Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (9 page)

“I was kidding.” I wasn’t.

Bobby tapped the shoulder of the guy nearest him.

The guy turned and gave Bobby a double take. “That your real hair? You look like Halle Berry in
X-Men
. Or Mex-men, I guess.”

From the look on Bobby’s face, he was doing everything in his power to not turn this guy’s face inside out with his fists. “I’m looking for Craig. You know him?”

“I’m at his house, ain’t I?”

“He around?”

The guy sized up Bobby and decided that he wasn’t worth bothering with anymore. “Somewhere in the back.”

Bobby and I squeezed through the makeshift dance floor that had formed in what was probably designed to be the dining room. The music’s epicenter, it thumped through unseen speakers. The men fist-pumped and air-fucked by themselves while the ladies danced with each other, ignoring the attempts of the men to join their circle. When one of the bros flung his head as we passed, his heavily chemicalled hair juice landed on my arm and stung like acid.

In the kitchen, an inch of liquid pooled on the floor. Bottles and Solo cups and limes and ice covered the counter. A cat with “Pussy” drawn on its side in lipstick drank water out of the clogged sink. Bobby opened the fridge, grabbed four beers, and handed me two. We each cracked one and tapped the necks in a silent toast.

“Nice restraint not killing the Mex-men dude back there,” I said.

“The things we do for our kids.”

The back room—probably referred to as the rumpus room—was bigger than the living room. It had the same
giant windows looking onto the golf course. I wondered how many times an errant golf ball slammed into one of the big panes.

Bobby stopped at the top of the three steps that led into the sunken room. “What the fuck is he doing here?” Bobby said.

“Who?”

I followed Bobby’s eyes through the sparser crowd.

“That can’t be good,” I said when I saw Tomás Morales.

I had known Tomás most of my life. He was Mr. Morales’s grandson and grew up across the street from me. A few years younger than me, but with no other neighbor kids to play with, we spent much of our youth together. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He operated a number of criminal enterprises in Mexicali that I knew about. His presence on this side of the border was not only rare but disconcerting. The rumors about his efforts to expand and get a foothold on the US side must have been true. The question was how Driskell fit into all of it.

The bottom line was that if it was profitable, Tomás was interested. He wielded his pragmatism like a weapon, never letting a nuisance like morality get in his way.

I had once asked him what business he was in. His reply had been, “Business, period. Don’t matter to me what it is. Like a good salesman can sell anything, I’m interested in profit. Right now, one of the best businesses is the business of knowing things, knowing more than other people. Information is a simple thing, but once you own a fact, it’s a matter of how and when you use it. Someone said knowledge is power. And so much more.”

So basically, he didn’t answer my question.

While personally, Tomás had always been a loyal friend—he had helped me whenever I needed it, including the business that resulted in me securing my son—he scared the holy living shit out of me. He was brutal, amoral, and worthy of fear. There was no way that his presence in that house represented a good thing.

Tomás sat on an oversized purple couch, deep in conversation. Across from him on a matching couch sat the king of Doucheville, a guy sporting a crown of spiky hair with frosted tips and a velvet bathrobe. From the amount of leg and chest hair showing, I would’ve put money on him going commando underneath. He snorted a line of coke off a small mirror and passed it to one of the two underfed, bikini-clad desert princesses bookending him.

Tomás had his two favorite henchmen, Big Piwi and Little Piwi, henching behind him. The gigantic Mexicans were both over six four and three hundred pounds. Their presence carried weight, literally. Behind Bathrobe two steroid freaks tried to give the Piwis their best death stares. Big Piwi yawned, making Little Piwi yawn. I don’t know what they were talking about, but if Tomás was there, they weren’t trading carrot cake recipes.

Mid-sentence, Tomás’s eyes found us where we’d frozen on the top step. He tilted his head slightly, not giving anything away or losing a beat in the conversation.

“My stomach just got tight,” Bobby said. “If that’s Driskell, the motherfucker that Julie worked for, and Tomás knows him, that’s sixteen flavors of bad. Tomás don’t waste no time talking to no one but bad guys or people he owns.”

Bobby took a step down into the room, his eyes on Tomás. I put a hand on his shoulder when I saw the Piwis spot him. They lifted their chins in acknowledgment or possibly threat. Bobby shrugged my hand away, but stopped.

“There ain’t no reason for this to get out of hand,” I said. “If that’s Driskell, we know where he lives. It don’t look like he’s running anywhere. Not without pants. And Tomás won’t leave without talking to us. He hates not knowing what’s going on. Let’s finish these beers and wait. Better to know what the deal is, instead of jumping in blind.”

“You might be scared of Tomás, but I ain’t.”

“I know, Bobby. You have no fear. Fear is afraid of you. You wouldn’t be scared of the ground if you jumped from a plane and your parachute didn’t open. ‘Fuck you, ground,’ that’s what you’d say.”

“Fuck the ground is right. I’d roll with it. People survive that shit all the time. I’m tired of your pussyfooting, with emphasis on the pussy. It’s my daughter. It’s my plan of attack, with emphasis on the attack.”

“You go over there, get in his face, he won’t tell us shit. If you’re going to talk to him, be nice. We get one chance at him, and there’s a lot at stake. We got to do what works, not what you want to do. On top of that, there’s about a thousand pounds of hench over there.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t your show. This isn’t about you. Not everything is about what you want.”

“You’re right. It’s not about me. It’s about Julie.”

Bobby stared at me, his thinking face in full concentration mode. “You’re as shitty a wartime consigliere as you are a sidekick. It’s clobberin’ time.”

Bobby hopped down the steps and stomped over to the small group. And to think, I could have been playing
Robotron
.

“Damn it” is all I could say. And then watch whatever mayhem was about to unfold.

Tomás ignored Bobby, looking at me with a small smile as we approached. Big Piwi and Little Piwi did nothing. Bobby faced the guy in the bathrobe.

“You’re Driskell, right? That’s your Hummer outside?”

“This party is a private function. Were you invited?” He spoke with a fake almost-English accent, faint but affected. It sounded like my Michael Caine impression, which was awful.

“Tell me everything you know about Julie Espinosa.”

“I’m sure I don’t know who that is.”

“Your timing is amazing, Maves,” Tomás said.

“I’m not talking to you,” Bobby barked and turned back to Driskell. He reached down and grabbed the lapels of Driskell’s bathrobe. He pulled up on them in an effort to lift him, but all he got was bathrobe. Sure enough, no underwear. “Julie Espinosa. She worked for you, motherfucker.”

The two steroid monkeys snapped out of their daze and circled around either side of the couch. The girls on the couch slinked away, making sure to bring the mirror with the lines on it with them. Big Piwi and Little Piwi took a few steps, but Tomás waved them off.

One of Driskell’s goons tried to grab Bobby, but he ducked underneath his arms. Bobby gave him a hard kick to the back of the knee.

The other bodyguard reeled back to blindside Bobby from behind. Without thinking, I jumped on his back, knocking him off balance enough for him to miss. I tried to get my arm around his massive neck. Predictably, he threw me across the room.

By the time I got my bearings, Bobby had one of the bodyguards bent over, cupping the blood that ran from his nose. The other big brutus put up his hands in surrender and turned to Driskell, who adjusted his robe.

“Screw this, man. You said me and Jed were just supposed to stand behind you, look tough. I don’t want none of this.” He put an arm around the other guy and walked him out through the kitchen.

Big Piwi and Little Piwi shook their heads, unimpressed with Driskell’s hired help.

“Why aren’t your men doing anything?” Driskell said to Tomás. “I got attacked. Aren’t you going to do something about this maniac?”

“He’s not bothering me. Gives me a chance to see how you protect your business. I see some flaws.”

Bobby stood over Driskell. “That got the blood pumping. Now you’re going to tell me about Julie Espinosa.”

“I already have. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“I was told she started working for you, maybe a month ago.”

“By whom?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is. Because that person is a liar. I haven’t hired any new personnel in the last three months, aside from those two idiots that just left. Who is she?”

“My daughter. My sixteen-year-old daughter.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

Tomás stood up and waved me and Bobby over. “You and you. Let’s talk.” He walked out the glass door into the backyard. The Piwis followed.

Bobby looked down at Driskell. “I’m not done with you.”

Tomás, Bobby, and I convened in the backyard on the far side of the pool. A Piwi stood on either side of us, creating a man-wall between us and the party.

Bobby didn’t waste any time.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Morales?” His body language pushed forward, chin jutting out. Big Piwi stood within arm’s reach, but I doubted that he could stop Bobby in time. I put myself between Bobby and Tomás, just in case.

“We both have questions,” Tomás said calmly. “I’m curious to hear what you’re doing here and why you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong.”

“All you do is wrong.” Bobby leaned into me, pointing at Tomás.

“Jimmy, tell Maves to calm down. I’m used to being the one that asks the questions. And I never answer any until I have my own answers. Threats don’t fly. You’re Jimmy’s friend, Maves, but that only goes so far.”