by Rob Brunet
“Like I said, we all buried it pretty deep. Your mom deeper than most. If it weren’t for you coming along three or four years after the fire, she might have jumped a bus out west, or put on a back pack and tramped Europe or something. Instead, she just kept her head screwed on straight and did her best to raise you, Danny.
“Ernie, what with losing his vision, got a little extra money from the government and a big enough disability settlement to put a down payment on that cabin of his. He’s got it mortgaged so far out, he’ll never see the end of it, and the taxes he owes are worth almost as much as the land, but no one on council will touch him ’cause there’s still people with guilt on ’em. I have my social security checks mailed to his place and sign them over to him. He buys me the few supplies I can’t do without—some canned milk, coffee, and peanut butter. I pick them up now and then. He’s always there at the cabin, anyways.”
“Mom still takes him out shopping sometimes—once a month or so,” Danny said. “She used to bring him over to our house for dinner and she’d give me a hard time about it if I skipped out. He’s an alright guy. Used to get me a toy car or a little Lego kit or something for my birthday. I took him a lasagna just the other day.”
“Yeah, the three of us sort of take care of each other. Been doing it twenty years. Not about to stop now, neither.”
“So is that why you’re here?” Danny asked.
“Well, I’m not just here for the dope, if that’s what you mean. Spark up another one, would you?”
Danny picked up a bud and crumbled it onto the table in front of him. As he cleaned out the twiggy bits, his fingertips sticky, Skeritt said, “You asked my opinion, so here it is. If thing’s ever go bad—and I mean stinking bad—here’s the plan: I want you to head straight to Ernie’s place.”
“Uh huh, then what?”
“Then what what? Just tell Ernie you need help. He’s part Indian. They got this thing about taking care of their own.”
“Part Indian? Ernie? I never knew that. How much?”
“Who cares how much? Some. Part. Indian is Indian.” Skeritt pulled his bushy eyebrows low over his eyes. “Just get your hide over to Ernie’s place if you’re in trouble. You can trust him. And you don’t have to tell him anything you don’t want to. That’s up to you. Just let him know you want to see me and he’ll get word to me. Won’t take long at all. We’ll figure stuff out after that.”
“That’s it? That’s your big plan? ‘We’ll figure stuff out?’”
“It’s been working for me, so far...”
“It’s working for you? Damn, Skeritt, you’re a bush-dwelling hermit. You eat small animals you catch with your bare hands. You look like a fucking Sasquatch and smell like day-old fish. How in hell do you sit there and say, ‘It’s working for me?’”
Skeritt blew his nose onto his sleeve and wiped his moustache with the palm of his hand.
“Dannyboy, I don’t think you’ve been listening to a word I said. There ain’t no one you can trust except your family and the people you make your family. You’re fortunate to have a couple of people besides your mom who care about you. What you do with that is your own damn business.”
Skeritt took the jay Danny offered him and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. When he exhaled, the cloud of smoke was large enough to engulf them both.
“Now bag me a couple ounces of that sweet weed and I’ll be on my way. Throw in some papers, would you?” Skeritt looked out the window at the slanting early evening sun. “By the way, you were wondering which day it is? Far as I can tell, it’s the day after yesterday.”
Eight
Terry got maybe five miles down the road in Lester’s car before the engine sputtered, coughed, and died. Out of gas. He checked the trunk and sure enough, Lester carried an empty two-gallon gas can and a siphoning hose. Terry moved the pot from the back seat to the trunk, took the can, and trudged toward the next town.
As cars passed him, he stuck out his thumb in a halfhearted attempt to hitch a ride, without even bothering to face the traffic. As luck would have it though, the third car did pull over. It was a cop.
“Where you headed? Getting some gas for your car?” the cop asked with a smile. His mirrored sunglasses reflected the setting sun.
“Huh? Uh, no sir, officer. I’m just heading home, is all. Yep. Gonna go have a barbeque, need a little gas to light her up.” Terry gave a wave good-bye and kept walking.
The car pulled alongside again. The cop was still smiling, his forehead furrowed. “There was a Taurus on the shoulder about a mile or so back. The engine was still warm. Dried puke, it looked like, all over the hood.”
Terry blinked and tried to swallow, his throat dry and a bit gritty.
The cop said, “And now here’s you walking along with a gas can. You sure that wasn’t your car? Been drinking maybe?”
“Oh, no, officer. I don’t own no car. Like I said, I’m just on my way home now.”
“Where’s home, son?”
“Rice Lake.”
“Really. Well, you’re going to be some hungry by the time you get there, now aren’t you. That’s got to be twenty miles from here.”
“Oh, I walk fast, y’know. Besides, it’s gonna be a big barbeque. Yep. For sure.”
“Uh huh,” the cop made a show of snapping gum between his smiling teeth.
Terry grinned widely, and began to twirl the gas can on two fingers in his best attempt at appearing nonchalant.
The cop asked, “Gonna have a bunch of friends at your big barbeque?”
“Yes, I mean, no! I’m not going to have the barbeque at my place, you see. Heh heh. No sir, I mean, er, officer. I’m just heading to my pal’s place. Y’know...”
A puzzled look replaced the cop’s smile. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead, and stopped the car. He walked around to where Terry was standing at the side of the road, kicking his right toe into the dirt.
“Whaddya say we go back and have a look at that car about a mile back?”
“I really should be getting going, I think. I got a long walk ahead of me.”
“Oh, heck, it won’t take long at all and, hey, for as long as I hold you up, I’ll drive you that far home after, alright?”
“Well, uh, I dunno. I guess it’s alright,” Terry was starting to wish he’d said the car was his. Still, he figured as long as the cop didn’t frisk him and find the keys to Lester’s car in his pocket, he should be able to talk his way out of things. He grinned and stepped toward the passenger door.
“You can sit in the back,” said the cop. He closed the door on Terry and walked around to the driver’s side.
The cop spun the car through a tight U-turn, throwing up gravel and dust and accelerated quickly back down the road. Pulling up behind Lester’s Taurus, the officer typed the license plate into the dashboard computer.
“Well, will you look at that. I guess this isn’t your car after all. You said you live in Rice Lake. This here car belongs to a Mr. Lester Freeden. And Mr. Freeden lives just a little ways back this very road.”
Not any more, he doesn’t, Terry thought.
“Why don’t I just go take a look,” the cop said.
Through the back seat grill, Terry watched him circle the car once then use a Slim Jim to open the driver door and pop the trunk. He started to sweat and wondered whether he might puke again. When the officer turned around with the gym bag in his hands, he knew the answer. He was toast. The bile rose in his throat and he fought hard to push it back down. He almost succeeded but for a hot shot that backed up into his sinus cavity and came out his nose. Terry wiped his face on his shirt, shaking uncontrollably.
Beaming, the cop thrust his face in the driver’s side window and said, “Look at what I found: a nice big bag of pot. ‘Major Quantity’ is what we call this. Now, I wonder why Mr. Freeden would leave his car at the side of the road with Major Quantity in it just a few minutes from his home. Can you think of why he’d do that?”
“I, uh,
I don’t even know Mr. Freeden, sir. Can we just go now? Uh, sir.”
“Sure, sure. Just wait a second while I throw this in my trunk and then we’ll take a little drive over to Mr. Freeden’s house and see what he has to say about all this. You won’t mind, will you? That way I’ll know you didn’t, ah, take this poor man’s car and his dope.”
“Uh, geez, I mean. Shit. Officer, it ain’t me you’re after, sir.”
“It isn’t? After? What do you mean, after?”
“Listen, I just took the car, and, and, I mean, I was doing a favor, y’know. And, like, oh man, oh man. I had nothing to do with any of this. Uh, listen, you think that’s Major Quantity in that there bag? How ’bout if I can tell you where there is one helluva a lot of pot. Like a total factory scene.”
“Well, now, that sounds more interesting than anything else you’ve said. What say we try this over from the beginning.” The cop got back into the front seat and said, “I’m Officer Ainsley. What’s your name, son?”
Aunt Helena’s Mexican Restaurant and Motel had been chosen for the meet by Enrique and Arnoldo, the Nicaraguan brothers who formed the Skeleton’s local crew. This was just one more part of biker gang elegance that struck pride in Perko’s soul. The New York Skeleton gang had the privilege of picking a locale where they could feel safe and everyone could relax. They’d run over the details for the planned exchange of money for drugs—with the money, but no drugs, present at the meeting. It had been hard as hell for him to negotiate a real cash deal this big. After the discount and paying the Libidos their share, he’d have little to show for his crop. But every snaking inch of his gut told him this was a night he’d remember forever—one that would launch him from also-ran to one of the heaviest members of the Libidos Motorcycle Club.
There really was an Aunt Helena, and Enrique and Arnoldo called her that, though she was neither a blood relative of the Nicaraguans nor, for that matter, Mexican. She was a third-generation Italian Canadian whose family hailed from southern France. She made a mean chili, served a meaner margarita, and could be counted on for discretion. She had hung the “Private Party” sign on the front door, only too happy to close the restaurant and accept a hefty tip from a couple of her favorite boys.
Two of the eight attached motel units served as Aunt Helena’s permanent residence. The other rooms were open to the general public, but apart from nooners and the occasional late-night guest, drive-by business was slow. More often than not, people staying at the motel were regulars seeking anonymity, access to hearty food, and twenty-four seven bar service. Enrique and Arnoldo had spent more than a few extended weekends in Aunt Helena’s complete care when the rigors of gang life proved hard to endure. Tonight, the “No Vacancy” neon burned brightly and Perko knew for sure there would be at least another half dozen Skeletons hanging in the rooms—muscle in case Perko and his crew tried to take the money and run.
Before letting them into the restaurant, Enrique patted down Perko and both Nancy’s Nasties, Frederick and Bernard. He didn’t seem to know what to make of Bernard’s basketball-sized afro. He tried running his fingers through it but they got caught and Bernard slapped him. Finally, he made the biker bend over and shake his head hard to prove it concealed no weapons.
A big round table for seven was decked out with a shot glass at each place, two open bottles of tequila, a few dishes of lemon wedges, and extra shakers of salt. Aunt Helena poured the first round herself and joined in the toast.
“Here’s to duty free marijuana!” Perko bellowed. He threw back the tequila and bit hard into the lemon. The other men followed suit with a course of, “Salud!” and “Santé!” Aunt Helena said, “Bon appétit,” and a waiter carried in heaping plates of nachos, hot peppers, and guacamole.
The restaurant walls were painted alternate ochre and a luminous blue. Sombreros hung here and there, some on the walls or on rough dark posts that looked like barn beams. A few were even tacked into the ceiling. The brightly colored paper lanterns strung across the dining room on an electrical cord were hung so low Perko had to duck. Two chubby guitar players played non-stop. One had a droopy blond moustache. The other was dark enough to be Mexican but sang with a Russian accent. They wandered around the restaurant, as though it were full of romantic diners. By the time they started their third tune, Perko was ready to make them eat their damn guitars.
“I’ll ride in first,” he spewed between mouthfuls of food. “I’m coming in from the back on a three-wheeler.” He leaned into a second platter of Mount Saint Helena’s Nachos, so named because they resembled a mini-volcano, the mound of nachos piled nearly six inches high, rivers of extra spicy salsa running like lava over a thick layer of molten cheese.
“I’ll pre-count the money here and then Frederick is going to ride with you and the dough to make sure you don’t fuck with it. I’ll count it again on site. Cash and crop won’t be at the same place same time for more than six or seven minutes. Ten tops.”
“Hey, how come Frederick he get to go with the money?” Bernard asked.
“Tais-toi, Bernard,” Frederick told the other Nasty in a low voice. “You have to drive over the car, okay.” Bernard sniffed and Perko looked away, rolling his eyes.
The senior bikers hammered out the details. Bernard would arrive second, accompanied by Enrique. They would open the gate for the Skeletons, who would be right behind them in a pair of rented cube vans. Perko and Frederick would take three of the Skeleton crew inside the barn, while Bernard and one of the Nicaraguans would wait outside, acting as lookouts until the exchange was complete. The bales would be loaded onto the vans and driven east to a safe house in Akwesasne. From there, moving the pot across the border would be routine. The reserve straddled both the provincial and international borders, with no less than six territorial police forces tripping over each other. It was a smuggler’s nirvana, favored by every known criminal organization in the world, and more than a few freelancers.
From the start, the Skeletons had refused to give their names. “Just call us Number One and Number Two,” said the first one.
“Which number are you?” Perko asked between bites.
“Doesn’t much matter, does it?”
Like Perko, the numbered Skeleton wore a black leather jacket with extra thick elbow pads and a pair of jeans held up by an oversized belt buckle. The Skeleton’s buckle was a simple skull which he loosened by one notch as he scooped a nacho full of guacamole. Perko tried to adjust his own buckle, a convoluted affair loosely fashioned after a pair of double-D breasts, but found it jammed. He tugged at it with both hands until he realized the Skeletons were smirking at his efforts. With a burp, he asked, “Who’re you gonna leave on watch?”
“I don’t much care,” said Number One or Two. “They can decide between themselves. It ain’t like we’re going to let either one of them carry the money.”
As if on cue, Bernard whined, “Why me I get stuck outside? Again, heh?”
Perko groaned and shot a glance at Frederick who said, “Someone he has to keep the lookout pour la police, non? C’est toi, Bernard. You’ve got the best eyes and the ears, too.”
Bernard swore under his breath and stabbed at his chicken enchilada with his fork. “It’s the same thing every time. Always, you get the good action and me, I hang around, waiting. Somebody he needs to get his knees cracked, you wear the boots and me I drive the car. We go roll some kid for his stash, you dig around his pockets, while me? I hold the knife. We make a delivery, you carry the bag and I hold the esti de door open for you. The Libidos, they want we pick someone up...”
Turning in his chair, Perko raised his well-heeled foot fifteen inches off the ground and slammed it down on Bernard’s sneaker-clad toes. Bernard screamed, the Skeletons guffawed, and the Nicaraguans snickered. Aunt Helena popped her head out from the kitchen, smiled widely when she saw everything was okay, and disappeared again.
The darker guitarist began strumming a mariachi-inspired version of You Can’t Always Get What You Wa
nt. Perko prayed he wouldn’t sing it. He wondered where the blond guitarist with the moustache had made off to and wished his partner would follow him.
He plowed into a heaping skillet of mixed chicken and beef fajitas. He loved the whole idea of roll-your-own food. Ignoring a warning from Arnoldo, he poured on the green hot sauce and chowed down. His mouth on fire, he quenched it with Aunt Helena’s home-made draft beer, interspersing shots of tequila served up with more lemon and salt.
The guitarist had started to sing after all. He wasn’t half bad.
Arnoldo and Enrique decided on a knife-throwing contest to determine which one of them would accompany Bernard on lookout duty. They each grabbed a steak knife and Enrique counted off fifteen paces from a sombrero hanging on the door to the men’s room. “You shoot primero, hermano,” he told his brother. Arnoldo’s knife landed dead center. It was thrown with such force that it twanged when it struck the wooden door, the tip buried a good inch.
Grooving on his solo, the dark-haired singer belted out the chorus.
“Cucaracha!” Enrique snorted. “I’m going to spleet your knife right out the puerta!” and he wound up to throw the knife as if he were pitching in the World Series. At that moment Perko heard a toilet flush and turned his head to see the bathroom door swing open, pulled from the inside by the blond guitarist. Enrique tried to check his pitch mid-swing, but a knife is no baseball and it flew out of his fingers, spinning end-over-end at sombrero height at the startled face of the second guitarist.
Darkie hit the top note. His voice cracked as he strummed with full arm arcs. Blondie recoiled without fully understanding what was happening. He turned his head and the knife sliced down the right side of his face, neatly shaving one half of his moustache and leaving a thin pink line in its place. A few drops of blood immediately appeared and the knife clattered harmlessly against the tiled wall behind the de-whiskered man.