that up.”

  “Don’t I wish. But here’s the icing. I was at the hospital earlier tonight, and I took the opportunity to peek through the shades into Ephraim Bonatelli’s room. And guess what I saw?”

  Ralph said, “We’re all ears.”

  “Well, they were all in there—Ray Verboten, Ephraim, Egon Braithwhite, and Nikita Smatterling. I’d seen them earlier when I barged in looking for a nurse after I rebroke Michael’s nose wrestling. But now two others had joined their Apalachin—guess who?”

  Ralph said, “The Tarantula himself, and Skipper Nuzum.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “It figured.”

  Joe said, “They had a map on the wall, and Joseph Bonatelli himself was pointing to one of the Little Baldy Bear lakes. And guess what else?”

  Ralph and Tribby shrugged.

  “The dwarf was playing with a toy helicopter. It had a string attached, and at the end of the string dangled one of those furry little toy monkeys.”