The Pirate, Part I: The Traitor
Page 7
Back on the highway, the Jetta is zipping along effortlessly at 70 miles per hour. Wendy wonders if she'll start plumping up, especially if she continues eating like a horse. For the first seven and a half months, her appetite barely increased. The baby had grown into a volleyball-sized bump pressing her bellybutton outward a little more each week. But a week or so ago, when she hit 8 months, she started waking up at night because her stomach was growling for food. She'd eat a banana and go back to bed, but she still couldn't sleep, so she'd go back to the kitchen and toss down a bowl or two of Cheerios. Ever since then, she was piling in the food like a garbage disposal. Even though it was a little scary, she had no problem eating anything. One evening while helping her mom make a salad, she ate the heels of a half-dozen tomatoes sprinkled with salt. They were so good. And cucumbers, all she had to do was dash on a little salt and gulp - they tasted awesome. She kept one hand on the wheel while rubbing the other down her thigh and she wasn't really worried about consuming so much food. She could still feel her hipbones in the front and around the sides. Above the baby bump, she felt her ribs, same as always like piano keys. Her kneecaps were the same way as they'd been before she got pregnant.
She turned up the radio, and punched the button to scan to the next station. A country western song came on and normally she grew bored with the folksy twanging voice and the cheesy slide guitar, but out here on the open range, with buttes and mesas rising above the cactus-speckled sunset, she let it play. She could feel the soulful sadness. It must have been a solid block set, because she didn't change the station, even after a half a dozen songs. They cycled through all the typical CW themes, including broken hearts, broken-down pickup trucks, parties at the lake, patriotic war ballads and honky-tonk drinking binges. She felt like the world was opening up to her, and these songs were becoming her own. After all, Jack was in the military and their relationship had been bitter sweet so far. She was on a romantic quest from coast to coast to claim her man and she realized with a smile that her situation would make for a heart-aching country western song. She wished she knew how to play guitar.
CHAPTER 15
The raccoon raises its head above the weeds and looks around.
The sound of someone getting punched in the face hard comes from the window. Then the sound of a man groaning in pain. A man's voice says, "I think I broke my hand! This guy has a hard skull. I'm telling you."
The raccoon ambles up the wooden ramp to the porch. It climbs onto the bucket and puts its paws on the window frame to look inside.
The raccoon sees Eduardo Scabado and Thug-2 standing in George's kitchen. They are looking at Thug-1 who is looking at his hand as it swells and begins to turn a shade of purple.
George is off to one side, out of the raccoon's sight, tied to a kitchen chair.
"You ready to talk yet?" Thug-1 says. "My hand is getting sore."
"Fuck you." George spits out a tooth. It clinks against the glass window on the front of the oven.
Thug-2 steps over and quickly socks George in the nose twice - bam bam - quick rabbit punches that smear busted cartilage, skin and snot across George's face.
George groans.
"Come on, George," Eduardo Scabado says. "Make it easy on yourself. Tell us who your dope dealing buddies are."
George groans.
Thug-1 grabs the toaster off the kitchen counter and walks toward George. He says, "Let me see if this makes him talk."
Suddenly George is scared. "No, man, come on! Not my hair, man, not my hair -"
The raccoon sees Scabado smiling and his eyes lighting up. The raccoon senses primal savagery. There's a crackling sound. Electrical sparks. The light of a fire glows in the kitchen. The raccoon crouches down low so only his bandit eyes are peeking over the window sash. A thin growl beginning to purr in its belly.
George is howling in agony as his hair bursts into flames.
"Holy shit," Thug-2 chuckles. "His head is on fire."
George screams, "AAAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!"
Thug-2 opens the refrigerator and grabs a gallon of milk. He twists the top off and step toward George, pouring milk all over him. "Alright, alright, you fucking cry baby. Stop whining."
"You should have allowed him burn a little longer," Scabado says. "You ready to talk yet, punk?"
"You guys are such assholes!"
Scabado shakes head, disappointed.
Thug-2 says, "Burnt hair, smells nasty!"
"Georgie, you're not gonna do me any good dead," Scabado says, "so I'm gonna explain my situation, okay?"
Thug-1 chimes in, "And if you don't talk, I'm gonna burn your fucking face off, got it?"
Still George doesn't say a word.
"It's like this, Georgie," Scabado says, "a recent shipment of my grass never made it to the pier in Miami, right? I come to find out that the Coast Guard busted the shipment out on the Gulf. Now, shit like this happens in my business, so I didn't lose any sleep over it. But then, I'll be damned, I come to find out that you and your buddies show up in Miami with a large quantity of the same high grade grass that I was waiting for on the pier. You follow me, George?"
"Yeah," George grunts.
"So, I start asking question and the trail leads straight to you. Now just tell me who these other guys are and we'll be on our way, okay?"
"I can't just give up my friends like that. How about you give me a message for them and -"
"Well, George, you are about to suffer a major injury," Scabado says.
Still George doesn't talk.
"It's gonna limit one of more your major life function," Scabado says as he grabs a wine bottle off the kitchen counter and steps toward George.
"No," George says. "Please, please, don't hit me!"
The raccoon's back paws scratch at the lid of the bucket and the growl rumbles in its chest.
Scabado bangs the wine bottle hard on George's knee and George howls in agony. "Alright, alright," George blubbers. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you!"
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Look for The Pirate, Part II: The Kingpin and Part III: Big Daddy on
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* * *
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