Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (23 page)

It was good to see Bobby on his feet. He looked a thousand times healthier, despite his arm in a sling. There’s something about a hospital bed that makes people look sicker than they are. Even the people in the waiting room that are supposedly well look like shit compared to how they looked moments before they walked into the hospital. Maybe it’s the lighting.

I dropped onto the lounge chair in his living room. Bobby ducked into the kitchen and came back with a couple beers. I took one.

“You sure that’s okay with whatever medication you’re taking?”

“It better be. I’ve been knocking them back all morning. Gris is at work. I got bored. I don’t know if daytime TV has always been this bad, but fucking hell.”

“So are Gris and you . . . ?”

Bobby shrugged off the question and took a pull of his beer. “We’re not nothing until this whole mess is figured. I’m not hiding shit from her, but I’m still me.”

“Make it work, dummy. Not just ’cause you two work, but you’re a lunatic when you’re single and heartbroke.”

“I’m a lunatic all the time.”

“Gris gave you the rundown so far? Where we’re at, what we’re doing?”

“You know I want in, right?”

“Not with a broken wing, brother. Not until you heal up.”

“One hand tied behind my back.” But Bobby smiled weakly. It was obvious he wasn’t happy about acting in a supporting role, but he wasn’t about to let his pride affect Julie’s safety.

“Russell said he’d call me later today. Pretty sure the rocket would work, just figuring out some maths and sciences.”

Bobby nodded, a little distracted. “I been reading Julie’s diary, her journals or whatever. Would never’ve done it if she were here, like trespassing, reading secrets. But seeing as how she shot me, I figured, fair play.

“The move from Twentynine Palms to Indio was hard on her. She’s a kid. She don’t understand that Becky had to move for work and to get away from this asshole jarhead up there. I got the whole story on that from Beck. Julie don’t see that Beck’s trying to make a better place for her, because she had to leave her friends and her life.

“So she gets to Indio and you can tell the way she writes that there’s this point that she wants to do shit to hurt Beck. There’s a scary, teenage revenginess all over the journal.”

“Revenge on Becky and you,” I said.

“Not me. Just Becky. I don’t come up, not once in all the journals. I’m only an influence on her in not being one. Only impact I have is being not there. Thing is, if I were around, would it have been any better? Damned if you do, you know?

“She mentions a few fights she got in. Not the videoed ones, but regular two-girls-behind-the-gym catfights. Here’s the fucked part. You can tell she loved it. Or I could, because I know that feeling. I’d read it to you, but it’s awful. She talks about how it feels to get hit, how she likes the pain. But more, she talks about landing that punch that does damage, where she can see the other girl’s eyes go glassy. And the next punch that she lands as the girl is falling to the ground.”

“Damn,” I said.

“That’s heavy shit,” Bobby agreed. “It’s one thing to enjoy the scrap, but to want to hurt someone bad? What kind of pain do you have inside that makes that feel good? I like a melee, but I don’t want to hurt no one. This girl—my girl—is all about hurting.”

“Does it mention anything about Gabe and Chucho and Driskell and all that stuff?”

“They stop before all that. This is all a girl who thinks she’s a woman. And part of being a woman to her is taking care of herself, not relying on anybody else, and fucking up people that get in her way. Julie might be in pain, but in these journals, she never sounds weak. In fact, she sounds fucking dangerous.”

My phone rang, playing “The Gonk” loudly. I answered quickly.

“Hey, Russell. You talk to your friends?”

I listened and then hung up.

“So?” Bobby said.

“He can do it. He can land a rocket inside the compound. He’ll have everything he needs the day after tomorrow. We’re good to go.”

FIFTEEN

It’s not on newer maps, but every old map of the Imperial Valley has a dot between Seeley and Plaster City marked “Dixieland.” Maybe it was a town, but no one seems to know. I vaguely remember a diner there. Probably called the Dixieland Diner. But I could have manufactured that in my head. Whatever Dixieland was, it ain’t no more. A dot on an outdated map with no evidence of anything ever having been there. No concrete foundations, no burnt-out chimney, no weathered fence. Scrub and chaparral its current and permanent residents.

The remnants of a dirt road ran through the spot. Deep-rutted and unmaintained, the road was still popular with off-roaders and dirt-bikers for getting deeper into the wasteland. That rocky path led to Pumice Creek Wash, a flat expanse of nothingness. The far west end of that dry wash was less than a half mile from the eastern border of Plaster City.

Before getting the gear together, I did my due diligence and made a call to Gabe to see if he had heard from Chucho. There was a chance Chucho and Julie were somewhere else, after all, and we might be able to avoid going through with the rocket plan. Gabe told me that he had tried Chucho a few times, but no answer. Even a few mutual friends hadn’t heard from him. I thanked him, telling Gabe that if we found Chucho and Julie in Plaster City, I’d let him know.

We rode in Snout’s van, which unfortunately was painted identically to B.A.’s van from
The A-Team
. Something more inconspicuous would have probably been better, but it was the only van we had access to. And before you ask, yes, the horn played the opening bars of the theme song.

Buck Buck and Snout rode up front, while Russell and I bounced around in the back. Gris was with Bobby in Seeley. It hadn’t been easy to get Bobby to hang back, but beyond his injury, he was too recognizable, both Chucho and Julie knew him. And with his hair, Mr. Magoo could spot him from a couple hundred yards.

We drove past two Border Patrol SUVs headed the other way. Usually they stayed south of the highway, as the stretch of desert between the border and the highway was the high traffic zone for illegal immigration. I was relieved that we weren’t stopped. Owning a van in the Imperial Valley was practically probable cause.

We had it all planned out. Russell would land a rocket inside the bikers’ compound. Buck Buck and I would go to retrieve the rocket. If we spotted Julie, we would call Griselda. It could end right there, if we got lucky. But I leaned somewhere between realist and fatalist. The most we could hope for would be to get a better idea of how many people were in the compound. Maybe some other clue. And to not get our asses kicked.

“Is this going to be close enough?” I asked Russell.

“They’re really designed to go straight up,” Russell said. “Technically, you’re not supposed to aim a rocket more than twenty degrees from vertical. Dangerous. I might have to dip it under to cover the half mile. My fellow enthusiasts would frown on that. I can’t hit a bull’s eye, but close. Half mile is 2,640 feet. I can do it with a three-stage.”

“We’re going to shoot rockets. How cool is that?” Snout said, doing a little dance in his seat and giving Buck Buck a punch in the arm.

“Snout really likes explosions and explosion-related paraphernalia,” Buck Buck said.

“Maybe we’ll come out some other time, under different circumstances,” I said. “I’d love to show Juan.”

Russell nodded, but he had switched gears, concentrating on sorting through wires or whatever he was doing. This wasn’t his normal day. It wasn’t leisure. The weight of what was happening was written all over his face.

“This is going to work,” I said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. His nod was unconvincing.

It worried me that we were putting a bunch of our eggs in this basket. If Julie wasn’t there, we could be inviting trouble from a group best avoided. Julie and Chucho could have taken off to Yuma or Mexico or San Diego or pretty much anywhere on the damn globe. But if they had, what could we do? This was the thing in front of us, something we could do. And even if it led to nothing, it was better than doing nothing.

When people are scared or in danger, instinct tells them to run to friends, to a safe place, to people they trust. The only other place that Julie might have headed was Twentynine Palms to be with her old friends. But they were from her old, normal teenage life. Now she’s a bad girl on the run, and if Chucho had a say in the matter, this is where he’d go.

Snout stopped the van at the edge of the wash. He hopped out, singing “Rocket Man.” And when I say singing, I mean shouting the chorus at full volume. The back doors of the van opened. We slid out and took a look at Plaster City in the distance, a mirage of white structures. Russell looked through the scope of his high-tech laser range finder. I used my low-tech finger to point.

“You see that fenced-in area on the right? That’s where we need the rocket to land. Anywhere inside there.”

“Bigger area than I thought. That’s good.” He looked at his range finder. “This is saying 1,900 feet.”

Here’s where country living had its advantages. City folk have no idea what the length of a mile is. Not by eye, at least. They measure in blocks or minutes. In the country, particularly country as flat as the Imperial Valley, everything is measured in miles and half miles. Three hundred twenty acres is half a square mile. So for instance, the acreage near my house is a half mile by a half mile. Or in simpler terms, it’s a half mile from my house to the stop sign on McCabe Road. I could count off that distance in paces and be right within twenty feet.

“Sorry, Russ,” Buck Buck said, “that doohickey ain’t right. It’s short.”

“This is one of the best range finders on the market.”

“How many feet did you say a half mile was?”

“Exactly 2,640 feet,” Russell answered.

“It’s wrong. I got one not quite as good as that one, and on hot days and far distances, the laser goes wonky. From the heat waves. There ain’t nothing between us and that building there, but I trust my eye.”

Russell nodded. “I haven’t used this much, but it would make sense that the heat from the ground might refract the light. We have to be right, though. How far would you say it is?”

“Under a half mile, but not by much. Closer to 2,400 feet. Snout?” Buck Buck said.

“Definitely not over a half. Yeah, looks about right. Jimmy?” Snout said.

“I would’ve said somewhere between 2,400 and 2,500. It sounds crazy, but I got to go with Buck Buck over science on this one rare occasion,” I said.

“I trust the consensus,” Russell said. “I’ve got two identical rockets. If I don’t get the first one right, I should be able to make the adjustment on the second one, so long as it gets close.”

We let Russell do his thing and set up the rocket. So simple, he didn’t even need our help. A stand and the propulsion mechanism—that was it. According to Russell, it was all about getting the angle and the engine load right. Which came down to his calculations. I would’ve helped, but math.

Snout, Buck Buck, and I sat in the shade of the van, giving Russell space to work. He paced a rut and made notes with the nub of a pencil on a scrap of paper. He talked to himself about Newtons and thrust and pounds, constantly looking back to Plaster City and his target. He even licked his finger and felt the air, but I’m pretty sure he did that for show since the air was as dead as Paul Lynde, peace be upon him.

The rocket was a thing of beauty. Three feet tall and bright orange with long fins. You could see the separate stages and where they would break apart. The tip of its nose looked sharp enough to draw blood. It was sleek and if you told me that it could make it to the moon, I wouldn’t’ve called you a liar.

“The idea,” Russell said, “is that it hits altitude above the target area, the nose opens, and it drifts down on its chute inside the fence, onto a roof or something. There’s no wind, so we’re lucky there. Let’s try it and see what happens.”

“Can I press the launch button?” Snout asked, forehead knotted with worry that he might be refused.

When Russell said, “Yes,” I thought Snout was going to shit from happiness. It had happened before when Buck Buck got him a bouncy castle for his thirtieth birthday. Snout did another little dance, this time singing “Major Tom” at full volume.

Snout demanded a countdown. No one argued. A rocket launch without a countdown was sacrilege, bad luck. And there was no reason to spit in Fate’s face.

At “Blastoff,” Snout triggered the rocket. The engines burned, shooting fire and smoke, the rocket motionless for a moment. Then, strangely slow, the rocket rose above the smoke. But it didn’t go slow for long, something clicked and that mother shrunk into the distance at superspeed. We whooped and hollered and high-fived. Except Russell, who had his scope on the rocket, watching its ascent.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Russell repeated like a mantra.

Remembering why we were there, we stopped our antics and watched Russell expectantly.

“Second stage. Come on.”

I squinted into the distance. I could see the trail of smoke, but I couldn’t make out the rocket as it got near the sun.

“Third stage. We’ve got the distance. Open, open, open.”

Snout grabbed my arm and squeezed like my date at a horror movie.

“Chute’s away. Appears to be over target. Falling, falling.”

Russell dropped the scope, letting it hang from his chest. He turned to us.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“It’s inside the compound. It worked. Looks like maybe on top of a structure. Hard to tell, but definitely within the perimeter.”

“Great job, Russell.” I shook his hand. Buck Buck and Snout gave him hearty backslaps that pushed him forward into me.

“I’ll admit,” Russell said. “Most of my earlier confidence was bravado. I’m a little shocked that it worked on the first attempt.”

There had been so many defeats over the last few days, this small victory was unbelievably important. I wanted to celebrate, but I would have to wait. The rocket was just the beginning of the plan.

Buck Buck and I had drawn the short straws by the process of elimination. Bobby was hurt. Julie would recognize Russell right away and infiltrating a biker gang compound wasn’t his charge. Snout was out, mostly because Snout was Snout. I knew it was risky to go myself, as both Chucho and Julie had seen my face, but it hadn’t been for very long and I was the only one in the group who knew what Chucho looked like.

Buck Buck studied the photo of Julie as we walked.

“She might look different, so really look at the eyes,” I said.

Buck Buck hadn’t been joking about the disguises. When he pulled out his duffel bag of white button-up shirts, pocket protectors, and tape-repaired glasses, I laughed hard enough to choke on spit.

Buck Buck looked hurt, but stuck by his guns. “Look, Jimmy. When you got a bad lie to tell, you’re best to keep it strange. I might not be the smartest guy, but to me, this is what a grown man who plays with toy rockets looks like. In my brain, this is what I see. My guess is them bikers ain’t no smarter than me. Means this is what they think a rocket nerd looks like, too. To you, we look ridiculous. But to them, we look how we’re supposed to.”

I felt bad for laughing. The ironclad logic of his argument threw me. I started to think that Buck Buck played dumber than he was. And the disguise, especially the thick-framed glasses, would go a long way to hiding my appearance. In costume, people saw the costume first and had to work their way to the person underneath.

Armed with nothing but a row of ballpoints in our front pockets and high-water pants, Buck Buck and I hiked the half mile over the flat desert wash to Plaster City. Buck Buck kicked at the dirt, watching the clouds of dust fall straight to the ground, nowhere to go in the windless air.

“Look,” Buck Buck said, “I know you’re used to sidekicking for Bobby and not me. And I’m used to Snout being my sidekick. But I’m sure we can work it out. Batman usually’s got Robin, but I’m sure he teamed up with Aqualad or Speedy and they still beat the bad guy.”

“Am I Aqualad in that scenario? I don’t sidekick for Bobby,” I said. “I can’t believe people can’t see this. He’s my sidekick. Which means you’re Aqualad. I’m Batman.”