Heaven, Hell, or Houston

by Erb, Thom

  “But, Sir,” I shouted, as the sudden rain soaked us all to the bone in mere seconds. Steam rolled off the pavement, creating a ghostly haze in the parking garage.

  The Governor motioned for me to come close, and he responded.

  “I wouldn’t do anything for a piece of cow shit like you even if I could. However, I just wanted you to know, your soon to be wife is a hot piece of ass, and when I jerk off tonight, it will be her face I see when I spew my juice.” The Governor winked, smiled wide, and shoved his clammy palm into my face, laughing as an aide closed the door.

  A flurry of lightning strikes washed out the black Lubbock skyline, leaving me rain-soaked in a tear-filled rage as the limousine drove out into the night. I was damned sure my future went speeding away with it. I needed to get home, back to Houston.

  “I’m so sorry, Jay. I—” Novak offered, but I didn't want to hear it.

  I stalked off into the darkness of the parking garage and several ball-shaking rounds of thunder ushered my exit.

  I could sense Higdon and Novak's eyes following me, and I felt like shit blowing them off. They were good Rangers and even better friends. Better than I deserved, and I am well aware of how my chaotic reputation as, Texas Ranger James Mathew McCutcheon, one of the best ever to wear the badge, was also known as one of the most violent. The dumb-asses would both be praying, maybe to the same God that ignored me earlier,that I would just keep my mouth shut, turn tail and go home to Inez. Instead of doing something really stupid.

  My partners knew their prayers were like pissing in the Grande Canyon. It was a waste of time. A loud squawking came over the airport speakers. Something about an emergency, but I had my own shit to deal with. I stalked away as the rain intensified and turned a sickly shade of yellow.

  5.

  Decision or Collision

  Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport Parking garage

  Friday, 9:14 p.m.

  I turned the key to my 1969 Plymouth Barracuda. It roared to life as I lit the Lucky Strike and fetched the flask of Jim Beam from the glove box. A barrage of thunder and crackling lightning fought to drown out my anger, but failed. My body shook with rage, and I inhaled the cigarette in what seemed like a matter of seconds before realizing I had lit the second. My mind swirled with a flurry of emotions and manic thoughts. Several dark, frantic moments passed before I made a decision.

  I sipped slowly at the flask. It was my only tangible family McCutcheon heirloom. My great grandfather brought it home from his service days in WWI. I ran my thumb over the deep indentation, where rumored had it, a pissed off French husband had shot my grandfather for liberating his wife from her panties. Another charming trait handed down through the twisted generations. I sipped and thought how many drunken McCutcheon men had sat and drank from this rugged steel flask.

  “Thanks, assholes,” I said aloud and pulled two photo down from the visor. Tears formed in my weary eyes. One, was taken the night we got engaged. We'd made the trip down to Inez folks’ house in Saltillo. It was such a great time. I sipped again and stared at the second photo. It was at Bellia’s Christening. She and her mother were so beautiful. Little Bellia with her soft head of dark hair. Thank God, she looks like her mamacita; I half chuckled, half cried.

  The past year had been a dark blur, and after all the shit, I was damn lucky Inez had stayed with me. The shooting and the accident took their toll on me and my family. The heavy thought of the recent events with the Governor only served to remind me that my luck was about to run out, and that I had pretty much sealed my fate with Inez. This was going to be too much. The warm whiskey slid down my throat. How could I have fucked up again? Christ, I'd been asking myself that question a lot over the past few years, and the answer never came. I had a feeling the damn flask would be empty by the time I got out of the godforsaken parking garage.

  The Allman Brothers, “Ain't Wastin' Time No More,” rolled out through the tape deck and my harried mind cleared. I suddenly realized that whatever God I had prayed to, had finally answered my pleas, and this was a sign. I tossed out the spent cigarette and took a sip from the flask, chucked it back into the glove box, and put the Hearst shifter into drive

  The rain pelted the midnight blue Plymouth as it made its way out the airport-parking garage and turned onto the freeway heading southeast.

  I had made my decision. The rainstorm followed behind me as I made my way toward Houston.

  6.

  Just Got Paid

  RT. 45 South

  The wet road hissed underneath the tires of the Cadillac and a sign that read: ‘Welcome to Texas,’ passed by in the cool night. No one inside the car noticed or cared. Gray smoke poured out the tinted windows and mixed with the steam rolling off highway 45. Sporadic street lights flickered as they rushed by, but Isandro wasn’t fazed or even bothered to notice.

  “Hey esé, we are all out of cervezas and Tequila. We gotta find a store pronto, yo,” Isandro ordered. The car had been quiet since they got rid of the ‘party favor.’ He felt this tour of chaos needed a push and running out of liquor was not the way to do it. He downed the last of the Tequila and the weed was almost all smoked. That shit ain’t gonna fly, he told himself.

  He kept staring at the photo of his twins and fought with every ounce from crying. He could not afford to show his crew any sign of weakness. That was what had landed his ass in jail the last time, and he swore, once he slit the guard’s throat and hid inside the garbage truck, that he would never, ever, be fucking weak again—even if it killed him. Being dead is better than being a gutless puta.

  “I think I see a sign for a liquor store,” Hector said, turning on his right signal and heading down the off ramp for the neon salvation in the wet and cold Texas night.

  A solitary, small yellow light hung over the cracked pavement of the old liquor store like a dying flower on a vine. A fine mustard colored rain painted the porous black top as the Caddy screeched to a stop in front of the store. The worn wipers fought to clear the slimy rain from the windshield and a cold wind came out of the north. Isandro shivered as he crawled out the back seat. The rest of his crew followed, save Hector, who stayed behind the wheel of the humming Caddy.

  Isandro scanned the rain soaked lot and spotted a rusty red Chevy pick-up and blue Ford Torino station wagon. Inside the wagon, a frantic woman scolded two young children. He took note and headed inside the liquor store. The warning sound of jingle bells rang as they walked into the well-stocked store. The sea of bottles looked like liquid salvation to Isandro, and he surveyed the booze-lined walls.

  “Be cool,” Isandro whispered to his goons, as they spread out across the store; each knew their jobs and what would happen to their sorry asses if they screwed up. The brain-splattered blonde back at Mickey Dee’s was a clear example of what happens when Big Papi is pissed. They didn’t want any of that shit. Fuck that noise.

  ***

  Paul Reynolds was dog-tired. The swing shift at the plant was killing him, and he really needed some vodka. Something, anything that would numb him from the shit-hole that his life had become since he knocked up that bitch Traci. God surely must have really been pissed at his sorry ass when he blessed him with not just one, but two know-it-all teenage brats. Once he had dreams of being the next quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, now, hell, he slaves his shit-ass life away at the oil refinery and just waits impatiently for liver failure to take him away from his hell on Earth. “Not soon enough,” he cursed as he snatched a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 from the crowded shelf and shoved it into his worn jacket. He hoped the old man at the counter wasn’t watching. That was the last thing he needed. He just wanted to get shit-faced drunk and forget about his life. Watch the Rangers on their crappy T.V. and sleep all weekend. Maybe jerk off while watching the Solid Gold Dancers, then lapse into after orgasmic coma, and pray that death would come calling before Monday morning.

  Little did he know his prayer would soon be answered.

  ***

  The last thin
g that went through Paul’s mind was the ringing of the jingle bells on the liquor store door and the 9mm round that splattered his brain matter and blood over the Capt. Morgan display. Cahill held the smoking gun and laughed like a sick hyena.

  Isandro grabbed Cahill by the head and slammed his thin frame into a wall of gin bottles. The glass shattered, sending the clear liquid splashing all over them both. He swung the pistol into Cahill’s temple, slicing his head open, and the young kid slid down the shattered shelf full of broken glass and dripping gin.

  “You stupid pendejo. What the fuck you thinkin', esé?” Isandro emphasized his displeasure with a work boot to the kid’s stomach. He could see movement from behind the counter and bolted for it.

  “Be cool, Pops.” Isandro buried the pistol's muzzle into the owner’s old face, shoving him back into the bottles of liquor behind the counter. “And I won’t have to do you like that maricón.” The pistol directed the old man’s bifocal eyes to the twitching man on the matted brown carpet.

  “Uhm…o...okay. I…I’m cool.” The old man shook and winced as Isandro pressed the barrel of the Beretta into the man’s sweat-covered forehead. Isandro grinned as he caught a tear rolling down the man's craggy cheek.

  “Good, Gramps, good.” He lowered the gun and looked at the rest of his crew. They all just stood there staring at Cahill’s limp body.

  “Yo, putas. Time to go shoppin’. Papi is thirsty.” He laughed and walked to the old man behind the counter. He shoved the old man down to his shaking knees and smiled.

  “Make it quick, vatos, because of puta’s fuck up we need to get the fuck outta here.” He knelt next to the crying man, patted him on the white, balding head, and watched on as the crew filled plastic shopping bags with his preferred alcohol. He watched Cahill lie in a booze-soaked and bloody heap on the floor. Isandro laughed. He liked kicking the shit out of the white boy. He needed to send a clear message, and the last thing he needed to do was let this puta act out of orders. After all, he would do the killing. Isandro had a number in his head, and that number hadn’t been reached yet. He almost felt bad for the poor putas that were in his way. But that passed pretty damn quickly.

  He rubbed the old man’s shoulders as the crew resupplied and offered comforting words in Spanish. The old man even leaned into him and stopped crying.

  “Yo mataria tu,” Isandro cooed and kissed the man on the head, as the crew finished up and headed for the door. Apparently, the old man spoke Spanish, because he tried to crawl away sobbing.

  “Noooo!” the old man begged.

  “To the car, now!” Isandro didn’t look at the crew and raised the gun at the old man trying to get away on the bloodstained carpet.

  Gunshots rang out into the dark night of the parking lot. Isandro dragged Cahill by the gin and blood-soaked jacket and tossed him down in front of the Caddy. He looked around. Movement inside the Torino caught his cold eyes. He looked at Bobby and Manny, and then pointed to the blue Ford. They shoved the bags of booze into the Caddy and pulled their pistols, sprinting to the car.

  The cold rain pelted the blacktop so fierce that it almost blotted out the yellow lights above them. Isandro approached the car with pistol raised. He nodded for others to flank the car on either side. He waited for his goons to get in place and then yanked the driver side door open. It creaked and triggered a dog to bark somewhere off in the dark night.

  The rain intensified, almost obscuring the dome light inside. Manny must have seen movement; the car lit up with his pistol’s muzzle flash. The windshield splattered with deep red and brain matter as frantic screams escaped from the back seat, adding another dog to the evening choir.

  Isandro snatched the backdoor and shoved his pistol inside. This time the yellow glow of the dome light worked just fine. He nodded his head and smiled at the occupants of the Gran Torino’s backseat.

  “Buenos, hola, buenas tardes señoritas.” Isandro bowed and winked at the two beautiful teen girls, trembling in hysterics in the glow of the dome light. He motioned with the gun. The two goons whipped open the door on the other side, and dragged them kicking and screaming out onto the soaked parking lot.

  Isandro walked to them and felt his crotch squirm as he estimated they were about high school age. “Just about right,” he said, as he knelt down and yanked one of the blonde haired girl’s head back. Rain splattered on a fear-filled face and mixed with her tears. His crotch twitched more.

  “Ésta perras jóvenes bien en el coche,” he ordered, and gave the panicked girl a deep tongue kiss. It muffled her screams.

  He smiled and let loose the girl’s long hair. “Wanna go for a ride, ladies?” He stood, not trying to hide his large erection. Their screams set off a half dozen more neighborhood dogs to bay into the cold rainy night.

  “Oh, I don’t think your parents will mind.” turning on his booted heel, Isandro slowly sauntered to the car. He laugh at the sight of whimpering young captives.

  Isandro had only just begun. There were many miles from here to Mexico, and he prayed he had enough bullets. He was sure as hell that there would be plenty of booze.

  7.

  Waitin’ for the Bus

  On board Greyhound bus 67 from Rochester, NY to Dallas, Texas

  7:15 p.m.

  Stacy Jo Casillas was a runner. She always had been. She ran away from her Podunk hometown of Arcadia Falls. She left behind an abusive, drunk father and a future that offered her nothing but an abusive husband and popping out babies like a Pez dispenser on speed. She had other plans with her life, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around to be some kind of sick replacement wife for her father after the real one split with the mailman. Her life was an actual punch line and this bitter sixteen year old was having no part of it. She worked part time at Somerville Drug store over the winter, saved her money, and bought a ticket. She considered it her lottery ticket because she was winning a new life and freedom—something she had never known.

  She had hitched a ride to Rochester, where she boarded a bus and headed south. It was a long and boring ride. She needed to get stoned, badly. She couldn't think of any better time than now. There were a couple of creepy old men that kept eyeing her up and down. The skeevy pervs didn't scare her, but her stranger danger was on high alert. She had stolen her father’s Buck knife and knew how to use it. At least she hoped she had.

  The rain began as the bus hit the Texas border and hadn’t stopped. Bright flashes of white lightning lit the dark bus and made the already ugly riders even uglier and scarier. Her ticket was for Houston, but an aching in her stomach told her she needed to get off the bus at the next stop. The fat guy with the Coke-bottle glasses kept slowly moving seats to get closer to her. She may have grown up in a farm town, but her tough as nails Puerto Rican Papi taught her how to fight and survive. She wasn’t afraid to do just that, but she was trying to get away from that whole life. So, she figured better flight than fight.

  The drumming rain filled the bus with a thunderous pounding sound that drowned out Prince’s, “Purple Rain,” on her Walkman. Stacy Jo saw the fat guy now, only two rows away, and ogling at her like she was a Big Mac with a large fry. A bright flash illuminated his pudgy face, and his eyes seemed to glow in the bluish light.

  The bus driver’s voice squawked over the cracked speakers. “Ten minutes until the next stop, folks.”

  This was her chance to avoid sickos and to light the fires, as she liked to refer to pot smoking therapy. She got up and went into the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus. It smelled as if everyone on the bus used the floor and sink instead of the cramped crapper. The bus jostled as she shut the sticky door. The light inside flickered and refused to stay on full time. Its odd time flashes almost gave her an instant migraine, but she would take that over being the next girl on the pervert’s jerk off reel. The bus rocked, and a drum roll of thunder accompanied the rain pelting down. She reached into her backpack and made sure the Buck knife was still there. A sigh of relief followed when her
thin hand found it. She pulled out the small metal bowl a guy friend of hers in school made in machine shop. A pounding on the door, jolted her. She to dropped the bowl back into the backpack, as thunder rocked the bus.

  “Occupied,” Stacy Jo shouted over the raging storm. She pushed against the bi-fold doors and reached for her bag with the other.

  “I gotta piss, girl. Let me in,” the herky-jerky, high-pitched voice clamored through the thin door. The door shook with the pounding from the other side, and Stacy Jo’s heart began to pound.

  “I fucking said, OCCUPIED, ASSHOLE!” she shouted, and leaned into the buckling door, frantically reaching for her bag. The bus took a sharp left curve, and the door crashed open under the massive weight of the fat guy from two rows over. He grunted as he slammed into Stacy Jo, and his chubby hands pawed at her as he pinned her against the back wall of the small bathroom. She tried to push his big frame off, but he was too big. She punched and kicked, but the blows hitting his big body had no effect. He just laughed, grabbed her breasts, and tried to shove his hand down her pants.

  “Come on, baby. I seen you watching me since Pittsburgh.” His thick tongue flicked at her ear as she fought to push him off. The bouncing of the bus only helped the fat man as he put his full weight against her, tearing at her father’s Army jacket, and her jeans. He ripped her t-shirt, exposing her bra. She felt his hot saliva roll down her cheek and onto her chest.

  “Get the fuck off.” She fell down onto the toilet seat, bringing her closer to her bag. He chortled and grunted like a pig in heat. She could feel his hard-on against her chest as she punched his fat gut and reached into her bag.