by TJ Vargo
Angel walked around the bed, pushed the call button for the nurse and grabbed Julia’s arm, rushing her out of the room. He whispered, “Just keep walking,” as he led Julia to the elevator. A doctor rode down in the elevator with them, keeping Julia quiet, but once they got to the ground floor she started talking. It wasn’t easy. Angel was moving fast.
“So are you going to tell me what the note said?” said Julia breathlessly, breaking into a near-jog to keep up with Angel.
“Sonny didn’t hang himself,” said Angel. “Someone else did.” The anger in his face was gone, replaced by a blank, emotionless mask.
“Who?” asked Julia, barely getting on the motorcycle before Angel fired it up. She clasped her hands around his stomach as he put the bike into gear, tearing out of the parking lot.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Angel over the roar of the motorcycle. “I got it under control.”
Julia hung on. Angel was a stone monster brought to life. Turning the handlebars when they needed turning. Putting his feet down when they stopped. Shifting bang bang through the gears as he raced through the streets. But something inside him was frozen. He was on autopilot.
She laid her cheek against his back and hugged him tight as he pulled around the back of his garage. It would be a stretch to say Angel was scared of anything, but whatever was on his mind, she could see it had him freaked out.
“You have to get off,” he said, coming to a stop. “I need to do something.”
“I want to go with you,” she said, locking her hands around his chest.
“You can’t. Get off.”
She got off. “Wait,” she said, grabbing Angel’s arm. She reached in her pocket and pulled out his rubber hair tie. She pulled his hair back into a ponytail, banded it and backed away. “When are you coming back?” she said.
“Soon,” said Angel. “Just wait inside and don’t open the door for anyone but Curtis or his dad.” He held out his hand.
She grabbed it.
“Curtis is lucky he found you,” he said.
Then his hand slipped away and he was gone.
Julia went inside the garage, made sure every door was locked, and went into the lobby. She sat on a stool. Slivers of sunlight squeezed through the slats of the blinds covering the front window. She stared at the blinds and waited.
Hours crawled by. Whether she was pacing or sitting on the stool or humming to herself, she never took her eyes off the window. Her stomach was growling and she had to pee when she heard someone drive into the parking lot.
Whoever it was, he came in too fast, rubber squealing, followed by the sound of a metal on metal collision. Pieces and parts rattled over asphalt. Julia ran over to the blinds, peering through to the parking lot. She unlocked the front door and ran toward Curtis’s father lying half in and half out of Angel’s wrecked Camaro. The car was in drive, still idling with its bumper wrapped around a streetlamp. Steam billowed from under the hood.
She kneeled next to him. “Are you okay?” she said. Not getting a reply, she reached in the car to pull his legs out. He mumbled some kind of gibberish. “I dint ay nuffin”—whatever that meant. She looked around. The street and sidewalk was empty. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she pulled him away from the car, stepped over him and got in the driver’s seat. There was a terrible screeching sound as she put the car in reverse, trying to back it off the streetlamp. She stomped on the gas. One side of the bumper clunked on the ground as the car pulled free. It dragged the asphalt, making a horrible racket as she backed up and pulled into a parking space.
She got out of the car and looked at Curtis’s dad. He turned on his side and puked. An empty bottle of vodka rolled out from under him, clinking across the parking lot. If he drank all that he probably needed to be in the hospital. But she couldn’t leave—she had to wait for Curtis and Angel. The best he’d get was the couch inside.
She walked across the parking lot, hoping she didn’t have to carry him.
Chapter Forty-Five
Cracker watched the car approach Angel Silva’s garage in his side rearview mirror. One of them old muscle cars. Camaro. GTO. Firebird. Who the hell knew? Some old motorhead boys back home got all jazzed up about that kind of thing. Didn’t make much sense to him. Cars got you where you were going, just like a roof kept the rain off your head, food filled your belly, and clothes kept you warm. All necessary things, except for wearing clothes. If he had it his way, people would walk around naked when it was hot. It just made common sense.
He crumbled the wrapper of the protein bar he was eating and watched the car park on the curb half a block back. An old man got out and looked up and down the street before locking the door and starting toward Angel’s garage. Cracker threw the wrapper into the footwell, opened the door on his truck and stepped out.
“You cut your hair and beard?” he said, stepping toward the man.
The man stopped and squinted at Cracker. “You talking to me?” he said.
“Just asking a simple question,” said Cracker, closing the distance between them in three long strides. He tilted his head. “Yeah. You’re him. I can tell from the picture of your son. You bear a resemblance. Why’d you get all cleaned up?”
Mickey tried to step back. Cracker grabbed his arm.
“Whoa, whoa. Where you going?” Cracker said. He ducked under Mickey’s punch and slid behind him, slipping a forearm under Mickey’s chin. “You need to calm down,” he said, choking him.
Sonny, who just came out of a coma, put up a better fight. This was pathetic. The grunting and shuffling went on for ten seconds at most. Then the old drunk Mickey Monroe gave up the ghost. Cracker held the pressure long enough to put him in twilight, then carried him over to his truck and jammed him into the passenger seat. The old man came out of it pretty quick but the shuttered GM plant wasn’t that far away. Old Mickey barely had time to form an argument before they were inside the factory gate.
“Who are you? Where we going?” said Mickey, straightening in his seat.
Cracker parked next to the factory. He cut the engine and nodded at Mickey. “This is your lucky day,” he said. “Look what I got for you. Right there by your feet.”
The sound Mickey made when he picked up the whiskey bottle was less than enthusiastic. Mickey’s attempt to open his door was, however, very lively. Cracker watched Mickey fumble with the lock, pull the handle and kick the door open. Cracker didn’t move a muscle. There was no one in earshot of this factory. The old boozer could get out, run a bit and burn off some adrenaline, which would probably make him more pliable to a discussion about the whereabouts of his pain-in-the-ass ghost of a son. He’d drink his booze, whether he wanted to or not, get his tongue all greased up and spill everything he knew about where his son might be hiding. But Mickey surprised Cracker. He didn’t run. What he did do, however, was uncalled for.
The old drunken bum got out, lifted that bottle of whiskey over his head—that brand new unopened bottle—and smashed it on the pavement.
“Now why would you do that?” said Cracker. Getting no answer except for a defiant stare, Cracker got out, walked around the hood, grabbed a hold of Mickey and pushed him against the truck.
“I can see where your son gets his stupid from,” said Cracker. He shoved Mickey to the pavement, turned his back on him and went back to the truck, feeling around under the passenger seat. “Don’t get up or I will break all the fingers on one of your hands,” he said, grabbing the bottle of vodka. It made a glugging sound as he pulled it out and raised it high. “Well lookey here,” he said. “A backup bottle. How bout that? It’s your lucky day. Now get up and walk over to that door over there. We’re going inside. You can walk or I can drag you by your ear. Don’t matter either way to me.”
Mickey walked in. It wasn’t easy making him drink—for some as yet to be determined reason, he didn’t cotton to drinking today—but it wasn’t altogether hard to get him drunk either. Pinning him flat on his back, Cracker kneeled on his arms and held a hand over
his nose and mouth. Eventually, Mickey’s eyes bugged out and he began grunting for air. That’s when he got himself a chance to breath and drink. It was the only way to get the vodka down him. Took ten minutes to get the whole bottle in him, but in the end Mickey reached a highly relaxed state of mind. Old drunks were highly tolerant of their alcohol. Problem was, that much booze cut the timeline to talk down to nothing. So Cracker worked fast. He drained the last of the bottle into Mickey’s gasping mouth and got off him, rolling the bottle across the floor. He walked around Mickey and toed him with his boot.
“I’ll keep it simple,” he said. “Only want to know if you’ve seen your son, Curtis.”
Stinking of vodka, Mickey tried to sit up. Cracker put a heel in his face and pushed him back down.
“No sir,” he said. “You stay right where you are. Don’t want you throwing up. That bottle cost me five bucks. You stay down and you keep it down or I’ll go to work on you. Now what about Curtis? You see him around any? Anybody talking like they seen that boy?”
“Curtis?” said Mickey. “I, uh, what?”
Cracker lowered to one knee and jabbed a finger between Mickey’s eyes.
“You best start using your faculties, while you still have them,” said Cracker. He made a fist, punched Mickey in the forehead and stood, watching him hold his head and roll back and forth.
“He doesn’t talk to me,” yelled Mickey. “I’m a drunk. I’m nothing to him.”
Cracker stepped on Mickey’s shoulder and put his weight down. “Stop flopping around. I know you’re a nothing. Everybody in town knows that. What I don’t know is where that son of yours might go to hole up. Can you provide any insight into that?”
“He, uhhh, shwait a minute. Lesh me tink,” slurred Mickey.
Cracker stomped on his shoulder. Mickey screamed. “You ain’t that drunk yet,” he shouted. “I better hear something fast or I will pop one of your eyes out the socket. Now tell me what you know and don’t lie or it will go bad for you and your eyeball.”
“I swear,” yelled Mickey. “He hasn’t talked to me in years. The last I heard, he had an apartment at Sunset Boulevards. It’s been seven years since I talked to him.”
Cracker bent over Mickey. He pressed the tip of his index finger under Mickey’s right eye and pushed. Mickey tried to push his hand away. Cracker slapped Mickey in the face and kneeled, whispering in Mickey’s ear as he ran his finger around Mickey’s eye.
“Touch my hand again and I will surely pop your eye outta your head. Now straighten up, cowboy. I’m just gonna ask a couple more questions, you hear?”
Mickey nodded.
“Does Curtis have any friends in town?”
Mickey shook his head.
“Oh, that’s not being honest,” said Cracker, kneeling on Mickey’s chest and jamming his finger under Mickey’s eye.
“None are around anymore,” yelled Mickey. “Jackie Fitzsimmons and Sonny Bomba were his only real friends. Fitz, I mean Jackie, left town. Sonny’s in the hospital in a coma.”
Cracker took the pressure off his finger and looked down on Mickey. That eye was a hair away from coming out before the old drunk spouted the truth. Most likely, Mickey now knew playtime was over. One more test, however, to make sure. That girl next door to Curtis, Julia Adriani, no one in town knew about her. He ran his finger around Mickey’s red eye, listening to him breathe all shaky, vodka fumes pouring out of him with every breath. There was one way to find out if the old drunk was talking the truth.
He’d ask him if Curtis had a girlfriend. If he said yes, he’d ask him her name.
If Mickey knew Curtis’s girl was Julia, then the old drunk was trying to pull the wool over his eyes—he’d been in touch with Curtis. And he’d lose an eye for not fessing up to that. On the other hand, if he said Curtis didn’t have a girlfriend, then he’d also be lying, cause everyone knew Curtis and Mona Bomba had been an item. He’d lose an eye for that too. Lying would not be tolerated. The only way this old drunk was keeping his eyes would be to answer honest. Cracker pressed his finger under Mickey’s eyelid, watching his eye bulge.
“Now don’t think too much with this next question,” said Cracker. “I’ll ask, you answer. You try to spin it, your eye’s out and I’ll step on it for good measure. Get me?”
“Yeah,” whimpered Mickey.
“Does Curtis have a girlfriend?”
Mickey hesitated. Cracker pressed down. “I told you what I’d do if you didn’t answer right off,” said Cracker.
“But I don’t know how to answer that,” yelled Mickey. “He had a girlfriend, but I don’t know if they go out anymore.”
“What’s her name?” said Cracker, pushing harder.
“Sonny’s sister!” screamed Mickey. “Mona!”
“Would he stay with her?’
“No! Yes! I don’t know. She’s crazy. There’s no telling with Mona. She might either screw him or kill him if he showed up. Maybe both.”
Cracker clenched his teeth. “You swear you haven’t heard one word from him or about where he’s hiding?”
“No. I’d tell you. I don’t owe Curtis nothing. He hates me. I got nothing for him. I’m a waste of life.”
Cracker hissed and slowly backed the pressure off Mickey’s eye. He stood, brushed his pants off and held a hand out.
“What are you doing?” said Mickey, panting as he looked at Cracker’s hand.
“I’m helping you up, what’s it look like?”
Cracker pulled Mickey to his feet. He put an arm around him, holding him steady while he shepherded him toward the door. “Hold your water,” he said, propping Mickey against the door and running back into the factory. He came back holding the empty bottle of vodka and handed it to Mickey. “This is yours,” said Cracker. “I don’t like people that litter.”
By the time he’d driven Mickey back to his car, Cracker could see that the bottle of rotgut vodka was punishing the old drunk. Mickey couldn’t sit up straight. He swayed back and forth in his seat. When Cracker stopped his truck and pulled Mickey out, it was as if the man had no bones. He wobbled all over the place. It took a lot to keep him upright while Cracker rummaged through his pockets for the keys to his gray primered muscle car. Pouring Mickey into the front seat was an adventure. He kept sliding down the seat and mumbling something, but Cracker knew deciphering it would take a better man than him. Cracker leaned into the car over Mickey, wrinkling his nose at the smell of alcohol. It burned the hair out of his nostrils. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine caught with a throaty rumble.
“Drive careful now,” said Cracker, mussing Mickey’s hair. He spun on his heels and looked at his truck. “Wait a second, you forgot something.” He ran over to grab the empty vodka bottle off the truck’s floorboard. Mickey head snapped up as he shoved the bottle between his thighs.
“I dint ay nuffin,” said Mickey.
Cracker patted him on the cheek. He reached over, put the car in drive and stepped back to watch the Camaro lurch forward toward Angel’s garage. He got in his truck and was driving toward Duck’s when he heard the crash.
Mickey hadn’t put him any closer to Curtis, but sharing time with the old drunk was enjoyable. When he checked in with Duck to let him know how things were progressing, he might even tell him the details of he and Mickey’s meeting. It was always good to let an employer know what he was getting for his money.
Cracker parked in front of Duck’s and walked up the driveway. Some inconsiderate jackass had parked his motorcycle on the walkway leading to the front door. Cracker thought about pushing the bike over, but walked across the front lawn instead. The man that parked there didn’t care that he was interfering with other people’s pathway to the front door. Selfish bastard. After talking with Duck, it would be appropriate to inquire about the owner of the motorcycle. Whoever the boy was, he was gonna be rubbing a knot on his head.
He opened the front door and heard Duck in a heated conversation. Stepping into the house, he studied th
e situation. Duck sat at the head of the table. Some big old boy with a ponytail was bent over, hands on the table, getting in Duck’s face. Duck’s eyes lit up as he looked at Cracker.
“Here’s the gentleman you need to talk to,” said Duck.
Cracker watched the big boy with the ponytail turn around.
“Joe Cracker Jones, meet Angel Silva,” said Duck, smiling.
“You an Indian?” said Cracker. “You look like one.”
“Angel is upset,” said Duck. “A friend of his, Sonny Bomba, hung himself in the hospital.”
“Is that right?” said Cracker. He tilted his head and stared at Angel. The big boy returned his stare. He wasn’t happy. Not at all.
“And Angel thinks I have something to do with it,” said Duck. “Some crazy notion about me putting a hit out on Curtis Monroe and having his friends killed until Curtis turns himself over to me. I’ve explained that I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he won’t listen.”
“You the guy he hired to kill Curtis?” said Angel.
“Uh huh,” said Cracker. He pointed toward the front door. “That your motorcycle out there?”
“Yeah,” said Angel.
“It was in my way,” said Cracker.
Angel turned to Duck. “You gonna call him off, or do I have to get involved?”
Duck held up his hands. “This is between you and Mr. Jones. Talk it over with him.”
The first thing Angel did was interesting. Cracker liked it. Angel was a big boy, and big boys usually stepped right in and started winging punches. But Angel just stretched his left hand way out there, showing his palm like he was giving a blessing, and edged closer. And when his hand got in touching distance, Angel stopped. The boy was measuring him. Getting a feel for where he could throw punches and still be able to jump back and avoid counters. It was a pleasure watching him do it. Cracker stepped forward and watched Angel slide back a step, maintaining his safe distance. Definitely a fighter. Problem was, although he looked to be a fighter with skills, Cracker was sure that Injun Joe didn’t know what he was getting into.