Don't Be Cruel

by Mike, Argento,

  He'd come up with something.

  He pulled into Green Acres, and as he drove past Nunn's house, something caught his eye. Up in a tree, he saw a young guy with spiky blond hair, looking at him with binoculars. He looked like Bart Simpson's older brother.

  When he made eye contact, the guy dropped the binoculars. It was the guy, the kid with the bombs. He was supposed to be dead.

  He slowed down and turned the corner, driving a block before easing the Crown Vic to the curb. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while deciding what to do. He got out of the car and ducked between two houses, cutting through the back yards to the rear of Nunn's house. He hid behind a rhododendron and watched.

  He saw someone walk by the kitchen window.

  It was Smith.

  He was supposed to be dead too.

  He returned to his car and sat behind the wheel, thinking.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

  A woman answered on the second ring.

  "Is he in?"

  The call surprised Elvis. He had barely talked to Papa since getting the gig at the church. Maybe, he thought, that was part of the problem, why the religion seemed so half-assed. Elvis needed a little more direction when it came to dogma. The real King was never good at that kind of stuff, leaving it to people like the Colonel to figure out while he gorged on amphetamines and fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches.

  So when Papa summoned Elvis to his office at The Happy Beaver, Elvis was doubly surprised. He'd never been called to the strip joint. In fact, he hadn't set foot in it since the time Papa threatened to cut off his balls should he ever do so. It wouldn't be proper for people to see God's stepson tucking dollar bills into the G-string of a stripper.

  He was a little nervous walking into the bar. Papa didn't seem too pleased with his performance at Fat Sam's funeral and perhaps was in the market for a new savior, one who could pronounce Polish names and didn't show up still drunk from the previous night.

  He thought maybe Papa was planning to add to the church scripture, a new testament, which meant that he would have a date with a golden toilet. This Elvis, he thought, wouldn't rise in three days. He'd be deader than that fat Polack he just buried.

  All of this was running through Elvis' mind when he knocked softly on Papa's door and entered.

  "How you doing, King?"

  Elvis couldn't speak so he nodded.

  "What's that mean? You doing all right?"

  Elvis nodded.

  "Do you want a drink?"

  Elvis bent over and vomited on Papa's couch.

  "Jesus, King, take it easy."

  Papa went to the door and caught Soshi's attention. "Send Bradshaw or whatever his name is back here. Tell him to bring a mop and paper towels."

  He turned back to Elvis.

  "You don't look so good, King."

  "You're going to crucify me, or toiletfy me, aren't you?" Elvis blurted.

  "Don't be ridiculous," Papa said as he sat at his desk.

  Elvis looked at him, wide-eyed. Something was happening here, but he didn't know what it was.

  "Look, King, you've been doing a heck of a job at the church …"

  "I have?"

  "Yes," Papa said, "I'm very pleased."

  "Even after the funeral, the fat guy?" Elvis said.

  "That was fine."

  "But I was under the impression …"

  Elvis' words caught in his throat.

  "It's OK, King. Everything is OK."

  "It is?"

  "Please, try to take it easy. Now, how'd you like to expand your role here a little bit?"

  "Expand my role? Here at The Happy Beaver?"

  Elvis imagined himself playing a starring role in a routine with the investment bankers and his mind began to wander as he considered the carnal possibilities.

  "King," Papa said, "I'm over here."

  "Sorry."

  "Now, look, I have a proposition for you. Do this and I'll make it up to you. Maybe get another Elvis impersonator to be your assistant. He can do all the funerals. What do you say?"

  "No more funerals? I'll do about anything," he said. "Long as it's legal."

  "As long as you're a bit flexible on that point, I think we have a deal."

  Spew burst into the kitchen, catching Smith and Kathy clutching each other in a state of mild undress. They froze when he bolted into the kitchen. Spew froze too, rendering him mute.

  The three of them stood there for moment.

  "What is it, Shane?" Smith asked, his face buried in Kathy's hair.

  "I think we got a problem."

  Kathy extricated herself from Smith and rearranged her clothes. Smith turned to Spew and said, "This better be good."

  "I saw that cop. You know, that cop."

  "What cop? Wiley?"

  "I don't know his name. But I think he saw me."

  "Where'd he go?"

  "He slowed down and then went around the corner. I watched him drive up the block and park. You think he's coming here?"

  "No, he's lost on his way to Disney World," Smith said. "Fuck."

  "You can say that again," Kathy said.

  "Fuck."

  Kathy went to wake Nunn and Traci With an I as Spew and Smith packed up and got ready to flee. Smith checked his pockets for his car keys. He didn't have them.

  "My keys," he said.

  Kathy said, "I saw them in the kitchen. I'll get 'em."

  Smith headed for the door and opened it. He was met by the cop aiming a .38 at his face.

  "Mr. Smith," the detective said, "you have the right to remain silent. But if you choose to do so, it'll make our conversation very dull. I suggest you waive your rights."

  "Consider them waived."

  Elvis pulled to the curb in his Dodge Neon. He got a lot of shit for that car. The real King, people told him, wouldn't be caught dead in a Neon. What the hell was Elvis doing tooling around in a Neon, they said. Elvis always countered, "That King is dead and this one drives a fucking Neon."

  He got out of the car and looked at the house. It was Beaver Cleaver's house, white picket fence and everything. He checked the address and walked through the gate to the front porch.

  An old lady answered the door just as he rang the bell for the third time. Yep, Elvis thought, this is somebody's grandma.

  "Grandma Spew?"

  "Hello, young man. You look awfully familiar."

  "I'm a friend of your grandson's. He asked me to come here and pick you up."

  "I know you," Grandma said.

  "I don't think we've met…"

  "I saw you on 'Ed Sullivan.' I remember now. You sang that song about the dog and shook your hips. It was quite something."

  "Thank you. Thank you very much."

  "You were a lot skinnier then."

  "Well, it was a long time ago."

  "Come on in," Grandma said. "Would you like some Ovaltine and cookies? Peanut-butter cookies..."

  "No, thank you, ma'am. Shane sent me by to pick you up. We're going to go somewhere to meet Shane."

  "Shane? Shane's not home. He's off with that Haskell boy."

  Who the fuck's Haskell? Elvis thought. Papa didn't say anything about anybody named Haskell.

  "Yes, I know that. I'm taking you to them. So if you just…"

  "Who are you again?"

  Jesus, Elvis thought, this'll be a lot harder than I was led to believe.

  "Just come with me, OK?"

  "I can't leave Buster alone. He gets lonely."

  "It's OK," Elvis said. "I'll send my bud Doctor Nick to check on him."

  Elvis took the old woman's arm and led her down the front walk to the Neon. "Is this your car? I thought you drove a Cadillac. I saw pictures of it in Life magazine."

  Wiley stood in the middle of the room and explained the situation to those assembled in Nunn's living room. His audience squeezed onto the couch, the most awkward family portrait ever.

  "So that's it. Sorry. No
hard feelings," Wiley said.

  The group was speechless.

  "I'm not sure that's such a great idea," Smith said, finally.

  "I'll be the first to admit that it's not split-the-atom great, but hey, I have to work with the cards I've been dealt."

  "I'm just saying," Smith said, "I'm not sure you've taken all aspects of this situation into account."

  "Maybe I've overlooked a few small details, but the broad brush covers up a lot of flaws."

  "That may be so," Smith said, "but life is made of the small details."

  "I always thought you aren't supposed to sweat the small stuff."

  "I could say …"

  "Look, enough of this. I told you what was going to happen and it's going to happen."

  Now it was Spew's turn to voice an objection.

  "What makes you think I'm going to do what you want me to do? You can't tell me what to do."

  Wiley pointed at Spew and said, "Give me a minute. I'll show you."

  He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. After a moment, he said, "Hey, King. Put her on."

  Wiley handed the phone to Spew.

  "Hello?" he asked, tentatively.

  "Who's this?"

  "Grandma?"

  "You don't sound like Grandma."

  "No, Grandma. It's Shane."

  "Shane? He's not here. I'm here with Elvis. He seems like a very nice young man."

  Wiley snatched the phone away from Spew.

  "Convinced?"

  Spew looked at his shoes. They had to drag Grandma into this.

  The only consolation was Grandma probably had no idea what was going on. And if Spew never came home again, she'd just think he took Buster out for a walk, a very long walk. Her dead grandson walking her dead dog.

  He opened his duffel bag and got to work.

  Elvis guided the old woman into the sanctuary. It was dark, except for the light streaming through the stained-glass windows and illuminating the sanctuary in a holy glow.

  "We're going to church? Is it Sunday?"

  "No, it's not Sunday. We're just going to sit here for a while."

  It was unlike any church Grandma Spew had ever seen, unless the Lutherans had made some drastic changes to Scripture that she hadn't heard about.

  Elvis led her to the front pew and helped her sit.

  Grandma Spew gazed at the icon in the apse.

  "My Lord," she said, "Jesus has really let himself go."

  Chapter Twenty

  Spew worked quickly. He bound the dynamite together with duct tape, poked holes in the ends with a nail and inserted the blasting caps. He twisted the wires together and connected them to the terminals of a dig ital timer, held in place by more duct tape.

  "There you go," he said.

  "Very nice," Wiley said, inspecting the bomb. "Grandma would be proud."

  This was perfect, Wiley thought. The bomb would blow up the house, along with Nunn, Traci With an I, Spew and Smith. Blame the Arabs. Walk away. No loose ends.

  He had bound Nunn, Traci With an I and Smith with duct tape. Now that he finished his work, Spew was next.

  "All righty then," Wiley said. "It was so very nice meeting all of you. If only it had been under better circumstances, but I'm sure you understand."

  Traci was crying. Nunn was ashen. Smith was deep in thought, staring at the wall, trying to find that little window that he could crawl through and survive. There was always a way out. He just had to find it before the window slammed shut and he was trapped.

  Spew fidgeted.

  "Uh, sir, Mr. Cop," he said. He had already forgotten the cop's name. When he heard it, he told himself to remember it, even came up with a trick to remember it. Something about Wile E. Coyote.

  "What is it?"

  "The tape is pulling at my arm hairs. Could you fix it, Mr. Coyote?"

  "Coyote? What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "My arm hairs."

  The cop glared at Spew.

  "Never mind," Spew said. "I'll be OK."

  "No, you won't."

  Wiley picked up the bomb and paused. Five minutes should be long enough. He punched some numbers into the timer. Nothing happened. He looked at the timer. The LED screen was dark. He punched the "on" button. Nothing.

  "This fucking thing," Wiley said. "OK, smartass, what the fuck are you trying to pull?"

  "Nothing. I'm not trying to pull nothing."

  "What the fuck's wrong with this goddamn thing?"

  Wiley shook the bomb. The timer remained dark.

  "Shit," he said. He put the bomb down, peeled the tape from Spew's wrists and said, "Fix this fucking thing."

  Spew looked at the timer. He tapped the LED screen. Nothing.

  He opened the battery compartment.

  "There you go, no batteries."

  Wiley shut his eyes. "Well, put batteries in it."

  "Hand me my duffel bag."

  Spew dug through his bag. He had all sorts of crap in there, including a Wonder Woman comic book. But no batteries. Damn, he thought, he used his last battery to blow open the trunk of Fat Sam's Cadillac.

  He shrugged at Wiley. "I don't have any."

  "Oh, for fuck's sake," Wiley said.

  He grabbed the bag and rummaged through it. A Wonder Woman comic book? he thought."

  There's a 7-Eleven down the street," Spew said. "I could …"

  Wiley shook his head. "Do you have any batteries here?" he asked Nunn.

  "I don't think so. If I had some, they'd be…um…Why the fuck would I tell you where they are even if I had some? Feel free to look around, dickhead."

  Wiley looked at the floor. Nothing can be easy, he thought.

  "OK, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to tape up Spew again and run to the 7-Eleven. Any of you need anything?"

  "Now that you mention it…" Smith said.

  Wiley glared at him. Some people were just sarcasm-impaired.

  Wiley taped Spew's ankles and wrists. He paused, and then tore off strips of tape to cover their mouths. He didn't need them screaming for help while he was gone. He put the bomb under his jacket and left.

  "Mffphh urf tmph," Smith said.

  He was trying to say, "Take your time."

  Kathy emerged from the cabinet next to the stove. Thank God, she thought, Nunn doesn't have any pots or pans.

  She grabbed a steak knife from a countertop block and went to the living room.

  "Hi," she said to Smith. "I didn't know you were into that kind of stuff."

  "Mmmmrmfhph," Smith said.

  "Hold on. This will only take a second."

  She tore the tape off of his mouth with one quick yank.

  "Jesus! Goddammit!" Smith screamed.

  "I'm glad to see you too."

  Wiley walked out of the 7-Eleven to his car, parked around the side so as to not attract attention. He climbed in, ripped the batteries from their plastic blister and reached for the bomb.

  He glanced around, opened the battery compartment and slipped the batteries into the timer.

  Everything turned white. His life didn't flash before his eyes, which was probably just as well. It wasn't anything he wanted to review.

  The UPS guy was lying in bed with the mayor's wife, trying to think of a means of escape. She had fallen asleep on his arm and he couldn't move without waking her up. Waking her up meant fucking her again. That was starting to lose its luster.

  The woman was out cold, snoring lightly. She smelled like old cigarettes and dead flowers. He had to get away.

  He was thinking about chewing his arm off, like a beaver caught in a trap. A beaver trap. Story of his life.

  The explosion shook the bed and the cougar rolled off his arm.

  There is a God, he thought as he reached for his brown shorts on the floor.

  "Oops."

  "You know," Smith said, smiling, "you keep saying that."

  When Kathy entered The Happy Beaver, the investment bankers were on stage performing a tribute
to NASDAQ to Springsteen's "I'm Goin' Down."

  "How you doing?" she asked Santonio Roethlisberger Polamalu. "About the same. I had to mop up Elvis puke earlier. That was an adventure."

  "It always is."

  "I'm beginning to think this job is not commensurate to my myriad skills and that my talents would be better utilized in service of someone who didn't think my curriculum vitae required an entry noting my skill at mopping up Elvis regurgitation."

  Kathy looked at Polamalu, puzzled.

  "English major."

  "Well, sorry about that whole arm breaking incident."

  "Forgotten already."

  She walked back to the dressing room and sat at the makeup table. She stared at herself in the mirror. When she took this gig, it was no big deal. She didn't have a problem with the job. It was a job. She needed the money. It was temporary. Now, she was beginning to think it was not commensurate to her myriad skills.

  And she was beginning to think that it was just a little too dangerous. Perhaps it wasn't a very good idea to come in tonight. It was just a feeling. Smith asked her not to go. But she thought she would be safe. Papa didn't know about her relationship with Smith, if that's what it was. Wiley apparently hadn't seen her or else she wouldn't have gotten away with hiding in the kitchen. Smith listened to her reasoning and told her that he agreed that she would be in more danger if she didn't go. But she could tell he wasn't completely convinced. Last thing he said to her was "Break a leg."

  She walked out into the bar, wearing a long sheer robe over her G-string. Soshi saw her and waved her over.

  "He wants to see you."

  Fuck.

  Kathy went back to Papa's office, stopping at the dressing room to throw on a thick terrycloth robe. The old bastard wasn't getting a private show. It might give him some ideas.

  She knocked on the door and walked in.

  Papa was behind his desk. Sid and Eddie were on the couch.

  "Cat, come on in. We were just talking about you."

  "I was afraid of that."

  Smith skidded to a stop in front of Grandma Spew's house. Spew leapt from the car before it stopped and was racing to the door as Smith jammed the Focus into park and climbed out to follow.