Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (24 page)

“I’m really more of a leading man.”

“Okay, how ’bout this? You’re still Batman. I’ll be Superman. They teamed up all the time. Snout and Bobby are the sidekicks.”

“I can work with that. But I want to be Green Arrow instead.” Buck Buck scooped up some dirt without losing a step. “It’s kind of crazy this was all underwater once.” He let the dirt sift through his fingers and held up his hand, showing me a few tiny seashells.

“When I was a kid, we’d dig up all kinds of shells. There’s like oyster-sized ones around here somewhere. Pop knew the good spots. I really need to take Juan out here.”

“Shells are like bones, right? Which makes this like a graveyard kind of.”

“Considering how old everything is, no matter where you step on the planet, you’re probably walking on something’s remains.”

“Creepy.”

He rubbed his hands together, letting the shells and dirt fall to the stark white ground. The sign that we had reached our destination. We were at the edge of Plaster City.

Where we had entered, a half dozen double-wides sat out in the open. With no outside additions like a deck or porch, they looked like they had been used as office structures, part of the factory grounds. Some of the windows were boarded. The ones that weren’t were broken.

I poked my head in the open window of the first building. It smelled like a dog’s breath. The inside was gutted, no interior walls, like an empty truck trailer. Birdshit, animal bones, and thick dust lined the ground. Cobwebs fell like hammocks from the ceiling. I could only imagine the size of the spiders that made them. The desert doesn’t fuck around when it comes to spiders.

Buck Buck peeked over my shoulder. “Why would you make a dumbass tent town when all these need is a good hosing off?”

“Putting up a fence like that’s harder than getting a bunch of shitty campers. And if you’re up to no good, you want a good fence.”

“Suppose,” Buck Buck said. “I’ve been thinking about our plan.”

“Yeah?”

“Were we drunk when we came up with it?”

“No. I wasn’t, at least.”

“It’s just that it’s one of the weirder, dumber things we’ve tried. It’s weird that this is the best we could come up with sober.”

“You’re bringing it up now?”

“I’m not saying it’s not a good idea. Or it won’t work. I’m saying it’s dumb. That’s all. Constructive criticism.”

Looking toward the fence, I wondered if there were eyes on us. From where we stood, the van was in full view. I could vaguely make out Russell and Snout setting up another rocket. A good lie is in the details. Anyone paying attention could have watched us shoot off the rocket, walk the distance, and stand where we were. We weren’t hiding. But would they even bother with a lookout way out here?

The white hardpack turned into white pavement, transitioning from desert to civilization. Still no activity or movement from the fenced-in area. Buck Buck and I stopped next to an empty propane tank across the street from the gate. I heard music and men’s voices. I didn’t know there was such a thing as Mexican Death Metal, but if I could give the music a genre, that’s what it was. Death Mexal. Growling Spanish lyrics accompanied by grinding guitar, rapid-fire drums, and—I swear—a hint of tuba.

“We knock?” Buck Buck asked.

I shrugged. “How else?”

“Screw it. Do it.”

I held up a palm. I wanted to rehearse. I added a spitty lisp to really sell the sitcom-nerd stereotype. “Hello, there. I apologize profusely for the inconvenience, but my scale-model rocket landed inside of your vicinity somewhere. I w
ould request you retrieve it yourself, but I fear that one of the engines did not ignite. It might explode and I’d hate to put a noncombatant, as it were, at risk.”

“Is that really what you’re going to say?”

But I never got my chance to deliver what I’m sure would have been a Razzie-worthy performance.

We took one step onto the road when the sound of squealing tires sent us ducking back behind the propane tank. Buck Buck and I watched a sun-faded burgundy Chrysler LeBaron with a primer door and its hood held down with bungee cord race down the road, skid to face the gate, and crash right through it, sending the big square of chain link straight up into the air.

“That’s one way to do it,” Buck Buck said.

“I know that car. That’s Gabe, Julie’s old boyfriend. I talked to him this morning and—Oh, shit. I might have told him I thought Julie and Chucho were out here. He’s either coming to fuck Chucho up, save Julie, or both.”

“He’s pissed, that’s for sure. What do we do? Scrap the plan?”

“The kid’s a better distraction than our dumbass plan. Let’s take a closer look. See if we can spot Julie.”

Buck Buck and I ran across the street and peeked through an area of the fence near the gate that had been damaged by Gabe’s battering-ramming. It gave a decent view of the grounds and the various structures through a pair of Dumpsters that smelled like cabbage farts. For some idiotic reason, they had created a picnic area with a few rusted and battered patio sets with torn umbrellas right near the Dumpsters.

There were ten trailers or motor homes parked in a haphazard fashion within the lot, as well as a couple of big tents. Nearer the loading dock were some storage containers and a truck trailer. It looked like someone had planned a little community, abandoned it, and the current residents were squatting. Either that or someone had watched
The Road Warrior
one too many times. Motorcycles sat parked in front of most of the structures. I counted sixteen.

Mexican bikers appeared from all different directions, surrounding the LeBaron as Gabe got out. Only four of the bikers were armed. Two pistols and two shotguns. The rest of the men stood around, curious, more startled than ready to fight. The only one I recognized was Cold Sore. That thing still hadn’t healed.

Gabe had skidded to a halt in the center of the lot. He left the engine running and got out of the car. He didn’t look intimidated or scared by the leatherclad army around him. He examined everyone’s face, and then shouted, “Julie!”

The bikers looked at each other but didn’t make a move on Gabe. A couple of them made jokes in Spanish that I couldn’t make out, forcing a smile or a laugh.

“That’s got to be most of them. Least the ones at home,” I whispered to Buck Buck. “A car crashing onto your land brings everyone out.”

“I count nineteen. Only a couple pieces, but that don’t mean they ain’t packing deeper.”

Gabe continued shouting. “Julie. I know you’re here. I just want to talk.”

“You see any girls?” I asked Buck Buck.

“No chicks at all. Just the dudes. But look at that guy by that mobile home near the loading docks. It’s the only one with no bike out front. Does it look like he’s guarding it?”

“He’s definitely standing like he’s at attention. And he didn’t make a move to—”

The last words caught in my mouth as Chucho stepped out of the mobile home we were referring to. He yelled behind him at someone. I had a good guess who, even if I couldn’t see her. He shut the door. Not enough to call Gris, but enough to feel like my hunch was right. Either way, we had eyes on Chucho. If he was there, Julie was too.

“That Chucho?” Buck Buck asked.

Gabe answered for me. “Where’s Julie, you fucking pendejo?”

“You fucked up our gate,” Chucho said, as he approached.

“Were you with Julie while me and her were going out?”

“You ain’t going out no more, so who gives a shit?”

“Not what I asked. Means she wasn’t with that rich dude in La Quinta. She was with you.”

Chucho shrugged, smirked. “I take what I want.”

“You’re about to take an ass-kicking. Unless you need your boys to do your fighting for you.” Gabe waved his hands at the men around him.

“Let’s go,” Chucho said. Although the words were unnecessary, as his arms were already held out wide in the universal gesture for “let’s go.” He picked up his step and ran toward Gabe, a couple of bikers parting to let him into the circle. He made a leap toward Gabe, attempting to tackle him around the waist.

But Gabe (and everyone else) saw it coming. He side-stepped Chucho just enough to throw him over his thigh as he brought an elbow down on the back of his neck. Chucho ate shit on the hard ground, sliding a little on his face.

If I were Gabe, I would’ve jumped on Chucho’s back, held him down with my knees, and whaled on him. But Gabe was more honorable than I’ll ever be. He got in a boxing stance and waited for Chucho to stand. He wanted to humiliate Chucho properly. He didn’t want an asterisk on the victory.

The problem was that when someone with honor fights someone dishonorable, the latter will always pull a dick move. More damage has been done by that bullshit Vince Lombardi quote about winning than can be imagined. Because dumbshits use it as license to cheat. If you believe winning is the only thing, you’re an idiot.

Chucho got up on an elbow, his face scraped and dirty, and pulled a pistol from his jacket. It was hard to tell from that distance, but there was a good chance it was Bobby’s gun.

Gabe was too angry to be scared. He screamed, spit flying in Chucho’s direction. “Do it, you bitch.” He turned to the crowd. “You going to let him pull a puss move like that? Not man enough to fight straight up.”

One of the bikers stepped forward. He wasn’t the biggest guy there, but he looked a little older than the others. He had that relaxed gait that told you he wasn’t about to take any shit. “Put it away, Chucho.”

Chucho hesitated for a moment, but only that. He had no interest in testing the seriousness of the request. He put the pistol away and got to his feet. “He attacked us, Goyo. Can’t let that go.”

Goyo took a step toward Chucho, which made him flinch. “You brought this here, so it’s on you, too. You’re the one going to be fixing the busted gate.”

Buck Buck and I both ducked down when everyone turned to look at the damaged gate.

“But I was—”

“Cállate,” Goyo shouted. He walked to Gabe, stopping a few feet in front of him. “You might want to fight Chucho, you might even got good reasons. That’s between you two. But you broke our property, killed my buzz, and messed up my day.”

Before Gabe could do anything, Goyo cleared the distance and dropped him with an explosive haymaker. I swear I felt the air buckle when it landed.

He turned to one of the other bikers. “Put him somewhere. Anywhere but with the girls. I want to talk to him. Flaco, Rubio, ditch the car. Strip it, dump it, let the desert bury it, just get rid of it.”

Chucho did his best to blend in with the rest of the men, but Goyo wasn’t having any.

Goyo grabbed Chucho’s jacket. “We’re Los Hermanos. Someone challenged you straight up, let you take the first shot, and you pulled a gun? I should fucking beat your ass out of principle.”

“They’re breaking up,” Buck Buck said. “We need to make like the vice squad and get the fuck out of the neighborhood.”

“We can’t just leave the kid there.”

Buck Buck and I watched a big, shirtless biker drag the unconscious Gabe toward one of the trailers, his boots scraping furrows along the ground.

“Got to,” Buck Buck said. He booked it across the street.

I stared for a moment. “Fuck.”

The biker took Gabe behind a storage container, out of view. That’s when I saw it. Between the storage container and where I stood. Roughly drawn into the ground with a stick was what looked like a bird, the dark lines visible on the white surface. Or at least, I thought it was a bird. It was like that geoglyph out in the desert, hard to see except from above. I squinted my eyes trying to get a better look, until I realized that I was exposing myself for too long.

I hightailed it back toward the office trailers, joining Buck Buck and keeping low and out of sight. When we reached the edge of Plaster City, I looked at the expanse of open desert that we had to cross. I spotted Snout’s van. A Border Patrol SUV was parked next to it. But that was an afterthought, really. Most of my attention was on the other Border Patrol SUV that drove over the dry wash straight toward us.

“Free ride,” Buck Buck said.

The SUV stopped in front of us and idled for a long moment. The reflection off the windshield made it impossible to see the driver. After a moment, Little Piwi stepped out of the passenger’s side. He pointed a big thumb to the back.

“Run or fight?” Buck Buck asked.

“There’s nowhere to run. No reason to fight.”

Buck Buck looked disappointed. “That’s why you’re a sidekick. There’s always a reason to fight.”

But we both walked to the SUV and climbed in the side door, sitting behind the mesh screen that separated us from the front.

The Border Patrol officer drove back to Snout’s van. Little Piwi opened the door, letting Buck Buck hop out. As I was about to take a step down, Little Piwi shook his head and pointed back into the SUV. I sat back down. Buck Buck joined Snout, Russell, and two Mexicans in suits, who loaded the rocket equipment into the back of Snout’s van. A Border Patrol officer leaned against his vehicle and smoked.

Little Piwi held out his hand to me.

“I don’t know what that means. I don’t have a weapon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He made the phone gesture with his other hand, thumb and pinky sticking out, then opened his palm to me again.

I took out my phone and placed it in his big paw. He tucked it into his jacket pocket, slammed the door, and sat back in the passenger seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror so it looked at me. Our eyes met. The driver hit the gas and drove us over the wash and onto the dirt road. Little Piwi’s eyes stayed on me for the whole drive. We were dropped off at a black SUV parked just outside of Seeley.

I had a ton of questions, but I knew better than to ask Little Piwi anything. I could get more information talking to my dick. I didn’t test the theory though.

SIXTEEN

Tomás did not look happy, a disappointed parent staring at a teenager rolling in at three in the morning. My heart wasn’t exactly filled with Sanrio characters and duckling kisses, so I matched his look with one of my own.

Little Piwi had driven me in the black SUV to Elvia’s, a Mexican restaurant in the middle of the country between Holtville and Calexico. A family restaurant with a jungle gym and two seesaws out front, the place couldn’t have been more isolated. While most restaurants relied on location, location, location, Elvia’s food was so good that its remoteness didn’t matter, bringing in people from all over the Valley.

But not that day. It was lunchtime and the place was empty except for Tomás. It might have had something to do with the half dozen intimidating Mexicans in suits standing around outside. Tomás sat with his back to the wall at a corner table. The waitstaff brought water and beer and food. We didn’t order or talk to them beyond a nod and a
gracias
every time they brought something. After they brought enough food for ten people, they silently walked into the kitchen. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had walked straight out the backdoor, got in their cars, and drove away. Tomás had that effect on people.

Little Piwi had his own table near the front door. He had the same amount of food in front of him as the two of us, but since he consisted of ten people smashed together to make one giant person, the amount was more fitting. As he dispatched his chile rellenos, his eyes never left the front door.

A slight smile cut through Tomás’s seriousness as he looked at my getup. “I like the pocket protector.”

I looked down at my nerd disguise and shrugged.

“You keep showing up in places you shouldn’t be,” Tomás said, tearing off a bit of tortilla and smearing it in some mole sauce.

“I could say the same to you,” I said. “There seems to be some overlap in our respective crusades.”

“The only difference. You have no reason to be out there. I have a reason to be everywhere. What’s your interest in Plaster City?”

“Same as in La Quinta. Bobby’s girl is there. You?”

“You’re done with that, I thought.”

“Julie’s not home yet, so no, we’re not done.”

“You’re in the middle of something bigger than one girl.”

“I was starting to get that feeling.”

I hadn’t been to Elvia’s in a while and the food smelled great, but my appetite was all but gone. I picked up a tortilla chip, dipped it in guac, and took a bite.

“Help me make informed decisions then,” I said. “What’s your business in all this?”

Tomás shook his head. “You need to go home and forget about Plaster City.”

“How long have you known me? I’m not doing that.”

Tomás stared at me for a moment. He nodded to himself, took another few bites of food, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “When Craig Driskell died, that should have ended the production of any videos on this side of the border. He was the financier and distributor. Like what a movie studio does. No Driskell, no studio. But apparently our biker friends found some brains. They went indie. And while I admire their entrepreneurial spirit, it interferes with my plans to fill the vacuum that Driskell’s death was supposed to have created.”

“You told me that you had nothing to do with Driskell’s death.”

“I tell you a lot of things,” Tomás said. “You’re my friend, Jimmy. But you have to look at this relationship a little more clearly. You have to see me for who I am.”

“Did you kill Driskell?” I threw the chip in my hand down on the table, which admittedly didn’t have quite the impact I was going for.

Tomás smiled. “You want me to confess to a murder? I wouldn’t exactly be a criminal mastermind if I took credit for miscellaneous felony crimes. Doesn’t matter how he died, he’s dead.”

I stood and turned to leave.

“Sit down.” He didn’t shout, but it was a command.

I sat back down. “So Driskell ‘mysteriously’ dies and now you’re going to make videos of teenage girls fighting? That’s the whole thing. The master plan. Christ, Tommy. Even for you, that’s fucked up.”

“ ‘Even for me?’ ” Tomás repeated. “This is what I’m talking about. I appreciate that you think I’m some kind of good villain. I do. It’s charming. But I’m not. I’m going to lift the hood and show you how this engine runs. These fights, they’re nothing. Girls boxing? It’s a Disney movie compared to some of the videos I’ve made. The things I’ve had people do. You have no idea.”

“I don’t want to hear any of this shit.”

“I don’t care what you want,” Tomás shouted. “You need to know who the fuck you’re talking to. Last few years, I’ve been making porno and playing the player, sure. Not no more. Over time and on the secret, I’ve gained information, contacts, power. I’m taking over. I’ve got the plaza in Mexicali. I own that city. And now I’m going to own this valley, too. The criminals, the law, the money, every fucking grain of sand. Nobody runs an operation without my say. Anyone gets in my way—innocent or guilty—they pay. Ass, cash, or the lash.”

“Tommy,” I said.

“Cállate,” Tomás spat. “Don’t call me that no more. Tommy ain’t nobody. He was a guy you used to know. Not the chingón in front of you. I’m Tomás fucking Morales, motherfucker.”

I watched him fume for a few seconds before speaking. “Okay, you’re evil. I get it. Fuck.”

“Always joking.” Tomás glanced toward the front door and back to me. “You’re the only person who doesn’t fear me. You and Maves, but he don’t scare. That has to change.”

“You got that wrong. I’m plenty scared of you.”

“Not enough,” Tomás said. “Did you know I once had a guy eat a handful of broken glass because his count was low? Of course you don’t. I’ve lost track of the number of body parts that people don’t have anymore because of their poor judgment. I lit an innocent man on fire—did it myself—to make a point to some very guilty men. You ever seen pictures of those displayed corpses on the news? They make American papers every once in a while. Page eight, if there are photos. Mexican papers, it’s everyday front page. Bodies with no heads sitting in lawn chairs. Hanging from overpasses. Torsos along the highway. People now nothing but parts. And you get mad at me for lying to you.”

“There’s such thing as right and wrong.” It felt like a stupid thing to say, but how do you respond to a list like that?

“So my priest tells me. Usually right before he buys a disturbing variety of pornographic material from me.”

I looked down at all the untouched food on the table. The sweet scent of chiles and spices had disappeared. Only the grease remained in the air.

“What happens now?” I said, beaten.

“You go home. You raise your son. Work in your fields. Join the Rotary club. Go back to your life. Forget about whatever it is you were going to do.”

“And what happens out there?”

“In Plaster City? I’m going to shut that down.”

“I hate to ask. What does ‘shut that down’ mean exactly?”

“I hate to answer,” Tomás said. “So I won’t.”

“There’s got to be a way to let me pull Julie out without affecting whatever Armageddon you’re going to throw at those bikers. She’ll be in the cross-fire. She doesn’t have to get hurt. I can’t let that happen.”

“Sure you can. If she’s with Los Hermanos, she’s in danger right now. You think those girls are anything but slaves?”

“What if I can do it without getting in your way? When do you release the hounds?”

Tomás thought about it. He took a long drink of water and stared into space. I could only imagine the calculations going on in his head.

“I am obviously not a sentimental person, but I appreciate the time you spent with me when I was a kid. I was younger and I know you hung out because you felt sorry for me. That’s why you’re sitting here and not facedown in an irrigation ditch. Loyalty is a contract for services rendered. But that debt has been paid with interest.”

“I never said you owed me anything.”

“Your word still means something to you, right?” Tomás asked.

I nodded. “Set the terms and I’ll stick by them.”

“You’ve been in contact with Griselda Villarreal.”

“Have you been spying on me?”

Tomás shrugged. “She’s the law. She can’t know shit. I tell you anything, you have to keep her out. I’ll know. Sheriffs don’t go into the Yuha unless they get a call. If there’s any police, there will be consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“People might get hurt. People could even die.”

“Are you threatening my friends?” I kicked the chair back and leaned in close to Tomás. Close enough to feel his heat. I saw Little Piwi stand in my peripheral vision. Tomás stared at me, silent, waiting.

He said, “The future hasn’t happened. I don’t know who, how, when. But accidents—and non-accidents—happen. I can’t kill you, Jimmy. You’re my friend. But someone you care about? Someone I don’t give a shit about? I’d do that without thought or guilt. Hell, I wouldn’t even do it. I’d have someone do it for me. You still want to try to save the girl?”

I turned and walked toward the front door. Little Piwi didn’t stop me. With one hand on the knob, I stopped myself. I had no bargaining power. I let go of the knob and marched back to Tomás.

“I don’t like threats,” I said.

“Who does?”

“Okay, Gris is out. No cops. But I need Bobby and the boys.”

“They kept their mouth shut about the other thing. Basically criminals themselves. Tell them if you want. But if Villarreal or any cop finds out from you or them, bad things happen.”

I nodded. “Deal with the devil.”

Tomás took the napkin from his lap and threw it on top of his plate. It soaked up the red sauce, darkening its edges. “I’m going to use Los Hermanos to send a message. It’s a Mexican thing. Makeshift marketing. We like big displays of power. They help spread the word of one’s magnitude and creativity among the circles I want to reach most. For that, I need an audience. The next time they have their fights, I’m going to let them have their fun, build a big crowd, and then bring the hammer down. Quickly, violently, and with enough people left alive to create legend.”

“What about the girls?”

“They’ll be absorbed into my operation. And if it eases your conscience, they’ll get a better arrangement. No reason to waste talent.”

“What in the fuck happened to you?”

“Opportunity.”

“When are the next fights?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I have eyes on Plaster City. How my boys ended up catching sight of you. Did you really shoot a model rocket, dress up like that, and walk in there? That’s the best plan you could come up with?”

“I had glasses on, too. Make fun all you want. It worked.”

“Model rockets,” Tomás shook his head and laughed. “I admire the originality.”

“So I have until the next fights.”

“And then you better not be anywhere near Plaster City. You’re not a Bible reader, but you know how God would get all wrathful and take out a whole place? Like the Flood or Sodom and shit, wipe ’em from the map? When the smoke clears and the coyotes take the bodies, Plaster City ain’t going to be much more than Bond’s Corner or one of those other places that’s nothing but a dot on an old map.”

“Like Dixieland,” I said without thinking.

“Exactly,” Tomás said. “Little Piwi will drive you home. You should take some of this food with you. It would be a shame to waste it.”

When Little Piwi turned into my driveway, I saw Bobby’s Ranchero parked behind my truck. The Mexican Gargantua handed me my phone and my leftovers, waited for me to get out, and then drove south.

Bobby came out the front door, his step a little quicker than that morning. He had color in his face and looked closer to his old self.

“Buck Buck gave me the haps. What the hell did Morales want?”

“We got to talk,” I said. “A serious what-the-fuck-happens-next powwow.”

Bobby nodded. “Then I better grab some beers.”

I parked myself in one of the lawn chairs next to the sandbox and waited for Bobby to come back. I wanted to be careful how I framed this for Bobby. If he got the impression that Tomás had threatened Griselda—which he pretty much had—Bobby would go warpath.

Bobby handed me a beer and took a seat, showing some pain and leaning awkwardly toward his good side. “That was a mistake,” he said. “Five bucks says I ain’t going to be able to get back up without help. I feel like an old man.”