Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (26 page)

“Watch out for llama pies,” Rudy called after me. “Haven’t taught her to use toilet paper and Theresa thinks the world is her john. Very unladylike, even for a llama. And careful of Butthead. That goat can be a real hardcase.”

Staying in the rough path that wound through the acres of rusted junk, I tried to remember the last time I had a tetanus shot. Did they give me one for the dog bite?

I hoped that some of the anger between Bobby and Rudy was for show and without me there it would settle down. Bravado and trash talk needed an audience. There was a good chance they would only stare at each other instead of talk, but for them that would be a step in the right direction.

Rudy’s property was like other desert spreads. Nothing ever got thrown away. Or if it did, it got thrown out back. A junkyard of anachronistic farm equipment, gutted cars, a beat-up panel truck, fenced-in corrals, multiple sheds, and roaming animals. I was pretty sure I saw an iron lung. When you got all that space, it’s easier to abandon large garbage than haul it away.

I kicked at the chickens that got underfoot as I strolled toward a barn in the distance. I wanted to get a closer view at what looked to be a DeSoto parked inside. Unlike the cars baking in the sun, a tarp half-covered the chassis and it looked clean. Black with suicide doors, Rudy’s taste in vehicles was definitely better than Bobby’s and his Ranchero.

I hopscotched through the minefield of diverse animal shits, some recognizable, some exotic. A pig snorted at me from its pen. It didn’t bother to get up, lying underneath a slow running tap, letting the water drip onto its head.

“Hey, pig.”

It snorted again.

When I looked back up, a goat stood in my path, maybe ten yards in front of me. I hadn’t heard it or seen it, like it had appeared out of nowhere. Demonic creatures tend to do that.

“Hey, goat,” I said. A regular Doctor Dolittle, I was.

The goat stared back at me with its creepy lizard eyes, projecting simultaneous hate and apathy like only a goat can. I walked forward, pretending that I wasn’t intimidated. I wanted to take a look at that car and I was bigger than the goat was. I was higher on the food chain. Hell, I’ve eaten goat. I’d show no fear, demonstrate who was the evolutionarily dominant one, show that goat who was boss.

The goat was. The goat was definitely boss.

Within a few feet, the goat nut-butted me. Direct hit. He sunk my battleship. My own trademark move used against me. I leaned down, reflexively grabbing my groin, which only made it hurt more. The goat immediately tried to bite my face. I pulled my head away in time to avoid its teeth. It lunged again. I dodged, jumped onto the nearest fence rail, and leapt into the pigpen, my shoes sinking into what I hoped was mud, but was not.

The goat stared at me from the other side of the fence, calculating and patient, slowly chewing that way goats do. If there was a way to convince the goat to use his powers for good and not evil, I would have brought the goat along when we went into Plaster City. Unleash hell in goat-form on those bikers.

I never got a chance to see the DeSoto. Just another reason to hate goats.

Bobby approached from the house, quick-stepping toward me. The goat looked at him. Bobby casually shooed it with one hand and the bastard, son of a bitch, jerk goat walked away. Just like that. Walked away from a shooing. What the hell did I do?

“What are you doing to that pig?” Bobby asked.

I climbed the fence without answering and did my best to scrape the muck off my boots on a low rail.

“That was quick,” I said.

“It’s time to go.”

“You guys work anything out? Reach any kind of peace?”

“This ain’t a movie, bro. We’re not going to talk for two minutes, reach some epiphany, and hug that shit out. We talked, agreed the past couldn’t be changed. That we both got some work to do. But for the grandkids, if he was willing to make the effort, I’d meet him halfway.”

“Did he tell you more details about what he found out? About Friday?”

My boots as clean as they were going to get, Bobby and I headed back to my truck.

“His buddy Lorenzo Silva runs Ocotillo Beer & Ammo, the only liquor store out in these parts. The closest other one is in Seeley. So Lorenzo’s is where the desert rats stock up on booze. He told Rudy that some of them Hermanos bikers came in and ordered fifteen kegs for Friday. Got to mean fight night.”

“Friday is two days away.”

“Yeah, I understand time.”

“We still don’t got a plan.”

“Rudy and I worked it out on this napkin.” Bobby held up a ragged piece of paper covered in ballpoint. “The two of us might got our differences, but when it comes to mayhem we’re of a same mind.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You’ll like it. It’s clever and sneaky.”

We walked past the house and Rudy sitting on the deck. He gave us a wave.

“See you on Friday,” Rudy said.

I turned to Bobby. “Hell no.”

“Yep. He’s coming. If that old man wants to be the girl’s grandfather, his first act of good fucking faith is going to be helping pull her ass from the fire.”

SEVENTEEN

Friday.

The back of the panel truck felt like it was two hundred degrees. A steamy heat that drained my pores, slicked my skin, and made it difficult to breathe. Bobby and I sat facing each other behind the false wall at the end of the trailer nearest the cab. According to Rudy, it had been built by smugglers to sneak exotic animals from Mexico. I didn’t believe him, but there were all sorts of used vehicles sold along the border with unique modifications. I had a buddy who got stopped on the border because the dogs smelled cocaine residue in the door panels of his recently purchased Vanagon. Caveat emptor, sucker. Carfax don’t list that shit.

Having made an arrangement with Lorenzo at the liquor store, Rudy drove the truck to deliver the kegs to Plaster City. That would get us onto the grounds and, from there, everything would be improvised. The Maveses only plan to a point. Not really a plan if you think about it. More of a notion. But with all the random factors that could come into play, it didn’t make sense to plan too far. That’s how we ran. Slapdash, but not half-ass.

We had cut holes in the truck ceiling for air and light. The big bag of guns sat between us.

“Kind of ironical that we’d be in a truck full of beer,” Bobby said, “but we didn’t think to bring some back here to drink.”

“I got water,” I said, holding up my half-full bottle. “More I drink, the more I sweat.”

Bobby shook his head. “I’m good.”

“Are you? I really wish you would’ve let Buck Buck do this.”

Bobby looked down at his arm. It was still in the sling, but to limit its movement he had secured it tightly to his body with a thick bandage. “With one arm tied behind my back.”

“You already made that joke.”

We hit a big bump, both of us lifting six inches off the truck floor and landing hard. Bobby winced and caught me looking.

“It’s just pain, Jimmy. Me and pain, we’re old pals. I only need one hand to shoot a gun. My main health concern is Gris. If she finds out about this, I’m a dead man.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I want good things for her, and I’m not a good thing sometimes. She makes me want to change, but I don’t know if I can. This old dog ain’t learned no new tricks. Wait, that’s not true. I learned from an old guy how to open a wine bottle with a shoe.”

“With a shoe?”

“I’ll show you when this is over. It’s pretty cool. I’m just saying, I don’t want to, but I’ve fucked up and’ll fuck up again.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“I’m out here, ain’t I? Lying to her again.”

Three loud knocks from the cab shut us up. Rudy telling us that we were pulling into Plaster City.

“They’re waving me in,” Rudy said, muted through the truck panel.

The truck slowed and took a right turn, which meant we were pulling into the factory and not the compound. That put us on the wrong side of the highway. He stopped, the engine idling.

“Ocotillo Beer & Ammo. I got your kegs. Where you want the bar set up?” Rudy asked.

A faint voice replied. “Drop the beer and ice over there in the shade. We’ll take it from there.”

“Didn’t Lorenzo tell you? Had a problem with his refrigeration. No ice. Brought the Kegerators and a genny. It’ll keep the beer cold longer and you’ll be able to swap out kegs without having to pre-ice.”

“We always use ice.”

“If you want to run to El Centro and get ice, I don’t care. Going to need a lot.”

“No fucking ice. You’re kidding me. It’s ice.”

“That’s what Lorenzo told me. Talk to him. I’m the guy who drives the truck.”

“Set the shit up. I ain’t going to El Centro. Ice’ll melt before I get back.”

“This setup will work better,” Rudy said. “Here’s what I’ll do. Looks like you’re setting up for a heck of a party. Not only will I set up the bar, I’ll bartend for you, work the keg. Since my divorce, my Friday nights are free. I might be able to make some tips on top. You got some bands playing?”

“Fights.”

“Betting allowed? I just got paid.”

“Definitely. Everyone bets.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’m going to have to ask about the bartending thing. Unpack the truck. Someone’ll come over and talk to you, old man.”

The truck crept forward, turned, and stopped. Rudy cut the engine.

“Not bad on his feet. I hope that wasn’t too suspicious,” I said.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Bobby said.

Bobby and I reached into the big bag of guns and each took out a pistol.

“Guy walking toward us. Angry walk. Sit tight.” Rudy’s door opened and then it was quiet. There was some faint talk outside, but I couldn’t make out the words.

Bobby and I waited. The back of the truck slid open and I could feel the weight of men climbing inside.

Rudy said, “Fifteen kegs, two Kegerators, a genny to run them, and enough diesel to keep the genny humming. Lorenzo threw in cups for the inconvenience.”

“And you want to stay and be our bartender?”

“Man said it was fight night. I did a little boxing in my younger days. Used to go all the time to Mexicali, but the Indian casinos took all the good fights. Too expensive now. Nothing like a smoker on a Friday night.”

“You pat him down?”

“No, Goyo. He was in the truck. I called Lorenzo. Said he was his guy. Look at him, hair like that, old dude, he’s not a cop.”

“Frisk him, cabrón.”

“Cool with me,” Rudy said. “I got a knife in my boot, I’ll tell you right now.”

There was some shuffling around and a few scattered comments. “Careful, son. My balls hang lower these days.” “While you’re down there, why don’t you check my prostate?” “If I wore a wig, would my hair look like this?”

“He’s clean.”

Goyo said, “You know how to work all this shit? Set it up? Keep it running?”

“That genny’s a little persnickety, but yeah, I can keep the beer flowing if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Alright, old man. You’re our bartender. I hope you ain’t expecting no tips from this crowd. You’ll be lucky they don’t steal your truck.”

“Are you serious? If anything happens to this truck, Lorenzo’ll fire my behind. Only job anyone’ll give me with my record.”

“Yeah, they jam you up like that. After you unload the truck, Flaco will take it across the road.”

“It’ll be safe over there?”

“Yeah, it’s all fenced in.”

After the truck was unloaded, someone—I assume Flaco—drove us across the road. Bobby and I kept as quiet as we could, even when the truck bounced hard and threw Bobby’s shoulder against the wall. He bit his lower lip, but kept quiet.

Flaco parked and got out. We waited another fifteen minutes in silence before we removed the false wall. Out of the stale air of the compact space, the openness of the empty truck trailer felt fresher and cooler, even though it reeked of dust and sweat.

Bobby leaned down and looked through one of the peepholes we had put in the back of the truck.

“We’re in. North side of the truck bays. Still some scattered Mexi-bikers strolling the grounds. I got to figure once things get going on the other side it’ll clear out.”

“We wait.”

Because heat rises, Bobby and I laid down flat on the filthy trailer floor. We passed the remaining water back and forth.

“You’d think that raiding a biker gang’s camp would be more glamorous, wouldn’t you?” Bobby said.

“I don’t do it for the fame. I do it for—well, mostly the stupidity. My gut says in short order, we’re going to wish we were back here in the dark and quiet.”

“You, maybe. You’re all about stability and shit now. Family life. Home and garden. Quiet and responsible.”

“You make it sound bad.”

“For you, no. But you’re you. All that gallivanting in your past led to life as a gentleman farmer. Me, I’m me. I can’t wait to get out there and kick some fucking ass. Itching to wallow in the blood and guts of the thing. Fuck some shit up.”

“And bring Julie home.”

Bobby rolled his head to face me. “Fuck you. I didn’t forget that. Don’t change that I’ve been antsy for a fracas since the hospital.”

An hour later, the compound cleared out. From what we could see, all the bikers made their way across the highway to the factory. Music blared, Spanish lyrics over what sounded like a video game soundtrack. The only bikers that we could see were two men shooting dice on a sheet of cardboard. While they weren’t doing a good job of it, I assumed they were guarding the trailer they knelt in front of, most likely there to keep the girls in and not us or anyone else out. Who would be stupid enough to raid a biker camp?

The two guards looked up when two of their compatriots approached. One of them went into the trailer. Less than a minute later, he walked out with two teenage girls. One of them was LaShanda, the girl who had fought Julie in the video. The other one was a blonde, short with a thick neck. From the distance and through the peephole, it was hard to gauge their expressions, but their body language was surprisingly more invigorated than subdued. And while they didn’t look like they disliked each other, they looked ready to fight. They walked with the two bikers out the gate.

“Ready?” Bobby asked.

“I’m never ready for shit like this,” I said. “Which makes me wonder how I always seem to end up doing it.”

“Soon as we’re out of the truck, run to that shack thing over there. We can’t make the distance to the trailer without being spotted, but from there we can wait for our moment. Don’t shoot your gun unless it’s life or death. No fear-firing.”

I nodded.

Bobby walked to me and gave me a hard hug with his good arm. “I know what you’re risking and how hard it is. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“You would do the same for me. Hell, you have.”

“It’s different for me. You’re scared and you’re here. Says something, brother.”

“Let’s go get killed before I start crying.”

I popped open the trapdoor (I’m telling you, this truck was tricked out full-on smuggler-style. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had an ejector seat and smoke screen) and hopped down below the truck, immediately pressing myself against the back tire out of view. Bobby climbed down gripping with his one hand, but made it next to me without much problem. The open air and shade felt great.

Staying low to the ground, I scooted over to what was essentially a lean-to, a shed wall of corrugated tin leaning against a storage container. If the guards looked up in the three seconds I was in view, things would get shitty quick. They didn’t and I slid into the room. My right foot hit something. That something groaned.

Gabe looked surprisingly happy to see me, considering that I had kicked him in the head. They had trussed him up like a calf, his arms and legs tied together behind him, bending him in a C. His mouth was duct-taped and I could see that he had spent some time chewing at it.

Bobby ducked under the wall next to me. I stared into Gabe’s eyes and put my finger to my lips. He nodded. I tore the duct tape off Gabe’s mouth and immediately covered it with my hand, feeling the gummy glue sticking my hand to his cheek. I waited a few seconds and then took my hand away.

Bobby had pulled out his knife. He sawed at the complex web of ropes that held Gabe. They tied him down the way I secure stuff, the bigger and stupider the knot, the better. When all you got is a granny, quantity beats quality.