Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (21 page)

Red laughed. “So you’re going to put the screws to me? That it? You got something on me? You’re going to blackmail me? Honestly, you might be giving me my first opportunity as an old geezer to call someone a whipper-snapper.”

“If I have to, I will.”

“I don’t know what you think you know, but there ain’t nothing you can blackmail me with.”

“How long you been married?”

Red paused, giving me a curious, yet cautious look. “Forty years in November. Sweet of you to ask. I’ll tell you where we register. Probably Crate and Barrel—she loves that junk.”

“Forty years? That’s strange. Because I remember Pop writing me and telling me a story about you and him in San Felipe. Something about a bottle of
mezcal con gusano,
puppy love, and a surprisingly convincing transvestite. But I thought he said that happened thirty-five years ago. I still have the letter, so I can always check the date.”

He kept his poker face, but a bead of sweat ran down his temple. And in this icebox, I knew that meant I had touched a nerve.

I continued, not wanting to let him off the mat. “Even if Pop was tight with his secrets, he seemed to be pretty open with yours. You two went to the dog track in San Luis Rio Colorado like twenty years back, right? As Pop’s story goes, you ended up selling your wedding ring to some Mex
usurero
to cover some bad bets on the little ponies. Made for a hell of a good story. So you said Mrs. Fidler’s in the back? I think I will say hi. What’d you tell her? You lost it? Got mugged?”

I stared at him. He stared at me.

After several moments, he said, “You were always a little fuck.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

Red packed the bowl of his pipe, taking his sweet damn time to get it just right. When he finally had the pipe lit, he said, “I’ll tell you everything, but that’s how it’s going to be. Every damn thing. You really want that? You want every detail? You really want to know all your father’s secrets? Your father was my friend, my best friend. Don’t mean he couldn’t be a bastard.”

“What I want isn’t important. I need to know.”

“I was there the day you were born. Day your mother died. You knew that, but you didn’t know her. You never knew them as a couple except in a photo. I was in the waiting room with your father. Can still see him sitting there. His face blank, his body like the air was taken out. Dumbly holding a handful of cheap cigars. Hell, cigars. A different time. Known your father fifty years, more. That’s the only time I ever saw him cry sober. He was scared and destroyed and even happy. Every feeling a man can have and he was feeling them all at once. He was completely broken. With a responsibility he wasn’t ready for. A loss that cold-cocked him and a burden he hadn’t wanted. I’m talking about you, James.”

I listened, feeling heat rise to my face.

“When Big Jack met your mother, he was in his fifties and she was twenty-six, twenty-seven, young. Even at that age, Jack was wild. A bachelor, a drinker, a gambler, an up and down troublemaker. Those stories he told you, I bet you got the toned-down versions. Son of a bitch found trouble at every turn. But it’s not like he was stupid. Don’t know no one that read as much. He knew things. A good man, but it was like his back was always against a wall. Least the way he acted. He had been on his own so long, he didn’t know better. He didn’t know but surviving. A lot of Depression kids like that, but none more than Big Jack. Your mother, Barbara, she tamed him.

“Jack loved your mother. That is a fact. She was the only thing to that point, up until you came along, that he ever gave a good goddamn about. Least as I could tell. I mean, we were friends, but only to a point. He was completely devoted to Barb. You have to be when you’re facing that kind of age difference. It wasn’t like she was marrying him for his money. He didn’t have none. Never was that good a farmer. At first, people talked, but the talk died as soon as people saw them together. They could see it. They glowed with it. Everyone wanted what they had. They had something that was so good, it had to end in tragedy.

“On the day you were born, Barbara was taken away from Jack. It wasn’t a possibility that he had ever contemplated. Your birth was supposed to be a blessing, not a curse. To his credit, he never blamed you. But in that single moment, his life changed drastically. He had known he was going to be a father. He had come to terms with that, but he was of a different generation. He had waited to marry. Waited even longer to have children. And when he decided to have a kid, it was because it’s what Barb wanted. He wanted to give her everything she wanted. She wanted a kid, she got it. The plan, spoken or implied, was she takes care of you, raises you. He does the father stuff: works, plays catch, goes to games, teaches you to swear, punishes you, goes hunting, fishing, and the rest of the father things. But without her, when it was left to him, he didn’t want the job.

“In one of his lowest moments, he even talked about getting rid of you. I ain’t saying this to hurt you, just making you see how hard it was. How hard the decision was. We talked a lot about adoption. Believe it or not, I was the one who convinced him to keep you, to raise you. I think he would’ve come to that conclusion himself, but he was scared like you wouldn’t believe.

“From what I can tell, you’re like him in a lot of ways. Jack had spent life prior to your birth avoiding responsibility. Hated the idea of being forced to do something. But every time he was given responsibility, every time the opportunity arose to prove himself, he took it seriously and did the work. He never walked away from the responsibilities he couldn’t avoid.

“So, little James comes along. Jack gets over the initial shock, accepts the responsibility, and goes about being father of the year. He did it as much for Barbara as for you. Went from selfish to selfless on a dime. Whatever you needed you got. While at the same time, he gave you all the independence you could handle. Let you make your own mistakes. You were a smart kid. Got your father to thank for that. Could’ve probably used some church, but overall, you seem to have turned out okay. Even the wild streak is there in you. He could only teach you what he knew.

“But the fact was, there were times he hated being a parent. Didn’t show it, but he goddamn hated it.”

I’d had enough. I had to break in. “You’re full of shit, Red. For twenty, thirty years, Pop was just acting the parent, but the whole time he despised it? You expect me to believe that shit?”

“You ain’t listening. I didn’t say he wasn’t a good parent. I didn’t say he didn’t care about you. I didn’t say he didn’t love you. What I said was, he hated being a parent. You think you got to like doing something to do it right? He didn’t hate you, he hated the job.

“But in the whole time you knew him, he wouldn’t never let it show. Maybe even got to liking the job after a bit.

“You didn’t know him younger ’cause you weren’t born. You never saw that wild side, except maybe once or twice in passing. But you would’ve chalked that up to too much tequila at a wedding.

“When you left for college or wherever the hell you went, Jack went back to his old self. He didn’t need to act any part anymore. He knew you weren’t coming back. That you had grown out of the Valley. That you would end up in Los Angeles or Berlin or some important place. You had become a man. And while he would always be your father, there was no longer any job requirements associated with the position. He had no responsibilities. So he went back to who he was when I first met him. Only difference was now he was seventy-something. Wasn’t like he was going to let something like age stop him.

“Being old might’ve even made him wilder. What is it? Closer to the end than to the beginning. Dying wasn’t exactly a surprise.

“He knew he wasn’t going to get married again. He was a man, he had his, you know, he still liked women. But he had never had any interest in women his age.

“I know you’re one of those sensitive, political correct kids, but we grew up in a time when going to a Mexican hooker wasn’t considered cheating. You wouldn’t tell your wife, of course, but you never felt guilty neither. Used to joke, call it ‘a side of beans.’ You know, ‘Let’s go down to Mexicali, grab a few beers and a side of beans.’ Just a good time. Times have changed. Now whites marry Mexicans and Negroes and Orientals and all kinds, but that wasn’t how we thought of things. We weren’t racist. It was just the way it was.

“I knew. Your father knew. Everyone knew you could find some brown at Morales on weekends. Hell, Big Jack was right across the road, nothing easier. He’d just walk the thirty yards, shoot the shit with Morales for a couple of hours, have a few. I don’t know if he told you some of their stories, but they go back, too. Morales and your father were no-joke trouble in the fifties. Night comes, the
señoritas
show, nature takes its course.

“Then maybe three, four, five years ago, the times I’m there I started to notice he’s no longer interested in variety. Not that I could ever tell that much difference between two Mexicans. But anytime I see him with one of the girls, it’s the same Mexican, the same girl. Hard to forget. She was taller than the rest of them. That Yolanda that got killed.”

“You knew her,” I said.

“When I saw her at Harris, I knew her right away,” he said. “I never trusted her. No different than any other Mexican, far as I could tell. Figured she was angling to get on this side of the border. To live the Mexican Dream. The Mexican Dream is the same as the American Dream, but you got to get out of Mexico first.

“Maybe it was her age. Maybe it was something that I couldn’t see. I mean, she obviously looked nothing like your mother. But the way Jack acted, it was the same as when Barbara was alive. She calmed him.

“Other than money, I couldn’t figure what was in it for her. Sure, he paid her, but it wasn’t enough to buy loyalty. And that’s what she gave him. In fact, at Morales I never saw her with anyone else. So either he was throwing money at her or she wasn’t eating.

“Then she gets pregnant. What better way to get your hooks into someone. Hell, that’s the reason I got married way back when. How do I know he got her pregnant? Your father told me. I was still his best friend. Still am, far as I’m concerned. At first I thought it was just a trick. Was it even his? No reason to believe different. What does he do? Only thing he could do. He let her go.”

I shifted in my seat, feeling the image of my father fade like a photograph left in the sun.

“What was an old man going to do with a Mexican hooker and a kid? He cut off all contact. Mexicans pop out kids like oversexed rabbits. What was one more? Your father knew he couldn’t do it again, go through what he went through with you. He wasn’t going to marry her, and he wasn’t going to raise the kid. So the best thing was to make it crystal clear that she no longer had a place in his life.

“To her credit, she didn’t belabor it. She took it well. Didn’t ask for money. Didn’t scream and throw a tantrum. And that was that—they went their separate ways. No anger. In fact, it was touchingly understanding. I started to think maybe I was wrong about her.

“Then the cancer came and the cancer spread. Jack reevaluated. He started seeing the end come into sharp focus. He needed to make things right. Across the board.

“Jack almost didn’t tell you he was dying. That’s why it took so long for you to find out. He wanted you to go about your life. That was important to him. But in the end, he knew the right thing to do was tell you.

“You came back, James. You don’t know how much that meant, because he knew it wasn’t easy for you to do. It doesn’t matter whether you wanted to come back or not, it only matters that you did.

“After that, there was only one more thing for Jack to make right. Yolanda. But he didn’t know where she was. I looked, but didn’t have any luck. Mexicali’s changed quite a bit since my day. You were his only hope. I was surprised how quickly you found her, although it looked like you took your lumps along the way.

“Which brings us to the end of the story. I wish it had a better punch line. You told Big Jack that you found Yolanda, he contacted me. And against my counsel, I brought him some money. Some money he had set aside. That’s what I brought to your father. Nothing exotic, just cash. If that’s what she was killed for, it’s a goddamn shame.”

“How much did you bring?” I asked.

“Just shy of eight thousand dollars,” he said.

“Eight…? That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, sure, it’s not twenty bucks. But who would kill someone for eight grand?”

“Someone who would kill a person for a lot less. Someone who would kill a person for nothing,” Red said.

“I’m not going to bother with any kind of DNA test,” I said.

Angie turned to me. “Don’t be an asshole, Jimmy. You can’t ignore this and pretend like something that
is
happening isn’t happening. What good does not knowing do?” She cocked her arm to hit me.

“Hold up, Tex Cobb,” I said. “Let me finish.”

She drove her truck down a dirt road faster than I would. The truck kicked up enough dust to quickly envelop two dove hunters walking on the adjacent ditch bank. Angie had some color back in her cheeks and was starting to look like she’d pull through.

“I was about to say, I accept that Juan is Pop’s kid. Don’t need a DNA test ’cause I know that’s true. Red pretty much confirmed it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

I could feel Angie looking at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead.

“What don’t you know? Seems like there’s only one thing to do,” Angie said. She turned her truck down Orchard Road, my house in view.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t decided. I got things to think about.”

“The only thing you should be thinking about is that kid.”

“Believe me,” I said, “I am thinking about that kid. And I’m not going to make any decisions half-ass. This isn’t small shit here.”

She shook her head, a humorless smile on her face. “You’re just going to take off again.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t made a decision to do nothing.”

“I think you have,” Angie said.

She pulled her truck into the circular driveway. As she rolled to a stop, something caught my eye across the street at Morales Bar. Something with a heart-shaped window. Alejandro’s van was parked in front of the bar.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me,” I said, ducking down in the seat. My back spasmed from the angle as I tried to keep my head below the level of the dash.

“What? What are you doing?” Angie asked.

“Keep driving. Don’t stop. Hopefully they’re inside. Get out of here. That van. In front of Morales. That’s Alejandro’s. He’s at the bar. Or he might be in the house. Waiting for me.”

“Where should I go?” Angie looked worried, but not panicked.

“Not here. Anywhere. Doesn’t matter. Just go. Head into Holtville.” I peeked over the dash in time to see Alejandro and another man walk out of the bar. Alejandro’s yellow cowboy shirt glowed in the morning sun. I ducked back down quickly. “That’s him.”

“The guy coming out of the bar? Which one?”

“What’re they doing?”

“The canary cowboy is staring right at me,” Angie said, concern in her voice. “Now he’s getting in his van. Him and the other guy.” I stayed down, feeling the car make a sharp left out of the driveway and onto the road.

“Don’t turn around. In the rearview, are they following?”

“Shit,” Angie said. That was all the answer I needed.

I had found Bobby’s number on my cell phone and was in the process of dialing.

“Floor it,” I said. “If they got a gun…”

“A gun?” Angie practically screamed.

I tried to remain calm. “Yeah. Don’t let them get close. If they got a gun, which they do, you can’t let them close enough to get a shot. Or they could push us in a ditch. I’ll get us out of this. I know these roads. At least, I think I remember them.”

“You better,” Angie said. Both her hands white-knuckled the steering wheel. She leaned forward in her seat, willing the truck to accelerate.

Bobby picked up. “Yeah, Jimmy, I’m kind of busy here. Got me in the middle of some shit.”

“Angie and I are in trouble.”

“Shit, fuck,” Bobby yelled. “Hold on, my leg is on fire.”

“What? Did you say ‘on fire’?”

Angie turned to me quickly. “Fire?” She glanced at the rearview, then back at the road. She was twitchy and scared. I felt useless.

I listened to a barrage of swearing and rustling, the phone obviously not close to Bobby’s ear. “Bobby!” I yelled. “Bobby!”

Eventually, Bobby’s voice came back on the line. “Sorry, bro. I forgot I had this burn permit. Got a field of Sudan on fire in front of me. A little out of control. Fucked my pants up. Shit burns fast, got away from me. What up?”

“Where is Griselda?”

“She went up to Calipat to meet Yolanda’s autopsy guy. He was coming in from Palm Springs.” Calipatria was in the north of the Imperial Valley, forty-five minutes away even if she ran the lights and siren.

“Alejandro’s on our ass. We’re heading up Orchard toward town, about a mile before the overpass, Angie and me. He’s right behind us in his van. My Winchester’s at the house.”

“That motherfucker. Where’s your truck gun?”

“I’m not in my truck. It’s gone in Mexicali. And even if I was, I don’t have a truck gun,” I said, trying to clearly communicate my annoyance.

“Can you make it into town?”

I looked behind us. The van was closing the gap. The guy in the passenger seat was leaning out the window. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll make it. It’s too straight a shot.”

“You’re south of the overpass? Turn onto Hunt Road, right, go east. That fucking dirt road is so fucked up and rutty, it’ll be like a bouncy castle inside that beaner van.”

I turned to Angie, pointing to the approaching dirt road. “Take a right on Hunt.”

She nodded quickly. Her tongue stuck out a little bit between her lips in concentration.

Bobby was still talking. “You see a field burning east? Out by Bond’s Corner?”

I looked to my right. I didn’t need to look long. Smoke rose up from the horizon in a dark blue-gray plume. It was the only field burning. Maybe eight or ten miles in the distance. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Hunt will take you all the way there. Right to us.”

Angie took the right onto Hunt Road so hard I thought the truck was going to flip on its side. She hit the gas, the truck fishtailing and accelerating quickly. Hunt Road was a tractor road, wide enough for two lettuce trucks to pass, but with wheel ruts over a foot deep in places. Angie’s truck bounced and bucked, but her F-150 was built for this kind of ride. I turned around. The van had to take the turn slower. It was still following, but it started to grow dim in the truck’s dusty wake.

“Making the turn put some distance between us,” I said to Bobby and Angie simultaneously.

“I got Buck Buck and Snout here,” Bobby said. “You make it to us, and you’re golden. We’ll be waiting for that rat bastard.”

“Drive toward the fire,” I told Angie, pointing at the smoke.

Bobby said, “When you’re about to hit the smoke, honk three times. See you in a few. Got some firearms to load.” He hung up.

Angie kept her foot on the gas the whole way. We ran every stop sign, leaped intersections, and almost went into a ditch, but the van never got any closer. I kept my neck craned out the rear, watching the van about a quarter mile back. That was only a twenty-second advantage, but as long as we kept that distance, we were safe enough.

I turned to Angie. She was deep in concentration, but I swear I saw a hint of a smile.

In less than ten minutes, we were at the burning field. Up ahead I could see where the smoke crossed the road. It was nothing like the dust behind the truck. The smoke was solid, no light penetrating its mass. It was like driving directly toward a fifty-foot-tall gray wall.

“Straight?” Angie asked, considerable doubt in her voice.

“Set the wheel as best you can—don’t turn it. Close your eyes and pray,” I said. I reached over for the steering wheel and honked three long beeps just as we entered the dense smoke.

For a full eight seconds, there was nothing but dark. The smoky redolence was thick even within the closed windows. It even felt like the smoke killed all sound. Like being underwater. No sense of movement or time. There’s nothing quite as ball-shriveling as driving seventy miles an hour and having no clue what’s one foot in front of you.

Then we were through. As abruptly as when we had entered. The world hadn’t changed. It was just more road and fields. Angie had stayed straight as an arrow, the truck tires straddling the center line.

The truck passed Bobby, Buck Buck, and Snout standing at the side of the road, spaced out about ten yards from each other. Shotguns to their shoulders, they aimed at the cloud of smoke, waiting.

“Pull to the side,” I said, pointing to Bobby’s Ranchero and Buck Buck’s truck.

Angie pulled the truck to the side, skidding to a long stop and pulling behind Bobby’s Ranchero. We both turned in our seats to see the show. The van would be coming through the smoke at any second.

Any second.

“Stay in the truck,” I said to Angie.

“No argument here.”

I got out, my eyes glued on the giant black cloud. Fires still burned in the field, the flames almost invisible in the brightness of the day. My eyes stung from the smoke and smoldering ash.

Any second now.

Bobby gave me a glance. I gave him a shrug.

We all stared at the smoke and waited.

Then, out of the smoke, we saw the faintest glow. Diffused by the smoke and almost imperceptible, two glowing headlights inched forward and then stopped still inside the just-visible edge of the smoke.

I walked to Bobby. He head-nodded to a shotgun on the ground a few feet from him. I picked it up, my eyes never losing their focus on the headlights.

“Can they see us?” I asked. “I couldn’t see a goddamn thing inside that shit.”

“Don’t matter,” Bobby said. “They know we’re here.
Pendejo
can smell a trap. Good on him.”

Buck Buck yelled, “You want I should fire a warning shot over their bough, captain?”

Snout laughed.

Bobby walked to the middle of the road. He held his arms out to his side, the shotgun held firmly in one hand, daring Alejandro to try something.

“Come on, motherfucker,” he yelled. “Let’s get this done.”

Slowly the headlights receded. The van backed up and disappeared into the sunless pitch.

For ten minutes, we waited for the van to come barreling through the smoke at any second. That was how Buck Buck ended up putting a big hole in the grille of our former fourth grade teacher’s Olds. It really was an accident. Buck Buck was on edge, and his reflexes were quick. A car came through the smoke. He turned and fired.

Mrs. Knipp was shaken up. That tends to happen to eighty-three-year-old women when you fire a shotgun at them. To her credit, she pulled over slowly despite the steam from her exploded radiator.

She stayed in the car. When we ran to see if she was okay, she rolled down the window and the first words out of her mouth were, “Buck Buck Buckley. I should have known. That day I caught you playing with yourself behind the cafeteria, I should have known you’d eventually try to shoot me.”

Bobby and I laughed until she gave us a glare. She was serious, like this had been inevitable.

I thought Buck Buck was going to cry. He spent the next five minutes promising to take care of all the repairs personally and anything else she needed.

“Please don’t tell my mom,” Buck Buck pleaded.

“I didn’t tell your mother when you wouldn’t stop flashing your pecker at Peggy Miller at recess, did I?”

“No.”

“What did I do? What did I tell you?”

“You told me the next time I took it out, you would snip it off. Then you took out your scissors and cut them in the air. And then I peed myself.”

“That’s right. And you stopped.”

Buck Buck nodded, as if he had learned a valuable lesson. I missed the moral, but apparently Buck Buck and Mrs. Knipp had a far more complex relationship than I had ever realized. I had also forgotten how much of a little perv Buck Buck had been.

Eventually, Buck Buck helped Mrs. Knipp into his truck and they headed into town.

Because we didn’t have a war room, Bobby and I made do with the tailgate of his truck. Our strategy session consisted of drinking beers from Bobby’s cooler, calling Alejandro an original combination of expletives, and throwing rocks at a nearby telephone pole.

As the excitement waned and her hangover returned, Angie crashed and fell asleep in the front seat of her truck. I found a blanket behind the seats and did my best to shade her.

Snout went back to tending the burning Sudan grass. Despite my vocal reservations, he kept his shotgun strapped to his back. Apparently, “no fucking Mexican cocksucker was going to fucking catch him with his fucking dick in his fucking hand.” With arguments as strong as that, I’m surprised Snout hadn’t joined the debate team in high school, instead of regularly drinking stolen butterscotch schnapps under the bleachers during third period.

When Griselda’s patrol car roared through the thinning smoke, Bobby and I dove for our guns. Snout flipped his shotgun to ready. I guess we were still a little jumpy. Luckily, Buck Buck was already on his way to town and all our reflexes sucked. We recognized the two-tone sedan with blue and red lights on top before we accidentally knocked out a couple of shots.

“I put in a call for the van. Sent it out as a ‘wanted for questioning’ since he didn’t really do anything. Probably back in Mexico, but it should come up if he tries to cross again. All we have is the vehicle. He can easily use another car, so you best still be on your guard.” Griselda had joined us in the back of Bobby’s truck and grabbed a beer from the cooler.

“I ain’t going to keep looking over my shoulder,” Bobby said. “That shit’s going to end.”

“If you’re planning on doing something illegal or stupid or both,” Griselda said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’d rather you kept your stupid on the inside.”

“I’m just saying,” Bobby said. “This is bullshit, that’s all. Fucking bullshit. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Mr. Morales,” I said.

“What about him?” Griselda asked.

“Angie and I saw Alejandro coming out of the bar. He knows Mr. Morales is Tomás’s grandfather. He might’ve gone over there to get information about Tomás. Or to…?”

Griselda downed her beer and jumped to her feet. “I’m on it.”

“I’m coming,” I said.

She paused for a moment, but it didn’t take much thought. She shrugged and motioned to her patrol car. “If you’re coming, let’s go.”