by Jon Grilz
“That Perez guy, the one who took me to ID my friend, seemed okay—a little edgy but okay.”
“Maybe,” Dee Dee said with a shrug. She suddenly remembered the two guys in the club, the ones who’d been asking questions the other night, and she told Charlie about them, paying close attention for any kind of reaction.
“Cops, ya think?” Charlie asked.
Dee Dee poured another drink and shook her head. “If they were, they didn’t say. They sounded like typical jerks, wearing sunglasses indoors like they were some kind of cool.”
“What did they want?”
“They kept asking if I’ve seen any new faces around. It was a dumb question, the place is always crowded, and half the time, we don’t even see faces.” She paused and looked embarrassed. “I mean, you know, because—”
Charlie held up his hand to keep her from embarrassing herself further. “Don’t worry. I understand,” he said. “What’d they look like?” he asked sounding almost bored, as if he didn’t really care.
“Trixie said one of them had a long scar on his arm. She only noticed because she has a thing for scars, but he wasn’t interested in a dance. The guy just acted all high and mighty and left.”
Charlie patted the seat next to him.
Dee Dee sat down, reflexively curling her legs up and resting her head on Charlie’s shoulder. She felt his head drop down to the side and nuzzled in; it felt nice and safe and warm.
“Sounds like nothing. And you don’t gotta worry about those boys from the parking lot. They won’t come back around,” Charlie said as if he knew how tense she was, even after that stiff, vodkaed-down screwdriver.
“How do you know that?” Dee Dee asked.
Charlie gently moved his head from side to side, like he was trying to pat her head with his chin. “Guys like that are just a step up from animals. They get too much booze in ‘em, and they convince each other that all their bad ideas are good ones. Sure, they talk big, but if they’re part of some crew you should be worried about, there woulda been more of them than just the two. If anything, this Damon guy is gonna be mad at them for stirring up trouble and hostility. I get the feeling he’s not the kind who wants anyone drawing attention to him.”
“You sound so…sure,” Dee Dee said. She pulled her head up and looked at Charlie, suddenly concerned. “Are you sure you’re not a cop?”
Charlie grinned. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I’ve just been around guys like them before. They’re only dangerous when there isn’t anyone there to swat them on the nose.”
Dee Dee continued to stare at Charlie’s face above her, watching to see if his eyes, those deep pools, would shift, trying to see if he was just putting on a show. “Does this mean you’re gonna hang around for a while?”
Charlie looked at her thoughtfully and smiled. “I think I just might.”
Now it was Dee Dee’s turn to smile as she flicked at Charlie’s shirt, the same shirt he’d worn every day since they’d first met at the club. “Well, in that case, the first thing we need to do is get you some new clothes. No offense, but you’re starting to stink.”
Jimmy and Petey sat on a couch in the side room of the barn, the one that held the pool table and dart board. Petey didn’t look so good after getting jacked in the nose by that prick in the parking lot, and Jimmy really just wanted Damon to give him the go-ahead so he could go after the nosy asshole in the stupid hat and make him regret that he’d ever messed with the likes of the Wheeler family.
They’d arrived back at the barn after five, and Rook—that sore thumb of a black fella—had told them Damon was sleeping. Even when they told Rook it was important, he just stared at them like his cotton-picking relatives had never taught him good old American English, back when times made sense. Rook always pretended to be tough and wore those slick suits, as if he was better than everyone else, but Jimmy knew it was all some big act; he couldn’t figure out why Damon liked the guy so much. Jimmy reasoned it was because he was always threatening people with the drill and Damon liked the show, though Jimmy’d never seen the man use it. Petey swore he knew a guy who’d been drilled in the kneecap, but Jimmy knew it was all just to scare those stupid meth-head dealers who didn’t know any better.
Jimmy was asleep when the stereo kicked in and almost blasted him off the couch. No one in that barn-turned-complex ever played any good music like Skynyrd; it was always some death metal crap that sounded like a litter of cats in a thresher. Damon only wore a pair of baggy jeans and a white tank-top when he walked in, and he didn’t say a word. He just turned on the stereo, scared the hell out of Jimmy and Petey, and took a seat in one of the big armchairs near the wall, next to the plywood-and-sawhorses table some of the guys used to play poker. His eyes were barely open, like he could fall asleep at any moment.
Jimmy looked at Damon, then at his brother, as he had no idea who was supposed to say what. “Uh—” he started.
At the very sound of Jimmy’s voice, Damon’s eyes popped open, wide and white. “Did I tell you to speak?” he asked through clenched teeth, cutting Jimmy off.
Jimmy shut up quick and sat there as Damon just stared back at them. Time stood still, it seemed, and it took what felt like forever for Damon to move again.
“What the fuck were you two thinking?” he asked.
The question derailed Jimmy’s train of thought. Ever since he’d left the bar, he’d been waiting for a chance to go after that jerk. He hadn’t expected Damon to ask him about thinking. “What do ya mean, Boss?” Jimmy asked. “We was just—”
“What do I mean?” Damon repeated and looked over at Rook, who was leaning on the door, arms crossed as usual, with his eyes locked on the floor. “Rook, maybe you can tell these boys what I mean.”
“I think you mean you’d like to know what the hell Jimmy and Petey thought they were doing in the parking lot of the strip club,” Rook said.
“Oh, yeah. That’s right,” Damon said, as if he’d actually forgotten what he was going to say. “What I mean is, what did you two country sheep-fuckers think you were doing in the parking lot of that strip club, messin’ with that girl and starting shit?”
“Well,” Petey started to chime in, “there was this guy, and—”
Damon interrupted again, “Jimmy, is there some sort of communication breakdown here or what? Who told your retarded brother to talk? Hell, I didn’t even know he could speak.”
Jimmy didn’t like it when people made fun of Petey, and had it been just about anyone other than Damon, he would have kicked his ass, but he knew Damon didn’t mean anything by it. He was just mad, like when their daddy would tie one on and spout off stuff like that. Once he’d rationalized that, he continued, “He was just tryin’ to help. See, there was this guy—”
“Again with the guy?” Damon said with a disgusted scowl on his face. “You mean to tell me that you two were plannin’ to rape a guy in the parking lot last night?”
Jimmy was officially lost and had no idea what to say next.
“I need to get something straight right now,” Damon said as he stood up and walked around the room. He kept opening and closing his fists, flexing his forearms until the veins in them looked like spider webs. “From what I hear, you two inbred idiots decided you wanted to party with a stripper last night, but instead of just buying that little piece of ass like anyone else would, you thought you’d just snatch her up and make her squeal, like some kinda fuckin’ scene outta Deliverance. Is that what all you banjo-playin’ crackers from down south do?”
Actually, both Jimmy and Petey were born in North Dakota, but for some reason, people always mistook them from being from the South. “We just wanted to have a little fun,” Jimmy said, sounding like a scolded schoolboy.
Damon stopped and smiled. “Oh, I see. Just a little fun.” He started to laugh, a chuckle at first, but then so hard that his face began to redden. “Jesus, why the fuck didn’t you two tell me that? All this time, I’ve been worried that you’re just stupid and reckles
s. I didn’t realize you were just having a little fun.”
Jimmy didn’t understand the joke, but he started to laugh anyway, with his brother chuckling along in the background.
Damon walked over to Jimmy and smacked him on the knee, laughing like he was going to keel over from exhaustion. Then he walked over to Petey and put his arm around him. “You two… man, I-I can’t believe this. I was so nervous at first. I thought…” He slowed his laugh down in a hurry and wiped a tear from his eye. “When Rook told me what happened, I assumed the worst.”
“We ain’t bad guys, Boss,” Jimmy stuttered dumbly, still laughing like a fool.
“Good, because I thought…would you believe I thought I had two guys on my crew who were about to wreck a deal worth fifteen million dollars?” He stopped and moved his arm from around Petey’s shoulder, then wrapped his huge catcher’s mitt of a hand around Petey’s fleshy throat. “Fifteen million dollars!” When Jimmy stood up, as if there was anything he could do about it, Damon yelled at him, ordering him not to move. Meanwhile, he had Petey pinned against the wall, his face already turning red as he struggled for air. Damon looked over at Rook. “You’re their handler, aren’t you?”
“Not by choice,” Rook said.
“Regardless, tell me what you think. How do we handle this kind of audacity?”
Rook shrugged. “You know my vote.”
“Put your hand on the table,” Damon said, looking back at Jimmy.
Jimmy quickly obliged, setting his hand on the plywood surface.
Damon asked Rook, “What size?”
“Nine.”
“Good enough,” Damon said and nodded at Rook.
Rook grabbed his handheld drill from the table and put the tip to the back of Jimmy’s hand. “Look at it like this,” Rook said to Jimmy, his voice so even and flat it was like he was reading from a book, “you can tell people its stigmata. Maybe they’ll pour out some hefty tithes to you.” He revved the drill, lifted his body up and over the drill, and dropped his weight, plunging the bit straight through Jimmy’s hand.
Jimmy let out the slightest whimper; he knew if he yelled, Damon would make it worse. All he wanted was for Damon to let go of his brother’s throat. As the blood gushed out of the top of his hand and began to pool under his palm, he saw his brother turning shades of blue, unable to breathe at all, his eyes fading of light. “You motherfuckers,” Damon said, his hand still around Petey’s throat, holding him high enough that Petey had to stand on his tiptoes. “Do you know how much money the strippers in this town make? Some of them make three grand a night. Those stupid drillers make a fortune and got nothing to spend it on here, so they buy booze and drugs. They blow their money on McDonald’s and strip clubs. They throw twenties at those sluts like anyone else would throw singles. They’ve got all the money in the world and no sense in what they oughtta do with it. Those hooking bitches make a fortune in this town. You think there wouldn’t be any heat if something happened to one of them? You think they’d just go away quietly? You think the pigs I pay off are gonna be able to hide rape charges from the kinds of lawyers those bitches could afford? You bring heat on yourself, you bring heat on me.” Damon leaned in closer to Petey. “And if you bring heat on me, I’ll kill ya.” With that, Damon released his grip, and Petey slumped to the floor, coughing. Damon walked over to the plywood table, where Rook was still keeping a firm hand on the drill planted through Jimmy’s. “You’re lucky I didn’t have Rook use an auger bit, and you’re doubly lucky I didn’t make you lay your worthless little pecker on the table. The next time you do anything that draws attention to me, I’m gonna drill a hole in your brother’s head and make you watch all his shit-for-brains pour out.” Damon didn’t ask if Jimmy understood; he just stared at him.
Sweat ran down Jimmy’s forehead and into his eyes, but he didn’t move. It felt like as if he was being stalked by a bear or something, as if it would attack him if he so much as moved. Damon just stared at him, wearing him down with those huge, white, unblinking eyes, until Jimmy looked away. When Rook finally reversed the drill and pulled it out with a spurt of blood, Jimmy grabbed the wound and wrapped the bottom of his shirt around it.
Damon walked to the door and started to open it, then turned back, as if a thought had just occurred to him.
Jimmy felt a spiked panic.
“What happened to you two?” Damon asked.
Neither Wheeler answered, not so much because they didn’t want to, but because they just didn’t understand the question.
“I mean to your faces, you dumb-fucks,” Damon said, pointing to their respective bruises. “Who did that to you? I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even uglier than the last time I set eyes on you.”
“He said his name’s Charlie,” Jimmy said.
“Charlie what?” Damon asked.
Neither brother remembered, but they hesitated to admit as much.
“Of course you didn’t think to ask, you numb-nuts. Can you at least tell me what this prize fighter looks like?” Rook asked.
“Uh, well…he’s ‘bout average height I guess, brown hair. He just looks kinda…you know, um…normal—all except for that stupid hat.”
“An average guy in a stupid hat, huh?” Damon said and looked over at Rook. He ran his fingers over his Fu Manchu and nodded to himself. Rook looked concerned, and Damon picked up on it right away. “You got somethin’ to say, Rook?” he asked.
“Yeah. I asked that trick who told you about the explosion more questions after she came down, and she said some guy in a funny-looking hat was wandering around the trailer park earlier, before Dick’s went boom.”
Damon looked over at Jimmy and Petey. “I hate coincidences because they’re never that. Go on and check it out, and tell all the boys to be on the lookout for some average-height, brown-eyed, normal-looking guy in a…what kind of hat was it?”
“A porkpie hat, like the kind jazz musicians wear,” Rook said.
Damon snorted. “An average-looking guy in a jazzman’s hat? Jesus, what the fuck is this world coming to when a man walks around dressed like that?”
Chapter 13
Sherry was easier to find than Charlie expected. It didn’t take much more than a few questions, in passing, around the strip club to find out that she was staying with a guy on the other side of town, in an RV park. Charlie was glad he’d stopped by Dee Dee’s, and he was especially thankful that she’d let him borrow some clothes she no longer had need of, likely the abandoned wardrobe of more than one old boyfriend, since they came in all shapes and sizes. She’d asked him how tall he was, to which he’d answered, “I’m five-eleven, six feet on a good day.” The brown leather jacket was a little loose in the shoulders, but Charlie had long arms, so it fit him pretty well in the sleeves. He also took a black, hooded sweatshirt. It was spring but still cold, especially when the sun began to plummet into the barren horizon. He left his hat at Dee Dee’s, assuming he’d established it to be something of a calling card and that Damon would use it as an identifying mark to look for him; Charlie wasn’t quite ready for a face-to-face confrontation—not until he found out more information.
Charlie arrived at the trailer park close to midnight. When he caught his first glimpse of Sherry, he wondered just how coherent and helpful she was going to be. He first saw her stumbling along, alone, occasionally caught in the ray of a stray streetlight. She was somewhat young, it seemed, but the drugs—meth and maybe crack—had taken their toll; it was difficult to determine where she fell between twenty-five and forty-five. The clothes she wore looked like thrift store merchandise, at best, and her skin hung loose on her face and arms. Even though it couldn’t have been more than twenty degrees out, she was dressed only in a dingy tank-top under a small jacket and a print miniskirt, equally old and stained. She was walking in a straight line, but it looked more reflexive than anything, like she was just so used to being high that her body carried her places automatically. Sherry pushed on the handle of her RV four times b
efore finally pulling the door open, and she had to brace herself in the doorway just to make it up the three steps.
Since he could see that someone else was already in the trailer, Charlie figured he’d take his time and have a listen. He walked around to the backside of the vehicle and rested his back against the wall. There was a strange mellow sweetness in the air he couldn’t identify, many because it was overpowered by the smell of rotten food and stale beer from the overflowing dumpster just a few lots away. A window left slightly ajar yielded clanking sounds and some swearing from male and female voices. Charlie only heard two voices, so he assumed the female must be Sherry. For all he knew, the male could have been her pimp. He pulled out one of his cigarillos as he stood there eavesdropping, but he only brought it to his lips so he could taste the rum tip and let it hang there, unlit. Sherry might be a meth-head, but smoke coming in through her window was far from covert.
“He just…he won’t leave me alone, Billy,” Sherry whined in a shrill voice, as if she was almost in tears. “That son-of-a-bitch is always trying to get me to go out and trick for him. I’m sick of it.”
“He’s gonna leave you alone,” the guy, Billy, said. It took about ten seconds for him to slur the five words out, as if he was drunk off his ass. “If he doesn’t, tomorrow I’m gonna go down and talk with the district attorney. I ain’t afraid to pull some ropes.”