Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco)

by Johnny Shaw

  Of all the places Bobby might head, the most obvious was Driskell’s. According to Gabe, Julie worked for Driskell. He made the movie and was into some bad shit. Bobby would want to finish their conversation, and knowing Bobby, even if he couldn’t get information from him, he would still feel the need to punish.

  It was still too early to call Angie. I don’t know if she would know what to do, but I sure as hell didn’t. I turned my truck around and headed back north.

  Driving back to La Quinta, I hoped the feeling in my gut was an overreaction. As much of a complete barbarian as I paint Bobby, his violence had limits. Didn’t it? He wasn’t a killer. He was a brawler. Bar brawls existed to battle his boredom, but nothing had been at stake before. With his daughter’s life on the line, who knew what he was capable of? And he was hauling around a big bag of guns.

  The sun hadn’t risen, but its orange glow illuminated the streets of La Quinta. Other than a couple overzealous joggers, an old guy in slippers and pajamas angrily walking his Shih Tzu, and a group of Mexican laborers staking the good spots in front of the U-Haul, the streets were empty. As I drove down the main road, the streetlights turned off.

  Calle Tlaxcala showed no signs of life. I pulled in a couple houses down from Driskell’s. I could see his Hummer at the end of the block. It was still ugly and stupid. No sign of Bobby’s Ranchero.

  I pulled out my fresh pack of smokes. I already wished I hadn’t bought it. I wished a lot of things. I wished Bobby hadn’t kicked my ass. I wished Julie hadn’t gone missing. But I knew how much good wishing did. The last time I made a wish and it came true was my eighth birthday and two days out of its package, I had destroyed my GI Joe Transportable Tactical Battle Platform Playset with an M-80 and some lighter fluid. Cobra Command won that day. Wishes might come true, but that doesn’t mean you can’t blow them to shit.

  I got out of my truck, lit a cigarette, and walked as casually as I could to the circular driveway in front of Driskell’s house. Like the ashes at the bottom of a fire pit, all the remnants of the party were on display. Bottles, cans, and red Solo cups littered the small patch of grass. Someone had pulled a dick move and run a knife through part of the trampoline, leaving a huge slit. Nobody would have been doing much jumping anyway with the amount of vomit that had pooled in the tramp’s lowest spot. I half-expected to find some prone bodies passed out in the yard or hedges, but apparently the battlefield had been swept for casualties.

  The front door stood wide open. I let myself in, immediately stepping on a used condom. I scraped it off on the step. The house looked empty. Television voices—not live voices—came from the back. Muffled and strange, like they were broadcasting from overseas via ham radio.

  The living room was a spectacular disaster. I felt for the crew of domestic workers that would undoubtedly be charged with returning the place to its original state. How do you fix a broken narwhal horn? Super Glue? The local narwhal horn repair shop, Narwhally World?

  I followed the sound through the dining area and kitchen to the back room where Bobby and I had seen Tomás and Driskell talk hours earlier. The wall-mounted television played the same girl fight/gonzo porn loop. A too-young girl on her knees gave POV head to the cameraman. I would say that there was sadness in her eyes, but that would be me putting it there. There wasn’t anything in her eyes, dead with acceptance. The screen had a crack in it, the sound distorted and ghostly.

  I would have preferred looking at anything other than that poor girl, but my other option was the dead body in the middle of the room.

  “Damn it, Bobby,” I said softly.

  Craig Driskell’s body slouched off the edge of the couch, his bathrobe open wide to reveal his doughy, nude body underneath. I didn’t see any gunshot wounds and I wasn’t interested in getting any closer, but he was very dead. The skin on his torso was discolored in shades of purple, green, and yellow with bruises and still-wet blood, but it was his head that was all wrong. It looked like it had fallen in on itself, misshapen like a clay pot collapsing on a potter’s wheel. And while the features of his crushed cranium could barely be described as a face, Driskell’s wide-open eyes stared through the distortion.

  Fists could have done that kind of damage, but it would have taken a long time. More likely a bat or a pipe or the butt of a gun. Someone had bludgeoned and stove in Driskell’s head to the shape of a deflated basketball.

  Dark blood speckled the couch fabric, small patches here and there. Whenever I think back, I imagine flies landing in the blood and on the wounds. I don’t think there were any, but that’s how I remember it. The room smelled like beef stew and feces.

  Staring at the body, it didn’t seem real, like a scene in a movie. I felt separated from the reality and had no idea what to do next. A dead body will do that to any normal person.

  Finally, it flashed in my head—what I needed to do. I needed to get the fuck out of there.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, trying to remember what I had touched. The front door had been open, I had walked through the house. Nothing. I hadn’t touched anything. I’d take any luck I could get. But had Bobby touched anything? Then I realized, with the party the night before, it didn’t matter. The place would be covered with hundreds of random fingerprints, footprints, and probably a dickprint or two.

  A sound came from the living room. A footstep and a grunt.

  “Goddammit! That’s just gross,” a male voice shouted.

  Whoever was at the front door either stepped on the same condom as me, a different condom, or something equally disgusting.

  I didn’t wait to find out. I jumped down the three steps into the dead-man room. The thick shag made no sound on landing.

  “Police! Anyone home?” the voice said. “We received a call about a disturbance. One of your neighbors reported yelling, loud noises coming from this residence. God damn, what a mess. Is anyone there? I’m coming inside.”

  There was only one other door in the room. I darted past Driskell’s carcass, hopscotching over the blood on the carpet. Without looking back I opened the door with the heels of my hands and stepped into a long hallway. I ran to the end, the farther I got from the room with the dead body, the better.

  At the end of the hall, I reached the master bedroom. Animal prints, chiffon, Roman columns. And yes, there were mirrors on the ceiling. I had to give it to the late Mr. Driskell. He had awful taste, but he was consistent. There was also a full-size stuffed grizzly bear and a large mosaic three-dimensional penis, for the record. But the only thing I cared about was the sliding glass door that opened into the backyard.

  I faintly heard the cop at the other end of the house wretch and say, “Holy shit.” I was out the door, in the backyard, over the short concrete brick wall, and on the fairway of the fourteenth hole in thirty seconds flat. I leaned against the wall, completely out of breath from the half-minute of activity. I was embarrassed for myself. Without clubs or a cart, I probably stuck out like—well, like me on a golf course, but luckily it was early enough that all the golfers were still working the front nine. I made my way along the course and back to the main road without being seen.

  I cautiously walked past the intersection that led down Calle Tlaxcala, just a regular neighborhood guy out for a stroll. The police car sat parked in front of Driskell’s driveway. The cop fast-walked out of the house and slumped down in the driver’s seat, leaving the car door open. He took some deep breaths with his head at his knees. Then he straightened, found the radio receiver, and called in.

  In five minutes there would be a bajillion cops pulling fibers and canvassing neighbors. I had to get my truck off the street before they got there. Even the dumbass La Quinta cops would eventually get curious about the vehicles on the street. Especially one that had no good goddamn reason being there.

  With the speed and posture of an old man, the young cop stood and walked back to the front door. He didn’t look happy about it. The moment he was out of sight, I booked toward my truck. I had to get out of
there quickly. On my first attempt to get my key in the driver’s side door, I dropped my key ring. When I reached to pick up the keys, I accidentally kicked them under the truck. Of course. I dropped and dug around until I found them. When I rose, I realized the door was unlocked. I climbed inside, ducked down, and peeked over the dash to make sure the cop was still inside.

  “Oh crap,” I said.

  I was facing the wrong way down a dead-end street. I couldn’t imagine a fuckeder situation. To hell with it. I started my truck, threw it in reverse, and backed out of Calle Tlaxcala way too fast. At the intersection, I expected a car to turn onto the road and crash into me. But sometimes the bitch of a Fate that throws bad luck at me misses. I fishtailed onto the main road, threw the truck into drive, and headed east. Away from the death house.

  I drove until I realized that I didn’t know where I was driving. Five miles later, I pulled into the parking lot of a Circle K. I bought a bottle of Sauza and two packs of smokes. (At this point, who was I kidding?) I drank tequila from a paper sack and smoked three cigarettes back-to-back-to-back sitting on my tailgate.

  I tried Bobby again, but he still wasn’t picking up. I didn’t want to leave anything incriminating on his voice mail.

  “Call me back, Bobby. Goddamn it. Call me, you fucker.”

  Driskell was dead. And while I couldn’t see Bobby entering the house guns blazing, I could picture him losing his temper and beating someone bad. If he had found out something else about Julie, something even more fucked up than the fighting, who knew what he was capable of. It wasn’t like there were a whole slew of better suspects than the guy who had gone to the dead guy’s house to assault him.

  What had happened in that room?

  And where the fuck was Bobby?

  Friendships start in strange ways. Single moments bond two people together. Or does it happen over time? As an adult, I have met people and known within minutes that we would be friends if we spent time together. It’s a sense, an instinct. But as a kid, it had everything to do with timing and the moment. Bobby and I had gone to the same grade school, but it wasn’t until sixth grade that we became friends.

  Bobby would have been diagnosed with ADD, if that was a thing that the Imperial County School District recognized at the time. But that kind of language was a few years off. “Hyperactive” would have been the diagnosis and a paddle with holes drilled in it the best medicine to dissuade rambunctious behavior. Bobby wasn’t much of a student, but as far back as I could remember, he excelled on the playground. Whether kickball, marbles, or a spitting contest, Bobby was the most vocal, the most outgoing, and the most unpredictably violent. He talked trash, but played fair. And rarely did a game end without a fight starting. Usually because of something Bobby said. Unlike now, he didn’t win a lot of those fights. He was smaller than the other kids, and often got pounded. But like a miniature half-Mexican Cool Hand Luke, he always got up and it never stopped him from starting shit and scrapping the next day. That was Bobby’s superpower. Even as a kid, he was fearless.

  His reputation quickly grew. He might not have been the toughest or the best fighter, but he was unequivocally the craziest. He wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. And while I wouldn’t say that he was feared, he was definitely avoided. You might beat Bobby in a fight, but you wouldn’t walk away unbruised. He walked the playground as its king, even the dumbest bullies knew not to tangle with the force of nature that called itself Bobby Maves.

  Back then I stayed away from Bobby. He scared me. That wasn’t saying much. At that age, everything scared me. I had friends, but we were the smart kids. We were picked on, mostly threats and words. We spent recess indoors, idling away our time telling dirty jokes, playing with our pogs, and staying away from the Neanderthals who were threatened by any kid who got good grades and enjoyed reading.

  So through grade school and into junior high, Bobby and I lived our separate lives, our paths occasionally crossing, aware of each other, but in separate circles.

  I don’t recall the exact chain of events, but at some point in sixth grade, I got on the bad side of José Ramos. It might have been that I had passed a test that he had failed or that I had made a bad joke or that he was just a dick, but I made it onto his enemies list. He was a mean little vato with a fledgling gang of underlings. At eleven, the top-button and hairnet mini-gangsters were probably adorable to grown-ups, but as a kid they terrified me. José was the youngest Ramos. And the Ramoses were a dynasty of schoolyard badasses, his five older brothers earning their reputations in fights that kids still talked about. José got the benefit of their reps, not having to earn his status. By name alone, he had become the leader of his little gang. He was a punk, but nobody wanted to mess with a Ramos.

  So one day on the way to my locker, I turned a corner and José Ramos and his crew of cholitos were waiting for me. To this day, I take pride in the fact that I didn’t piss my pants then and there. My small victories are often microscopic.

  “Hey, pussy,” José said.

  I unconvincingly pretended that he wasn’t talking to me. I looked over my shoulder, scoping out an exit strategy, but two more of his scowling cronies blocked my path. I swear that one of those sixth graders already sported a wispy mustache.

  “I’m talking to you, Veeder. You’re a big pussy, ain’t you? Say you’re a big pussy.”

  If you set the ball up in front of the net, I was going to spike it. It was instinct. I had no choice. Without a smile or any pleasure, the obvious joke left my mouth.

  “You’re a big pussy,” I said.

  José might have let it go, but one of his goons laughed, so José walked to me and punched me in the stomach. That was the first time that he hit me. It had all been threats to that point. Maybe a shove or a shoulder bump as we passed in the hall. But that punch was his first true act of war.

  And here’s where everything went tits up. It didn’t hurt. The punch didn’t hurt. At all. If I had been smart, I would have doubled over and feigned pain. José would have gotten satisfaction and avoided humiliation. They probably would have walked away. But for all the smarts I had in a classroom, in situations like that I was mostly moron. So José punched me and I stood there like nothing happened.

  Before José could react, laughing began. Not from his friends, but that machine-gun laugh that hadn’t changed in twenty years. Bobby, who had been watching from the vending machines, walked through the gang to stand next to me. Laughing the whole time and brushing past José’s boys like they were a nuisance, Bobby held his side and wiped at his eyes. There were two of us and six of them, but Bobby wouldn’t have cared if there were twenty of them. I was in awe. Scared shitless, but in awe.

  “That was freaking hi-larious, duder,” Bobby said. “I mean, the pussy line was funny, but it was kinda sitting there, you know. I could’ve made that comeback. But when he hit you and you didn’t move—Bro, genius.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glancing at José, whose face was red with anger. I waited for steam to come out of his ears, because if that happened in life, this was one of those times.

  Bobby continued to ignore everyone but me. “You should’ve said something though, after he hit you. Like Stallone or Schwarzenegger or one of those action guys. You should’ve said like ‘Next time, let a real man hit me, you know, like your sister’ or ‘Was that a punch or were you rubbing my stomach for luck?’ Not those, something better, but that was like the choice place where you say a cool line, you know?”

  “Totally,” I said. But my eyes were locked on José and his boys. They were still there, still threatening. Bobby glanced over to where I was looking, laughed, and shrugged them off.

  “Don’t worry about those fags. Say one.”

  “What?”

  “Make up an action-guy line.” And then Bobby slowly turned to José and pointed. “And say it to him.”

  I swallowed. I was scared of José. I was scared of his gang. But at that moment, it was way more important to me that Bobby respected m
e. And I felt stronger with him there.

  I gave it a moment’s thought and said, “That punch was so weak, if it was hot tea it would be Earl Gay.”

  Bobby howled with laughter. “I don’t get it, but I like it. Earl Gay. You’re gay, Ramos! Classic. Another one.”

  I tried again. “You might want to go see the nurse, José. Because I’m pretty sure my stomach bruised your knuckles.”

  Bobby pointed at José. “In your face, Ramos. High five, buddy.” Bobby and I high-fived. “You’re Jimmy, right? I’m Bobby.”

  We’ve been best friends ever since.

  For the record, Bobby and I got our asses properly kicked by José’s gang. José might have hit like a girl with rickets, but his boys didn’t. We fought gamely, but were outnumbered and still inexperienced. Lucky for us, we were children and kid fists were soft. Bobby and I didn’t suffer anything beyond a few cuts and bruises.

  Things changed that day. I had a new best friend. But more importantly, I wasn’t the same scared kid. I got hurt, but I survived. Physical pain. Nothing more. I actually enjoyed moving my loose tooth around with my tongue. And getting jumped and outnumbered was nothing to be ashamed of. From then on, I had a confidence I hadn’t felt before. And I had Bobby on my side. He would always have my back and I would always have his.

  As the years went on, through violence and shared secrets, our trust grew river deep. Beyond a five-week period during sophomore year, nothing had ever come between us. That had been about a girl, our squabble an aberration brought on by the irresistible wiles of a fifteen-year-old siren named Ramona De La Rosa. Puppy love and hormones had pitted boy against boy. We both had failed to win her feminine affections, of course. She ended up getting knocked up by the Driver’s Ed/Small Engines/Ag teacher, crushing our boy-hearts but strengthening our friendship. We chalked up the discord to the power of boobs (Ramona was blessed in that particular area). It was the last time we let anyone or anything come between us. Boobs included. Until the present.