POPCORN

by Victor Gischler

  But sooner or later I would ask. Damn straight.

  I made a stop to put gas in and let piss out. Back on the road. Kept south until I hit Interstate 10 at Lafayette and turned east.

  Ray’d told me he was going to set me up with some help. A guy named Fat Otis ran a crew in North Baton Rouge and he owed Ray a favor.

  So I hopped off the interstate at the Acadian Throughway, got lost briefly, found myself on Florida Boulevard and turned north on Foster until I found myself in the crap side of town above Evangeline.

  It was the kind of neighborhood you generally stumbled into by accident and then got the hell out again as fast as you could. When a town passes New Orleans for murder rate, you take that shit seriously.

  I parked in front of a check cashing place which was a front for all kinds of shit Ray said I didn’t want to know about. He was right. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to be here at all.

  I wanted to be on my bass boat with a six-pack not even caring if I caught any fish. Ray said I spent too much time by myself, out on the lake, up late watching DVDs, whatever.

  He said I needed to be around more. Come over for Sunday dinners and all that down home crap. Connect with family and community.

  Fuck that. People disappointed you. People looked out for themselves, and fuck you if you got in the way. Ray must have known this on some level since he called in his brother and didn’t trust his own guys on this one. Blood is different. Sure.

  I got out of the truck and went into the check cashing place to ask for the man in charge.

  Three

  Fat Otis sat behind his desk, a pork sandwich in one hand and my new P.I. identification in the other, chewing slowly, looking back and forth between the I.D. and my face.

  He was black, mid-fifties, bags under his eyes, and fat.

  “This you?” he asked.

  “It’s an old picture,” I said. “Could you not get grease on that please?”

  He scowled at me, tossed the I.D. on the desk in front of him. “I told Ray I could hook you up with one of my boys. Sort of act as tour guide. Back you up. This ain’t your town, so you don’t know all the dark holes. I owe Ray.”

  I looked at the five black guys scattered around the office behind him. It looked like somebody had crapped a Snoop Dogg video all over the place. If there’d been a fire all of a sudden, they’d all die crispy tripping over their sagging trousers to get out of the place. Not a fucking belt between them.

  I said, “You’re not going to saddle me with one of these gansta looking jokers, are you?”

  They all looked up then, expressions like cocked Glocks. One said, “Whatchoo say, mutha fucka?”

  “You got a mouth on you, peckerwood,” Fat Otis said.

  I hooked my thumbs in my belt. I had a big silver Lone Star Beer belt buckle. Shiny. “Maybe I’ll just buy a map and forego the tour guide.”

  “Ray’s good people, so I won’t have you murdered today.” Fat Otis set aside his sandwich, glanced back over his shoulder at his glowering crew. “Hey, I know. Big Stupid would be perfect for this job.”

  His boys laughed, and Fat Otis turned back to me grinning like he’d just said the funniest shit in the whole world.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “I think we have the perfect sidekick for you, peckerwood.”

  “Don’t call me peckerwood.”

  The grin fell from Otis’s face like it’d been shoved. “Or what?”

  Or nothing. I shut up.

  Fat Otis turned his head, looked at something behind me. “Got a gig for you, Big Stupid.”

  The wall shifted behind me, and I stepped back fast, startled. The building was caving in! But it wasn’t a wall.

  It was a guy.

  The whole room was laughing at my reaction.

  It was like there was nowhere I could turn my head and not still be looking at Big Stupid. Fat but not circus fat.

  There were clearly muscles in the shoulders and arms. Everything was thick and tall and heavy. It was like that black guy from The Green Mile had eaten Andre the Giant, and the result was Big Stupid. Skin rubbery and deep black. Bald head with a too-small straw hat perched on top.

  I don’t know what the hell store sold enormous gray trousers and white Filipino shirts, but Big Stupid shopped there.

  “Jesus.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  Fat Otis said, “Big Stupid knows the town. He’ll show you around.”

  Big Stupid headed for the front door. “I’ll get my ride.”

  “My truck’s outside,” I said.

  “I won’t fit.” Big stupid had to duck his head and turn sideways to fit through the front door.

  I turned back to Fat Otis. “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “Look, forget it,” I said. “I’ll find my way around on my own.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I sort of figured on keeping a low profile,” I said. “Not easy to do dragging some giant black guy around behind me.”

  Fat Otis frowned. “Now, I told Big Stupid he had a gig. It’ll hurt his feelings if he thinks you don’t like him. Are you saying you want to hurt Big Stupid’s feelings? Please tell me that’s not what you’re saying.”

  Otis’s crew stood up slowly. All eyes in the room were on me. Nobody was laughing anymore.

  “No.” I shook my head. “It’s all good.”

  * * *

  We rolled down Government Street in Big Stupid’s Humvee. It wasn’t like a rich person’s Humvee with all the bells and whistles. It was painted desert tan, like army surplus or something.

  As big as the vehicle was, it still looked like Big Stupid had to be shoehorned in behind the wheel.

  “Where to?” Big Stupid’s voice was a dull bass baritone.

  I sat in the passenger seat, fishing through the gym bag. I needed to figure where to look first, and that meant paging through the folder of junk Ray had given me.

  “Not sure. Tell you what. Pull into some sandwich place, and I’ll look at this stuff while we grab a bite. I’m sort of doing this all of a sudden, so I’m not the most organized.”

  He didn’t have nothing to say to that. Giant dumb bruiser probably didn’t have an opinion on much. Not his job, I guess. Otis probably kept him around to break people in half and terrify white boys.

  He pulled into a local place called Jay’s BBQ.

  “I wanted a sandwich place.”

  “They have sandwiches here.”

  I said, “I meant like a deli sandwich.”

  “This place is good.”

  “You know what? Fine. It’s cool.”

  We went inside.

  At the counter, I ordered a pork sandwich, fries and a coke. It was all just a bit overpriced, but it smelled good. I carried the tray to a table in the back, sat and started pouring over the folder.

  In about three seconds flat, I came to the conclusion that I had no idea how to find somebody that didn’t want to be found.

  Big Stupid sat down across from me. I blinked at the stack of food on his tray. I counted six pork sandwiches and a quart-sized Styrofoam container of cold slaw. He made the first sandwich go away in two bites.

  I raised an eyebrow. “No fries?”

  He shook his head. “Atkins.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that the sandwich buns counted as carbs. Dumb shit. I went back to the material in the folder but then looked up again abruptly to see if I could catch him grinning.

  Was he fucking with me? But he just sat there chewing like a gigantic milk cow, eyelids at half-mast.

  Saber Security and Armored Transport was the armored car company who’d dropped the ball. A local company founded in 1981, they now did business all over Louisiana, Texas and Arkansas.

  They had offices off Airline Highway. I asked Big Stupid if he knew where that was, and he said he did. Ray had said something about an inside guy at the armored car company orchestrating everything. Maybe that was a place to
start.

  The file said the owner was a guy named Martin Prescott. Okay, go ask him some questions. A place to start.

  I looked at Big Stupid’s tray. The food was gone. He dabbed at his face with a paper napkin.

  Four

  It was a fairly nondescript office complex just off Airline Highway, lawyers, accountants, insurance brokers and the corporate headquarters for Saber. I told Big Stupid to wait in the Humvee, and he nodded without comment.

  Inside, I paused at a large circular desk. The receptionist was pushing sixty and looked up from a Better Homes & Garden with a distressed look on her face like she was realizing she’d actually have to deal with somebody today.

  One of these old southern gals who majored in prim and proper at college. I could see her mentally scrolling through the list of possibilities as she sized me up, blue jeans, black T-shirt, work boots.

  Did we call the plumber? Is this guy the exterminator?

  She asked doubtfully if she could help me. I said I was investigating this and following up on that and flashed my bullshit private eye I.D. like it was a Disney World fast pass.

  This exchange ended with her turning away from me and speaking in hushed tones into the phone like she was ordering a pizza covered in porn.

  Then I was following her down a hall, and she ushered me through a door as she said, “Mr. Prescott, Payne Kirby is here to see you.”

  She left abruptly, probably to rush to the sink and wash the taste of my name out of her mouth.

  The guy behind the big desk was robust, red-faced, mid-sixties. Lots and lots of hair, all white. Teeth like a horse. He wore an expensive blue suit, but it was rumbled every which way, and his tie was pulled loose.

  There was a tumbler full of ice with a wedge of lime on his desk. A bottle of Bombay Gin sat next to it.

  He came out of his seat and offered a big clammy hand. “Martin Prescott. I understand you’re some kind of shamus, Mr. Kirby.”

  “I work for my brother Ray. Looking into that armored car thing.”

  “Isn’t that what the police are for?” He motioned me to a seat then plopped back down behind the desk.

  “Henry Cobb jumped bail,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t have him.” He upended the bottle of Bombay and sent the ice and lime chasing each other around the inside of the tumbler. “You want a drink?”

  “Sort of early in the day, isn’t it?”

  He gave me the stink eye. “So what?”

  “So nothing,” I said. “I just didn’t know if this was business as usual or if maybe your cat died and you were drowning the grief.”

  “It’s been a pisser of a week.” Prescott gulped gin. “On top of a real shit pile of a month at the tail end of a real dick-up-the-ass year.” Another gulp of Bombay. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “My fault for asking.”

  He waved away my comment, splashed more gin into the tumbler. Maybe he was superstitious about letting it get empty.

  “It’s my fucking smart ass business partner. Diversify, he says. Fucker. Smartass lawyer prick. I built this company up from dust, and he had me spread my money around in Florida real estate and a bunch of hedge funds and bullshit. Fucking economy.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “Why you looking for Henry Cobb here?”

  “We thought he might be trying to hook up with whatever one of your employees was helping him from the inside,” I explained.

  “They got that guy already,” Prescott said.

  “They did what now?”

  “Well, they didn’t get him, but they know who it is,” Prescott said. “Fellow named David Eppert. Dispatcher. Ungrateful son of a bitch. Told the heist team what was in the truck, the routes, alternate routes, how many guards in the truck, scheduled stops.

  He up and vanishes the day after it all goes down. The cops found the truck routes marked on a map in his apartment and put two and two together. They’ll grab him sooner or later.”

  “Do you mind if I get some information on this Eppert guy?” I asked. “It might help.”

  “Don’t see how it could hurt. I’ll provide you with copies of his HR file and some paperwork we got from the police.”

  I said, “I hope I’m not putting you out.”

  “Not putting me out,” Prescott said. “I’ve got people for this.” He picked up the phone, thumbed a button. “Sandy, could you come in here?”

  A second later a woman came in through a side door. Trim and pretty, about 5’6. Red brown hair down to her shoulders, wavy. Thin lips, green eyes, pointy nose and sharp cheekbones.

  From the waist up she looked proper businesslike, gray silk blouse, a single strand of pearls around her neck. From the waist down, blue jeans and tennis shoes. I could imagine how this outfit must have evolved over months of working here, trying to look professional, but on the run every time Prescott snapped his fingers.

  She looked at Prescott with raised eyebrows. “Mr. Prescott?” Thick southern accent.

  “Mr. Kirby here is looking into that Eppert business. Run the whole file through the Xerox and give him copies, will you?”

  “Right away.” She left through the same door and I got an eyeful of her tight caboose on the way out.

  How long had it been for me? I’d broken up with Amy going on three months ago. That long. Damn, I needed to get out and find some action. I’d never had problems in that department.

  I wasn’t so hard to look at, and I’d never been particularly self-conscious about talking to women. But the truth was I hadn’t thought about it much since parting ways with Amy.

  She left me flat, and it had hurt. I made the mistake of getting close, and letting her get close even though we both knew the fuse was burning on our relationship from day one.

  We were compatible in all the best ways for a fast, steamy weekend, and in none of the ways for anything longer or more mature. Somehow we’d padded it out to nearly half a year.

  But I’d drifted way the hell off topic.

  “I appreciate it, Mr. Prescott.”

  He said, “Damn if I know if it’ll do you any good, but what the hell. You figure you find Eppert maybe Cobb will be there too, is that it?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Maybe. Or maybe they’re both halfway to Rio right now with the money.”

  “If they’re smart, they split up.”

  I nodded, thinking about it. “Another distinct possibility.” In fact, I was just barely smart enough to realize there were probably about a million possibilities and the chances I’d think of all of them were pretty slim.

  I was about as much a private eye as I was an astronaut.

  Sandy returned and handed me a file.

  “Thanks.”

  “Happy to do it.” She turned to Prescott. “I’m thinking about getting a bite. You can do without me for a while?”

  “Take your time,” Prescott said. “I think we’re in for a slow afternoon.”

  “I appreciate your time,” I told Prescott. “I’ll show myself out.”

  I left to the sound of ice rattling in a glass behind me.

  I stood in the reception area feeling like I’d talked myself in a circle with Prescott. I’d give myself about a D minus on my private eye report card. I headed back down the hall.

  The receptionist was setting a world record for pretending I wasn’t there. Saber was all done with me.

  I pointed down another hallway. “Men’s room this way?”

  The receptionist looked up, blinked at me. Are you still here, you scruffy, man? “Uh … yes. Straight down all the way to the end.” Her eyes dropped right back to her computer after she said it. Dismissed, soldier.

  I found the can, pissed, washed my hands and dried them with paper towels. I wadded up the paper towels, went for a three point shot, but it bounced off the rim and rolled under the sink. I left it. Take that, establishment.

  Back in the hall, I looked the opposite way I’d come and spotted a side
exit. Through the glass door, I saw Sandy smoking a cigarette next to one of those cement ashtrays where they’d started parking smokers after society determined they were the scum of the Earth.

  I sauntered out to join her, turning the volume on my smile up to full blast. Dad had sprung for braces for both me and Ray. Movie star teeth.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” She smiled back.

  “Can I bum one of those?” I nodded at the pack of Marlboro Lights sticking out of the front pockets of her jeans. I don’t really smoke – except when I’m drinking sometimes – but it seemed dumb just to stand there gawking at her for no reason.

  She shook one loose and handed it to me.

  “A light?”

  She came out of the other pocket with a disposable. Flick flick. Puff puff.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “You work for Saber long?”

  “Four years,” she said. “Pays good and it’s low stress.”

  “Even with all the trouble?”

  She puffed and shrugged. “It’s a rough patch.”

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  She cocked her head at me, and for a second I thought I’d blown it, but she smiled in a curious way like she’d played this game plenty of times.

  “Nothing official. You want to put in an application?”

  “I was just going to ask you to lunch and maybe ask you some more questions about Eppert. Didn’t want some strapping boyfriend to get the wrong idea and give me trouble, you know?”

  She sucked on the cigarette, blew and extra long stream of gray smoke from the side of her mouth. “You look like you could handle yourself okay.”

  “I don’t want to risk any bruises to this pretty face.”

  She barked a laugh, rough and unfeminine, more smoke puffing from her nostrils. “You good looking guys are always so obnoxious about it.”

  “Obnoxious? I was going for boyish charm.”

  “Try again.”

  This was looking like it could tilt either way, so I thought I’d better try some official detective stuff. “I really do want to ask some more questions about Eppert.” I lowered my voice. “I have reason to believe he wasn’t working alone.”