The Mortal Nuts

by Pete Hautman

  “Too many cops around,” Pork said.

  “I don’t see no cops.”

  “Yeah,” said Tigger. “Let’s just do it. What do you say, Dean?”

  Dean shrugged, going with the flow.

  “You guys ain’t on probation,” Pork complained. “You guys get cracked, it’s no big deal. I fucking go back to Stillwater for another three years.”

  Dean agreed with that.

  “You guys don’t got to do it with us,” Tigger said.

  “It’s my shit!”

  Tigger said, “You guys can each go in the can. Me and Sweety, we’ll just do it here. Fuck ’em.” He pointed at a patch of flattened brown grass between the curb and the sidewalk.

  Pork didn’t like it, but he didn’t have an argument ready, so he handed the paper to Tigger. Dean and Pork crossed the street and watched Sweety and Tigger sit right there in front of a hundred thousand people and snort crystal, scooping it from the paper with a Popsicle stick, staring down anyone who gave them a double look. Pork frowned as he watched Sweety treat himself to an extra blast before refolding the paper. Sweety grinned and waved.

  Dean couldn’t get the hang of the dodgem cars. Sweety and Tigger had him pinned down; every time he got moving, one or the other of them would slam into him from the side. He was glad when it was over. Pork, who had been watching, laughed and punched him on the shoulder. “Now you know why I don’t do dodgem cars,” he said.

  Dean rubbed his shoulder. “Let’s go see if Carmen showed up yet. I’m getting hungry.”

  “Go ahead,” Sweety said. “We’ll be around someplace. I want to go see the freaks.”

  “Maybe we could get some free burritos or something. I bet she’d feed us.” Dean didn’t want to be alone. He had a good buzz going with the meth, and he was getting off on the skinhead energy. “Come on, we can stop at the Beer Garden. IH buy you guys a beer.”

  “C’mon, Sweety,” said Pork “Let’s go see Dean’s bitch. We can do the freaks later.”

  Sweety was clicking his teeth together, swinging his head back and forth, looking like a big lizard on the prowl. Dean started to say something, then noticed Pork shaking his head. Pork gestured in the direction of the Beer Garden, and he and Dean started walking. “He gets real pumped sometimes, and you got to be careful,” said Pork. Dean looked back over his shoulder. Sweety was following them, trailed by Tigger. “He’ll follow us, but you can’t argue with him when he gets this way. I seen him once throw this guy. Just picked him right up and threw him about ten feet like he was a shot put.”

  “What did the guy do?”

  “You mean to get tossed? He was wearing a baseball cap. Sweety don’t like baseball caps. That might’ve been it. With Sweety you never know. This was downtown, right in the middle of the day on Hennepin Avenue. The guy landed and just up and started running, so no harm done, but this other time he went after this cop, and the next thing you know there was three cops beating on him with their sticks, and Sweety, he don’t even care, he’s just beating on them right back. They were hitting him on the head with their sticks and everything, and it took the three of them it seemed like hours to knock him down. Cops all had nosebleeds and shit. Sweety, blood all over his head, was just having a good old time. Point is, he’s got no judgment and he’s about as strong as the Incredible Hulk. We used to call him that, but he likes Sweety better.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “Just that when he’s like this he doesn’t care what happens. You just got to be real easy around him, he gets this way. Couple beers might calm him down some. He likes beer. It makes him happy, usually.”

  Dean bought a round of watery Leinenkugels at the Beer Garden, then he bought another round. Sweety was making him nervous, staring at people and sticking his tongue out about a yard, with that FUCK ME scrawled across his forehead. Dean didn’t like the way he was making his jaw muscle twitch. He said, “You guys want a hot dog or something?” Nobody did, so they had another beer. Except for worrying about Sweety, Dean still felt great, had a nice buzz running up and down the back of his neck, eyes getting sharper all the time. Crystal clear. Hanging with these guys, looking dangerous, cruising on the meth, the good stuff, made in America, makes you faster and stronger and smarter and improves the eyesight too. That was something he really liked, how good it made him see. Not like coke, which was for niggers and yuppies, or like weed, which was for punks and hippies. Yeah, it was a good feeling. Not like Carmen and her Valiums, falling asleep all the time. Dean liked the wound-up, tight-jawed power he got from the meth, and he liked the smooth-rolling easy confidence that came from being with his new friends. He liked the feeling of the .45 stuck in the waistband of his jeans, the barrel just touching the tip of his dick, the grip barely concealed by Carmen’s Bugs Bunny T-shirt If you knew what to look for, you could see the shape pushing through the thin orange cotton. He liked the way it felt when he walked. He wasn’t so sure, though, about Sweety, who was now sitting in this big room full of guys, half of them wearing baseball caps, Sweety all wound up, his eyes fixed forward, his head swinging back and forth, jaw working, neck muscles bulging, blinking now and again. He made Dean think of a double-barreled sawed-off he’d seen back in Omaha. Some guy had cut it off right across the chamber, letting most of the shell stick out past the end of the barrel; it was about as close as you could get to a hand grenade—pull the trigger and who knows? Nobody’d ever had the nerve to shoot the thing. Sweety looked like that, like his eyes were those two red plastic twelve-gauge shells full of shot sticking out an inch and a half, hanging out there looking for some excuse to explode.

  Sweety finished his third jumbo beer, and Pork, who kept giving Dean this raised-eyebrow look, filled Sweety’s plastic cup from his own. Tigger was cutting into the tabletop with the key to his Caddy, writing the word FUCK, checking Sweety’s forehead to make sure he was spelling it right. Pork spoke in a low voice to Sweety, who seemed not to hear him. A group of college-student types, all wearing baseball caps with college logos, sat down at the next table with their tall plastic cups full of beer. Sweety rotated his head and fixed his eyes on them. Dean thought, Here it comes.

  Pork was on his feet now, tugging at Sweety’s arm, then dropping it and walking toward the exit. Dean stood and followed, not looking back.

  “He might just follow us out,” Pork said. “He’s mean as hell, but he’s just a big old dog. He don’t like to be alone.”

  They were out on the street, blinking in the afternoon sunlight, when Sweety and Tigger caught up with them. Pork said to Dean, “See?”

  “Where we goin’?” Tigger asked.

  Pork shrugged and looked up at Sweety. “How you doing?”

  Sweety said, “Those fuckers.”

  “Who?” Tigger asked.

  “Fuck you,” Sweety said. “This place sucks. What the fuck are we doing here?”

  “You want to go home?” Pork asked. “You want to go someplace else?”

  “You want a taco?” Dean asked.

  Sweety swung his head toward Dean. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it. A fuckin’ taco.”

  “Then let’s go get us some tacos.”

  Dean got his good feeling back then; they were all back on track, back on the taco track. They were moving together, moving through the crowd with Dean on point. Behind him, sticking up a head above the rest, came Sweety, then Pork and Tigger hanging back, the four of them giving off that dangerous vibe that made people slide their eyes off and away.

  Dean said, “All these guys are rich out here, every one.”

  Pork had his own buzz going, bopping his head back and forth to some tune buried deep in his head. Dean didn’t think anybody was listening, but he kept talking anyway.

  “All that cash money, man. We oughta just set up a business, score off a new one every day. That’s what John Donne would do. All these guys with their money, man. Make ’em share the wealth.” Dean searched his mind to see how it would be. The master plan wo
uld appear before him at any moment now, logical and complete. He would lay it out for Pork, Tigger, and Sweety. Show them how smart he was. He imagined the respectful look he would get from Pork, like he really knew his shit. Read them some more John Donne. He imagined himself talking to the old man, Axel, asking him questions. He reached a hand under his T-shirt and felt the warm wooden grip of the .45, imagined working the steel barrel between the old man’s teeth. That would definitely be part of the plan, get the taco man sucking his own gun.

  Except for one thing. It was probably all a figment of Carmen’s stoned-out imagination. He had no reason to think the old man had that kind of money. It sure as hell wasn’t sitting in his motel room. Reluctantly, Dean let the fantasy slide away. He would have to settle for some free tacos and just do the drug deal with his Tiny Tot money. That would be cool. He could turn the six K into twelve K when he got to Sioux Falls, and from there who knew? Set himself up as a distributor. The world was looking sharp, clear, and full of opportunities. They rounded the corner of the Food Building, slicing through a crowd of people in front of a busy french fry stand, and moved up the mall toward Axel’s Taco Shop.

  Pork said, “You say this guy has a million bucks in cash?”

  “That’s what Carmen says,” Dean said. “Only she’s probably full of shit.”

  They were passing Tiny Tot Donuts. Dean looked inside and stopped. Sweety ran into him and asked him what the fuck he was doing. Dean pointed into the donut stand. “See that guy with the bandage on his head? The little guy with the hat? I don’t believe it. The guy, the guy is up and walking? I must be losing my touch.”

  As Dean spoke, the guy, Tiny Tot, looked up from his work and saw him and dropped the bag of sugar he was holding and disappeared out the back of the stand. Dean laughed. “Guy’s scared shitless. You see him take off?” He turned back to Pork and Tigger.

  Pork was grinning. Then his face closed and he said, “He don’t look scared to me.” He started walking backward. Dean turned and saw Tiny Tot, limping, coming around the side of the donut stand, red-faced, coming right at him with something in his hand.

  Dean said, “Shit.” He backed away, bumped into Sweety, moved sideways away from the donut guy. The kids in the donut stand were leaning out over the counter, watching, and the crowd of customers was now turning to see what was happening. Dean turned and ran twenty yards up the mall, then stopped and looked back. He didn’t see the guy at first, then he did. What was he holding in his hand? Tiny Tot was limping, not moving fast but moving steady. Dean relaxed, knowing now that he could outrun the little man. He waited for him to get closer. When he was less than twenty feet away, Dean recognized the object in his hand. It was a bright, shiny revolver. Dean backed away, holding one hand out palm forward like a shield and reaching with the other hand for the .45 in his belt. He lost sight of Tiny Tot behind a cluster of people, then saw him again, still coming. Dean had the gun out now, trying to keep it pointed at Tiny Tot as the guy raised his own gun, holding it with both hands, pointing it at Dean’s chest. Dean pulled on the trigger, but the .45 did not fire. Shit, what was wrong? Was the safety on? He looked down at the gun and tripped, falling backward, seeing as he went down Sweety’s broad leather-clad back eclipse the image of the donut guy, and he heard a loud snap, then another, not so loud, then screams.

  Chapter 30

  Sophie was on her knees, trying to change a tank of Coca-Cola premix, when she heard Kirsten say, “What’s going on? Oh my God!” The urgency in Kirsten’s voice brought Sophie quickly to her feet, and she cracked her head on the edge of the counter. Holding a hand to her head, she looked out across the mall. At first, she couldn’t tell what she was seeing. Then she saw Carmen’s bald friend, James Dean, stumbling backward through the crowd, crashing into people, spilling a little boy’s sno-cone, the kid’s mother shouting through a mouthful of cheese curd. The expression on James Dean’s face was so wide-eyed and openmouthed that Sophie started to laugh. What was he doing? Then Kirsten screamed “Oh my God!” again, only louder and right in her ear.

  Carmen pushed between them. “What?”

  Sophie saw Tommy Fabian limping toward Dean, pointing with one hand, bringing up his other hand, holding something shiny. A huge bald man in a black leather jacket appeared, seeming to sprout up between the two, and dove at Tommy—Sophie was seeing it in slow motion now—and as the pistol flashed and bucked in Tommy’s hands, Sophie saw it for what it was, heard the sharp explosion echo off the white brick sides of the Food Building as Tommy disappeared beneath the big man, then she heard another muted pop. The two men rolled, spilling a blue recycling can, white plastic cups exploding across the trampled grass mall. Those within a few yards of the tumbling pair fled, others rushed forward for a better view. The big man regained his feet and came up with one of Tommy’s hands and a foot locked in his grip. Sophie heard a high-pitched keening. Tommy was screaming, and so were several people in the crowd. The big man swung his shoulders and his arms, and Tommy came up off the ground. Spinning like a shot-putter, the big man swung Tommy around in an airplane ride, two complete orbits, then let go and sent the little man cartwheeling through the air. Tommy hit the lamppost hard, with an audible crack.

  A man in a white shirt and black suspenders appeared from the crowd. Sophie recognized Axel the way she might suddenly recognize an actor in an unfamiliar role. Where had he come from? Sophie leaned out past the edge of the counter and shouted a warning, but her voice was devoured by the buzzing crowd.

  Axel had been feeling a little silly. He had walked up and down Carnes Avenue twice, from the Giant Slide to the midway, doing a double take at every bald head in the crowd. No Bald Monkey.

  What did he think he was going to do if he found the kid? Lecture him? Beat him up? Make a citizen’s arrest? He shook his head, smiling at himself. Just another old fool rushing off half-cocked, too mad to think straight. Besides, the girl was probably mistaken. These teenage girls, always looking for drama.

  He was only a few yards from the Taco Shop when he heard Kirsten scream “Oh my God!” His first thought was that Carmen had put her hand in the deep fryer. He ran to the back of the stand, saw that they were all, Sophie and Kirsten and Carmen, staring at something outside, on the mall. Someone is having a heart attack, was his next thought, then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun firing once—loud and sharp—then again, muffled. He was afraid he knew whose gun. He rushed around to the front of the stand in time to see Tommy Fabian’s cartwheeling flight, arms and legs spread out like a sky diver’s. Axel’s senses grew suddenly, painfully acute. Everything stopped for an instant, formed a tableau: the big black-jacketed man, frozen in mid-stagger, Tommy striking the lamppost, and, a few feet away, sitting on his butt on the grass, Bald Monkey, holding his arm out toward the place where Tommy had been, one hand gripping a .45, the other hand fumbling with the trigger guard. Axel broke loose and ran, forcing his body through air gone thick as sand. He heard a strange howl, felt his throat shuddering, and realized that he was screaming. Bald Monkey’s head swiveled, his eyes widened, he rose to his feet, and his arm came around with the gun. Axel saw the kid’s thumb find the hammer, draw it back, saw the end of the barrel fix on his chest. He stopped, an arm’s length away, eyes on the hole in the end of the barrel. The kid’s hands were shaking. A glitter caught Axel’s eye, and he saw a familiar horseshoe-shaped diamond ring on the kid’s finger.

  The sight of Tommy’s ring shattered Axel’s instinct for self-preservation. He threw himself forward, slapped his right hand down hard on the .45, a sharp pain lancing his finger. His palm wrapped warm steel. He hit the ground with his shoulder, rolled, came up with the .45 in his hand, swung it, giving it everything he had, slapping the steel slide hard against the kid’s bald skull. He felt the shock travel up his arm, causing intense explosions of pain in his elbow and shoulder. He expected Bald Monkey to go down and stay down, but instead the kid jumped to his feet and took off like a startled rabbit, legs churning, his shin
y head quickly melting into the crowd.

  Axel pulled the hammer back, released his trapped and torn finger, and locked the safety. His right hand had gone numb.

  The big skinhead had fallen to his hands and knees. Axel circled him and ran to Tommy, whose head had flopped sideways at an impossible angle. He tried to push Tommy’s head back where it belonged, thinking that if he straightened it out quickly enough he might be able to undo what had happened. There was no response, no complaint, no sign of life. He looked up in time to see the big man crawling toward him.

  “What did you do?” Axel shouted, the words rolling out deep and slow, as if shouted through molasses.

  “I don’t feel good,” the big man said. A peculiar-looking bruise covered most of his forehead, blood pulsed from his chest. “I gotta lie down.” He listed to his left, then relaxed and let himself fall onto his side on the grass.

  Axel struggled to put it together, to make sense of things. The crowd had drawn back, forming a circle about thirty feet across, with Axel in the center. He looked down at the bleeding man, then back at Tommy. He didn’t understand. The crowd was moving in on him, needing to be nearer the blood. He heard a siren. Axel stood. He could see two cops pushing through the crowd. He eased back through the crowd toward the taco stand, slipping the .45 into his pants pocket. There was nothing more he could do.

  The fence at the north end of the fairgrounds finally stopped him. James Dean fell against the galvanized steel, pressed his face against the mesh, gasping for breath. He remembered his flight as a series of frozen, garish images. The back of his head radiated bright tendrils of pain. Had he been shot? He could not bring himself to touch it, afraid he might find a soft, pulpy mass of erupted brain tissue. Unlacing his fingers from the steel mesh, he turned his back to the fence, let himself slide down onto the grass, drew his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around his shins.

  His heart was beating too fast. How old did you have to be to have a heart attack?