by J.P. Voss
12
Southbound toward the Wonderland, I chugged along in second gear with the windows down. Hot wind buffeted about the cab, and the setting sun blared through the passenger-side window. I looked out at the desiccated landscape and said, “I’ve had my fill of the Goddamn Mojave Desert.”
Two-miles south of the Interstate, on a flat spot in the desert, the Wonderland Ballroom stood alone. Concrete walls, cracked and crumbling, with a corrugated-steel roof, the joint looked more like a bunker than a ballroom. There were no windows, only a black door with a busted-up neon sign slung over it.
When I pulled around the back of the building, the evening sun flared and disappeared beyond the horizon. The temperature actually dropped a few degrees, and I savored a fleeting breeze. I parked along the backside of the building, crossed my arms over the steering wheel, rested my head on my forearms, and drifted into a full nod.
A sharp object jammed into my neck snapped me awake. My head hit the roof, and I twisted away from my attacker. I was sitting on the bench seat, with my feet against the driver’s side door, trying to bring my assailant into focus.
“Are you okay? She asked. “I’m sorry. Did I poke you with my fingernail?” I heard giggling in the background. “Me and my friends thought you were dead. We’ve been tapping you on the shoulder for the last ten minutes. I was going to check your pulse.”
One of the gigglers said, “He’s cute.” Standing at the window, a good-looking brunette with green eyes and big tits wearing a tight fitting western shirt said, “He’d be a lot cuter if he took a bath.” Her friends told her, “Come on Kristi.” She gave me the look. Then they all turned and walked away.
I combed my hair in the rear-view mirror, and then grabbed my fake California Drivers License out of the glove box. When I got out of the truck, I realized that the time had gotten away from me. The parking area behind the Wonderland, which had been empty when I pulled in, was a cluster of cars and pickup trucks. The night air had cooled considerably, and the sky was midnight black.
I peered into the desert for a couple of minutes, scoped out the parking lot, and then held my breath while I moved toward the front of the building. I rounded the back corner, passed a couple of longhaired dudes smoking a joint under a swamp cooler, dodged a drunken cowboy, and kept close to the wall. I stopped at the front of the building and nonchalantly peeked around the corner. The parking lot was packed, and at least thirty choppers lined the front wall. There wasn’t a cop car in sight. There’s never a cop when you need one.
Standing by the entrance, a gigantic black man wearing a purple Nehru jacket popped a sugar cube in his mouth and took a swig from a bottle of Thunderbird Wine. He looked at me with electric eyes and said, “Is that you—Little Johnny Cocheroo.”
I gave the brother a wide berth as I stepped around and reached for the door. When I walked through the entrance, a pretty tight country-rock band started playing an up tempo rendition of Folsom Prison Blues. The patrons showed their approval by filling the dance floor.
I kept a low profile and moved to my right, away from the dance floor. It was a big place, about the size of a small supermarket, with an impressive oval bar in the middle, a good-size dance floor on the left, scattered seating on the right, and some pool tables on the other side of the bar in the back. I found an out of the way place on the other side of the bar behind some tables. I was leaning against the wall, looking for a cocktail waitress, when I thought I heard someone say my name. I froze for a split second. I turned toward the voice. I couldn’t see anyone. A pale cowboy dressed in black came out of the shadows like a vampire, and I felt a ghost walk over my grave.
“Shit Agent Andrews—you scared the piss out of me.”
“It’s about time.”
“What’s with the Johnny Cash outfit?” I asked.
“Never mind my clothes. What kind of stunt are you trying to pull?”
“I’m not trying to pull any kind of a stunt. Lawson is supposed to be here, the money too.” I checked around to make sure we weren’t being watched. “I shouldn’t be seen talking to you.”
“You’d better start talking to me.” He unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and rolled it into his mouth. “This is your last chance Duff. Talk to me now, or suffer the consequences.”
I turned away to look for a cocktail waitress. Andrews clamped his mitt around my shoulder and yanked me back around.
He said, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
I didn’t care for his tone. He could see it in my eyes.
His eyes were judgmental, like he was my old man or something, and my life was his business. “First,” he said, “You create an extremely volatile situation with no regard for the consequences. Then, like an irresponsible child, you let it get out of control. Do you have any idea where Lawson is? You were supposed to meet him here over three hours ago. If he thinks you ripped him off, he’ll burn your brother. Then you. And what was your plan for Lance McCord?”
I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“You can’t hide anything from the FBI,” he said. “Based on a tip from an anonymous source, we placed a wiretap on Lance McCord’s private line. After you talked to me, you called the McCord Mine. The receptionist put you through under false pretenses. The agent monitoring the wiretap was alert, and brought it to my attention. When I listened to the tape, I recognized your voice. The story about the pictures must be fabricated. I don’t believe you’re trying to extort money from Lance McCord. I’m not sure why you brought him into this little fiasco. And everything points to you calling the Sheriffs Department. Four Squad Cars showed up shortly after nine and rousted Lawson and his lowlife buddies. Guess what? No money. But you already knew that.”
“Where’s Lawson?”
He leaned close to my ear. “You think you’re cute, but you don’t stand a chance in this crowd. These guys will eat you up, spit you out, and never break a sweat.” He stuck his gum under a table and said, “I was going to offer you one more chance, but you haven’t earned it, and you don’t deserve it.” He pushed past me on his way to the door. He stopped and turned. “I’m throwing you to the wolves Duff.”
“You might be the wolf,” I replied. “Have you considered that?” I grabbed the gum out of his top pocket and helped myself to a stick. “Why don’t you be a pal and tell me what the hell happened to Lawson. Without the lecture this time.”
“Lawson and T-bone left with some tramp, just before you came in. Lance McCord is sitting alone over by the pool tables.” The Agent pointed toward a nearly bald butterball of a man dressed like a singing cowboy. “Don’t be fooled; he has friends. You’ll have your hands full if you approach him with that story about the supposed photos.”
“What about the Serpents? I see a lot of biker types but no Serpents.”
“You got lucky with the Serpents. Most of them left after they got rousted. You’ll only have to deal with Lawson and T-bone. My guess is; they’re still here. Check the parking lot for a red ’61 Ford Falcon four-door.”
Andrews started walking away.
I called out, “Do me one last favor. Before you leave, wait about fifteen minutes, and then call the Sheriffs. Tell them there’s a fight, and it looks like somebody might get killed. Give them my description; it’ll probably be me.”
“I might stick around and watch,” Andrews said.
He looked like he liked the idea. I gave him my best cynical brush off and pushed past him toward the door.
I found Lawson snorting lines off the dashboard of a red ’61 Falcon. T-bone was sitting in the back seat making out with some local skank. They didn’t even know I was there until I cleared my throat. Lawson looked dope crazy. T-bone looked like a stray dog with a boner.
Standing at the driver’s side window, I said, “Where the hell have you guys been? I’ve been looking all over for you. The man with the money is inside.”
Lawson clamped his nose shut, using his thumb and index finger, and gagged down his po
ison. He shivered, like his central nervous system had been put on red alert, and his eyes frosted over. After a long minute, he turned toward the backseat and said, “Let’s go.”
The doors flew open. I sprung back and bounced off the truck behind me. Lawson caught me on the rebound, hooked my leg, and put me on the ground. He crouched over me with his fists clinched, ready to fight, egging me on with his predatory eyes. Fuck you Lawson. I sat on my ass in the gravel, for what seemed like forever, until he stood up, backed up, and lit up a smoke.
I pulled myself up and said, “Do you want your fucking money or what?”
T-bone shoved me in the back. I stumbled toward Lawson. I caught my balance, spun around, and brought up my fists. I let it go. T-bone thought it was funny.
“Fuck you guys,” I said. “I don’t need this shit. You want the money. You try finding it without me. Fuck you. And fuck my brother. He can rot in jail.”
“Fuck you?” Lawson pondered my response. “I like it.” He nodded his approval. “It looks like the kid’s got some balls after all.” He draped his arm over my shoulder, like we were old school chums. “Just remember, if I don’t get my money, I’ll cut your balls off.”
T-bone said, “And I’ll feed ‘em to my pet rat.”
“Fuck that. Let’s get your money.” I got in T-bone’s face. “Just don’t fuck this up.” I pointed at Lawson, “That goes for you too.” I looked around like I was casing the place. “I can’t go anywhere with you guys that the cops don’t show up. You two are a bust waiting to happen.”
I could tell by the look on their faces that they didn’t care for my attitude.
I said, “If you don’t like the way I’m handling this deal, that’s too fucking bad. There wouldn’t be any Goddamn money if it weren’t for me.” They didn’t get it, so I spelled it out. “I was there the day of the robbery. I saw Morgan almost get busted by the cops. When I went to help, I found the cash in the back of his truck. I had to think fast, and I didn’t have many options. I knew the cook at Tubby’s sold weed, so I figured he couldn’t rat on me. I grabbed the backpack and ran into the diner.” They looked like they were buying it, so I took it to the next level. “The only problem, now he wants a cut.”
“Fuck him,” they said in unison.
“He’s been acting tough. All you need to do is slap him around a little. He’ll change his tune. Just don’t listen to any of his bullshit.”
Lawson and T-bone started for the door. I fell in. The big black guy in the Nehru jacket was still standing out front. He sang, “Excuse me…while I kiss the sky.”
Once we got inside, I took the lead and made a beeline for the pool tables, with the Serpents in tow. McCord was still in the same place, slumping in his chair.
I said, “He’s the little fat fucker over by the back wall near the exit, the one in the Roy Rogers outfit.”
Lawson and T-bone closed in on McCord, and I followed at a comfortable distance. McCord didn’t seem to notice the two bikers until T-bone slammed his fist on the table.
Lawson demanded, “I want my fucking money you little prick.”
“I didn’t bring any money,” McCord said. “I brought the Wrath of God.”
McCord leaned down and pulled a two-shot Derringer from his boot sleeve. He pointed it toward Lawson, then lifted his arm straight up and squeezed off a round. The band stopped. The bar came to a halt. For a second or two, the only sound was the blast echo from McCord’s stubby .45. The crowd blew apart. It was everyman for himself.
While McCord held the gun on Lawson, four bruisers, who looked like muscle for the Kansas City mob, converged on T-bone and started throwing cheap shots. One thug, who was wearing brass knuckles, punched T-bone at the base of the neck. Another guy hit T-bone behind the knee with a nightstick. McCord looked over at T-bone and smiled. Lawson did a quick squat, lifted the table, and flipped it onto McCord, who took his last shot. I saw T-bone go down, and the thugs converged on Lawson. Nobody seemed to notice me. I heard a siren. McCord headed for the back door. I followed McCord outside and sucker punched him. He hit the ground like a tub of lard.
“That one’s for my brother.”
I left McCord in the dirt. It looked good on him.