by W L Ripley
“Because,” said Chick, “by then it’ll all be over. Either we eat the bear or the bear eats us.”
TWENTY-ONE
Fast Eddie’s Drive-in was a time warp—a piece of fifties Americana with a face-lift. Red-and-yellow neon. Carhops in letter sweaters. Speed bumps. I half expected Frankie and Annette to drive up in a two-seater T-bird.
I pulled into a parking slab and a girl with braces, hair pulled back in a ponytail, stuck a card with the number 7 under my wiper blade. She wore a satin-sheen jacket with Fast Eddie’s scripted across the back. Chantilly lace. The autumn air was cool but not cold. I ordered a chocolate shake and a double cheeseburger. Wasn’t really hungry but the atmosphere demanded it. Chick ordered a cherry 7-up. That is, a 7-up with cherry syrup poured in it and not mixed at the factory. We were too cool to school.
“This I like,” Chick said.
“You see anybody looks like a puke drug dealer?” I asked.
“Only suspicious-looking people I see are you and me.”
We waited. A carload of teenagers pulled up in an old Camaro, its rear fenders crusted with rust and a large decal emblazoned across the rear window—AC/DC. Heavy metal music belched from the car at a decibel level to stir dust on the moon.
There were four of them. All males in their late teens, smoking cigarettes and wearing denim jackets with the names of quasi-satanic rock groups on them. They got out of the car and sat on its hood.
“Aha, Watson,” I said. “A lead. Slip your Wembley into your pocket, old chum, these are deep waters.”
Chick groaned. “We’re not going to talk to these zombies, are we?”
“Life is experiential.”
We got out of the Bronco. The Camaro was parked on Chick’s side. They were bopping their heads in time to the music and talking loudly so everyone would know they were there. As we walked toward them, they stopped talking and glared at us. I tried not to drop dead with terror. A long way from Frankie and Annette.
“Hey, fellas,” I said, having to yell it to be heard. “Got a minute? I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Whatchu want, man?” said the biggest of the group, a sandy-haired kid with an earring through his nose. Very chic. He had a John Cougar Mellencamp haircut, a leather jacket, and black Levi’s over scuffed shit-kicker cowboy boots. I think he was attempting some sort of fashion statement. Either that, or his other clothes had been destroyed in a fire.
“You know a guy named Frankie Crisp?” I asked, still yelling.
“Maybe,” he said. His cigarette, which was stuck to his lower lip, dangled as he spoke. I wondered how long it had taken him to get that down. “What’s it to ya? You a narc?”
I looked at Chick. He was leaning against the Camaro. “It’s your wardrobe,” Chick said. “You look like one.”
“I’m not a cop,” I said. “And…could I get you to turn that down? I can hardly hear what I think I’m saying.”
“Tough fuckin’ shit,” he slurred at me.
“Country charm,” I said to Chick. “Love it.”
“Can’t get enough of it,” Chick said. He reached into the Camaro and shut the key off. The silence was immediate and wonderful.
“Hey, asshole,” said Ringnose, the trained baboon. “Get the fuck away from my sled, man.” Then, turning to one of his lieutenants, he said, “Joe, turn that shit back on.”
Chick straightened back out of the car. “Whoops,” he said. “Look at this.” The keys dangled from his fingers. “Must’ve got stuck to my hands. Guess you’ll need these to turn it on again, huh?” Joe looked at Chick and hesitated. He was smarter than he looked. He had to be. “You can have ’em in a minute, junior. Soon as you answer my associate’s question.”
“Whadda we do, Chet?” Joe asked the guy with the ring in his nose. Chet got off the hood and unfolded his arms. I forgot to faint when he did.
“Man, I don’t gotta tell you nothin’,” he said to me.
“That’s a double negative, Chet,” I said. “Can’t believe a classy uptown guy like you wouldn’t know better. Good grammar is the cornerstone of polite society.”
“There’s four of us,” said Chet, obstinate.
“We can wait while you get reinforcements,” offered Chick.
“We don’t want any trouble,” I said. “Just ask you a couple of questions, that’s all. Then we’ll go on our way and you can go back to scratching your pelts and picking fleas off each other.”
“I don’t have to take any shit off you, old man.”
I was tired of his dirty mouth, but I didn’t want to get into a physical altercation with a bunch of kids, no matter how big they were, and they were plenty big enough. The waitress bustled over to us with our order. I told her to put it on the hood of the Bronco. I gave her five dollars and told her to keep the change. She smiled and thanked me, then started to walk away. Before she could, though, Chet reached out and pinched her cute little bottom.
“Stop it, Chet,” she said, her face red.
“Just checking the groceries,” he said. “Got something else for you, too.” He patted his zipper. “Right here.” Mr. Enchantment.
“Ah, youth,” said Chick.
“Wasted on the young, I’ve heard,” I said. Chet didn’t know when to quit. He reached out and grabbed the girl by her arm and cupped one of her breasts with a hand. She tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
“Whadda you say, sweet stuff? Gimme a little of it. Do you right. You just let—”
I reached out and grabbed his nose between my thumb and forefinger, getting the ring in there also. I pinched and squeezed, twisting downward as I did, pulling his face down to the hood of his car. The hood was warm under my hand. He squawked in pain and surprise, arms flailing at the air.
“Don’t move, guys,” Chick said to the other three.
I had Chet’s ugly face sideways on the hood, his arms down along his sides. He was unable to get any leverage to move. He tried to move his right arm and wrench away, but I dug a palm above the back of his left elbow, pinning that arm to the car. I gave his nose another squeeze. A hard one. I was enjoying it, which made me worry about myself.
“I’ve had about enough of your crummy behavior,” I said. “So let’s make a deal. Let’s say I don’t want any more bad language and rough treatment of this girl, and let’s say you don’t become Rudolph, the red-nosed hood ornament.”
“Muthah fuck—” I twisted the nose, once more interrupting him. This time the scream was pain, exploding from his mouth.
“You’re not listening. This is the part of being a tough guy you don’t know anything about. Sooner or later somebody comes along who is tougher than you. That someone is there for all of us. Don’t go looking for him.”
“By doze,” he said, nasally. “You’re hurdig by doze.”
“Where’s Frankie?”
“Let go, I’ll tell you.”
I released my hold and he stood up, rubbing his nose. “Shit, my nose hurts.”
“Sorry. You dealt it.” I was a real tough guy, beating up on teenagers at a burger hangout. Maybe Archie and Jughead would swing by later and I could bang their heads together. “You haven’t answered me yet.”
He looked at his buddies, then at the ground. Rubbed his nose some more. The sneer was gone from his face. I had emasculated him in front of his disciples. No way to tell this one where he would look good. Probably some poor high school kid would suffer some indignity so Chet could restore his lost honor in front of his disciples. Didn’t help me much, though. I still felt like a bully.
“He’s s’posed to meet us here,” he said, his eyes avoiding his friends. He sniffed. A dollop of blood retreated back into his nostrils.
“When?”
“Three o’clock.” I looked at my watch. Two-fifty. “Don’t tell ’im I told,” he said. He put his hand to his nose and then looked at the blood on his hand.
“You be nice to the girl.” I indicated the carhop with a nod. “From now on you�
�re Prince Valiant around her. Got it? I’ll be back to check it out. Now, saddle up and get out of here.”
Chick surrendered the keys and they piled into the Camaro without a word. They limped out of the parking lot. Even forgot to peel rubber when they did. They just don’t make juvenile delinquents like they used to. Can’t learn attitude playing Nintendo.
We watched them drive away. Chick said, “Feel bad ’cause you roughed up the punk?”
“They were kids.”
“Yeah. Some kids. Three of ’em were packing knives. There was booze and dope in the car. They were sweethearts. Probably friends of Wally and the Beaver. Boy Scouts.” He paused to light a cigarette. “They were abusing the girl, Wyatt. Somebody’s daughter. Y’think if you asked nice he’d have stopped?” He shook his head. “Forget ’em. They weren’t the Osmond Brothers.”
“Not the Manson family, either.”
“He had it coming.”
“It doesn’t bother me that I did it,” I said. “It bothers me that I enjoyed it.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. Something we can’t afford with people like Willie Boy Roberts. You can’t play fair with these guys. You’re not Gary Cooper, and this ain’t the movies. Sooner or later you get your armor smudged.” His voice became low and strained. Something inside him, long buried, had extinguished the sparkle in his eyes. “I know. You can want it to be just and true. But you play by the rules and the pukes bend ’em. Hell, sometimes the good guys bend ’em. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. Can’t keep up if you don’t give ’em what they deserve once in a while.”
I picked up my chocolate shake. Didn’t taste like it did when I was a kid.
Chick said, “That’s why you quit playing football, wasn’t it?”
I swished the straw around in the ice cream. “Part of it, maybe.”
He smoked his cigarette, and I brushed dust from the hood of the Camaro off my jacket sleeve. He looked down the street.
He said, “The errors of a wise man make the rules for a fool.”
“Shakespeare again?”
“J. Robbie Robertson.”
“Oh.”
“The white hat shit don’t play in the sewer, Wyatt. If you’re gonna play it that way, then leave it alone. Go home.”
“Too late for that,” I said.
“What I figured,” he said.
TWENTY-TWO
Frankie Crisp arrived fashionably late. He was driving a blood-red Trans-Am financed by the youth of Paradise County. Crisp pulled across two parking slots, squealing his brakes, his stereo rumbling from within the sanctuary of crimson paint and tinted glass. The vanity plate, CRISPY 1, gave him away.
“Subtle, isn’t he?” said Chick.
“Maybe ‘I’m a lowlife drug dealer’ wouldn’t fit on the license plate,” I said. Crisp rolled down a tinted window to talk to the carhop, the same one who’d waited on us. We opened our doors and strolled over to his car. As we neared, the carhop looked at us. I smelled raw gasoline and hot grease in the air.
“You two again?” the girl said. “Now what?”
“We’re gonna clean up this one-horse town, little missy,” Chick said.
She smiled and walked past us, bounced up onto the walkway and back into the restaurant. Back to her short orders and hamburger daydreams.
We walked up to the Trans-Am. Chick knocked on the top of the car and said, “Hey, Frankie, what’s happening?”
Frankie looked up. I saw the faint snatches of yellow-green under his left eye and lower lip, a fading reminder not to sell drugs to Cal Simmons’s sister. Frankie was a better-looking guy than I’d expected. Like Rob Lowe, only creepier. Longish, wispy hair. Crucifix earring dangling from an ear. He was dressed expensively, if not well. Rolex watch, leather bomber jacket, and a big diamond on a pinkie ring. Who says crime doesn’t pay? Fast Eddie, whoever he was, had to know what was going on at his drive-in, which is part of the problem. We look the other way. Rationalize. Not our problem. Maybe Frankie made a contribution to the Fast Eddie slow-pitch softball team. Knew there was something wrong with the shake. Shame, too, because the place looked great. And it wasn’t another McDonald’s. Or Hardee’s. Or Burger King…
“The fuck’re you guys?” he said. Does everybody talk that way anymore? It lacks poetry. I don’t like it. His voice was high-pitched and didn’t fit his face.
“FBI,” Chick said, in a monotone. “Special Agent Parker and this is Special Agent Longbaugh. Please step out of your vehicle, sir. We’d like to ask some questions, if we could.”
“I ain’t done nothing,” Crisp said, his eyes shifting from Chick to me, then back to Chick. “I don’t know nothing, either.” Probably the understatement of the year. He started to open the door, then hesitated. I saw expensive cowboy boots with silver-filigreed toes. “Hey! I wanta see a shield, man.”
Chick reached into his back pocket, flipped open his wallet, and there was a photostat with the letters FBI printed against the seal. It was Chick’s picture. Now, where did he get that?
“Oh. Okay,” Frankie said, chuckling nervously. He was our friend now, just another misunderstood guy who sold dope to the teenyboppers. “You don’t dress like feds.” He got out of the car.
“Television,” said Chick. “Portrays us like that. Actually helpful in undercover situations.” Frankie nodded his head. He seemed to understand. “We’ve talked to some people. Understand you sold controlled substances to a…” Chick paused, checked his wallet as if looking for her name. “…Let’s see…yes, a Christa Simmons.” He snapped the wallet shut. “Is that correct, Mr. Crisp?”
“Hunh-unh. No way, man,” he said, shaking his head. The earring slapped against his neck. “Did not happen, man. Her brother, he’s a deputy, come up and starts doing a Sugar Ray Leonard number on me. Didn’t know what he was talking about. He is not a right dude. Got stuff loose in his head or something. I don’t do drugs, man. Just say no, huh?”
“You won’t mind, then, if we check you and your vehicle for drugs, or…” Chick looked into the Pontiac. There was an Arturo Fuente cigar box on the passenger seat. “…or for ill-gotten gains. You smoke cigars, Frankie? My partner here smokes a good cigar now and then. That a good brand, Longbaugh?”
“One of the best,” I said. “Certainly one of the most expensive.”
“Gee,” said Chick. “Wonder what they’ll cost him? You familiar with the RICO Act, Frankie?” Frankie shook his head. “It says any money that can’t be accounted for is subject to seizure by law enforcement officers. That connect for you?”
Frankie wet his lips with his tongue. “You got a search warrant?” He was going for defiant but fell short. Nervous eyes.
“Over in the car, Frankie,” Chick said. “Judge signed it this morning. You’re not well liked around here. Lots of guys dumping on you, junior. So if you’ll just step aside, we can clear you of all wrongdoing. We didn’t want to do it this way, but—”
“Hey, c’mon, man,” Frankie said. “No reason for that. C’mon. Chill a little. Let me buy you a Coke or—”
“You attempting to bribe a federal officer?”
“What? With a Coke? No! Hey…look.” He spread his arms, showing his palms. “I ain’t nobody. Whadda you want with me, huh?”
“We don’t want you,” Chick said. “We want information. A lot of it. And fast.”
“What kinds?” Frankie said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. But he looked relieved, which made me wonder how much product he kept in the car, how much dirty money was in the cigar box. Chick looked around the parking lot, conspiratorially, then leaned toward Crisp.
“Who’s your source?”
Frankie’s eyes grew. He looked like a cartoon character with a big firecracker in its hands. “No way. I’m not dropping a dime on nobody.” He reached into the pocket of the bomber jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. His hand trembled. Camel Lights. Everybody smoking low tar and nicotine. Hedging their bet. Never had any desire to smoke them m
yself, but it seems like you might as well smoke the real thing if you’re going to poison yourself anyway. “I ain’t no snitch. Fuck that noise.”
Chick looked at me and said, “And they say there’s no honor among thieves.” He looked back to Crisp. “Well, Frankie, I admire you. You’re willing to take the fall to spare your source. That’s kind of touching. Drug dealing. Conspiracy. Homicide.”
“Hey! I got nothin’ to do with clipping the badge. Wasn’t me, man. They already got somebody for that.” His mouth snapped shut when he realized what he had done. He wished he could take it back. You could see it in his eyes.
“How did you know that, Frankie? That information hasn’t been released.”
“Street talk. You know. Gets around quick.”
“Street talk, Frankie? This is Hickville, not Detroit. I’ll ask again. Who is your source?”
“Man, what I gotta tell you? I don’t shuffle no flake.”
“That’s not what we hear from Killian.”
“That fuck? He’s a raging crank freak. Overamped all the time. You can’t believe him.” He knew him, then.
“Killian’s dead, Frankie. Somebody unplugged him.”
Frankie looked sick, rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Shit, man.”
“One more time, then we’re laying paper on you. Tell me who supplies you.”
“Can’t do it. They’ll croak my ass.”
“And we’ll just fry it,” said Chick. “You’ll do okay in the pen, though. Good-lookin’ kid like you. The cons up at Jeff City’ll love your act. Have it made. Big guys with tattoos and spoon shivs fighting over your tender cheeks. Gotta be careful in the shower, though. Watch it when you bend over to pick up the soap. Somebody might give you a free ride home.”
Frankie was, by now, shaking like a palsied rodent. The smoke trail from his cigarette wavered as he held it. “You ain’t scaring me, man.”
“Sure I am, Frankie. I’m scaring you with the damn truth. You’re going down. I got a bureau chief breathing fire down my neck, and I’m going to throw him somebody. You’re as good as I got, now that Killian’s gone and Dexter’s on the lam. You’re dirty, anyway. I open that cigar box I’ll bet I don’t find cigars. What do you think? But there is a way out.” Chick paused to let Frankie consider the way out. Frankie swallowed and leaned closer. Chick continued. “A way out of prison and a way to protect you from the people that helped you plant the marijuana.”