Shit.
I’m a little touched and I reciprocate.
“I appreciate that, Abraham. Can I call you by your Christian name?”
“Call me Abe.”
“I’m a little touched by your concern and I’d like to reciprocate.”
“Oh! Well it’s nothing. Those girls, you know. Fun times, but maybe not worth the penicillin shot.”
“I understand.”
“You said reciprocate. What do you mean — with some wisdom?”
“Yep. You don’t want to cough like that while you’re takin’ a leak.”
“What?”
“You never learn that?”
“You serious?”
“Hell, yeah. Hydraulic pressure blow your nuts off.”
“You’re fulla shit.”
“Try it and see. Just make sure you stand over a bucket.”
I come out the restroom and Skinny Tatas drops her head like a wolf found meat. She hips her way to me, stops a foot short and I hold my finger afore her mouth like a fisher hangs a hook.
Grin at Abe.
But she ain’t havin’ it. Tatas bring her hand to my trousers and with four fingers tucked behind the belt tows me to the door. Skinny Hips is after.
Outside they’s a Ryder truck drove in so the front bumper’s close the wire fence that got the slats wove through for privacy.
Stinky Joe sit up in the Eldorado seat and got his head out the window, snuggled in the bottom corner. Inside the bar they got the grease kitchen in back and the air smells like fried chicken and cow. Once I finish my business, I’ll get him a burger and fries.
Skinny Hips stops at the nose of the truck. She smiles and Tatas go into the gap ’tween bumper and fence. She watch for me to follow. Gravel give out to dirt and weeds and I’m thinkin’ I know a nibble don’t mean a nibble. I’m thinkin’ I oughta be bustin’ Tat and Corazon out the hospital or findin’ a fella knows his way ‘round the fake identity papers.
But women got needs too and sometimes the neighborly thing is to satisfy ’em.
I ain’t yet stepped into the gap ’tween truck and fence so Skinny Tatas tows me by the belt loop. Real easy I look back. Skinny Hips stands at the corner of the truck and alla sudden the juice hits my arms and red flares in her eyes like Satan ate grillin’ beans and farted on the fire.
I lock up like a mule. Skinny Tatas grabs deep on my drawers and tugs. Feet scuffle on gravel. She latches aholt with the other hand too and throws her ass for leverage. Afore I look up and back I get the sixth sense says, get low; I drop to my knees while black boots and denim jeans come ’round the Ryder’s nose.
Look up and some hairy feller got the baseball bat comin’ down.
I keep droppin’ and Skinny Tatas don't let go. I pull her along and she pop up her head while the bat comes down. She’s too close to Black Boots for a home run so he bunts her to the ground.
Black Boots lifts the bat agin and me bent over and halfways concerned for Skinny Tatas, I launch while the bat’s high. Plant my shoulder in Black Boots’ sternum and drive him back.
Skinny Tatas moans.
I knee Black Boots in the groin and swing a crisp elbow to his mouth.
His eyes is stone gone so I press Black Boots to the fence with the left arm, cock my neck like a hammer and pull the trigger right after. Drive my dome best I can for his face and discover aimin’ the noggin ain’t like nothin’ else a man’ll aim.
Dunno what part of Black Boots makes the crack, nose, cheek bone, eye socket — I’m lookin’ at the ground and kinda dizzy — but afore I lift my head and see, Black Boots’ knees go slack.
Strong on pancakes and syrup, I pin him so he don’t crumple. Got to put this animal out afore Skinny Hips back there — she still behind me I reckon — finds a knife or gun.
And soon as I think it a hand probes my ass holster.
Right elbow folded I swing the shoulder, launch the arm straight and the side of my fist connects with the Ryder truck and while the pain flashes hot Skinny Hips got the FBI Glock pointed three inches from my face.
“Don’t! Fucking! Move!” says she.
Tatas moans beneath us.
Glock is said to have no safety mechanism, but they's one that always works. She didn't chamber a round.
I’ll hear the slide mechanism if she does and meantime trust she ain’t bright enough to brain me.
Black Boots require my attention.
Got him pinned agin the fence with my shoulder and I crush in hard and give my arms the freedom to punch his guts ’til he pisses blood soup. He goes soft and I’m still punchin’, but now Skinny Hips learn how to strike a man with a pistol butt.
I let Black Boots drop and face Skinny Hips.
She got one leg on each side of Tatas and she’s reared back for another head strike. I grab her neck and shove six feet.
Tatas is still on the ground but found her way to elbows and knees. Too close for a kick in the face so I knee her in the teeth.
Tatas is out.
I face Skinny Hips. “You was sayin’?”
She points Glock — and still ain’t racked it. She backs out the gap ’tween truck and wire fence. I follow and study the lot. Nobody. She steps back. I step forward.
She stares me in the eye and positively beams. Skinny Hips turns toward the bar.
“Rape! Help! RAPE!!!”
She got the Glock in her right hand. I swing open palm and bust the pistol out her grip. Her arm swings wide and her body spins with it. Glock skitters on gravel.
I catch Skinny Hips.
Stand her up.
"Hold on, ma’am. You okay?"
She simpers, almost like the right smile’s gonna put the game back on.
"You got yourself steady?"
She nods. Opens her mouth and afore she screams the poison words one more time, I give her the uppercut.
Skinny Hips drops to her back, knees up, head to the right so her knocked out eyes point at the bar. Blood drips out her mouth so maybe I cut some tongue.
I grab Glock off the gravel and slip it in my holster. Dust off the pants as Abe Church and another man exit the bar.
“Y'all better call the police, they's a man knocked out cold, other side the truck.”
The fella with Abe Church trades a look and heads back inside.
Abe says, “Which one was yelling rape?”
“That’s her.”
“You knocked her out?”
“Indeed.”
“You rape her?”
“That woman? Not possible.”
We stand near the truck. Black Boots ain’t moved and Skinny Tatas is back to her old self, groaning. Abraham moves for a better look.
Says I, "I guess they saw the duds and thought I was an easy mark. She got that tongue movin’ and — ”
“That’s Frank Lloyd, back there.”
“ — them earrings in the tongue I guess. Shit, three seconds — ”
“You did that?”
“Uh huh.”
“He had the ball bat and the drop and you was already playing with your pecker.”
“Was not.”
Abe cross his arms.
“I didn’t have it out.”
“How’d you see the trap?”
“Just the country wiles is all. I saw the boots.”
“Bullshit. There wasn’t anything else that give you a hint… Nothing else?”
Somethin’ strange in Abraham Church’s face.
“Where you going with the questions, friend?”
“Something in your head maybe. A tingle or something?”
Hold on. Step back.
“You mean…”
I got a light head. Don’t know about this. Don’t — can’t — what? All the black at the sides comes in. I’m standin’ but that’s about the sum of what I know.
I hear claws on paint.
Abraham says, “Hey, partner. It’s all right. You’re just a little wobbly.”
Stinky Joe’s chargin�
�� in, head low like to cut a cowboy at the ankles.
Abe pulls his leg cannon.
“That’s my dog. Gimme some room.”
“Call him off!”
Abe swings his pistol arm.
“Joe! Easy!”
Joe skids and I hunker. He sniffs up my face and on accident nips my nose, then spins on Abraham Church and I can almost hear the growl under his bristling coat.
“Easy, Joe.”
I reach and Abe grabs the elbow. Forearm lock and I’m up. He keeps a hand on the shoulder ’til I’m steady and I think on how I steadied Skinny Hips afore I knocked her out.
“What’s your aim here?” says I.
“Just keeping it real.”
“Well that ain’t too hard is it? What’re you after? All them questions?”
Another man come out the bar and all the men was in there gawkin’ and lustin’ files out after. They fan wide as they walk and Stinky Joe rumbles under his neck fur.
The man in the middle who called the cops and brought the gang chins at Abe. Says, “You get the story?”
“It’s like he says. That’s Frank Lloyd back there, knocked out. Our friend got wise to him just in time and turned the tables.”
“That’s right. Uh-huh.” My head’s gettin’ clear. Cops on the way. Bells is ringin’.
“I’ll let y’all stand guard,” says I. “I had that Sprite and I’ll be needin’ the facilities.”
“No need to guard. These three are what you might call, known to law enforcement.”
“How’s that?”
“Frank Lloyd, Bunny and Bambi.”
“Y’all knew the game when they came in.”
Fellas glow. Juice up and down the arms.
“Not exactly,” says the one in the middle.
“Meanin’, you knew exactly they done this afore, but not exactly how they’d do it this time.”
“Right. Not exactly.”
Abraham says, “Men’s room is inside. And what Will is trying to say is Frank Lloyd’s been in all kinds of trouble, but you don’t know what’s next ’til you see it on the news. And Bunny and Bambi, they’re just Bunny and Bambi. Believe it or not, they’re car mechanics.”
“Oh, I believe it. Perfect sense. I gotta piss.”
I walk off and Joe follows. The men is fanned wide and fuck if I’m walkin’ around so I stop in front of two ’til they step aside.
“Come on, Joe. Inside.”
What’s going on?
I open the bar door and Joe follows.
“They got the law coming.”
Maybe we should leave.
“Joe, your brain’s the size of a walnut. Mine’s like a whole bag of ’em. Let me do my work, aright?”
Inside the bar I cut back the hall what leads to the men’s room. Accourse the only escape there’d be through the window and that’s more work. We go straight through the grease kitchen and out the side. Circle up front.
“Joe, you stay here. Pick you up in two.”
He sits.
I walk straight to the road, follow the sidewalk ’til the line of sight has me on the edge of visible to the men ’round back. Road’s straight ahead and maybe a couple hundred yards is the police. Got no time for finesse. I hunker low and scoot fast, hope the men in back stay more interested in the people on the gravel than the man who put ’em there.
Slip into the Eldorado, fire the engine and pull forward. In ten feet I’m outta sight of the guys in back. I reach across the seat and open the passenger door.
Joe jumps on the seat. Pullin’ out I adjust the rearview and the cops swerve in.
Chapter Fifteen
Stay at the Lodge last night ’cause it ain’t a quarter mile from the Glenwood Springs Hospital and got a hot tub too. Things settle down after bit, I bet a good hot soak’d be nice. In the day I had Farmer Brown’s tub in the crick just below the still and I’d fill the tub with ten buckets from the stream, haul stones from the fire and that water’d get almost warm enough to nap in.
As it is, I shower and truth told, seems like more work ’n gettin’ clean oughta require.
I get out still wipin’ off the arms and legs. Motel like to soften the water, make soap suds feel like mineral oil. Any skin this slick oughta be pink.
Motel got a laundry and since I’m wearin’ my skippy duds it’s a good opportunity to wash what clothes I wore since Flagstaff. They been scrubbed in the Colorado River a couple time, come out half as dirty as they went in, but what dirt’s left is new and clean from the river.
I open a white towel flat on the bed and cover it with dirty clothes. Hang my suit on a hanger and toss my shirt and t-shirt to the pile. Socks too. Ain’t got the other unders and though I’d never confess it, I suspect any man cinch his nuts in underwear is a man oppressed by convention and never live a free day in his life.
Women on the other hand is free to wear silk skivvies and whatnot. Such things is encouraged.
Now I’m naked with my dirty clothes hoboed in a towel, I wrap a second about the waist, tuck the corner and roll it under.
Sometimes a man used to drink’ll not know the difference — regular world’s as frazzled as the drunk one and stone sober he’ll look at it and not know what’s real and what ain’t. Condition like that, he’ll toss the satchel over shoulder, fill his fist with quarters and strut past the tourists without a glance.
They come west to see the wilderness. Here I am.
Most these outta-towners got the same look. White or tan pants and windbreakers with company logos. People fight a daily war on hair. Clean shaved, nothin’ in the nose. Prim and proper and got the underwear lines to prove it.
Glock in the ass holster don't work with the towel so I leave Stinky Joe armed. In the laundry room I drop six quarters in the machine slots and buy enough water ’n electric for one load. Stuff in the clothes and wait.
They put a chrome-legged chair with a plastic seat under the foldin’ table. I get on hands and knees and drag it out. Pull down the towel as I sit. Head back agin the wall. Eyes closed.
Skinny Hips and Skinny Tatas. Bambi and Bunny. I bet Tathiana’d kick both them girls’ asses.
Wash machine bang and wobble. I lift the lid, pull a soppy set of drawers and spot the problem. Most clothes is bunched on one side and I got a pantleg jammed under the agitator, spun into a three-inch rope. Make me recall Rapunzel or that little leprechaun. What was his name? Lilliputian?
Rumpelstiltskin.
Stole a girl to run a gold loom or some such.
I keep tuggin’ on the pantleg. Spin the agitator back, pull, spin, hit it with the palm, look for a sledgehammer layin’ handy…
Rumplestiltskin’s troubles. Sometimes an idea’ll get aholt and seem like it’s the key that’ll unlock every mystery.
Exactly the kind of thing I’d remember with a single gurgle of shine. No man recall sober what he learn drunk… ’Cept I don’t suppose I was drunk in the grade school, so much.
A shadow cross the window — some weary traveler got his nose hair trimmed so he want to do his laundry next. Forget I’m only wrapped in a towel and wave, since they’s only one of me and two wash machines and no wait on the other.
Rumpelstiltskin. All in all, that was a creepy fuckin’ story for a kid.
The door opens.
I give that tangled pantleg a tug guaranteed to pop it free and shit if I don’t cinch it tighter. And now I got company, I’m aware how the air circulates up in under the towel. Nethers don’t often feel regular room air with another person near. Unless certain conditions is met.
"I’m usin’ this machine and’ll be done in twelve minute if you want both. But you can come in and use the other now if’n — ”
I get a burst of juice like I’m strapped in Ole Sparky.
Normal lies about normal things, it’s a tingle or I spot the red eyes. Most lies is simple misdirection and folk don’t even know they do it. Next is the puffery and all puffers is self aware. Then on up through the serio
us lies, which is always about someone want me to put ’em in a different group in my head, as each means somethin’ different, and these liars know folk’ll give ’em leeway in one category they don’t deserve in another. Folk like to look competent when they ain’t. Smart when they ain’t. Thoughtful when they ain’t.
Here to do the laundry when they ain’t.
Sometimes the juice carry a different sort of charge I bet no electrician could find. I wouldn’t ask him how twenty volts taste and I wouldn’t ask him why sometimes when a person mean me harm, the juice come with a cherry on top. I can taste the evil in it.
Standin’ bare foot, balls loose and Glock sleepin’ with Stinky Joe in the motel room, the body ain’t cool and thoughtful. Response is dread, and me with my arms sunk in the wash, ass out in a towel and balls swingin’ and the towel slit open clear to the hip… It’s like I climb out the trench backwards and stand next the bobwire waitin’ on the bullet, not knowin’ if the Krauts’ll be kind and put it in my head, or cruel, and somewhere else.
Man feel exposed.
A burst of juice like that is sometimes accompanied by a gun but not this time.
I let go the pantleg and skitter back hunched, arms wide and ready to grapple, ready to kill. But afore it even registers old Black Boots Frankie Lloyd is in the laundry room with me, he starts finishin’ the job he start at the Ryder truck by the bar.
I'm smarter and faster’n Black Boots Lloyd but his ball bat works without wit and he can swing it faster’n I can disappear. Slugger catches my right arm above the wrist and the bones snap hard like when you tear chicken wings took too quick off the fire.
Frankie Black Boots winds the bat full circle up on his toes so he can get the whole body in on the rotation. He’s coiled so tight his heels spin on the follow through. I watch half froze by the pain already in my busted arm, and shit if this ain’t the clock tickin’ down to zero on Baer Creighton.
Beat to death in a motel laundry room.
He’s full swing and if I don’t move he’ll paste my brain to the wall. Close in, I sacrifice the arm and shoulder. Restrict his move, let him club me with the grip instead of the Louisville logo.
The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6) Page 10