by Ken Bruen
Moved on to Fourth Avenue, the bars had live music, he pushed through the crowd, asked the lead singer of a country band.
“You do Tammy Wynette?”
The guy was sweating, his cowboy shirt soaked, and he stared at Dade, said,
“Get fucking real, pal.”
Dade’s mood switched, he went to the barren area of his soul without a change of expression, nodded, moved away. The guy, emboldened, shouted,
“Wynette is so, like, yesterday.”
The use of her surname inflamed Dade’s building storm, he took up a position against the wall, drink in his fist, murder in his heart. The place was hopping, people having themselves a time. The singer launched into a Garth Brooks song:
“Friends in Low Places.”
Dade fucking loathed Brooks, wondered what next? Thinking, Vince Gill?
Sure enough.
Some dirge about a gold ring. Dade drained his glass, felt the Turkey hit his gut like acid, he hailed a passing waitress, dressed in cowgirl mode, asked,
“Yo, hon, get me a tequila sunrise.”
She glared at him, snapped,
“I’m not your hon.”
His barometer hit top, Def Con 1, he’d have backhanded the bitch but he’d registered the bouncers.
Apes.
Not to be fucked with. Across the room, he felt eyes on him, his paranoia, always cooking, was at max. A blond woman but older than most of the patrons, staring at him. He was distracted by the return of the waitress, who pushed the drink at him, he asked,
“You’ll be wanting a tip?”
Her freeze thawed a bit and she nearly smiled. He added,
“Watch your mouth.”
Gulped the drink, then looked across the room, no sign of the blonde. Shit. So back to monitoring the singer. Three numbers, the guy was chugging Buds, he had to piss, right? Two Reba McEntire numbers later, the guy hopped off the stage, headed for the restroom, Dade moved. The head was outside, across a car park, Dade hung back, let the other cowboys exit then followed. The singer was zipping up, whistling. Was it Elvis’s “American Trilogy?”
Dade crushed his skull with the butt of the Walther, pulled him into a booth, rifled his jeans, a roll of twenties, two joints and a tab of acid. Dade popped it, then smashed the guy’s nose, muttering,
“Nobody, and I mean fucking no one, disses Tammy.”
He got outside, took a deep breath, saw the blonde woman at the door of the club, staring at him, a half smile playing the corners of her mouth, then she went back inside, he muttered,
“The fuck’s going on?”
And went after her. Found her at the bar, asked,
“I know you?”
She was ordering tequila shots, had the salt and lime at the ready, she asked,
“We won’t be seeing Garth Brooks for a while, am I right?”
The smile on her mouth, so he asked,
“You like Tammy Wynette?”
The woman laughed, said,
“The beat of my heart.”
Then sang the opening line to “Honey (I Miss You).”Slid a shot glass towards him, he asked,
“You wanna chow down?”
A raised eyebrow, then,
“What had you in mind?”
He went for it, said,
“Navy beans with ham over corn bread, collard greens, stewed turnips on the side, redneck cuisine.”
He leaned on the cuisine. Make-or-break-time.
She downed the shot, asked,
“The hell we waiting for?”
Linked his arm going out, he curtsied to the bouncers, said,
“Y'all have a good one.”
They gave him the steel face. He asked her,
“So hon, you got a name?”
She was right in beside him, her perfume doing jigs on his head, said,
“Sherry.”
A large bankroll consisting mainly of singles with a
hundred on the outside is called a “Michigan Roll.”
— TOM KAKONIS, Michigan Roll
A SPORTING SPECTACLE of real violence was spreading through America. Named “Toughman,” it was started by a Michigan millionaire fight promoter. Ordinary men and women, with no training, no experience, pull on gloves, headgear, climb into a ring and go for it. The prizes are not the lure, never amounts to more than fifty bucks, this keeps it at amateur level and thus free from government monitoring.
People flock to the events, at more than 130 impromptu venues across the land. Over 500,000 paid to watch last year. Four people had been killed in that period, adds to the attraction, come see some poor schmuck get his or hers, incite the fighters to extreme behaviour. A contestant, before entering the ring, signs a waiver, acknowledging the possibility of serious injury or death.
Possibility.
Paramedics are on hand but no doctors, are you kidding?
The referees are not required to prove experience in the craft.
Dade spent three days holed up with Sherry. Booze, sex, dope, and Tammy. He never even got a chance to be vaguely homicidal. She'd a villa near a motel called the Lazy 8. He asked,
“How come you live in a house, there's a dude ranch in like, spitting distance?”
She'd given him a look, part amusement, part irked, said,
“A girl needs privacy.”
Which he thought was rich, she hadn't worn a stitch for three days. Now she was pulling on track gear and he asked,
“You jog?”
Answered out of the corner of her mouth, a cig going on the other end, said,
“Yeah, right.”
Then added,
“I look like I'm from where, stupid town?”
He was getting dangerously low on speed, the ants gnawing at his nerve ends, his teeth grinding, his left eye giving an involuntarily twitch, she asked,
“You like to fight?”
She kept doing that, coming at him from left field. He was up, pacing, said,
“I've had a few,”
Yeah, like duh.
And he near sang,
“But then again, too few too.”
She ordered,
“Get your ride, we're going to a rumble.”
Gave him directions to an area outside the city limits. He'd Tammy on the speakers, with “Please Come to Boston”. When he saw the line of cars, pickups, Harleys, he thought it was a concert but said nothing. Parked next to a couple of hogs, glanced at her, a wild excitement in her eyes. Hundreds of people, electricity in the air. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him through and he saw a makeshift ring, two guys walloping the crap out of each other, he said,
“Boxing.”
A touch of spittle on her lip, she gasped,
“Way more than that.”
The bout ended when one of the guys went down. The ring was cleared and the referee shouted,
“Next up is Kate the Kat, all the way from Noo Orleans.”
A black girl, early twenties, in shorts, T, and sneakers, hopped into the ring. She was fit, athletic, looked like she worked out. A lot. Sherry asked,
“Like that?”
“She's fit.”
Sherry sniggered, said,
“I'm so going to whup her black ass.”
Before he could squeal,
“What?”
The referee asked who was willing to step to the plate, get themselves fifty bucks, Sherry's hand was waving and to the cheers of the crowd, she climbed into the ring. Dade shook his head, she was an itsy bitsy thing, sure she had spunk but the nigger would chew her ass. Sherry was pulling the gloves on and to the roars of the crowd, refused the protective helmet. The referee blew a whistle and they went at it. Any other time, Dade would have got off on chicks mixing it. But this was a Tammy acolyte, not too many no more. The ones who'd held the torch longest were beginning to desert to Dolly Parton.
How sad was that?
Sherry was taking a beating. Once, twice, the black girl caught her smack in the kisser. A hillbilly beside Dade, nud
ged him in the ribs, said,
“Yer gal, she's getting thrashed.”
You poked Dade in the ribs, you better be carrying, but he was too distracted. A guy was making book at the side, all the green going on the black chick, Dade put a twenty on her his own self, might as well get something for the trip.
Ouch, Sherry took a sucker to the gut, staggered, the crowd chanted,
“Give it up, girl.”
Dade didn't think she'd last the round. The black was grinning, easiest fifty she'd ever earn plus she got to kick white ass. The bell went, Sherry retreated to her corner, Dade fought his way through, said,
“Babe, give it up, she's killing you.”
And Sherry smiled, blood pouring from her mouth, gasped,
“You think so, huh?”
Then added,
“Put two large on me, to win.”
He did, reluctantly, and the bookie gave him a look of pity.
ROUND 2
THE BLACK GIRL did a little dance, then a tap routine in the centre of the ring, the crowd loving it. Sherry looked at Dade, said,
“Bring it on, bitch.”
Made her way into the centre, swaying slightly, as if she was about to drop, the black girl put her hands on her lips, sneered,
“Forgot your lip gloss, mama?”
And was lifted clear off her feet by a left hook from Sherry, the clean crunch of her jaw breaking, a collective gasp from the crowd, especially Dade.
That's all she wrote.
Flat on her back, a moan trying to form. Sherry stood over her, planted a dainty foot on her belly, looked up, said,
“White power.”
The crowd erupted, wild screaming, roars of approval, the referee pulled Sherry off, her mouth streaming blood, counted out the black, Sherry demanded,
“Where's my fifty bucks?”
Coming out of the ring, the hillbilly passed her a bottle of shine, she put it on its head, drank deep, then shouted,
“Nigrah in her place.”
More acclaim, she took another swig then hurled the shine over the crowd, blessing them in hooch and bigotry. Dade collected his winnings, the bookie, stunned, went,
“What a pistol.”
Dade, grin ear to ear, pulled her into his vehicle. Could feel the adrenaline burning off her, she said,
“Let's fuck.”
They did.
Then to Denny's, ordered steaks and grits, he'd brought along a batch of Coors. Sherry still in her bloodied gear, the waitress staring wide eyed. Dade raised his bottle, said,
“You had me going there.”
His prick still ached from the sex, Sherry stabbed at her split lip, said,
“I had help.”
“What?”
She opened her right hand, a chunk of lead in there. Dade whistled, acknowledged,
“Babe, you've got you some moves.”
Later, in the villa, downing shots of bourbon, Sherry, her mouth coming off his dick, asked,
“Think you could waste a dude for me?”
He shrugged, asked,
“What he'd do?”
“Gut shot my old man.”
Dade drained his glass, asked,
“You miss him, huh, your old man?”
Her mouth turned down, she spat,
“He was a cocksucker.”
Then she hit the shower, singing, if he wasn't mistaken,
“Blanket on the Ground.”
If he wasn't hitting a speed burn he'd have joined her, his body was going into tremens, she came out, buck naked, looked at him, asked,
“You hurtin’, baby?”
“What?”
“Got yourself a dose of the crank blues, a little short maybe?”
Yet again she was out of left field, he decided to fess up, said,
“Yeah, some, my um, meds are a little low, not like I'm some kind of lame addict bu you know.”
Sherry had pulled on a black halter top, not as tight as skin but akin to strangulation, then sat on the bed to pull on tight white jeans, finally she stood, cocked a hip, asked,
“What you need, fellah? I got, uppers, downers, sidewinders, ludes, crystal, jitter bugs, black beauties, white juice . . . “
And stopped.
He didn't know if she was yanking his chain, had never heard of some of these, asked,
“You yanking my chain?
She checked her boobs in the mirror, juggled around to get them up and frisky, said,
“I never kid about dope.”
He had to know, asked,
“Where'd you get them?”
And she turned, her eyes with a cold slant, said,
“My old man was in the business, let's say I took some samples.”
He was delighted, went,
“Bring it on.”
She did.
A black vanity case, opened it, his jaw dropped. In alphabetical order, neatly arranged, more dope than in a Hunter S. Thompson trip. She went to S, pulled out some cellophane, dumped a rash of pills on the bed. He was mesmerised, said,
“Let's start at A.”
She shut the case, put a finger to her lips, said,
“Sh . . . sh, God doesn't like greedy boys.”
He dry popped a pill, crushed it with his prison molars, tasted the acrid bent, asked,
“Like you believe in God?”
Kidding, gently fucking with her, lust in his blood, he could play around and she gave the answer that bought his soul, said,
“He gave us Tammy Wynette, what's not to believe?”
He gave the only answer available:
“Amen, sister.”
On the Sonoran Desert in Arizona, sixteen Titan II
missiles bearing nuclear warheads stood through
the Cold War in a circle of power around the city of
Tucson.
— DENIS JOHNSON, Seek: Reports from the Edges of
America and Beyond
A DAY LATER, Dade went to La Quinta, checked out, he'd tops . . . spent half an hour there. The manager looked at the dollar bills and Dade went,
“Got a problem, buddy?”
Let just a little edge slide into his tone.
The man, from Baja, sighed, said,
“We, how you say, anticipate credit card?”
Dade liked the dude, the way his hands shook as he handled the crumpled bills, with obvious distaste, Dade went on the offensive, not feeling it but just for practice, growled,
“What, you have a lot of American Express in Wetback-ville or where ever the fuck you crawled out of, huh, that it, you implying there's something with my cash money, with the currency of these here UNITED STATES . . . ?”
Roared the latter, spittle flying out to land on the guy's collar, the guy eyeing it but hadn't the balls to wipe it, he'd
given one brief look into Dade's eyes and that was plenty, said,
“No, ees fine. I get you receipt.”
Dade fired up a Lucky, his usual Kools had run out, no smoking decals were all over the lobby, Dade said,
“What you can get me, amigo, is a reduction. I never even slept in the goddamn room.”
The manager split the bundle in two, moved one wedge to Dade. Picking up the cash, Dade said,
“You could pass for white, fellah, I tell you, bro, I run into you at any of the watering holes, I'll let you buy me a brewski, how does that work for you, that grease your wheels?”
The manager thought if he ever saw Dade again, he'd head for the hills. He said,
“Buena suerte.”
“Yeah, like, whatever.”
Back at the villa, he heard Tammy with “Apartment Number Nine” . . . he loved that tune. He was feeling something totally alien, he was feeling admiration, for Sherry. It was not a concept he had much trade with, his norm, if such a term could be applied to a stone killer, was gratification and aggression. What he wanted, he wanted now and if heads got bent in the process, then all the better.
Sherry brought him to a low dive
, the kind of place that catered to the outcast, spit on the floor, blood on the counter, a happening joint.
Plus, it had a jukebox, oh Lordy, cranking out, Hank Williams, AC/DC, Kid Rock, White Stripes, Vegas, and yes, Herself, Tammy.
What they call . . . an eclectic mix.
Sherry was explaining to him the formula for Long Island Tea, that type of rap, where logic never darkened the flow, he listened then sneered,
“Fucking yuppie shit.”
She was looking across the bar, a bunch of renegades mixing it with some Mexicans, you could tell one of the parties was on Crystal, the body language shouted blood. She turned to Dade, asked,
“You ever hook up before?”
For the thousandth time, he'd reply as he near always did to her with the tiresome,
“What?”
Like some broken down parrot who'd squawk the one word and squander it mercilessly. She was on Easy Times, the bottle on the table, that kind of place and it was sliding down smooth, she said,
“You ever buddy up, like, have a partner?”
He felt he was a level up, a bottle of Makers near his Zippo, nice as a Democrat and he laughed,
“What, I've got one now?”
The what word still in currency.
She let it cruise, waited.
Dade had never shared, never was long enough with anyone to tell them details. But Sherry had him turned inside out and to his amazement, he began,
“Time ago, a woman, Karen with two kids, separated from Glen, her old man, I was with her for like . . . “
Jeez, how long, he couldn't recall. The woman had been hurting and he slid in there, Mr. Nice Guy, all laid-back concern, no push, chilled, and she'd bought it. Hadn't moved into her home but real close. Took Ben, the kid, for ball practice, came to really connect with the boy, started to believe it was his kid, the battered mitt, he imagined it had been in the family for generations. The girl, though, now okay, some problems there. She never took to him. He'd given her a CD of Tammy and the cunt went,
“She's like, old.”
Let that go, treated the mom like fucking royalty. He'd been having the time of his life, buying fully into the whole scenario. One day, in the park, the picnic, the whole nine, gingham table cloth, Tupperware, fried chicken, apple pie (home baked).