Party Time_Raving Arizona

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘I’ve built my own little crew down here,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘They started off as beach bums,’ Wild Man says. ‘They were selling fucking seashells and shit, living in huts. I gave them a few pills to sell and they moved from huts to shacks and they’re really fucking happy with me, and loyal. Loyaler than dogs when you’ve fed them steak.’

  I laugh.

  ‘How come you didn’t bring Skinner with you, la’?’ Wild Man asks.

  ‘What for, la’?’

  ‘You know what for.’

  ‘He’s scared of you. There’s no way he’ll ever come down here. Anyway, forget about Skinner for now. We’ve got the Federales, Sammy the Bull’s people and local drug dealer robbers to worry about. We need to go out and rent multiple rooms all over town, so if anything goes wrong we can move shit around fast.’

  In the evening, I take Cody, the Wild Ones, Sallywack and G Dog to dine in the old town. At a restaurant, we sit on a balcony overlooking the sea. Everyone is in a good mood – even the Wild Ones are exhibiting an unusual degree of civility – as we order local dishes and wine. A coastal breeze and the early evening sun provide the perfect temperature. We watch the Sea of Cortez, shrieking when we spot a whale surface and blow water out.

  ‘One of the funniest things I ever saw happened when we had that fight and blew the house up,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘What was it?’ I ask.

  ‘After the floor went blue with flames, I grabbed her head and we ran out. I go tell a neighbour. They phone the fire brigade. Then these two Mexicans arrive on this vehicle. One’s turning this wheel, and the other’s holding a hose with a bit of water dribbling out of it. It was like what you see in silent movies. It would have been even more funny, but there was a million-pound boat next door to us. The flames were going closer and closer to it.’

  Our table is surrounded by ancient men in black tight-fitting silver-studded charro outfits, with their heads buried in wide hats. The mariachis begin to play trumpets, violins and guitars, and burst into song, putting everyone in even higher spirits, but in the back of my mind is whether Grady will make it with the 40,000 pills. When he’s here, I can finally relax.

  The next afternoon, Wild Man goes missing for a few hours. I’m about to launch a search party when the front door of the condo bursts open. Wild Man storms in, dumps himself on the sofa and places a tiny white object wrapped in plastic on the coffee table. He unwraps it, angrily, impatiently, squinting and scowling, his eyebrows undulating like a worm on the move. Concentrating like a gemmologist, he scrutinises the contents: a white pebble. He reaches in his pocket, extracts a penknife and uses it to poke the pebble. He shaves a slither from the pebble, places it on his tongue and spits it out. His head shakes with rage. Standing up, he yells, ‘Motherfucker! Nobody rips me off! That fool sold me fake crack! Nobody fucking rips me off! I don’t give a fuck if it’s a dollar or a hundred thousand, nobody rips me off! Come on, Shaun!’

  ‘Come on, Shaun, what?’ I say, raising my brows. ‘If you’re going to beat up some crack dealer, I’d rather not be around.’

  ‘Then just drop me off there before he takes off. I won’t get you in any trouble, la’.’

  It’s the type of petty drama guaranteed to invite police attention, but saying no to Wild Man in such a mood carries its own risks. I’ll drop him off, drive away and not be involved. He’s too angry for me to talk him out of it. ‘All right. But you wait till I’m gone before you do whatever.’ Against my better judgement, I put on a bandanna and sunglasses, and drive to the main street.

  ‘There he is! Leaning against that bus stop,’ Wild Man says.

  ‘Forget it. He’s talking to la policia. And there’s more cops on the other side of the street.’ An inner voice says, Drive away quickly.

  ‘I won’t hit him while the police are there. I’ll just have words. Just pull up at the bus stop and wait for me.’

  ‘Peter, I’m trying to get E worth hundreds of thousands into America, and you want to beat this guy up over a lousy crack rock and attract all kinds of attention. Is it really fucking worth it?’

  ‘Just drop me off then, la’.’

  I’ll gladly leave him to it. I’ll be halfway down the road by the time he punches the dealer. I slow down, expecting Wild Man to jump out, but he opens the door and uses his fist combined with the momentum of the SUV to crack the dealer in the side of the head. The dealer’s skull hits a bus-stop pole with a crisp bink and the man collapses.

  ‘You fucking prick! I’m now an accessory to a drive-by assault! We’re both going to jail!’ As my foot slams the accelerator, Wild Man jumps out. Taking my chances, I speed away, watching Wild Man in my mirror, bent forward like a bear mauling the dealer, and pedestrians stopping and turning to watch. Hearing no yelling or whistling from the police, I keep going. Wild Man will surely go to jail. Cool off, calm down and bond him out.

  Wild Woman and Cody both answer the door, staring, eager for news.

  ‘He’s fucked. He attacked the guy in front of the cops. Who’ll go with the money to the jail to bail him out?’

  They are furious. Cody offers to go to the jail. We decide to wait an hour for him to be processed.

  About ten minutes later, we are still discussing Wild Man when he walks in. ‘Why the fuck did you drive off?’

  ‘You said you weren’t going to hit him, and the police were everywhere.’

  ‘Ah, bollocks! I know those fucking pigs. I talk to them all the time. I told them they needed to arrest the crack dealer for selling fake drugs, but they didn’t understand what I was saying, and they just let me walk away.’

  ‘Un-fucking-believable!’ I say.

  Students invade Rocky Point for spring break. Sammy the Bull’s workforce is more than fifty strong, mostly students peddling pills, guarded by jocks. They bring thousands of hits into Mexico from Arizona – the opposite of what I’m trying to achieve. But I need them to think I’m here for the same reason: to sell Ecstasy in Mexico. If they know I’ve got a big shipment going to Arizona, they might try to steal it, or tell robbers or cops for a piece of the action. To create the illusion I’m on a sales mission, I have dealers sell pills. Sammy the Bull’s dealers are making so much money, I don’t anticipate them robbing my workers for a hundred pills or so, risking a conflict that might damage their Mexican operation. The strategy exceeds my expectations. Motivated by the competition from my dealers, they redouble their sales effort, almost run out of pills and grow dizzy on success.

  On Saturday night, drunken students flood the main street, dancing to house music reverberating from the clubs. When women start flashing their tops, Sallywack springs into action. She ditches us and runs up the street hunting down women to kiss. One moment she has her tongue in a woman’s mouth, the next she is taking another’s top off.

  ‘She’s at it again,’ Wild Man says. ‘She’d take me around the raves, and it didn’t matter – it was irrelevant whether they were lesbian or not – an hour later they’d all be getting it on with Sallywack. Wild Woman hates it. She always says, “They’re all carpet munchers in Phoenix. It’s fucking disgusting.” I loved living with Sallywack though, la’. I’d wake up and she’d be dusting away, and all she’d have on was a little pinny.’

  Sallywack disappears into the crowd. A few minutes later, there is an explosion of cheering. A truck is inching its way through the people, with Sallywack on the back. She and another topless woman are undressing a third. She arranges her new friends into a sex simulation. The cheers grow riotous. Sallywack jumps from the truck and rejoins us.

  Seemingly out of nowhere, Mexican cops surround the truck and attempt to arrest the women. A wall of jocks pushes them back. Whistles blow. More cops arrive. A tug of war for the women ends with the jocks winning by virtue of size and numbers. Wearing only bikini bottoms and behind a shield of jocks, the women dash down the street away from the cops. But more police appear from that direction, so the women rever
se course. With cops closing in from both ends of the street, they run around two houses with a growing trail of cops catching up with them. The jocks boo and rain down beer cans as the women are arrested.

  ‘I didn’t like those stuck-up college bitches anyway!’ Sallywack says.

  At the condo, I’m anxiously waiting for Grady, who has no means of calling from the bus. When he doesn’t arrive on time, I grow concerned and send Cody looking for him. I awake the next day hoping to hear news, but no one has seen him. Finally, he arrives the following afternoon, raising my spirits.

  ‘You just pulled off the biggest mission yet,’ I say, hugging Grady.

  ‘Well done!’ Wild Man raises Grady off his feet and swings him around.

  Grady grins as if stoned. Wild Woman and G Dog hug Grady.

  ‘Your job’s done. Here’s five gangsters.’ I hand Grady $5,000 in an envelope.

  Cody comes in. ‘He doesn’t appear to have been trailed.’

  ‘OK.’ Wanting to separate Grady from the drugs in case he was spotted and reported to the Federales, I put on a bandanna and shades, pick up a cardboard box concealing the computer tower and leave the building, accompanied by a shaven-headed American fluent in Spanish whom I’m relying on to negotiate us out of any difficulties with the locals. I put the box in the back of my SUV and get in, my vision sweeping the street for cops.

  I drive, stiff, tense, hyper-aware, monitoring everything: students on both sides of the street; men in T-shirts, baggy shorts, baseball caps, sunglasses, holding bottles of Tecate beer, yelling, swaggering; women in bikinis, clutching towels and tubes of suntan lotion, sauntering, sashaying, showing off tanned limbs, drunken ones staggering; street kids pestering, promoting, joking; music blaring from every bar; cars cruising, blasting techno, tyres swirling up dust; quad bikes roaring by; a military helicopter flying low over the sea. I slow down at a junction. A warm breeze carrying the smell of fish and taco stands brushes my face. Police are directing traffic, one blowing a whistle.

  On the next road: a pharmacy mobbed by students buying drugs unavailable stateside. Further away, the crowds of people thin out. At the foot of a palm tree, a pack of dogs, half-starved, with mangy bald patches, circling, snarling.

  Everything’s going to plan. I drive down a lonely sandy road. A vehicle screeches from a side street: a white truck with a red, white and blue lightbar on its roof. It speeds up, siren wailing.

  My heart jumps to my throat. ‘He’s fucking after us, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is. Don’t sweat it. I’ll talk to him,’ my passenger says confidently.

  I pull over. Two dark uniforms strut towards us.

  ‘¿Cómo estás, señores?’ I say.

  No response.

  In Spanish, my passenger addresses them incomprehensibly fast. Shaking his head, he says, ‘They want us to get out to search us.’

  ‘Don’t they need probable cause?’ I ask, on the verge of puking.

  ‘Not in Mexico.’

  We’re fucked. I step out. My eyes seek the best direction to flee on foot. Not quite yet, but if they open the computer tower I’ll sprint. I’m disguised; they’ll never know what I look like.

  The police stare into the SUV and demand we empty our pockets.

  Trembling, I extract dollars, my driver’s licence, a shopping receipt … The money sparks an idea.

  My passenger empties his pockets. Unsatisfied, a cop puts his hand in a pocket, rummages and extracts a pill: Valium. My passenger’s Spanish speeds up, as if he’s trying to talk his way out of trouble. They cuff him.

  Me next? ‘Should I offer them $20 to let you off?’ Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum goes my heart.

  ‘Already did. They wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Yeah. Something’s not right.’

  ‘Reckon I should run for it?’

  Before he can reply, the police drag him away to their truck.

  Alone at the SUV, I’m gripped by an impulse to sprint, but I’m too frightened to move. Run, stay, run, stay …

  The police shove my passenger into the cabin. Bracing to be arrested while they search the vehicle, I’m perplexed when they both get in the truck. The engine growls. They drive away.

  I watch, trembling, my relief rising in proportion to the distance between us. I don’t want to get into the SUV. Ever. But, driven by greed for fast cash, I can’t abandon the Ecstasy. I watch them turn out of sight. Maybe it’s a set-up. My passenger’s in on it. They removed him to arrest me alone. Fuck it! Get the hell out of here! I jump into the SUV and drive, half convinced I’m getting off scot-free, half convinced I’ll be surrounded at any moment. Scouring the street for cop cars, I swivel my head, imagining them waiting around every corner.

  I park outside a hotel, next to a car belonging to a student on my payroll. I alight, thankful I haven’t been tailed. I stretch and groan with relief as my shoulders unclench. If I’ve got away with this, I’ll never transport drugs myself in Mexico again. Quickly, I transfer the tower into the trunk of the student’s car.

  I return to the condo. I bail my passenger from jail. He says someone reported my SUV to the police with instructions to arrest me. Because of his shaved head and my disguise, the police mistook him for me. They didn’t search the SUV because the Valium was all they needed to arrest the man they thought was me. The passenger called in a favour from a local with connections, and the police allowed him to be released upon receipt of the usual bribe. Why they’re after me remains a mystery. Probably out to shake down a drug dealer. I must be even more careful. I’ll delegate all handling of drugs. I’ll no longer drive the SUV until it’s time to leave. My disguise worked and I’ll maintain it.

  Sammy the Bull’s dealers sell out of Ecstasy. Spaniard sends word that he wants to buy some of mine to tide them over. Trusting Spaniard, I agree, but on my terms. He sends a female student with cash to a hotel room. G Dog takes the cash to Cody in exchange for pills and returns to complete the trade. Cody brings the cash and I store it in fake Coca-Cola cans. This is done several times.

  Towards the end of spring break, I drink some GHB and set off for a small rave in a bar Wild Man frequents, wearing a bandanna, shades and, for extra disguise, war paint.

  Outside the door, a midget panhandler with a cluster of boils like grapes on his neck smiles and says, ‘¡Hola, señores!’

  ‘¿Cómo estás, amigo?’ I give him a hit of Ecstasy.

  He stares at the pill, perplexed.

  ‘Eat it!’ Wild Man points at his open mouth. ‘It’ll make you mucho happy.’

  We enter a dark room lit by a strobe and lights over the bar, including neon palm trees and pink flamingos. We weave through people dancing and join our friends, clustered in a corner.

  ‘That giant tranny with the long hair is the Black Widow,’ Wild Man says, pointing at a tall transsexual in a skirt and make-up, with purple lips smiling slyly. ‘He lures people to hotel rooms. They wake up with their organs missing and he sells them.’

  We drink, chat and relax while watching people dance: women gyrating rhythmically to the beat, lashing hair, thrusting hips, waving arms; sweaty men swerving spasmodically, some spilling beer.

  Q approaches, frowning. ‘Sammy the Bull’s muscle boys just rolled in.’

  ‘Who? The Devil Dogs?’ Cody asks.

  ‘Big dudes.’ Q nods.

  All our heads turn. We squint towards the far side of the room. Six men. Four women. No Spaniard or friendly faces.

  ‘So much for a good night out,’ Cody says.

  ‘If we don’t start any shit, they won’t start any shit,’ I say.

  ‘What fun is that?’ Wild Man says.

  G Dog laughs.

  Over the next hour, Sammy the Bull’s gang stay in their corner, we in ours, but their number doubles. More and more arrive, eyes glazed as if high, drunk or both. When they swell to about thirty, they start casting us dirty looks.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ Cody says. ‘It’s gonna go off.’
r />   ‘Fuck that!’ Wild Man says, furrowing his brow. ‘Leaving looks weak. I don’t give a fuck how many wannabe spaghetti-head motherfuckers there are!’ he shouts, as if talking to them.

  ‘Chill, Wild Man,’ Cody says.

  ‘You’re off your fucking head, you!’ Wild Woman hisses.

  Wild Man stomps like a bull about to charge. We hold him back. It takes minutes to calm him down.

  Thirsty, I join the crowd at the bar waiting to be served.

  One of the oldest from Sammy the Bull’s gang swaggers over – stocky, short, with a round, flaky, sunburnt face. ‘English Shaun!’ he says in a raspy voice.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, widening my stance.

  ‘I’m Tom,’ he says, gripping my hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Good things, I hope.’

  ‘Was expecting you to be some big tattooed thug.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like good things.’

  He laughs.

  I take a speed pill from my pocket, chuck it into my mouth and chew it but can’t chase it as I have no drink.

  ‘English Shaun, we’re not looking to start any shit with you guys. We know you helped us out with pills. When I get back to Arizona, I’d like to sit down and talk business with you. Is there a number I can reach you at?’

  The slimy bastard’s trying to set me up. ‘I never talk on the phone,’ I croak, my mouth sandpaper dry from the speed.

  Cody walks over, grabs and escorts me back to our corner. ‘There’s two police vans outside.’

  ‘Arrr, shit! Vans mean they’re probably going to raid,’ I say.

  ‘I say we get the fuck outta here,’ Cody says.

  We head for the door.

  Coming into the bar, one of Sammy the Bull’s gang – whose neck is as wide as his head – bumps into Wild Woman.

  ‘Watch where you’re fucking going!’ Wild Man yells.

  ‘Fuck you!’ the man grunts.

  Wild Man launches a left fist at the man’s chin. He falls. Q, Cody and G Dog push Wild Man out of the bar. A friend of the man scoops him off the floor and helps him to the rest of their gang.