Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (12 page)

Bobby would have been diagnosed with ADD, if that was a thing that the Imperial County School District recognized at the time. But that kind of language was a few years off. “Hyperactive” would have been the diagnosis and a paddle with holes drilled in it the best medicine to dissuade rambunctious behavior. Bobby wasn’t much of a student, but as far back as I could remember, he excelled on the playground. Whether kickball, marbles, or a spitting contest, Bobby was the most vocal, the most outgoing, and the most unpredictably violent. He talked trash, but played fair. And rarely did a game end without a fight starting. Usually because of something Bobby said. Unlike now, he didn’t win a lot of those fights. He was smaller than the other kids, and often got pounded. But like a miniature half-Mexican Cool Hand Luke, he always got up and it never stopped him from starting shit and scrapping the next day. That was Bobby’s superpower. Even as a kid, he was fearless.

His reputation quickly grew. He might not have been the toughest or the best fighter, but he was unequivocally the craziest. He wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. And while I wouldn’t say that he was feared, he was definitely avoided. You might beat Bobby in a fight, but you wouldn’t walk away unbruised. He walked the playground as its king, even the dumbest bullies knew not to tangle with the force of nature that called itself Bobby Maves.

Back then I stayed away from Bobby. He scared me. That wasn’t saying much. At that age, everything scared me. I had friends, but we were the smart kids. We were picked on, mostly threats and words. We spent recess indoors, idling away our time telling dirty jokes, playing with our pogs, and staying away from the Neanderthals who were threatened by any kid who got good grades and enjoyed reading.

So through grade school and into junior high, Bobby and I lived our separate lives, our paths occasionally crossing, aware of each other, but in separate circles.

I don’t recall the exact chain of events, but at some point in sixth grade, I got on the bad side of José Ramos. It might have been that I had passed a test that he had failed or that I had made a bad joke or that he was just a dick, but I made it onto his enemies list. He was a mean little vato with a fledgling gang of underlings. At eleven, the top-button and hairnet mini-gangsters were probably adorable to grown-ups, but as a kid they terrified me. José was the youngest Ramos. And the Ramoses were a dynasty of schoolyard badasses, his five older brothers earning their reputations in fights that kids still talked about. José got the benefit of their reps, not having to earn his status. By name alone, he had become the leader of his little gang. He was a punk, but nobody wanted to mess with a Ramos.

So one day on the way to my locker, I turned a corner and José Ramos and his crew of
cholitos
were waiting for me. To this day, I take pride in the fact that I didn’t piss my pants then and there. My small victories are often microscopic.

“Hey, pussy,” José said.

I unconvincingly pretended that he wasn’t talking to me. I looked over my shoulder, scoping out an exit strategy, but two more of his scowling cronies blocked my path. I swear that one of those sixth graders already sported a wispy mustache.

“I’m talking to you, Veeder. You’re a big pussy, ain’t you? Say you’re a big pussy.”

If you set the ball up in front of the net, I was going to spike it. It was instinct. I had no choice. Without a smile or any pleasure, the obvious joke left my mouth.

“You’re a big pussy,” I said.

José might have let it go, but one of his goons laughed, so José walked to me and punched me in the stomach. That was the first time that he hit me. It had all been threats to that point. Maybe a shove or a shoulder bump as we passed in the hall. But that punch was his first true act of war.

And here’s where everything went tits up. It didn’t hurt. The punch didn’t hurt. At all. If I had been smart, I would have doubled over and feigned pain. José would have gotten satisfaction and avoided humiliation. They probably would have walked away. But for all the smarts I had in a classroom, in situations like that I was mostly moron. So José punched me and I stood there like nothing happened.

Before José could react, laughing began. Not from his friends, but that machine-gun laugh that hadn’t changed in twenty years. Bobby, who had been watching from the vending machines, walked through the gang to stand next to me. Laughing the whole time and brushing past José’s boys like they were a nuisance, Bobby held his side and wiped at his eyes. There were two of us and six of them, but Bobby wouldn’t have cared if there were twenty of them. I was in awe. Scared shitless, but in awe.

“That was freaking hi-larious, duder,” Bobby said. “I mean, the pussy line was funny, but it was kinda sitting there, you know. I could’ve made that comeback. But when he hit you and you didn’t move—Bro, genius.”

“Thanks,” I said, glancing at José, whose face was red with anger. I waited for steam to come out of his ears, because if that happened in life, this was one of those times.

Bobby continued to ignore everyone but me. “You should’ve said something though, after he hit you. Like Stallone or Schwarzenegger or one of those action guys. You should’ve said like ‘Next time, let a real man hit me, you know, like your sister’ or ‘Was that a punch or were you rubbing my stomach for luck?’ Not those, something better, but that was like the choice place where you say a cool line, you know?”

“Totally,” I said. But my eyes were locked on José and his boys. They were still there, still threatening. Bobby glanced over to where I was looking, laughed, and shrugged them off.

“Don’t worry about those fags. Say one.”

“What?”

“Make up an action-guy line.” And then Bobby slowly turned to José and pointed. “And say it to him.”

I swallowed. I was scared of José. I was scared of his gang. But at that moment, it was way more important to me that Bobby respected me. And I felt stronger with him there.

I gave it a moment’s thought and said, “That punch was so weak, if it was hot tea it would be Earl Gay.”

Bobby howled with laughter. “I don’t get it, but I like it. Earl Gay. You’re gay, Ramos! Classic. Another one.”

I tried again. “You might want to go see the nurse, José. Because I’m pretty sure my stomach bruised your knuckles.”

Bobby pointed at José. “In your face, Ramos. High five, buddy.” Bobby and I high-fived. “You’re Jimmy, right? I’m Bobby.”

We’ve been best friends ever since.

For the record, Bobby and I got our asses properly kicked by José’s gang. José might have hit like a girl with rickets, but his boys didn’t. We fought gamely, but were outnumbered and still inexperienced. Lucky for us, we were children and kid fists were soft. Bobby and I didn’t suffer anything beyond a few cuts and bruises.

Things changed that day. I had a new best friend. But more importantly, I wasn’t the same scared kid. I got hurt, but I survived. Physical pain. Nothing more. I actually enjoyed moving my loose tooth around with my tongue. And getting jumped and outnumbered was nothing to be ashamed of. From then on, I had a confidence I hadn’t felt before. And I had Bobby on my side. He would always have my back and I would always have his.

As the years went on, through violence and shared secrets, our trust grew river deep. Beyond a five-week period during sophomore year, nothing had ever come between us. That had been about a girl, our squabble an aberration brought on by the irresistible wiles of a fifteen-year-old siren named Ramona De La Rosa. Puppy love and hormones had pitted boy against boy. We both had failed to win her feminine affections, of course. She ended up getting knocked up by the Driver’s Ed/Small Engines/Ag teacher, crushing our boy-hearts but strengthening our friendship. We chalked up the discord to the power of boobs (Ramona was blessed in that particular area). It was the last time we let anyone or anything come between us. Boobs included. Until the present.

I loved the goofy bastard. But I was becoming convinced that there was nothing I could do to help him. That Bobby was on his path and there was nothing I could do to change it. Kicking my ass to send me home was one thing. A homicide was a whole different ball game.

What have you gotten yourself into, Bobby?

Other than drinking and smoking in the Circle K parking lot, I hadn’t yet devised a real plan. The drinking and smoking was going swimmingly though. But it wasn’t going to get things done. Neither was driving around aimlessly. I needed information and although I was hesitant to ask a favor, I knew someone who brokered that commodity.

Tomás answered after half a ring. “Jimmy.”

“Did you talk to Driskell after I left?”

He waited a few seconds before answering. “A little bit. He wasn’t exactly happy with me.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen?” I asked.

Tomás didn’t say anything.

“Tommy? You still there?”

“You know something I don’t. What is it you know?”

“So you talked to Driskell?”

“Yes.”

“And when you left his house, Driskell was fine? Nothing strange? Alive and well?”

“There it is.” Skipping about four questions, Tomás asked, “How did Driskell die?”

“Should we be talking about this on the phone?”

“My line is eat-off-the-floor. And what agency would monitor your calls? You’re a farmer. The Department of Agriculture doesn’t tap phones. At least, I don’t think they do.”

“It looked like Driskell was beaten to death.”

“ ‘It looked like?’ You saw this?”

“Less than a half hour ago. I was there. Not for the killing. After. When I got back to the room, I told Bobby about Julie. I tried to stop him. We fought. A knockdown, drag-out. Bobby eventually got the better of me. I figured the first place he would go would be Driskell’s.”

“The way you describe it, you make the fight sound close between you and Maves,” Tomás said.

“It could’ve been.”

“Was Maves armed when he left?”

“Loaded for bear. Duffel full of killing power.”

“Mystery solved, Watson. Bobby was packing and looking for a fight.”

“Driskell wasn’t shot.”

“A gun is a heavy piece of metal. More than one way to kill with it. I could tell you stories.”

“You could have killed him.”

Tomás laughed.

“You knew him,” I said. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

“I suppose not. I have a reputation.”

“If you killed him, would you tell me?”

“Of course not,” Tomás said, trying to stop laughing.

“I have to find Bobby.”

“No, Jimmy, you don’t. You have to go home.”

“That’s what Bobby told me. I’m not going to—”

“Shut up!” Tomás shouted, showing surprising emotion. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you? It was a suggestion before, now shit is real. There’s a dead body in a building you were at—in a town that don’t get murders. Your best friend is a suspect, most likely the killer. You need to put distance between you and the crime, between you and that maniaco Maves. When he’s ready, if he hasn’t been caught or left a trail of bodies on his pump-action crusade, Maves will call you. You’re the only one he’d call.”

“I can’t abandon him,” I said.

“He abandoned you when he killed Driskell. Do the smart thing. Dead men can have a way of getting the living killed.”

Tomás hung up, leaving me with more questions than answers and a fresh reminder that I had no idea what I was doing.

EIGHT

It looked like every police car in Southern California had crammed into the two blocks of Calle Tlaxcala. How would the cops parked at the far end of the cul-de-sac get out? Would they wait patiently? Or run around politely asking the other cops if they could kindly move their cars? I doubted it. As soon as their shift was over, they would drive over the lawns and mailboxes and any pets in their way. That’s how desert cops rolled. Protect and serve this.

I barely slowed as I drove past the intersection. I wasn’t going to learn anything by joining the circus of news crews and curiosity seekers. I already knew what was in the house. And on the off chance someone had seen me or my truck, best to stay clear.

I stopped by the motel room, hoping that Bobby had headed back, but there was no sign that he had returned. I asked the manager if he had seen Bobby or his Ranchero, but he told me that he doesn’t ever see nothing. Never. Nothing at all. No one. That’s the way the current residents liked it, and that’s the way he stayed happy and in cheese dip. I was starting to have second thoughts about staying at the Date Palm. But the price was right. I paid for another night. At the least, I could stow my gear for the afternoon and who knew, Bobby might come back. The manager put the money in his pocket instead of the cash register. I doubted that was company policy.

I headed to Becky’s to see if there was any news about Julie. Or if she had heard from Bobby. I wasn’t optimistic, but at the least, maybe I could help her and Russell in their efforts to find Julie, while Bobby and his big bag of guns did God knows what kind of damage to the poor bastards in his path.

I parked my truck a block away. I resisted lighting a cigarette for the short walk and was proud of myself for my full minute of self-control when I reached the house without the aid of nicotine.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the screen and answered.

“Hey, Angie,” I said.

“Needed to talk to you,” she said.

“Yeah. I kept almost calling, but didn’t want to too early. It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours. Been up all night.”

“Me, too. Last night, Juan—”

A loud, shrill woman’s scream came from inside Becky’s house. It made me jump and almost drop the phone.

“Was that someone screaming?” Angie said.

“I got to go.”

I hung up the phone and tried the front door. Locked. I put a shoulder to it, hurt my shoulder, and decided that wasn’t going to work. I should have known better. Front doors are always the most solid, the hardest to kick in. I remembered the sliding glass door that led into the living room from the backyard.

I bolted around to the back of the house, jumping at each window to get a look inside, but curtains blocked my view. When I reached the sliding door, I frantically searched for something to chuck through it. I found a large potted plant, picked it up, but stopped myself the moment before I released it. I cradled the big pot and tried the door. It was open. Unnecessary destruction averted.

The woman screamed again. I started and dropped the potted plant, shattering it onto the cement in a firework of dirt, clay, and plant. So much for not breaking shit. I threw open the door, got caught in the vertical blinds for a panicked three seconds, and rushed into the house.

Another scream. I hoped I wasn’t too late. I followed the scream into the kitchen.

When I turned the corner, I was greeted by Bobby and Becky having desperate, groping, animal sex. Bobby stood on his toes, his bare ass clenching and unclenching with each thrust, his pants at his ankles. Becky sat on the kitchen counter, her top awkwardly pulled down, revealing one bare breast. One hand clawed the back of Bobby’s neck, deep red lines on his skin. Her other hand grasped the paper towel rack for leverage. Becky’s eyes were closed tightly. She let out another violent scream. Bobby breathed heavily, a sprinter losing his wind. The smell of sex filled the room.

I pulled a large pan from the hanging rack, held it in front of me, and dropped it on the floor. It sounded like a pan explosion, the metal clang bouncing and echoing through the room. Bobby turned, surprised. Becky opened her eyes. They went wider when she spotted me.

“What the fuck is this?” I said.

“Bro, can’t you see we’re banging?” Bobby had never been afraid to state the obvious. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

Bobby slowed his hip action, but hadn’t given up. I think he had every intention of finishing what he had started, just as soon as I apologized and left.

“What am I doing?” Becky pushed Bobby off her, pulled up her pants, and adjusted her top. I instinctually turned my head to give her a little privacy. A weak gesture, considering what I had witnessed.

“Becky. Wait,” Bobby pleaded.

Becky punched Bobby in the arm twice. Hard shots, but he took them, not flinching. “I can’t believe we—a mistake, Bobby. That’s what this was.”

She walked to where I stood. She looked angry and embarrassed and small. I didn’t know what to do until I realized that she was waiting for me to get out of her way so she could leave the room.

“Sorry,” I said and moved to the side.

Becky shook her head. “People do dumb things when they don’t know what else to do.” She left the room.

I turned to Bobby. “What the hell, man?”

Bobby pulled up his pants. “My balls are going to hurt all day. They’re all swole up like two blowfishes.”

“I’m sure you know a few ways to relieve that pressure.”

Bobby laughed. “I could write a book. You think if I did, people would buy it?”

“I’m out of here,” I said and headed for the front door.

Bobby caught up and grabbed my arm. I turned quickly and knocked his hand away.

“You don’t get to make jokes, Bobby. Not after you beat the shit out of me.” I dropped my voice down. “And not after you kill a guy.”

“Whoa there, Hoss. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Did you go out to Driskell’s?”

“No. I was going there next. I kind of got distracted by . . . things.”

“
You didn’t go there? After you left the Date Palm?”

“No. Why?”

“Because Driskell’s dead. He was beat to death.”

“Fucking hell.”

“I went over there looking for your sorry ass.”

Bobby gave me a light shove. “Wait a minute. You think I killed him? That’s why you’re all pissed. That’s why you’re mad I was getting in Becky.”

“I got so many more reasons to be pissed at you.”

“All of a sudden I’m some fucking murderer?”

“If you didn’t go there, where’ve you been? Why haven’t you answered my calls? I left a million messages.”

Bobby pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed a button on the side. The phone chirped. “That’s my bad. I turned it off.”

“How do you get from kicking my ass—fuck you very much for that, by the way—to screwing Becky in her kitchen? How does that happen?”

Bobby walked back into the kitchen. I looked at the front door, considered it, but followed him. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out two beers, and tossed me one. I set it on the counter. “I headed toward La Quinta—toward Driskell’s—but I got sidetracked. I called Becky to tell her what we found, see if anything rang a bell. Figured she should know about the video and stuff. I figured Driskell could wait. I knew where he lived.”

“So you came here and fucked Becky?”

“Step the fuck back, bro,” Bobby said, slamming his beer on the counter, spilling some over his hand. “That judgmental shit is going to get your ass kicked twice in twelve hours. That’s not the way it went down. I called Beck. She was a mess, by herself—Russell was putting up fliers—I sat in my truck—”

“It’s a car,” I said, and then held up my hands. “Sorry, instinct.”

“I sat in my
truck
on the side of the road while we talked. She acts strong, the tough chick thing, but she’s going through some heavy shit. She needed someone to listen. Russell’s been great, but like us he’s trying to fix things. I kept my mouth shut, let her talk. For the first time, she told me about those first years when Julie was born, when I didn’t even know I had a kid. How hard it was, but how much she wanted to do it on her own. It was the longest talk we’ve ever had and we—it sounds stupid—but, we connected.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” I said. “I thought you said you turned your phone off.”

“Yeah, I lied. Didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Anyway, I wasn’t that far away, so I came over here. It was nice. Just the two of us. We have a kid together, but I don’t really know Beck, you know. Never spent time together after high school. We talked on the couch for a long time. Calmed me down, her too. I don’t think either of us knew how beat we were. I held her until she fell asleep.

“I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. I left her on the couch and tossed an afghan over her. Wanted to watch that fight on her computer. See it for myself. See Julie. See if there was anything, any clues.

“I found it online, a preview. It wasn’t that hard. But the first time Julie got hit, I stopped. I couldn’t do it. I tried to man up and watch it a second time, but no go. I ended up sitting on the floor in Julie’s bedroom. For hours. Doing nothing. It’s like when you’re a kid and you want to crawl under the covers, because somehow it feels safer. You know it’s not, but it is. I’m fucking scared, Jimmy, and scared ain’t something I know how to do.”

“We’ll find her,” I said, knowing it was a stupid thing to say.

“Will we?”

I shifted gears. “Jump cut to the two of you in the kitchen. I still don’t see how you get there.”

“We were making coffee, talking. It was like a movie. She spilled some water, we both went to clean it up, our faces got close. And before I knew what was happening, we were attached at the crotch. Angry slam-fucking. She pulled my hair, scratching, screaming. She hit me in the face once. Not like a slap. Decked me.”

The front door opened and closed. A voice said, “I’m home.” Bobby and I looked at each other and mouthed the name “Russell” to each other.

“It reeks of fucking in here,” Bobby whispered. “Smells like a . . . It smells like . . .”

“I don’t think you need a simile.”

“Yeah, I can’t think of a good one anyway. Best I had was petting zoo, but that’s more sawdusty.”

While Bobby talked, he opened the broom closet next to the fridge, pulled out a mop, and poured what remained of a bottle of Pine-Sol on the floor. He pushed it around, the smell making my eyes water. I had the feeling that Bobby had been in this situation before.

Russell stopped in the doorway, wincing at the fumes. “Bobby, you don’t have to do that.” He gave me a nod. I’m pretty sure he had forgotten my name.

“Want to help out how I can,” Bobby said. “If little things like cleaning help you guys, I’m more than happy to.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you. Is Becky around?”

“In the back, I think. Haven’t seen her in a while. When I’m in cleaning mode, I’m in my own world.”

“I know how you feel. I’m like that when I’m baking.”

“Are you sure we didn’t take Home Ec together?”

Russell laughed, gave both of us a nod, and walked toward the back of the house calling Becky’s name.

“You going to thank me now or later?” I asked him. “If I hadn’t showed up, he would’ve walked in on your ass. Literally, your ass.”

“He’s a good dude. Now I feel like a prick.”

“You think Becky’s going to tell him?”

Bobby turned to me, obvious that it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would do anything but lie in the situation. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe get a drink?”

“It’s eight in the morning,” I said.

“Breakfast?”

Bobby wasn’t joking about breakfast. After some driving around, we ended up at Indio’s attempt at an upscale café called Brewed Awakenings that was mostly coffee and day-olds with a side of teenage snark. Skewing their primary demographic, Bobby was the only Mexican in the joint. And while on paper the average age of the people in the place was forty, that’s only because the employees were under sixteen and the patrons were over sixty.

We ordered overpriced coffees and overpriced scones and found a table in the corner. Bobby stared out the window. I stared down the shirt of the teenager at the counter as she leaned down to pick up something, caught myself, immediately felt like a pervert, and looked away. Even my eyes were failing me.