by Johnny Shaw
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “Is that online?”
“Found it in a Google search for girl fights. Clips for free. Full video for sale. Already picked up by some pirate sites. It’s out there, and once something is out there, it’s forever. There are maybe ways to get rid of it, but it’s a lot of work for little reward.”
Tomás studied the screen for a moment too long, nodded, and then put his phone back in his pocket.
“I have no idea how Bobby is going to react to this,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I stared at Tomás for a moment. “You had Big Piwi take Bobby out of here for Bobby’s sake, didn’t you? You were trying to save him seeing his daughter that way.”
“He would have exploded,” Tomás said. “And with all these people around. He would’ve been humiliated.”
“I thought you didn’t like Bobby.”
“I don’t dislike him that much. I might be a sociopath, Jimmy, but I’m not a monster.”
I grabbed a deck chair and sat down next to Tomás. I hated the idea of all those douchebags watching Julie and other young girls beat the shit out of each other, but what could I do? I could turn off the TV or throw a chair through the screen, but I didn’t really see the benefit. I wanted to punch everyone at the party in the face. Instead, I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
“I thought you quit,” Tomás said.
“What’s the fucking point?”
I had no real reason to be at the party anymore. It was clear that Tomás wasn’t going to let me talk to Driskell and I sure as shit didn’t want to mingle with the edging-toward-blackout-drunk crowd. I should’ve gotten up and gone back to the motel. But I wasn’t ready to deal with Bobby and his reaction to the fight video. He wouldn’t sit on his hands. That was for sure. I was going to have to hide the guns before I pulled that Band-Aid off.
Tomás and I watched the idiot partygoers get drunker and stupider. They spilled their drinks, puked in the pool, and generally showed no regard for Driskell’s home. It was like watching drunk lampreys trash a coked-up shark’s house. (I’ve never been good at similes and metaphors.)
The best part of the show was when Driskell rushed out the front door and returned super-pissed. He waved his hands wildly and screamed in a substance-fueled rage. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but his apoplectic fit spoke volumes. His face was the color of a dog dick, veins threatening to burst. Nobody liked finding a busted window on their Hummer, but the dude had money, so the overreaction was a show for the crowd. His low-rent Tony Montana moment. I wondered if he even noticed that his gun was missing or if he was saving that for a separate tantrum.
“Does that have something to do with you and Maves?” Tomás asked.
“Most definitely. Driskell’s a complete tool. This party. These shitheads. Why would you do business with that moron?”
Driskell was literally jumping up and down, stomping his feet. Everybody left the living room, their mellows sufficiently harshed.
Tomás shook his head. “In Mexico, I have latitude to run my businesses. Criminality—illegality—is different for different people. Things that are a crime for an average person—a barber or a carpenter—aren’t illegal for me. The Mexican system works on a sliding scale. Crime is relative. Money is atonement.”
“That’s messed up. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be accountable for the things you do.”
“Am I to blame for working and benefiting within a broken system? You can’t play chess on a Monopoly board. And I hate to burst your childlike bubble, but it isn’t any different on this side of the border. It’s only more expensive. Rather than a little mordida here and there—some strategic friendships—everyone in the US wants a piece. You can’t just bribe a few cops or a politician. You have to run the money through the system, the courts. In the US, it’s the lawyers that make all the profit. More than the criminals. And when the dust settles, the person with more money wins. The limits of American greed are boundless. It’s good to have a network of local—white—businessmen that can act as a cushion.”
“And that’s where this dipshit comes in?”
Tomás nodded. “He’s corrupt enough to work with, but has the appearance of legitimacy. You don’t always want the guy in a business suit. Everyone takes Driskell for the wild rich guy. Which is what he is. Too clean and he’d raise suspicions. He hides in plain sight. He could’ve been a good front, but obviously he’s too volatile, too stupid, and it’s not about the money for him.”
“So who the fuck is he?” I lit another cigarette.
“His file is in my laptop, but I can give you a basic rundown from memory. His father founded CaSO-Corp. For the longest time, Craig was on a fixed income—a trust fund. When his old man died, he took over the business. He liked the title of CEO, but didn’t know what it stood for. It took him two years to drive CaSO-Corp into the ground. He shut down the factory, found a buyer for the name, and sold enough of the assets. He made plenty on those deals. Fucked every one of his loyal employees. But that’s business.
“So he’s got cash and nothing to do. Bored rich people are dangerous. It always gets weird with them. He’s the worst that wealth makes. The kind of person that hasn’t been hungry. Never known pain that he didn’t create himself. He’s got no respect for money or people or work. The only creativity he has is in his perversions. He’s the kind of guy that would kill a hooker, get arrested, and not understand why he was being persecuted.”
“Sounds like a piece of work,” I said. “Definitely someone that could be involved in Julie’s disappearance.”
“Another good reason to be careful. And patient. Money is more dangerous than muscle. You could go in there, but he could sic some bad people on you.”
“Worse than you?” I smiled to make sure Tomás knew I was mostly joking.
Tomás smiled back. “Doubtful. Depends on your definition. Either way, you’re a tourist in this shit. I can talk to him because he’s afraid to not talk to me. I can tell him to fuck off and he’ll smile and take it. The moment he knows your name, you’re in it. As tough as you think you are, Jimmy, this is not your side of the street.”
“I don’t want anything to do with him, but Bobby. Once he hears about that movie, he’s going to come back here. And there ain’t going to be no way to stop him.”
“But that’s not you. That’s Maves. I know he’s your friend, but I don’t care about him. If you want to keep yourself and your family safe, let him go. Let him off the leash and run in the other direction.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Bobby would never abandon me.”
“Neither would a loyal dog, but do you risk everything for a dog? You have people that depend on you. You’re willing to put yourself at risk, but are you willing to risk their safety for your friendship?”
“Nothing is going to come back to my family. We’re only looking for a missing girl.”
Tomás shook his head, smiling. “You crack me up. The way you see the world.”
“I’m not some naïve schoolgirl, for fuck’s sake.”
“You think because you’re on some heroic mission to find a missing girl that everyone will want to help. You’re all motive, no information. Without knowing who’s doing what and why, you don’t know who has what to protect. There are as many bad people in the world as good. It’s an even split.”
“Bobby backs me. I back him.” I flicked my cigarette into the swimming pool. It fizzled briefly when it struck the surface.
Tomás laughed. “I don’t know if I should admire your loyalty or pity your stupidity.”
“Probably both.”
Sitting in the dim light of the Date Palm Motel parking lot, I was stalling. I wanted to call Angie, talk to her, but it was too early/late. It was hard to believe only twenty-four hours earlier, Bobby and I had been drinking and frog gigging on a ditch bank. I lit a fresh cigarette off the one I was smoki
ng. At this rate, I was going to need to buy another pack.
I could see the light behind the thin curtain of the motel room. I considered sleeping in my truck and dealing with everything in a few hours. Or joining the two Mexicans at the other end of the lot, who sat on their tailgate, drank beers, and laughed too loud. They looked like nice enough guys. I wanted to know what was so funny. But it was time to sack up, be a friend, and tell Bobby the truth.
When I walked into the room, Big Piwi and Bobby turned from the table, but returned to what they were doing. Big Piwi had toilet paper sticking out of both nostrils. As funny as it looked, I didn’t dare laugh at the sight. They played poker, using store-bought cookies as chips. Big Piwi put an Oreo in the pot. Bobby took it out and placed it back in Big Piwi’s stack.
“I keep telling you,” Bobby said, exhausted, “Oreos are five. If you want to call, you need to bet ten. That’s two Oreos or a Chips Ahoy.”
Big Piwi folded and ate a Chips Ahoy instead.
“Good to see you boys playing nice,” I said.
“My blood got hot. It does that,” Bobby said. “But even I’ll only slam my head into a brick wall so many times before I give up or pass out or go out to the shed and find my jackhammer. And The Thing That Should Not Be had a big bag of cookies under the seat. Seriously, I haven’t had a Nutter Butter since I was eight.”
Big Piwi rose from the tiny chair, leaving its legs sharply bowed, a wonder that it hadn’t collapsed under his weight. He raked all the cookies on the table into his cookie bag with his forearm and walked out the door without a word.
Bobby got up and stretched. “The whole time you were gone, I couldn’t get him to shut up. Talk about a chatterbox. Then you get here and he clams up.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not. Fucker didn’t say a word. Nothing. The only sound he made was when he farted. That was a major communication breakthrough. It smelled like the mole poblano from Elvia’s.”
“Why did I need to know that?”
“Thought you might find it interesting. It was unusual.”
I walked to the closet and leaned my back against it. “Look, Bobby. We got to talk.”
“Are you breaking up with me? After all these years?” Bobby smiled. Then he studied my face and his smile faded. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the weight of his legs practically giving beneath him.
“Oh, Christ. Is she dead? She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“What? No. Is that what my face looked like? No. Sorry. No. I don’t know, but no, I didn’t find that out.”
Bobby let out a big breath. “Okay. What then?”
“There’s a video. I saw Julie—”
“Stop. I don’t want to know what kind of porn she’s in. It’s enough you saw it.”
“No. Jesus. She’s not dead and it’s not porn. Let me finish, for Christ’s sake.”
“You suck at this shit, bro.”
“You’re not helping.”
Bobby finally let me talk. I told him what I had seen and what I had learned from Tomás. As he listened, his face was stone. I couldn’t even see him breathe. It was disconcerting. Bobby usually expressed his emotions in real time, never much mystery to how he was feeling.
“Not what I was expecting,” Bobby said. “Fucked up. Did you watch it?”
“Part of it. It was like a preview. Tomás is going to find the whole thing. Send me the link or file or whatever.”
“Did she look like she was forced?”
“Hard to say. Even if it was for money, she’s being used.”
“She won?”
“Definitively. Knocked the other girl out cold.”
“Of course, she did. She’s my kid.”
“We should tell the cops. It could be important.”
Bobby stood quickly. I flinched.
“What’re they going to do? Nothing. You, me, and fucking Morales: that’s the only people that need to know. And Becky. I’ll tell her. Tell the cops, not only does everyone know, including the papers—cops don’t keep secrets—but might spook whoever we’re looking for.”
“It’s not really a secret. It was playing at the party. It’s on the Internet. It’s out there. You can’t get rid of it.”
“Exactly,” Bobby said, “so let’s not advertise. It’s only important that people that know Julie and Beck and me don’t know. Most people that watch it see anonymous girls and move to the next batch. Like the way you look at porn stars, like they live on another planet. Not like people. As long as we don’t give reason to link Julie with that video, no one’s going to do it themself. You can’t find something if you don’t know to look.”
“You sound calm and rational, Bobby. It’s fucking with me a little. A lot.”
“I don’t feel calm. But, of all the things it could’ve been, this ain’t the worst. Hell, is it even illegal? And the fact it was playing at that douchebag’s house means I got a direction to head in. It’s fucked up, but that video might help us find Julie.”
“You’re right. Finding her is the main thing.”
“It is,” Bobby said. “That’s why I need you to step away from the closet, so I can get my guns.”
I shook my head and squared my feet. “I don’t think so, Bobby. We’ve been running ragged. I let you take your guns, you might kill someone.”
“Not really your problem, Jimmy. And I don’t want to be a dick and bring up old business, but you’ve done more killing than me. My body count is still at zero. The only thing I’ve ever killed is my liver.”
“That’s a cheap shot. Bringing up the past. What happened out in the dunes, that was different.”
“The only thing was different was that it was about you, not me. I might got a rep as some insaniac, but you got more blood on your hands than me. I watched you kill a guy. Deserved it, sure, but makes you a shitty role model to be the angel on my shoulder.”
“I can’t let you have the guns.”
Bobby looked at the ceiling, then back at me. “Go home, Jimmy. Go back to your family. To your quiet life. Quit trying to fucking save me. I was fine for the dozen years you were gone, and I didn’t ask you to come out here. Never asked you to help me. This is my family, my problem. You’re in my way.”
“First off, fuck you. Second, that ‘I didn’t ask you to come here’ bullshit don’t fly. You call my ass anytime you need a chaos buddy on one of your drunken escapades.”
“Mavescapades.”
“Shut up. You know how many times in the last twenty-four hours I wanted to get in my truck and drive home, and how shitty I felt for considering it? You didn’t have to ask me to come out here, you fucking asshole. And I didn’t need permission. Someone has to protect you from your dumbass, fucked-up idiotness. And third, fuck you again. You almost hurt my feelings.”
“I’m going to count to three. If you’re still standing in front of that closet, I’m going to kick your ass. Don’t want to do it. Won’t be a dick about it. But one way or the other, I’m leaving with my big bag of guns.”
I shifted my hands and got in a sideways stance. “Don’t bother to count. I know getting all the way to three might be a challenge. I ain’t moving, fucko. If the only way to keep you from getting hurt is to fight you, I’m your huckleberry.”
“Nice reference.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. Move. I’m not playing.”
“Neither am I.”
“Okay then.”
The battle that followed was epic. Though there were no spectators to appreciate the fight, the display of violence was for the ages. Bobby moved for the closet door. I stood my ground. Our conversation no longer required words. It was time to talk with our fists. A flurry of punches flew, both of us standing toe-to-toe, waiting for the other to fall. So evenly matched, only a mental error would name the victor. Trading hard shots, forearms deflecting blows, dueling in the small space. The sound was deafening, the fury furious. At one point, Bobby blocked my spinning roundhouse kick and use
d my forward momentum to judo me against the wall. But like a jungle cat, I used the wall to push off, coming right back at him like a spider monkey.
I’m fucking with you. None of that happened. Bobby kicked my ass. With shocking ease.
I don’t think I even got a punch in. What little I remember of the historic beatdown was brutally efficient. Bobby didn’t hurt me any more than he had to, just enough to take me out. Like a surgeon kicking someone’s ass surgically. I wish I could have seen it, but I was too busy getting knocked unconscious.
When I woke up, my face and ribs hurt like hell. I lay on the ground staring at the cottage cheese ceiling, in no hurry to go anywhere. I finally sat up feeling a little nauseous, but I kept the sick in check. Luckily I was out of cigarettes or I would have been an idiot and lit one, which most likely would have turned my intestinal rumbling into a volcano (if that’s too subtle, my vomit would have been the magma).
I stood, got woozy, sat back down, took a few deep breaths, and tried again. I had a light headspin, but I wasn’t going to topple. I opened the closet door, confirming what I already knew. The big bag of guns was gone.
“Fuck it,” I said.
I rolled up my sleeping bag, gathered my gear, gave the motel door a hearty slam on the way out, and headed home.
SEVEN
I made it to Salton City, halfway home. I pulled over into the dirt lot of a closed fruit stand, rows of date palms behind it. Painted with a roller on the side of the yellow building, it read, DATE SHAKES-FRESHEST. The leaning structure looked just as run-down as when I was a kid. On our rare out-of-town trips, Pop and I would stop at that stand and get date shakes. It’s funny how my city friends made faces when I mentioned drinking date shakes. Dates are delicious. Ice cream is delicious. Both are sweet. Ergo, sweet and delicious. Maybe it’s because dates are brown and if you close your eyes, they have the texture of cockroach. But still, it’s not marmite.
I dug my phone out of my pocket and tried Bobby’s cell. It went to voice mail.
“Bobby, if you get this, stop what you’re doing. I don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, stop. Sit on the ground, call me, we’ll go from there. Don’t move, don’t shoot anyone, and if you do, for the love of Edwige Fenech, don’t kill them. Just don’t. Call me, damn it.”