This really was something special, Smith thought. It's usually a few weeks before a woman who's been in his bed tells him, "We have to talk."
Those conversations, he thought, never end well.
Papa filed the papers for the nonprofit that morning, naming Smith and Spew as officers of Bucks for Boobs, a charity dedicated to paying for implant removal surgery for retired strippers.
The investment bankers thought it was a worthy cause. They rejected Papa's first choice, Dicks for Chicks, a fund to finance sex-change operations. The investment bankers thought it sounded tacky and they were kind of hoping they'd be able to tap the fund to get breast implants. They had done some calculations and figured they could increase their tips by 48 percent if they went from 34Cs to 38Ds.
They were out of luck. The name didn't matter. Papa never intended to pay for any boobs or dicks or anything for that matter. The corporation existed so that he could name Smith and Spew as officers and take out what's called key man insurance on their lives, intended to protect the business should something happen to its officers.
And Papa was going to make sure something happened to the key officers in this corporation.
Smith sat at the island in his kitchen. As Kathy explained what she had seen in Papa's office, Smith got up and poured his wine into the sink and replaced it with bourbon.
"Shit."
"I figured you'd say something like that."
Smith rubbed his chin. He had a couple of options. He could get the hell out of Dodge and hide out until things chilled or Papa died, which, when he thought about it, would be a prerequisite to things chilling. Or he could do something about it. First, he'd have to warn Spew. The guy was a fuckup and a pain in the ass sometimes, but he didn't deserve this shit. Smith thought about Spew's grandma being left alone with her imaginary dead dog. He'd have to bring Spew in and the two of them could figure out what to do. Well, he'd have to figure out what they were going to do.
Kathy watched him think.
"What're you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I'm fucked."
"Talk to me. Maybe I can help."
"What do you know about this kind of business?"
"You'd be surprised."
Chapter Nine
Papa was more than a little pissed when he walked into The Happy Beaver that night and the first thing he saw was Fat Sam sitting at the bar with Wiley. He walked past Wiley and, out of the corner of his mouth, said, "Office. Now."
Wiley followed Papa into the office and started to sit on the couch.
Papa looked annoyed.
"Close the fucking door."
Wiley closed the door.
Papa started talking even before Wiley's ass hit the couch.
"I thought I fucking told you: Do not hang out at The Happy Beaver. What are you, a fucking idiot?"
Wiley thought for a moment.
"That's not what you said. You said we couldn't meet here because too many cops hung out here and we couldn't be seen together in case some cop was able to count to four. I'm paraphrasing, but I believe that was the gist."
"It's bad enough you come here, but then you were sitting with Fat Sam. Jesus. What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I was thinking he's an amazing conversationalist. Witty. Erudite. Well read. Just delightful company. He was in the middle of an amusing anecdote when you walked in."
Guy wants to be a comedian, Papa thought. Everybody wants to be fucking Carrot Top or some shit.
"Don't be an asshole."
"I can't help it. It's my personality."
"Anyone ever tell you your personality sucks?"
"I get that a lot. Sometimes, it makes me wonder what the fuck's wrong with some people."
Papa fumed. His scalp was the color of a baboon's ass.
"Look, until this thing is over, you cannot be associated with me in any way. Even after it's over, you can't be associated with me in any way. So that means no more trips to The Happy Beaver."
"I wasn't associating with you. I was conducting an unofficial investigation into the tattoo preferences of strippers. Did you know that most strippers have butterfly tattoos? I always wondered about that."
"What'd I say about being an asshole?"
"What'd I say about not being able to help myself?"
Papa rubbed his forehead. He'd been in this racket too long. Dealing with these assholes, all of them, was starting to get on his nerves.
He just didn't have the patience for it anymore. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to deal with them much longer. He'd have his "fuck you" money and he could finally tell all of these assholes, "Fuck you." Until then, though, he needed them.
"How about we try this? I talk. You listen. OK?"
Wiley didn't say a thing.
"All right. Now, I've got this problem with a couple of people. Just a small problem. It's more like a business deal. That's it. A business deal, and I'm looking for someone to help me, shall we say, facilitate it."
He paused.
Wiley said nothing.
"These guys, I need someone to close the deal. If you know what I mean."
Wiley said nothing.
"And I don't think I have to remind you of the consequences of not performing this service for me, right?"
Wiley said nothing.
"Well?"
Wiley said nothing.
After a few long seconds, Papa said, "You don't have anything to say?"
"I'm listening, remember?"
Papa squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a dull throb behind his forehead.
Asshole.
Nunn hadn't slept.
He thought he shouldn't be surprised Papa would want him dead. They were business partners. He had no choice. You either fucked your partner's wife or you killed him. It was just the way of the world, the natural order of things. Nunn not being married limited Papa's options.
He couldn't blame Papa. He had no hard feelings, except for the nagging feeling that being dead wasn't all it was cracked up to be. If the afterlife was like Graceland, he thought, he'd prefer to stay alive. He'd even give hell a chance. Graceland was like purgatory designed by a God who lived in a celestial trailer park.
Still, he was a little surprised. Papa was the man who brought him to Elvis. Elvis had cleansed his soul, but he had doubts after visiting Graceland and was questioning his faith. Then, he met that couple on the interstate, Frankie and Johnny. He was sure that was a sign that Elvis was real and worked in mysterious ways.
Or was it?
What the hell did he know? He never had much of a philosophical or spiritual bent. This kind of stuff was just confusing to him. He tried to put the pieces together, but the only conclusion he could reach was the man who introduced him to what may, or may not, be the key to his eternal salvation wanted him dead.
It was just business, he thought. It had nothing to do with Elvis. If he were married, then it would be more complicated. Papa could just fuck his wife and Nunn would get to stay alive.
He stared across his lawn, pondering that possibility.
"Morning."
Nunn jumped. It was Traci With an I.
"What's wrong, sugar?"
"I'm…Papa…oh, nothing."
"It's not nothing. I can tell."
She put her hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes.
"Let's go inside. Traci will take care of everything."
"Let's make it quick. There's something I have to do."
Smith put on his best shit-eating grin.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Grandma Spew, is Shane home?"
"Oh, you're one of Shane's little friends. Eddie, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She remembered his name.
"Eddie Haskell. Shane told me all about you."
OK. Maybe not.
"Is Shane home?"
"He's up in his room."
"Thank you, Grandma Spew."
"Tell Shane he has to take Buster for his walk, OK?"
"I w
ill, Grandma Spew. Thank you, Grandma Spew."
It was official. He was Eddie Haskell.
He took the steps to Spew's room and entered without knocking.
Spew was on his bed. He tried to cover himself up with his sheet.
"Bad time? You want me to come back in a minute?"
"Jesus fucking Christ, don't you fucking knock? Goddamnit. You could give a person a heart attack."
Smith took his eyes off Spew while he slid his pants up. His gaze fell to the side of Spew's bed, to the cover of a Wonder Woman comic book. "Wonder Woman? Really? What would Grandma think?"
"Fuck you. Shit, man, that bitch is stacked. Look at her rack."
"I prefer not to."
Spew sat up, ran his hands through his spiky hair and asked, "What's up?" His demeanor changed completely. He wasn't embarrassed. Everything was normal. It was as if the past few seconds never happened. Maybe they hadn't. Maybe they were in one of those time warps the UFO guy on the radio had talked about the other night.
"We might have a problem."
"Fuck, I knew it. Did I fuck up again? I'm sorry. Jesus."
"No, you didn't fuck up. As far as I know. This is something else. The guy who hired us to do this thing? He appointed us officers of this nonprofit he started up and took out a bunch of insurance on us. You know what that means?"
Spew hung his head and mumbled, "Yeah, I know."
"It means we're fucked."
"Tell me about it. Nonprofits don't pay shit."
Smith slapped his forehead. He'd never done that before.
"What do you think this means, Shane?"
"He wants us to be officers in this nonprofit thing, but nonprofits don't pay shit so we're fucked."
"Shane, um, it's like this."
And Smith explained it to him. Spew stared at him blankly. Smith explained it again, this time leaving out the big words and speaking slowly. Spew furrowed his brow and scratched his head.
"The bottom line," Smith said, "he's going to have us killed."
"Does this mean we're not going to get paid?"
"I'm afraid not."
Nunn pulled into the parking lot of The Happy Beaver. Truth be told, he missed the place. He hadn't spent a lot of time there lately. He liked being behind the bar, serving drinks, watching the investment bankers do their wacky routines, auditioning dancers in the back office.
He walked through the door and greeted Santonio Roethlisberger Polamalu. Polamalu was struck dumb. Nunn, he'd been told, was dead. In fact, this evening was a special tribute to Nunn. All of the strippers were wearing black, except the sociologist who said black made her eyes seem too dark. One of the investment bankers said, "Nobody's looking at your eyes." She dropped her gaze to the sociologist's breasts and said, "Well, maybe they do."
"What're you doing here?" Polamalu asked Nunn while watching the sociologist lunge at the investment bankers. "I mean, you're dead."
"Yeah, I know. I'm so dead. He in?"
"He's not here," Polamalu said as the sociologist pulled the hair of one of the investment bankers and the other joined the fray, grabbing the sociologist by her breasts and wrestling her to the floor.
"I'll wait in the office."
"Yeah, go ahead," Polamalu said, wondering whether he should break up the fight and deciding against it because the crowd seemed to be enjoying it.
Nunn went back into the hallway, past the dressing room where Kathy was studying. She saw some motion out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked up, she saw nothing. Seeing ghosts, she thought.
Nunn settled in the chair behind the desk, his chair. His desk. His office. He figured it was a good time to reclaim it. He leaned back and put his feet up. This is where he belonged. He was the boss. He would take care of this shit.
The feeling was short-lived. He had a vision of Fat Sam feeding him to his cousin's Dobermans. He felt panic rising from his gut, up his throat and coming out his mouth. "What the fuck am I doing? This is fucking insane."
He dropped his feet off the desk and was just getting up when the door swung open.
"Mr. Nunn, I presume."
Nunn didn't recognize the guy. He looked pretty average, you could say nondescript.
Nunn was speechless.
"Sit down," the man said.
Nunn sat on the edge of the desk chair. This was it. He was dead. Dumbass, you should have run like hell. But, no, you had to pretend you were Gary fucking Cooper. Well, guess what? Gary Cooper's dead and you're about to join him.
"Relax, he's not coming in tonight."
At the moment, Papa was tied up – literally – in the basement of his mistress' house. Every Wednesday night.
Nunn couldn't relax. He couldn't even speak.
The man sat on the couch and said, "You seem to be having some difficulty speaking there. That's all right. I'll do the talking. We have lots of time. My name's Smith. I think I can help you."
Smith was as surprised as anyone to see Nunn. When he saw the RV in the parking lot, he felt sick.
"Fucked it up again," he said to himself.
It definitely was Nunn's. The license plate matched.
He looked inside the RV. No sign of Nunn. He must be inside.
This could work out, Smith thought. This could work out nicely.
Wiley had been sitting in his city-issued Crown Vic in the parking lot of a closed down Popeye's Chicken next door to The Happy Beaver, watching for Smith, when the RV pulled into the strip club's parking lot. He was thinking he might have to move – the RV blocked his view of the club's front door – when Nunn climbed out.
He sprayed the dashboard with coffee.
"What the fuck?"
Wasn't that guy supposed to be dead?
He was trying to figure out what to do when Smith's Focus pulled beside the RV. Smith got out of the car, walked around the huge vehicle and peered into its windows before entering The Happy Beaver by the kitchen door in the back.
"What the fuck?"
He thought he should find a pay phone and call Papa. This would be something the old guy would need to know. Or he could sit on the joint and play it by ear. He opted for sitting on the joint. Papa will probably be pissed. But what could he do? He was an asshole.
Not long after Smith went in, both men left the club by the back door. They spoke briefly before climbing into their vehicles and pulling out onto the highway, Nunn following Smith in his RV.
"What the fuck?"
Wiley started his car and followed.
He wasn't sure what he was going to do. He had agreed to kill Smith and the dumbass kid who made the bombs. Nunn was already dead so killing him technically would be redundant.
Or would it?
They never teach this kind of shit at the academy.
Chapter Ten
Wiley followed the RV into Green Acres. They wound through the development – Smith leading the way and Wiley bringing up the rear – and were approaching Nunn's house when Wiley peeled off. He'd keep an eye on them from a side street.
The RV pulled into the driveway as Smith parked at the curb. They went into the house.
Wiley watched, trying to figure out his move. He didn't have one. He could ambush them in the house, catch them by surprise. But then what? He'd have a hard time explaining what he was doing in a house that had been bombed twice with two bodies dead from slugs from his gun. Or he could wait and follow them again and maybe something would occur to him. Or he could just go back to The Happy Beaver and spend the evening sliding dollar bills into the sociologist's G-string. He decided to sit and watch.
After about half an hour, Smith walked out, climbed into his car and drove away.
He pondered following Smith. But then, he thought, taking care of Nunn would shave some points from his debt to Papa. This was perfect, Wiley thought. He'd take care of Nunn – there was no liability since the guy was supposed to be dead already – and then maybe make a deal with Smith and Spew later and emerge from this shit storm debt free.
He waited a few minutes and then got out of the Crown Vic and walked toward the house, his hand on the butt of his .38. Nunn and Traci were leaving just as he approached the front door.
Nunn seemed shocked to see Wiley. He was pretty much in a permanent state of being shocked at this point, especially after what Smith told him. But now, he thought, the police were here. He'd be safe.
"Detective…I forget your name, man, am I glad to see you."
Nunn looked down and saw the detective's .38 aimed at his midsection. "The feeling's mutual."
Smith stopped at home, got some things and drove to the mall down the highway from The Happy Beaver. The plan was to meet there and come up with a plan. It wasn't much of a plan.
He was watching traffic on the highway and listening to the UFO guy on the radio. He was saying, "You know, there's a web connecting everything. Call it psychic energy. Call it The Force. Call it the energy field that created human beings and all that we see. Call it God. Whatever you call it, everything's connected. A great philosopher once orated on the subject of a plate of shrimp. You might be thinking about a plate of shrimp and someone might say 'Plate of shrimp' or 'plate' or 'shrimp' and there'll be no explanation for it. All of these random things are connected. They might not seem so, but they are."
Smith thought that would sound a lot more plausible if he were stoned. He was pondering that, and his sudden hunger for some steamed shrimp, when he saw an RV rumble past on the highway. It looked like Nunn's. It was Nunn's.
It kept going past the entry to the mall.
Where the fuck is he going?
Smith started the car and whipped it onto the highway to follow.
Nunn was driving. Traci was sleeping in the back, zoned out on hillbilly heroin. Wiley was standing behind Nunn, his .38 pointed at his head, just in case Nunn got any brilliant ideas. He had little to worry about. Nunn had no brilliant ideas.
Wiley directed Nunn to drive toward the river, about 10 miles outside of town. Nunn was about to have an RV accident. He just didn't know it yet.
Nunn tried to concentrate on his driving. It was hard enough driving a vehicle that had its own gravitational field without a gun pointed at your head. The added pressure was giving him a headache.
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