by Johnny Shaw
“You didn’t die,” she said.
“Wow” came out of my mouth.
Bobby shook his head, looking at the ground. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Julie said.
I’d heard more convincing apologies from waiters telling me they were out of the chicken fingers.
“I got a load of things to say to you that need to be said, but we don’t got time to dick with that now,” Bobby said. “I’d give you the choice between the easy way and the hard way, but I know the fucking answer. Let’s tie her ass up, Jimmy. We’ll carry her out of here.”
“You want to tie up your daughter?”
“Gag her, too.”
I turned to Julie. “And that’s why you don’t shoot your father.”
Even with all her wriggling, I was able to get her arms and feet bound in only a couple minutes. The big, chunky knot I used to secure her was pathetic even by my standards, but it did the trick. We couldn’t find any tape, so we used a torn-up shirt to gag her ongoing barrage of original profanity.
Bobby and I looked at the money on the table.
“You never know,” Bobby said. He threw the loose bills into Julie’s backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He spotted something in the backpack and pulled it out. It was another one of Julie’s journals. He put it back and zipped up the backpack.
Opening the Winnebago door a crack, he peeked out. “Looks good.”
I threw Julie over my shoulder. And as hesitant as I was to leave the air-conditioned space, I followed Bobby, Julie’s weight feeling like next to nothing. Small victories gave me strength.
But those victories never lasted.
As soon as my foot hit the ground, five Mexican bikers with drawn weapons walked out from behind the trailer. Chucho led the way, armed with Bobby’s pistol. The smile on his still-busted-up face appeared to revel in the five-against-two odds. That guy had never won a fair fight in his life.
Bobby looked down at the pistol in his hand, thought about it for a moment, but let it fall to the ground. One of the bikers pulled the gun from my waistband.
EIGHTEEN
“Is that Julie?” Chucho asked me. I still had her draped over my shoulder. He bent to get a look at her face. “You fuckers don’t give up.”
He walked to Bobby and said, “I had dreams about seeing you again. Beating your ass.”
Bobby smiled. “That’s the thing about dreams. They’re always about things that ain’t never going to happen.”
Chucho gave Bobby a hard right to the stomach, just below where his arm was tied to his body. Bobby took the punch, didn’t budge. He showed no sign of pain or even that he’d been hit. His expression looked like he was waiting in line at the Post Office. I wondered if he remembered that he’d learned that move from me way back in junior high.
“That punch was so weak, if it was tea, it’d be Earl Gay.” Bobby gave me a wink.
He did remember.
Chucho tried to stare Bobby down. Bobby looked back, bored. The scenario was not going as Chucho had planned. He couldn’t risk hitting Bobby again, for fear of looking even worse, but he had to do something. He didn’t get to make a decision.
Bobby gave him a hard open-hand slap to the side of the head. The blow sent Chucho reeling and crashing against the side of the trailer. The other bikers’ guns came up, but thankfully nobody fired.
I remained as motionless as I could, knees shaking a little. But I chalked that up to still having Julie hoisted onto my shoulder. She wasn’t heavy, but I couldn’t carry her all day.
“You going to let him bitch slap you, Chucho?” a younger, heavily-tatted Hermano said. “Fucking embarrassing.”
Before Chucho could answer, Bobby turned to the young biker and laughed. “What’s embarrassing is that you need those fucking guns. There’s five of you. Two of us. We’re old and I only got one good arm. And you’re scared of us.” He turned to me, shaking his head. “Today’s youth. Total pussies.”
“I ain’t scared of shit, bitch. Especially not some gray-haired pocho fuck.” The young guy jammed his gun into the back of his pants and took off his shirt.
“He’s taking off his shirt,” Bobby said. “That’s how you know he means it.”
The other men didn’t look as anxious to fight, but they put their guns away, too. Nobody wanted to look weak.
“We’re supposed to get back,” said a fat guy who—considering the originality of their nicknaming, I guarantee—was called Gordo. “Goyo said to drop off the money and get right back.”
“If the five of us can’t cripple these two in less than a minute . . .” the young guy said, not finishing the thought.
Chucho made his way behind the other four men. He didn’t look like he had any fight left. He’d tangled with Bobby three times and none of those encounters went well. When it came to messing with Bobby, most people stop at once.
“I’ll wash. You dry,” Bobby said to me, bringing up his good hand in a fist.
I dropped Julie from my shoulder a little harder than I meant to, but carrying a live person is an awkward thing. She grunted, but couldn’t do much more than that. I raised my fists slowly, a weak attempt to delay the inevitable.
“I guess that means I rinse,” Gabe said, walking out from behind a nearby tent, pistol held in front of him. When the Mexican bikers turned, Bobby quickly picked up his pistol and aimed it at the young Mexican. I stood there like a dumbass.
The young Mexican looked genuinely hurt. “What about all that shit you said? We were going to square up. Fight like men.”
“Why would I do that when I got a gun?” Bobby said. “I could get hurt.”
“You’ll understand when you get older,” I said. “When you realize all this posturing macho shit is what children do. You’re young. That means you’re still stupid. It’s okay. We were too.”
“Fuck you.”
“Gabe, grab their guns. Then we’re the fuck out of here,” Bobby said.
After I got my pistol back, Bobby and I covered the five bikers as Gabe frisked them and made a small pile of firearms between us. When he got to Chucho, they stared eye to eye for a moment and then Gabe punched him hard in the liver, dropping Chucho to a knee. Gabe put his pistol to Chucho’s head.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do it.”
Gabe leaned in close to Chucho and grabbed his face, squeezing his cheeks.
“We were best friends,” Gabe said.
Chucho pointed toward the pile of person named Julie. “It was her. She had these plans. Said the gang could make all this money. That we’d be rich.”
“Don’t blame her. Man up and admit the shit you did.”
“Don’t do it,” I repeated.
We stood frozen for what felt like weeks, as Gabe pushed the barrel of the pistol harder against Chucho’s head.
Bobby’s voice calmly filled the silence. “You can kill him, but if you’re going to do it, find a rock. Shoot him and they’ll hear it across the road. If you want revenge, make it quick. And quiet. We have to get the fuck out of here.”
Gabe nodded and pulled the pistol away from Chucho’s head. Then he brought the pistol back down, pistol-whipping Chucho in the jaw and side of his head. Then twice more. Blood quickly covered his face, its lower half distorted and out of place.
Bobby stepped forward and pushed one of the men forward toward the truck. “The rest of you. Start walking.”
Gabe gave Chucho a kick, but Chucho didn’t feel it. He was already unconscious. Gabe started following Bobby.
I hollered after Gabe, “Finish the job or carry him. Can’t risk him waking up and giving us away.”
Gabe grabbed one of Chucho’s feet and dragged him along the hardpack behind Bobby.
I picked up Julie and threw her over my shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Bobby turned and gave a sharp laugh. “You hear this kid? Heat of the moment, he finishes the catchphrase. ‘I’ll rinse.’ You’re ma
king me feel worse about shooting your ear off.”
“I still got most of it. What about kicking my ass?” Gabe said.
“No, I still feel pretty good about that.”
We corralled the men into the empty storage container. It was going to get oven hot but we didn’t have time to tie everyone up. Gabe dragged Chucho inside, his head bouncing off the lip of the container with a wet thud.
“Fatty said you had some money for us,” Bobby said. One of the boys shook his head and handed two big rolls of bills to Bobby. He stuffed them in his pocket.
“We going to die you leave us in here,” Gordo said.
“Not if you resort to cannibalism,” Bobby said. And on that bon mot, he slammed the doors shut and locked them down. One of the men slammed against the door, causing Russell’s rocket to fall from the roof where it must have lodged. Bobby and I looked at it and gave each other a smile.
I might have felt bad about the five bikers, but they gladiatored teenage girls for human cockfights. If you live in a world where that’s acceptable, you deserve what you get. They could roast in hell for all I cared.
I popped my head through the trapdoor into the truck trailer. The girl nearest me jumped and screamed, causing a chain reaction of screams, mine included. When everyone calmed down, I dropped back down and then shoved Julie up through the opening, pushing her body away from the trapdoor as far as I could.
“Hold on, everybody. It might get a little bumpy.”
I hopped back down. Gabe waited to climb in. “Those girls back there might not act scared, but they are. Make them feel safe. That’s your job.”
Gabe nodded and climbed into the trailer. I made my way to the passenger side of the cab. Bobby sat waiting in the driver’s seat.
“Gabe, Julie, and the girls are in. Let’s go,” I said.
“No keys,” Bobby said.
“You’re kidding. Which guy drove?”
“I don’t know. I was with you in the back, remember?”
“His name was Flaco.”
“So we look for a skinny Mexican. Great.”
“Fuck. Hotwire it.”
“Don’t you think I would’ve if I knew how? Mexicans aren’t born with the genetic ability to hotwire cars, Jimmy. Why would I know how to hotwire a fucking car?”
“Because you’re basically a criminal,” I shouted.
“I’m a rapscallion. It’s different.”
“Gabe. He fixes motorcycles. A mechanic.”
“And he’s Mexican, too,” Bobby said sarcastically.
I jumped out of the truck and shimmied underneath to the trapdoor. When I knocked, it opened immediately. I poked my head inside. “Gabe. We ain’t got keys. Can you get this truck started without them?”
“Not without any tools.”
“Swiss Army Knife do it?”
“Maybe.”
“You guys are pathetic,” Chola said. “Give me the fucking knife.”
Bobby and I stood guard as Chola climbed underneath the steering column of the truck, knife in hand. There were dozens of cars and trucks parked on the factory grounds and along the road. We could see blurry activity through the fence, if not the specific action.
I climbed on the hood of the truck to get a better look around. “Oh, shit. We might have a problem.”
A fleet of black SUVs sat parked in a line in the dry wash where we had fired our rocket. The dozen vehicles were still, but their cleanliness and precision were ominous. They could only be Tomás’s men.
Bobby stood on the bumper to get a better look. “Shit.”
As if on cue, the truck roared to life beneath us. I slid down off the hood. Chola hopped out and tossed me my knife.
“What took you so long?” I said.
She rolled her eyes. It reminded me that she was a teenager. No more than sixteen. And she knew how to hotwire a car. I let myself believe that she learned it in shop class. I lied to myself all the time.
“Let’s go,” I said.
But Bobby was staring at the factory grounds across the highway. He turned to me. “What about Rudy?”
“We got to get the girls and Julie out of here. Can’t take the truck in there.”
“You’re right. Got to grab him and meet up at Rudy’s ranch later.”
“There’s a whole slew of bad guys over there. That’s beyond even our usual shitty odds. This was a sneak-and-snatch, not an attack-and-grab.”
Bobby squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just make up expressions. Seriously, bro. When it’s just you and me, that’s one thing. But there’s people around. It’s embarrassing.”
“ ‘Sneak-and-snatch’ isn’t an expression?”
“Not even in England,” Bobby said. “I can’t leave Rudy there. He’d never let me hear the end of it if he got killed.”
“You know what? Chucho and Julie are the only ones who know our faces. What says we can’t waltz in there like we want to see the fights? Get Rudy and go.”
“Bro, you’re not going. I was talking me, not we. You got to drive the truck.”
“Gabe can drive the truck.”
“You’re done, man. Gone above and beyond. To the edge of the cliff. You don’t got to jump off with me. I’ll be okay.”
“Said the guy with one working arm. No argument. I’m in.”
I gave Gabe directions to Rudy’s place. Told him that no matter what, he was not to untie or even talk to Julie. Get to Rudy’s and wait. If we didn’t get back by nightfall, he was to call Griselda. She’d take it from there.
Bobby chucked Julie’s backpack into the truck. Gabe held out his hand to Bobby. They shook.
Gabe said, “I know you weren’t here to save my ass, but you did. Thanks, Julie’s Dad.” He turned to me. “And whatever your name is.”
“Jimmy.”
Gabe climbed into the truck, Chola sliding over.
“They’ll frisk you at the gate,” Chola said. “Unless you want to fight your way in, you’re going to have to leave your guns here. Or shove them really far up your ass.”
Bobby looked at me. “No guns?”
“We’re going in, grabbing Rudy, and leaving. We don’t need them.”
“If it were easy, it wouldn’t be us doing it.”
Bobby and I handed our hardware to Gabe. He stowed it all under the seat. I slammed the door and we watched Gabe back up, get a running start, and drive through the same gate he had busted through just a few days before.
“He hates that fucking gate,” Bobby said.
Bobby and I turned to each other and said something at the same time, and then we both stopped, started again, and then shut up. I held up my hand.
“You first,” I said. “What were you going to say?”
“It’s stupid. I was going to say, ‘Daddy’s coming home.’ What were you going to say?”
“ ‘Father knows best—the best way to kick your ass.’ ”
I put in the call to Buck Buck and Snout. They knew what they had to do.
Bobby and I walked out of the mangled gate and headed across the street toward the factory grounds to get Rudy.
“ ‘I hope you bought a new tie, because it’s Father’s Day,’ ” Bobby said.
“ ‘Who’s your daddy? Oh, that guy. Yeah, he’s got nunchucks.’ ”
“ ‘Luke, I am your father. The father of . . .’ ” Bobby paused. “No. I thought I had one, but I didn’t.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t have any more either.”
The chain-link gates stood wide-open leading into the factory. Two Los Hermanos dirtbags smoked cigarettes, drank beer, and—I guess—stood watch. But when you’re pretty much letting in other dirtbags who pay to see teenage girls fight, you’re less of a guard and more of a ticket taker.
While one of the bikers patted us down, the other one kept one hand on the gun in his belt. “Fifty bucks.”
I looked at Bobby. It hadn’t occurred to me to bring cash to a rescue mission. But Bobby didn’t flinch. He r
eached into his pocket, pulled out one of the rolls of bills, found two twenties and a ten, and handed the guy their own money.
“Each,” the biker said.
“Better be worth it,” Bobby said, counting another fifty.
“It is, man. Beer’s free. First fight’s still going. Hurry and you’ll catch the end. If you got five hundred more, you can fuck the loser. All the fight is out of them by then.”
Bobby stared at the guy. If he was thinking what I was, he was concentrating entirely on not beating the punk to death. I grabbed Bobby’s good arm and pulled him onto the factory grounds.
The entire ground of the factory area was bone white, even brighter than the rest of Plaster City and difficult to look at directly. It reflected the sun, causing a desert form of snow blindness.
The deafening Mexican techno soundtrack played a repetitious beat that I could feel in my chest. It seemed appropriate for fighting, but it was hard to believe that anyone on the face of the planet actually liked that shit.
The crowd that roamed the lot consisted of two distinct types. There were the bros, the same shitheads that had been at Driskell’s party. The other group consisted of Mexicans in boots and cowboy hats, the kind of men who grew up on animal fighting and were looking for fresh action. Sifted within the crowd was the occasional Los Hermanos jacket.
The center of the action was deeper onto the factory grounds. A huddle of whooping and hollering men blocked our view of the fight that was under way. In the shade of one of the factory towers, Rudy worked the kegs, a line of men waiting to be served beer. It was nice to see that even at an event where pretty underage girls beat the shit out of each other, the spectators still honored the sanctity of the line. It is ingrained in us early that cutting is wrong. Is there anything more truly American than waiting in a line?
Bobby and I ambled nonchalantly over to the beer line, and not to raise any hackles, we waited. When we reached the front of the line and Rudy spotted us, his eyebrows raised.
Bobby leaned in, whispering to Rudy. “We got to go. Now.”
“It’s done? You got her?”
Bobby nodded.