Party Time_Raving Arizona

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘The Teletubbies are long gone.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I say, smiling.

  ‘We’re down to selling caps of pure MDMA, and they’ve nearly all gone, too.’

  ‘What’s the deal with Sammy the Bull’s crew?’

  ‘Some of his dealers are here, but they’re keeping a low profile. I’ve got about thirty on security. The Bull’s crew are wary of us.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘There’s a rumour that Josh took money off them, too, for this party.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Like you requested, the Ecstasy money’s all in Amy’s old car. It’s been coming in too fast to count. The car’s just full of money. I’ve got security watching it at all times.’

  ‘Take me to it. That’s going to be my headquarters.’

  Robbers, undercover cops and other threats would look for me and the loot in the VIP area, not in a rust bucket, disguised by darkness, surrounded by hundreds of cars. No pills are in Amy’s car. My inventory is spread out between dealers and safe houses. If I’m arrested in a car full of cash, I’ll claim it’s legally earned gate proceeds. I open the door and step onto a carpet of money. I count bills, seal each thousand in an envelope and stack the envelopes in a sports bag. Every so often, one of my dealers makes a deposit.

  Hotwheelz gets in, shivering. ‘Turn the fucking heating on full blast, for Christ’s sake. I’m freezing my nuts off here.’

  I laugh.

  ‘I thought this was a desert rave,’ Hotwheelz says. ‘What the fuck! I wasn’t expecting to wrap up like Nanook of the North.’

  ‘How’s your face?’

  ‘My jaw’s fucking killing. Got any painkillers or Xanax?’

  ‘I’ll sort something out.’

  Cody rushes over. ‘Josh freaked out and he’s closing the party down. He told the guys from Skiddle to turn the sound off and dismantle the stages. They’ve turned the sound off at one stage already.’

  My ears twitch as if I’ve heard a declaration of war. ‘I’ll deal with the little bastard! If he thinks he’s sending all these ravers home peaking on drugs, he’s out of his mind. Grab some security and let’s talk to the boss of the Skiddle guys.’ I snort a line of glass with Hotwheelz. The nasal burn sends shock waves through my brain.

  We discover men in black T-shirts unplugging the sound, ravers booing and complaining.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ I ask.

  ‘I am,’ says a stocky man with a shaved head, about ten years older than me, moving equipment.

  ‘The party’s not over. What’re you doing?’ I ask.

  He puts his hard face up to mine. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  What a dickhead!

  My bouncers watch in disbelief, darkness disguising their weapons.

  ‘English Shaun. I paid for this party.’

  The man turns his back and resumes packing equipment. ‘You’re him, are you? Well, Josh told us to turn the sound off, pack up and go home. The party’s over. I guess a lotta people didn’t get paid.’

  Sensing my bouncers are about to lynch him, I shake my head at them. ‘Maybe they didn’t, but you got paid in full. Twenty-five thousand dollars of my money!’

  ‘That’s not our problem, is it? It’s between you and Josh.’

  Give him a last chance. ‘So, you’re telling me you’re going to pull the plug and send all these ravers on the roads while they’re sky high, putting their lives at risk, after you’ve been paid in full to provide your services till the party ends?’

  ‘I’m just following orders.’

  ‘Look, you took my money and you’re under a legal obligation to fulfil your contract, which states you provide your services until the party’s over.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, fiddling with equipment.

  ‘I’m trying to be civilised with you,’ I say, exasperated.

  He ignores me. He wants to call it a day, go home, get the six-hour drive to LA over with and get to bed. Four hours’ work for a full day’s pay. It doesn’t get better than that. Easy money.

  I hear the time bomb that is my security team ticking. Should I give them the nod? A shooting star sprints across the sky. Tick-tock-tick-tock … Upset ravers start trudging to where music is still playing. Tick-tock-tick-tock … I nod at my bouncers.

  ‘Fuck this guy!’ Grady steps forward waving an Uzi. ‘If these guys are gonna fuck us over, how about we just shoot the shit outta their equipment?’

  The metallic clicking of bullets chambering stops the man. My bouncers point their weapons at him. Moonlight gleams off gunmetal. He lowers a box in slow motion, as if it contains explosives. He turns around, gazes at us, a realisation dawning: his life over in seconds. His body remains still, but his face contorts as if his features are trying to detach themselves from the situation. ‘Er … I guess … we’d better turn the sound back on. Stop what you’re doing!’ he yells at his crew. ‘Turn everything back on!’

  Complaining, his workers put their equipment down. They emerge from the darkness, see him at gunpoint and freeze.

  ‘And you need to turn everything back on at the other stage, too!’ I yell.

  ‘Do it!’ the boss says.

  The workers scatter.

  ‘And if Josh tries this shit again, don’t let any of your guys turn the sound off!’ I say.

  ‘I hear you. We’ll fulfil our contract.’

  ‘You have no choice,’ Grady says. ‘You can’t move your shit faster than we can shoot it.’

  The crowd cheers the return of the music. But my tension doesn’t drop. Rave saved, but what will Josh try next? As my mind churns out hostile thoughts about Josh, an electrical crackling noise that sounds like cattle prods fills my ears. Looking around, seeing no source of the noise, it dawns that I’m imagining it – as if Carlos the Torturer has set up shop in my brain.

  Hotwheelz arrives, agitated. ‘They won’t let me on the stage at my allotted time. Some DJ’s on and he won’t step down.’

  Thankful for a small problem, I say, ‘Cody, take some security and tell the DJ politely his time is up and to get off the stage, and if that doesn’t work, well, you know what to do.’

  In Amy’s car, I brace for the next challenge. Dealers throw cash in faster than I can count it.

  Cody arrives. ‘I just came from Josh’s camp. They’ve told the ranchers the party’s over and to kick everyone off their land.’

  The electrical crackling noise in my brain intensifies. ‘That little bastard! When’s this supposed to happen?’

  ‘Anytime. I told the ranchers not to do anything until I inform you. They’re at the ranch house. What do you want me to tell them?’

  My thoughts sprint. ‘The same as Skiddle. The ranchers have been paid in full, too. This is a breach of contract. Tell them we just spoke to our attorney, and our attorney said they’re welcome to kick us off their land right now and we’re welcome to file a lawsuit first thing Monday morning. I don’t think these hillbillies will appreciate the idea of some hotshot city attorney filing a lawsuit and threatening to take their land.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Cody departs.

  I stew for ten minutes. Cody returns. The ranchers are still going to evict everyone. I send Cody back with instructions to pretend to be talking to our attorney on the phone.

  I seethe, punch the steering wheel, rock in my seat, kick the interior, convinced Josh has ended the party.

  Cody returns, smiling. ‘They’ve backed down. I fucking bluffed them. They’re scared of legal action and the courts.’

  I jump out of the car and we hug. ‘Bloody good job, Cody!’

  ‘That chickenshit bastard Josh and his crew are clearing out. They’ve given up trying to shut the party down.’

  ‘Thank God! At last, I can enjoy the music.’ I wander off and stop by a wall of speakers blasting Chris Liberator’s mechanised beats – vwwmf-vwwmf-vwwmf. Mesmerised by the sight of thousands dancing to English DJs with the same blissful expression I had when I s
tarted raving, I tell myself, You’ve realised a dream.

  Hours later, the sun peeps above the horizon, beginning to boil the air and bring the yellow, brown and orange of the desert alive.

  I return to the car, joined by Hotwheelz. ‘I’ve got a gig in LA. Can you have someone race me to the airport?’

  ‘Yes. And here’s twenty thou,’ I say. ‘The balance of what I owe you. Looks like your face is swelling up. Here’s ten Xanax to help you relax. You don’t want to go through the airport with all that money looking wired and like you’ve been in a scrap. Other than getting punched, did you have a good time?’

  ‘Other than freezing my nuts off, the crowd loved it.’

  ‘We are well into your trance.’

  Amy and I leave in her car, awash with cash. I join a convoy of ravers heading for Phoenix. The petrol warning light comes on, so I pull into Gus’s Gas Station, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cacti, overrun with ravers, cars everywhere, windows down, music playing, ravers dancing on the asphalt or in their seats, all grinning as if they share the same mental illness, the wind hurling tumbleweed at them, delighting them, exciting them, like children playing with nature. I wait my turn and park at a pump that looks half a century old. When I open the door, a dust devil hits the car, stealing dollars from the floor. The bills spin upwards above our heads and flutter down like butterflies.

  ‘Oh my God! Quick, close the door!’ Amy yells.

  The ravers know me. They leap, jump, chase the money and hand it back. Stunned by the beauty of their spontaneity, I thank them and pump petrol: clickety-clickety-clickety goes the motor. After paying a hillbilly with rotten teeth, I chat to the ravers – my people – delighting in their stories about the night.

  Josh tells his creditors that I stole his money, and I receive death threats. He disappears, rumoured to have a hit out on him by the Mexican Mafia for an unpaid debt.

  Chapter 40

  The higher Cody and Skinner advance in my organisation, the more sarcastic remarks and petty complaints Lucas makes about them. Attempting to outdo them, he flies to Amsterdam in the hope of getting low-cost Ecstasy. At a nightclub, he meets a supplier and buys a few hundred pills. He hides them in a money belt tucked into his trousers and returns to Arizona.

  ‘You’ve got some balls smuggling that yourself,’ I tell Lucas in the Blue Room. ‘How can we get bulk over here?’

  ‘To start, I say we mule back anywhere up to 5,000,’ Lucas says, scratching a meth sore on his cheek.

  ‘What will that get my price down to?’

  ‘Below $5 a pill.’

  ‘Holy shit! That’s less than half my cost!’

  ‘If we buy tens of thousands, the price will go down to $2 or $3 a pill. Our main problem is US Customs. They treat anyone getting off a plane from Amsterdam with extreme suspicion. I seriously thought I was gonna get busted. It would be best if whoever we send flies in and out of a different European country. They can just take the train to and from Holland.’

  Hotwheelz has been busted for sending drugs through the mail, so the Amsterdam plan couldn’t have come at a better time. With no shortage of friends fancying a free holiday, a run of successful missions follows. We experiment with methods ranging from taping pills to the body to putting them in luggage in vitamin containers. Lucas hollows out company annual reports used for investment research, glues pills inside and FedExes them to addresses in Tempe.

  Chapter 41

  Skinner, Grady and Jaxson burst into the Blue Room, where I’m sitting on the carpet counting pills with G Dog and Acid Joey.

  ‘One of my customers in Mesa,’ Skinner yells, waving a handgun, ‘said he’s not gonna pay for his Ecstasy and to tell English Shaun to go fuck himself! I say we go over there and jack his shit!’

  I spring up. The men gaze as if awaiting orders.

  ‘He really said that?’ I ask, shaking my head.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘What’re we waiting for?’ G Dog says, pumped up. ‘Let’s jack his shit.’

  Burst into a house and risk getting shot. Take no action and risk looking weak – could be fatal in the drug business. Skinner hasn’t steered me wrong so far. He wants me to show the others I have faith in him. The situation is so heavy, I reach for a bottle of GHB.

  ‘How many are in the house? Are they armed?’ Jaxson asks.

  ‘Just three of them,’ Skinner says.

  ‘Even if they have guns,’ Grady says, ‘we’ll go in so fast, they won’t know what the fuck hit them.’

  ‘Are you sure there’s no other way to get them to pay?’ I ask.

  ‘Shaun, you can’t let people disrespect you like that,’ G Dog says.

  This was bound to happen. I can’t back down. ‘I’m in. Who else is going?’

  Raring to go, they all say yes.

  ‘Let’s take two cars,’ I say.

  ‘How’s it gonna work?’ Jaxson asks.

  ‘Some of us hold them at gunpoint while the rest take their shit out to the cars,’ Skinner says.

  ‘We’ve got to get in and out quick in case a neighbour calls the cops.’ Hoping to numb my fear, I sip more GHB.

  Skinner hands out masks. Gunmetal clicks. Grady chambers a bullet, checks the safety and pockets the gun. The GHB hits my brain, making the plan seem appropriate in a deranged way. I give the all-clear to go.

  I drive. The closer we get, the more sweat streams from my armpits, the tighter my back muscles clench, the louder my heartbeat roars in my ears. Parking, I check for cops, neighbours at windows, cars turning, helicopters … We don masks.

  ‘Let’s fucking do this!’ Skinner says overenthusiastically.

  ‘I don’t want anyone shooting anyone,’ I say. ‘The guns are just to scare them with.’

  ‘We’ll scare these punks,’ G Dog says.

  I get out to the sound of sprinkler systems watering grass and crickets chirping. We march to the house. Grady pushes the unlocked front door open. Good start. Behind Skinner and Grady, I charge down the hallway. Even under the influence of GHB, I’m scared of getting shot – maybe they know we’re coming – but I’m also gripped by a surge of excitement that propels me towards the living room. As I enter, nervous energy explodes in my chest and shoots down my arms and legs, tingling my fingertips and toes. The three men watching South Park are stunned. Yet again, Skinner has done his homework. No one’s going to get hurt.

  ‘Unless you wanna get shot, none of you fuckers move!’ Skinner yells. ‘Is there anyone else in here?’

  ‘No,’ says a well-built man with long hair, holding a crystal-meth pipe (a length of glass with a sphere at the end).

  Everything of value in sight – TV, stereo, PlayStation – we grab and take to the cars.

  Two trips to the car are all I can take. In the hallway, I say, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here before the cops come.’

  ‘Lemme just grab more shit,’ Grady says.

  ‘Get a move on,’ I say.

  ‘None of you motherfuckers get up or call the cops or try to come after us, or we’ll come back and shoot your asses!’ G Dog says.

  We run out and speed away.

  While the rest boast and cackle, I sober up and contemplate how far my behaviour has gone from the plans I made for my life on the Thinking Tree. The risk wasn’t worth it. I’ll never put myself in the firing line again.

  A week later, Mari charges into the Blue Room, distraught. ‘I picked Skinner up from somewhere and we got followed. They got out and had guns on me and the baby.’

  ‘Holy shit!’ I say, jumping off a chair, shocked her baby was threatened, anxious over how out of control everything is getting. I hug her.

  ‘Skinner grabbed my baby ’cause he figured they wouldn’t hurt him if he was holding a baby. They literally followed us to the front door with guns. I opened the front door. They walked in the house with us. They looked at me and one said, “Hey, Mari, I’m sorry. I don’t wanna do this in front of you, but this is the only way we could get Skinner.
We don’t wanna bother you at all. We just want Skinner.” I’m trying to get my baby from Skinner and he wouldn’t give me my baby back. I’m like, “Give me the baby,” and finally I convinced them to just meet up with Skinner another time. I’m like, “This is my house. This is my baby.” They’re like, “We’re so sorry, Mari. This has nothing to do with you. He sold us thousands of dollars’ worth of bunk shit.” I’m like, “I totally understand you and don’t blame you for being angry and wanting to get what you’re owed, but this is my house.” And they feel bad and are cool enough to just leave. But if my daughter hadn’t been there, I don’t know what woulda happened.’

  Who’s Skinner conned with bunk pills?

  ‘I’ve done some checking around,’ Mari says, ‘and that house you guys jacked are selling pills for Sammy the Bull’s crew.’

  Did Skinner sell those guys bunk and con me into robbing them? ‘That could start a fucking war. Do you think Sammy the Bull’s crew was behind what just happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. After that, I got into a fight with Skinner for being a swindling piece of shit. He’s the only motherfucker I know who’d rob his own parents. You need to watch him, Shaun, he has no loyalties, even to you.’

  A few days later, Mari shows up even more agitated: ‘Skinner got robbed and had his teeth knocked out by Sammy the Bull’s people.’

  ‘What?’ I say, rising to hug her, furious that someone hurt Skinner.

  ‘He was over at some club in Scottsdale in some rinky-dink plaza meeting up with some people. He had a whole bunch of drugs and money on him. Some gangster dudes were over there who’re selling X: the Bull’s crew. It was payback for that house you guys robbed and took their TVs and all kinds of shit. They locked Skinner in the bathroom, punched his face and knocked his fucking teeth out. Skinner’s dumb ass wanted to get the police involved.’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘Yeah, he was gonna tell them he got robbed. They’d be like, “Why’d you get robbed? Why’d you look so skinny?” C’mon now. I had to get up off my ass at like two or three in the morning and pick his ass up. I brought him to the house and took him to the dentist the next day. But all his shit, all his money, everything was stolen.’