Black Dogs

by Jason Buhrmester

  “We're all cool?”

  They high-fived and laughed loudly.

  “Ah yeah! We're getting that Moog tomorrow. Hot damn!”

  Johnny Paycheck danced across the room then threw his arm around Alex's neck.

  “You all want a beer?”

  He brought me, Alex and Frenchy each a can of beer. We stood against the wall and drank them and tried not to look like the only three white guys in the house. A pack of girls danced in the middle of the room but we were all too nervous to walk over. Alex got stoned with a few guys then grabbed more beers for us from the fridge. Soon I was drunk and arguing with Boogie.

  “I'm just saying Sly Stone is overrated.”

  “Overrated! You're out of your fucking mind. The guy invented funk all by himself,” Boogie shouted, leaning over. His bushy Afro poked into my face.

  I shrugged. That made him madder.

  “‘Dance to the Music’ You're gonna tell me you don't like ‘Dance to the Music’?”

  I shrugged again and sipped my beer.

  “Ah, man. You don't know shit, white boy.” He laughed.

  As the party wound down, me, Alex and Frenchy sat around the safe in the living room. Boogie nodded off in a recliner. Over by the stereo, Johnny searched through the eight-tracks for some music.

  “All you have is loud-ass funk. Where is the after-party music, Boogie?”

  Boogie sat up and shrugged, his eyes glazed with beer and pot.

  “You ain't got any Bobby Blue Bland? What about Otis, man? Where's the Otis?”

  Johnny Paycheck scattered a pile of eight-track tapes then flipped through a crate of records. When he didn't find anything he liked, he grunted and walked away. He swayed a bit in the middle of the room then steadied himself on the edge of the safe.

  “What's in this motherfucker?” he said, leaning over and spilling his beer on the carpet. He swung open the door to the safe.

  “Aw, damn,” he said. “Jim Nabors. Let's put this shit on.”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “We gotta give that back to Backwoods Billy.”

  “Damn, man,” Johnny Paycheck taunted me. “It won't hurt it. We got the reel-to-reel right here!”

  He held the tapes up over my head and out of reach. I gave up.

  “Just let me hear ‘Green, Green Grass of Home.’ You know that tune? This guy thinks he's coming home but really he wakes up and he's in prison and he's been dreaming. That song is badass.”

  He loaded the reels into Boogie's player. The machine hissed and clicked as the tape set up. He cranked the volume and pressed play. Through the static a voice spoke loudly in the speakers.

  “… it's the same every month. It's not, uh, up for negotiation. A thousand dollars’ cash, two hundred Black Beauties, two hundred Blue Devils, a pound of weed and whatever Percocet you dirtbags have around. That's the price you pay for my, uh, assistance.”

  My heart rocketed up into my throat. I knew that voice.

  “Now where am I gonna get Percocet, Cooper? I ain't no fucking doctor.”

  I knew that voice too.

  TWENTY-THREE

  CHUCK TAYLORS SQUEAKED ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOOR IN THE COURTHOUSE. THE SOUND ECHOED AROUND THE HIGH CEILING CAUSING EVERYONE TO STARE. FUCK IT, I THOUGHT. THEY WOULD HAVE STARED ANYWAY. IT'S NOT OFTEN YOU SEE A KID WITH LONG HAIR AND A BLACK SABBATH SHIRT STROLLING THROUGH THE COURTHOUSE. NOT UNLESS HE'S WEARING HANDCUFFS.

  The security guard towered over the desk at the elevator. His starched uniform dangled off his bony shoulders as if he were a scarecrow. He slicked back his silver hair and chomped nervously on a toothpick when he saw me. He stuck out a thin hand as I walked past the desk.

  “Wait a second. Where you going, bud?”

  I leaned over the desk.

  “I have an appointment on the fourth floor.”

  “With who?”

  “Simon Cooper. District Attorney.”

  He pointed to the tapes under my arm.

  “If that's a delivery you gotta take the service elevator round back.”

  “Special delivery.” I smiled, eating a mint out of a bowl on his desk. “He's expecting me.”

  His eyes lingered on me then he picked up the phone.

  “This is the security desk,” he said. “I got a young man here says he's here to see Mr. Cooper … Oh really … I understand … Yes, I'll escort him.”

  He hung up the phone then grabbed a large ring of keys from the desk.

  “Let's go,” he grunted.

  “It's all right. I can find it on my own,” I said as I followed him down the wide marble hallway.

  “They want me to escort you.”

  “What do they think I'm going to do, steal something?” I laughed.

  “Nope. They told me to make sure you and that delivery get there right away.”

  The guard trudged on ahead of me. Cooper's office sat at the end of a long, wood-paneled hallway. The frosted-glass door led to a waiting room where a stubby secretary typed behind an oversized desk.

  “He's all yours,” the guard said before he left.

  She looked up at me then at the boxes under my arm.

  “You can just leave those here on the desk, young man,” she said. “I'll make sure Mr. Cooper gets them.”

  I smiled and sat down on a deep leather couch along one wall. She looked up from her typewriter then picked up a phone and whispered.

  A few minutes later Cooper leaned in the doorway to his office. He straightened his tie then rubbed his three-day beard. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his face seemed pale. He looked like he hadn't left his office in days. He still had his pricey suit and greasy smirk, though, all the signs of a privileged fuck-up who found ways to con others into cleaning up his mistakes. Someone who counted on his charm and money to make up for all of the trouble he got into. Right now he was counting on that charisma to con me into handing over the tapes I held under my arm. It wouldn't be that easy.

  “Patrick!” He grinned. “Come on in. No calls please, Joyce.”

  Cooper's office looked like the den of a man trying to hold down a serious job while juggling an even more serious drug habit. Sunlight wrestled through the closed blinds and curtains. Piles of papers lined the floor along the walls, most likely put there during a speed-induced effort to get organized. The products from all his late nights cluttered the top of a filing cabinet—deodorant, eye drops, two unopened dress shirts, an iron, several toothbrushes and a collection of pill bottles.

  He closed the door behind us then stood in the middle of the office looking me over.

  “Good to see you.” He grinned. “I was worried. I've looked just about everywhere for you. You're a hard guy to find.”

  “I had a few things to take care of out of town.” I shrugged.

  “Well, here you are. This is good. This is really good. Sorry about this mess.”

  “Looks like you've been busy.”

  “The mayor isn't too happy about the hell Backwoods Billy and his buddies raised down at the Inner Harbor. Those bone-heads put thirteen carnies in the hospital. The mayor wants somebody to answer for it.”

  I shifted the tapes under my arm and asked a stupid question.

  “So Backwoods Billy is in jail?”

  “Nah.” Cooper fidgeted. “They've got nothing on him. Can't even prove he was involved. I've been holed up in here dealing with all the arrests.”

  He twirled an expensive-looking cuff link and lost himself in thought then quickly shook it off.

  “Anyway, Patrick, what's new?”

  I held up the tapes. A pained grin crept across his face.

  “Find those in Billy's safe?”

  I nodded.

  “I figured that was why you called me. I knew you'd come through for me. Did you listen to them?”

  “Yeah. Pretty interesting stuff.”

  He hung on to the dopey grin and nodded. Nothing shook this guy.

  “I bet.”

  “Drugs, prostitutes, payoffs.” I
whistled loudly. “There's even a conversation on here where someone who sounds just like you talks about putting a hit out on a lawyer. Now, you're a DA. Is that a felony or a misdemeanor? I think it's a felony, but you're the expert.”

  The grin dissolved. He lit a cigarette and waved the smoke out of his face.

  “Do you know who made these tapes?” I asked.

  “I have an idea.” He grimaced.

  “Yeah? How did it happen?”

  “I was going through a rough time and some scumbags I thought were my friends decided to take advantage of me.”

  “Here's what I think happened,” I said. “You worked out a deal with Backwoods Billy where he'd set you up every month with pills, drugs, a bit of cash and whatever else you wanted. In exchange, you'd make any legal messes involving the Holy Ghosts disappear. Is that right?”

  He crossed his arms and stared at me.

  “Like I said, I was going through a rough time.”

  “You thought Backwoods Billy was some dumb hillbilly, right? Then he taped his conversations with you, cut off the payments and made you help the Holy Ghosts anyway.”

  Cooper shrugged and gave me a look like I'd just told him the most obvious fact in the world.

  “Then the cops arrested the Holy Ghosts for beating the living shit out of me at the carnival and one of the cops mentions something about me having their safe. You thought you could use me to get the tapes back because I wouldn't know what they were and how much they were worth around here.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “And right now I bet Backwoods Billy is threatening you with these tapes unless you make this Inner Harbor mess go away. That's why you've been holed up in here trying to track me down. And I know he's out there looking for me. He needs the tapes to make all this trouble go away and you need the tapes to make him go away.”

  Cooper shuffled around his desk. He sat down in the cushy leather chair and unlocked a drawer then removed a few bottles of pills, some tiny vodka bottles and a thick roll of cash.

  “Let's get to it, Patrick. How much do you want?”

  “I want my friend Keith released from jail. All charges dropped.”

  “You mean your idiot friend that the cops arrested during the brawl?” he scoffed. “You know, he's suspected of stealing a very rare and expensive guitar from Haven Street Pawnshop. Hell, between you and me, you're a suspect too.”

  “No, I'm not,” I said, tapping the tapes.

  Cooper tugged at his messy hair then groaned loudly.

  “Fine. Is that it?”

  I smiled.

  “That's it. Just do your job.”

  “My job is putting people away. Not getting them off.”

  “Good,” I said. “You can start by locking up Backwoods Billy and the Holy Ghosts. I don't want to live the rest of my life hiding under a table every time I hear a motorcycle.”

  “Don't worry. I'll take care of it.”

  “Give it until tomorrow. I want to go see Backwoods Billy tonight.”

  “Don't be an asshole, kid. Let it go.”

  Cooper stood up and walked around his desk. He smoothed his tie and fidgeted.

  “So we have a deal?”

  “One more thing,” I said. “I'm keeping a copy of the tapes for myself just in case you don't hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “I figured.”

  I tossed the tapes on Cooper's desk.

  “I'll pick Keith up tonight at five. Make sure he's ready.”

  Cooper nodded. He sat on the edge of his desk holding the reels in his hands. Something hit me as I walked to the door. I had to ask.

  “You know anything about a guy named Danny Carter? Guy from around here who was arrested in New York over the weekend with a gun? Something about him and Led Zeppelin?”

  “Yeah. I heard about that. Parole violation. Weapons possession.”

  “How long you think he'll go away for?”

  “Probably another five. Why? You want him out too? 'Cause that's one even I don't think I can save.”

  I thought for a second. Just a second.

  “Nah. You can have him.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IS FUCKED,” ALEX SAID AS WE CROSSED THE PARKING LOT BEHIND SHOOTERS BAR, THE UNOFFICIAL CLUBHOUSE OF THE HOLY GHOSTS.

  I called the bar earlier in the day and promised Backwoods Billy we'd be there later to drop off the safe. Alex and Frenchy came with me. As we pulled into the gravel parking lot I wondered how many poor suckers were led into the dark woods behind Shooters and never seen again. Frenchy thought the same thing.

  “We're gonna be buried out here.” He sighed.

  Inside Shooters, Backwoods Billy stood by the pool table, holding a cue in one hand and glass of whiskey in the other. He wore a blue bandanna tied around his head covering a white bandage. A black leather vest hung over his plain gray tank top.

  “It's your shot, Billy,” Rabbit said to him as we walked in.

  The stools and tables sat empty except for a few Holy Ghosts lounging around the pool table. The rest of the gang was still locked up in jail. Billy bent over the table. His sunglasses fell off the top of his head and rolled across the green felt. Everyone laughed. Billy grinned then dropped his cue on the tile floor. He was drunk.

  “Boys! Come on in.” He waved to us.

  We slunk into the bar and stood behind a row of stools loaded with Holy Ghosts. I recognized the pockmarked face of a kid at the end of the row as the guy Alex pummeled at the Inner Harbor. A tan bandage covered his nose. He looked younger than I'd remembered. The chubby guy standing next to him raised his bald head to look us over, then grinned. He pointed at Alex.

  “Hey! That's the kid that whipped Sonny's ass at the carnival.”

  Everyone laughed except Sonny.

  “Fuck you, Whitey,” Sonny mumbled.

  “I'm telling ya, that boy can duke,” Whitey said. “What's your name, kid?”

  “Alex.”

  “Don't mess with this kid, boys. He's a fucking animal.”

  Alex lit a cigarette to keep from looking nervous.

  Backwoods Billy took his shot. The cue ball missed the three ball by about a foot, bounced off the bumper, crossed the middle of the table and sunk the eight ball in the corner.

  “Well, shit.” He laughed. “I just fucking blew that.”

  He set the cue back in the rack on the wall then walked toward me.

  “Come here, Patrick,” he said, motioning toward the bar. “Let's talk.”

  Rabbit racked the pool balls as we walked away. He asked if anybody wanted to play.

  “I do!” I heard Frenchy say.

  I sat on a bar stool next to Backwoods Billy. He leaned over the bar, pulled a bottle of beer from a tub of ice and handed it to me.

  “You did a good thing bringing that safe back, boy.”

  “Thanks,” I stammered.

  “Listen to me, Patrick. You did the right thing by fixing this mess before it got out of hand.”

  I looked up at the bandage peeking out beneath the bandanna on his head. He caught me staring.

  “Don't worry about this,” he said, running his finger over the bandage. “It happens. Comes with the turf, kid. Shit, I've been beaten worse and left for dead. Besides, you shoulda seen what was left of them carnies. It weren't pretty.”

  “So we're cool?”

  “We're cool, kid. Don't worry. Remember: ‘If thy brother trespasses against thee, rebuke him; and if he repents, forgive him.’ You know where that's from?”

  I didn't know jackshit about the Bible but for some reason I felt pressured to take a guess. I tried the only two names I knew other than Jesus.

  “Is that Luke or something? Maybe John?”

  “Well, all right, boy. Luke 17:3. Guess you've been reading that Bible I gave ya. I am impressed. Let's have a shot.”

  A chubby lady in a sleeveless David Allan Coe T-shirt shuffled behind the bar. Backwoods Billy motioned for her and she set out a row of shot g
lasses. Backwoods Billy grabbed the bottle of tequila and lifted it over his head.

  “Who wants a shot of tequila?”

  A few of the Holy Ghosts wandered over. Sonny stayed on his stool.

  “What's the matter, Sonny?” Billy yelled. “Your pussy hurt or something?”

  Everyone laughed. Rabbit yelled from the other side of the bar. He pointed at Frenchy.

  “Billy, get this kid a shot.”

  “You're just trying to get him drunk ‘cause he's beatin’ you.” Whitey laughed.

  “Goddamn right. He's whipping my ass.”

  “What have I told you about using the Lord's name in vain, Rabbit?”

  “Sorry, Billy.”

  We came together and Backwoods Billy poured a round of tall tequila shots then passed them to us. We raised our glasses.

  “All right, boys. Here's to staying free!”

  We all shouted, “Amen.”

  The warm tequila burned down my throat.

  Backwoods Billy sent Whitey, Sonny and some of the other Holy Ghosts to haul the safe into the bar. They struggled, sweating and grunting, as they plowed through the door. The safe landed with a heavy thud on the floor by a back table. He never told them what it was or where it came from. They never asked.

  I kept one eye on Backwoods Billy. If he had any sense he'd check for the tapes in the safe before letting me go. He played it cool for a while then he handed me some change and asked me to play some music on the jukebox. While I stood flipping through the Merle Haggard and Hank Williams Jr. records on the jukebox, Backwoods Billy squatted in front of the safe and dialed the combination. The door unlocked flawlessly and he peeked inside. Satisfied with seeing the tapes in their boxes on the shelf, he called me over for another shot.

  Whitey, Sonny, Backwoods Billy and a few other Holy Ghosts stood around the bar drinking and talking about the fight at the Inner Harbor. Someone bragged about breaking a whiskey bottle over a carny's head and Sonny claimed to have smashed someone's nose with brass knuckles. They laughed a lot, even if they were on the losing end of a pool cue or baseball bat in the story. I clutched the beer bottle in my hand. Backwoods Billy slurred in my ear, “You know, that boy Alex of yours would make a good Holy Ghost. I ain't bullshitting. That boy can fight.”