CRUDDY (25 page)

HE AIR above the white desert flats was so still after the jets passed over. I heard the tobacco on the father’s cigarette burning on every inhale. He was leaning on the hood of the car, surveying the four directions. “We are lost as shit.”

Pammy said, “Hepme, hepme, I canna mo mah les.” She was wiggling in the alkali.

I heard a slight vibration in the air. Like the sound of wind whipping over something hollow. I said, “They’re coming back.”

“Shit on it,” said the father. “It’s just the Air Force.”

Pammy said, “Tha lilbassart tahks! Ah jassherd hi! Tha lilshid tahks!” The father propped her up. He said, “You’re dreaming, fat-ass.”

The planes came at us.

The father yelled, “INCOMING! INCOMING!” We were all flat on the ground. The stillness returned. We loaded Pammy into the backseat and the father took the wheel. He drove randomly. He laid on the horn, saying, “Somebody is bound to hear us.”

Pammy said, “Imma keel yuh yuh bassart!”

The father said, “I guess that means the wedding’s off.”

“Wha??” Pammy said. “Wewwing?”

“Take a look, baby-doll! We’re in Las Vegas!”

Pammy made many rubberized movements before she was able to lift herself up enough. What she saw made her lay back down and say, “Imma keel you dahd.”

In the distance a white cloud was rolling toward us. In the middle of the cloud was a Jeep. In the Jeep were two soldiers with helmets and two rifles.

The father glugged deep from the last bottle of Whitley’s. He said, “Shit on the Air Force.” He quick lit a cigarette. “I can handle the goddamned Air Force.”

The Jeep stopped some yards away. One of the soldiers stood up and said through a bullhorn, “THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA. YOU ARE IN A RESTRICTED AREA.”

The father cupped his hands and shouted, “NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. WHICH WAY’S VEGAS?”

The two soldiers jumped out of the Jeep with their rifles. They trotted toward us in high black boots laced tight at the ankles.

The father said, “Which one of you clowns is going to point me to Vegas?”

“You need to leave the area immediately, sir.”

“My wife is drunk out of her mind and my kid has diarrhea.”

“Sir?”

The father tapped me on the shoulder. “See there, son? That’s an Air Force man right there.” He pulled a long drag on his cig. “My boy is crazy over the Air Force. You wouldn’t consider giving him a little ride in your piece-of-shit Jeep would you? Turn a couple brodies in the sand? It would mean a hell of a lot to him. He don’t got long to live.”

“Sir, you need to leave the area immediately.”

“Can my boy have a ride?”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Aw shit, why not?”

Pammy said, “Hep me.”

“Shut up, honey. I’m talking.” The father made a drinking motion with his hand. “She’s topped out.”

“We’ll escort you, sir.”

“Just tell me who in the hell is going to give a shit if you give my boy a ride in your vehicle there?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Well, you tell me, what am I busting my nuts to pay taxes for then? I paid for that Jeep.”

The two soldiers exchanged looks.

The father rubbed his face. “Shit, boys. I’m sorry. Guess I’m wound a little tight. I got the piles so bad I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.”

“Vegas is that way,” said the bullhorn soldier.

They led us to a dirt road that turned into an old severely cracked paved road and the father waved. He said, “Goddamn it was hard not to kick their asses, Clyde. Goddamn I hate the goddamn Air Force.”

Along the road there were some old signs advertising attractions in Las Vegas. Some had a few silver sequins still wiggling on the nails. The expansion of Dreamland had killed the road we were on. It wasn’t used anymore.

If you look at a map of Nevada you’ll see a place called Nellis Air Force Range just east of the Funeral mountains and Devil’s Hole. Dreamland won’t be marked. But it is there, underground, at the center of a world of tunnels as wide as highways. Tunnels and certain cave passages.

We came to a crossroads. The father said, “I know right where I am.”

In front of us was a hand-painted billboard. It said, S
EE
T
HE
L
AST
L
IVING
P
OWDER
M
ONKEY
! H
E
I
S
F
ANTASTIC
! S
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M
AN
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B
UILT
T
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D
AMN
! H
E
D
EFIES
G
RAVITY
! H
E
D
EFIES
D
EATH
!! H
E
I
S
F
EARLESS
!! T
HE
P
OWDER
M
ONKEY
I
NVITES
O
NE
A
ND
A
LL
T
O
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NTER
H
IS
S
PARKLING
C
IRCLE
! T
HREE
S
HOWS
D
AI
LY
!! T
HE
P
OWDER
M
ONKEY
W
ILL
T
HRILL
Y
OU
A
S
N
EVER
B
E
FORE
!! U
NFORGETTABLE
!!

Underneath the sign was another sign. In faded-out cursive words it said,
The powder monkey is dead.

FEAR THE Sultan of all Ass-heads has already betrayed us.” said the Turtle. “I fear the arrival of the authorities. He frolics with the Violent One. We cannot save her from his power. We must depart at once. Yes. Absolutely. North to Canada. North to the sweet homeland.”

“My dear, dear Turtle,” said the Great Wesley. “I am in the mood for fruit. Will you join me in the kitchen?”

In the kitchen was a huge bouquet of rotted flowers tied with a black bow. Wesley said, “My father and mother. How sad for me.”

I said, “What happened?”

“They have gone the way of all parents, I’m afraid.”

“Dead?”

“Switzerland. I counted on them remaining in Lausanne for at least a month. Unfortunately the news of my escape and unexpected homecoming has somehow reached them. They are due back tomorrow.”

“DEATH TO THE SULTAN OF THE ASS-HEADS!” said the Turtle. “They won’t take us back alive, my dear Wesley. This I swear.”

In the kitchen a plastic bag of apples lay on the counter with a stretched hole ripped into the side. The Great Wesley took one apple and began opening the drawers. “I am in need of a small cleaving instrument.”

“A knife?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

I produced Little Debbie. The Great Wesley admired her. “It has been a long time since I have seen anything so sharp. At the home we were not permitted such things. And yet we managed, did we not my dear, dear Turtle? Barbara V. Hermann could not dampen our love for adventure.”

“Down with Barbara!” said the Turtle.

I said, “The home?”

Wesley carved a careful hollow into the apple. “The Barbara V. Hermann Home for Adolescent Rest. Yes. This is a fine knife. Quite a fine knife.”

With some careful cutting and boring and a bit of foil and a few pinpricks the Great Wesley transformed the apple into quite a pipe.

“Oh my dear Wesley. How I long for sensational smoky-smoky.”

“To hear is to obey, my dear Turtle.” Wesley drew a metal canister from his robe pocket.

“My dear Wesley! You old fox!”

We smoked.

I said, “Tell me about the home.”

The Great Wesley exhaled a great apple-scented cloud. “The Barbara V. Hermann Home for Adolescent Rest is quite exclusive and the membership requirements are stringent. For suicidal and psychotic youth from distinguished families, it is top tier. International. Discreet beyond words. Nestled in an obscured location adjacent to the Lolo National Forest. Triple-fenced and gated. But still the Turtle and I managed to escape with quite a valuable bundle of medications. Great quantities stolen from the Barbara V. Hermann drug treasury. We left in search of sensational smoky-smoky. Most of us preferred the combination of smoky-smoky and ample television to the antipsychotic pharmaceuticals we were given. A majority of the residents at the home were in agreement on this and we petitioned Barbara V. Hermann to include smoky-smoky on her vast roster of drugs but she refused. It was a simple concept,” said the Great Wesley. “But you know Barbara.”

“Death to Barbara,” said the Turtle.

“Yes,” said the Great Wesley. “Perhaps I overreacted when I killed her.” He inhaled another cloud.

“My dear, dear Wesley,” said the Turtle. “It was I who killed Barbara. Let the truth be known.”

Wesley said, “My dear, dear Turtle. There is no need to confess to a crime you did not commit. It was I who strangled her.”

“My dear, dear, Wesley. You are kind in your wish to protect me, but I alone am guilty of this crime. As proof I offer you her last words. She said, ‘Turtle, no.’ I said, ‘Barbara, yes.’ She said, ‘Turtle, you strange psychotic fucker.’ ”

The Great Wesley shook his head. “My dear Turtle! But those were not her last words at all!”

“My dear Wesley, but they were.”

“No, as I choked the life out of her body her last words were, ‘Make my skin into drumheads for the Bohemian cause.’ ”

They gently argued for a while and then the Great Wesley turned to me. “Hillbilly princess, it is rumored you can drive. Is this so?”

And when I told him it was, he stood and carefully straightened his bathrobe around himself. From his pocket he produced two keys on a golden ring.