The Mortal Nuts (18 page)

“I'd have brought it last night, but I didn't know for sure you wanted it. Besides, I don't like carrying weight.”

“No problem. I can have the money for you whenever.” Dean could feel the money pressing against his ribs, two thick bundles stuffed in the inside pockets of his jacket.

“So what do you guys want to do today?” Tigger asked. “You guys want to do something?”

Pork scratched his chin with a fork. “I was thinking I'd go someplace and crash.” “Fuck that,” rumbled Sweety.

“Yeah,” said Tigger. “Fuck that. Let's go do something. What do you guys want to do?” Dean said, “You guys ever go to the state fair?” They all looked at him.

“I mean, I was thinking we could go over there and get some donuts or something. Go look at the freaks.”

Chapter 28

Shortly before Friday noon, Midges Flores, the maid, knocked lightly on the door to room 19, hoping that no one was there. She put her ear to the door and listened, then knocked again, louder this time. Midges did not like the girl who was staying there, and she liked the bald man even less. But he hadn't been around since last weekend, when he had sat and watched her make the bed, cleaning his teeth with a fingernail and not saying a word. And the girl, she was a slob. Midges knocked again. No response. She relaxed, inserted her passkey into the doorknob, and opened the door.

What a mess; this was the worst yet. The bed all undone, and it stank of cigarettes, sweat, and alcohol. Midges had pushed her cleaning cart all the way into the room before she noticed the girl lying on the floor.

“Oh! Excuse me!” Midges said.

The girl on the floor didn't move. Midges started to back her cart out of the room, then stopped. The girl was very still.

“Hey, are you okay?” Midges licked her lips and felt her heart accelerating. Was she dead? In the past, Midges had found money, drugs, children, clothing, interesting Polaroid photographs, and even someone's eight-foot-long pet boa constrictor…but never a corpse. She approached the girl, who was lying flat on her back, fully dressed but with only one button holding the front of her shirt together, and bent over her. She sure did look dead. Midges froze. What if she had been murdered? What if the murderer was still in the room? He could be in the bathroom. He could be under the bed. The bald man. Midges' hand was only inches from the girl's neck. She would just check, very quietly, for a pulse. Keeping her eyes on the bathroom door, she pressed her fingers against the girl's throat. The girl's eyes popped open. Midges jerked her hand away, took two steps backward, and screamed as she collided with her cleaning cart.

Carmen sat up, blinking. “What's going on?” she asked. “Where did everybody go?”

Sophie hated to admit it, even to herself, but Kirsten and Juanita were a hell of a lot faster, pleasanter, and more reliable than her daughter the sleepwalker. They both did their jobs, complained only a little, and never
ever
told her to shove a burrito up her ass. Sophie liked that. Also, she liked the idea of having a real Mexican girl like Juanita rolling burros and frying ground beef and every now and then waiting on customers. Business was brisk going into the last weekend of the fair. The rainy midweek had kept many of the fairgoers at home; now they were out in force for this final weekend of cheese curds and corn dogs, skyrides and giant slides, Machinery Hill and the twelve- hundred-pound prize hog, and, of course, Axel's Taco Shop. It was eleven-forty in the morning, and they'd had a steady stream of customers since ten.

The system that seemed to be working best was to keep Kirsten up front serving customers, Juanita building tacos, burros, and tostadas in back, and Sophie running the orders back and forth and doing the soft drinks and making sure Juanita was stocked and running the fryer and taking care of whatever else came up. Juanita wanted to take her break now, and she mentioned it every time she pushed an order across the stainless-steel table.

She said, “I gotta go to the ladies'.”

“Wait till Carmen gets here,” Sophie said, grabbing a pair of Buenos. “Anytime now.”

When Sophie came back for an order of beans, Juanita said, “I got my period. I gotta go to the ladies'.”

“You had your period last weekend,” Sophie said. “Are you a rabbit, or what?”

“That Carmen, you know, she might never come, and I gotta go to the ladies'.”

“Just wait.” Sophie grabbed the beans and delivered them to the front counter. When she turned back, Juanita was gone. “Damn.” She stepped around the food table and spread out three tortillas and spooned a layer of beans across each of them.

“Hey,” Kirsten said, looking back. “How come she gets to take a break? I need two more tacos and a side of beans.”

Sophie folded the burritos, snatched a pair of taco shells from the arms of the deep fryer, loaded them, wrapped them, and motioned Kirsten to come get them. “She'll be right back,” she said.

“I was here first thing this morning. It's not fair. I came in early, and she gets to take a break.”

Juanita was gone for over twenty minutes. “You got to wait in line,” she said in response to the look Sophie gave her. Sophie scowled, knowing that it was probably true—the lines were longer at the women's rest rooms than they were at the cheese curd concession. A line had formed in front of the taco stand now, six hungry people staring in at the painted menu board. Sophie moved into high gear, loving the sense of crisis, seeing each customer now as another buck in her pocket.

Carmen showed up at twenty after twelve.

“Well, look who's here,” Sophie said. “We thought you'd got lost.”

“Can I go on break now?” Kirsten asked, untying her apron. Sophie nodded and took her place at the front counter.

Carmen looked at the people lined up waiting to be served, then at Juanita, who was trying to do about six things at once. “What do you want me to do?” Carmen asked her.

“Need more taco shells, cheese, beans, and roll two deluxe for the guy with the red hat.”

Carmen thought about leaving, about just walking out and losing herself in the crowd. Walk right off the fairgrounds and onto the street and stick her thumb out and get picked up by some guy in a Mercedes, go have a few drinks.

“You want to get your lazy butt moving?” Sophie said.

Carmen tore into a bag of corn tortillas and loaded the fryer. She'd stay for a while, maybe leave later. If she felt like it. She still had some crystal folded into a square of paper tucked down deep in the front pocket of her jeans. Last night, Pork had looked through a magazine to find a good picture and finally found one of Nancy Reagan, tore it out, spooned some crystal meth over Nancy's nose, folded her up into a neat square with the corners tucked in, and handed it to Carmen. “This is for letting us use your room. What do you say?” he asked her.

She had said, “Thank you.” Pork had laughed and told her she was supposed to “Just say no.” Carmen didn't get it.

She laid out a row of six flour tortillas and started rolling burros, and by the time the sixth burrito was rolled and wrapped, she was caught up in the rhythm of the Taco Shop and almost enjoying herself. Carmen was capable of moving quickly and precisely, especially when she began the day with a nose full of methamphetamine.

The nearest rest rooms, located in the shadow of the Giant Slide, had grown a thirty-foot-long tail of females—about a ten-minute wait, by Kirsten's estimate. She took her place in line and watched enviously as men walked easily in and out of their side of the building. She had to pee too bad to let herself get mad, but it bugged her how slow most women were. Some of her friends complained that rest rooms were designed by men, that women needed more time, so they should have more toilets available. Kirsten did not agree. She could take care of business as fast as any guy, maybe faster. Unless she had her period, of course, but even then she wouldn't just sit there staring down between her legs like some of these women.

God, did she have to go!

The trick was to let your butt touch the toilet seat lightly, or not at all—at these rest rooms, she went for not at all—and just pee quick, wipe, and get out. Make room for the next person, who maybe had to go really bad.

Kirsten shifted her weight from one flexed leg to the other. She fantasized squatting down right where she was and letting loose. No, thinking about it that way didn't help at all. Maybe she was keeping her muscles too tense. She tried relaxing her belly. She imagined a hollow space inside her abdomen. All the room in the world. An empty lakebed. As her eyes danced over the heads of the people passing by, she wished she were one of them: people who did not have to pee. A dome of flesh caught her attention. One, two, three. Four. Four of them, standing over by the Pronto Pup stand. One of them, the one in the orange T-shirt, looked familiar.

Sweety was able to fit the entire Pronto Pup into his mouth without swallowing. He held it there, cheeks distended, and stared at the girl who had sold it to him. She wouldn't meet his eyes. He grinned, his lips parting to show her the floury, meaty, mustard-yellowed mass that strained at his teeth.

Tigger said, “C'mon, let's go do some rides, man.”

Sweety forced his hps over the corn dog and began to work his jaw back and forth as he fell in behind Tigger. Pork gave Dean a look, shrugged, and followed.

Dean thought, This is like being the bionic man, the terminator. He was sweating like a pig, but that was okay. He'd left his jacket back in Tigger's car, and that helped.

With just the T-shirt on, he could stay cool. He liked the way the .45 felt in his waistband, and the bulge it made in the T-shirt. He would be cool and bionic, cruising the fair with his bionic pards. He could feel his joints as he walked: snick, snick, snick. He could hear his engine humming.

Carmen admired the face she had created. The pinto beans formed a smooth layer over the tortilla disk. Two black olives made eyes. A green olive nose. A white sour- cream smile. Shredded lettuce hair. Who did it look like? She pulled off the lettuce. James Dean! No. It wasn't quite right. She moved the olives farther apart.

“I'm out of lettuce,” Juanita said.

“Need three deluxe and two bean,” Sophie called back. “Carmen! Let's get a move on. What are you doing back there?”

“She's making faces again,” Juanita said.

Sophie shouted, “Carmen!”

Carmen's feet flexed, popping her a couple of inches into the air.

“I told you not to do that. Quit acting silly and do your job, girl!”

Regretfully, Carmen folded the tortilla face into a burrito, wrapped it, began again.

Axel was strolling up the mall toward the Taco Shop when Kirsten ran up to him, breathless.

“Mr. Speeter! I saw that guy.”

Axel cupped her shoulders in his hands. “What guy?”

“That guy they say beat up Mr. Fabian. That skinhead guy.”

“Where?”

Kirsten pointed down Carnes Avenue. “Down by the Giant Slide. He was with some other guys, some other skinhead guys.”

Axel dropped his hands and started back down the mall, his jaw clamped so tight he could feel his bridge flexing.

Chapter 29

“That fuckin' Tigger,” Pork said. “He does this shit all the time.” He reached in his pocket and came out with his fist wrapped in brass. “You can't take the little shit anywhere without him pissin' somebody off.”

A pair of cowboy-hatted young studs had Tigger up against the side of the Headless Woman trailer, one of them holding Tigger's arms, the other slapping him in the face. After each blow he shouted at Tigger, “What did you say?”

Tigger kept replying, “Fuck you.” They all seemed to be having a good time.

Sweety charged with his fist held straight out and hit the first cowboy on the side of his neck. The cowboy bounced off the aluminum side of the trailer and slid to the ground. Dean, not sure what was going on, followed Pork, who jumped on the other cowboy's back and pounded him several times on the temple with his metal-sheathed fist. The cowboy was spinning around, trying to throw him, when Sweety came in with his big fists locked together and brought them both up under the cowboy's jaw. The sound of that made Dean's stomach roll. The cowboy went down hard. Tigger, bleeding from his nose, was kicking the other one, who was too dazed to resist. Pork grabbed Tigger and pulled him away. Several people had stopped to watch.

“Let's get the fuck out of here,” Pork said. They moved out through the crowd, Pork looking pissed off, brushing dirt from his shoulders, Sweety with his arm locked around Tigger's neck, giving him knuckle raps on his hairless skull, Tigger going, “Ow, ow, ow …”

“What was that all about?” Dean asked.

“Our Tigger has trouble relating to people,” Pork said over his shoulder. “Can't say three words in a row without somebody wanting to jump up and down on his ugly little face.”

Dean's breathing slowed. Sweety had released Tigger and caught up with Dean and Pork. Tigger's face was flushed, and he was wearing a big gray grin.

Dean said, “Wipe your nose, would you?”

Tigger laughed and wiped the blood on his sleeve. “Man, those fuckers never fuckin' knew what hit 'em!” he said, kicking the air. “Fuckin' Sweety, man, pow! Like a fuckin' tank, man. Damn!”

“You're gonna get us killed one of these days,” Pork said. “Go mouthing off to some guy, and it turns out he's got six friends.”

“That would be okay,” said Sweety.

Pork made a sour face. “I don't know about you guys, but I could use a blast.”

With over a hundred thousand people milling about the fairgrounds, it was tough finding a private place where four guys could sit down and do a little crank. Tigger thought he knew a spot over near the grandstand where they could squeeze in between an egg roll joint and the back wall of a mechanical horse race game, but when they got there it was full of high school kids passing a joint. Tigger wanted to kick them out, but Pork said what do you want to do, fight or get high? “I mean, let's get our priorities straight here. We already had one fight, right?”

Sweety finally said, after they had wandered around for twenty minutes or so, “We just sit down someplace and fuckin' do it.”

“Too many cops around,” Pork said.

“I don't see no cops.”

“Yeah,” said Tigger. “Let's just do it. What do you say, Dean?”

Dean shrugged, going with the flow.

“You guys ain't on probation,” Pork complained. “You guys get cracked, it's no big deal. I fucking go back to Stillwater for another three years.”

Dean agreed with that.

“You guys don't got to do it with us,” Tigger said.

“It's my shit!”

Tigger said, “You guys can each go in the can. Me and Sweety, we'll just do it here. Fuck 'em.” He pointed at a patch of flattened brown grass between the curb and the sidewalk.

Pork didn't like it, but he didn't have an argument ready, so he handed the paper to Tigger. Dean and Pork crossed the street and watched Sweety and Tigger sit right there in front of a hundred thousand people and snort crystal, scooping it from the paper with a Popsicle stick, staring down anyone who gave them a double look. Pork frowned as he watched Sweety treat himself to an extra blast before refolding the paper. Sweety grinned and waved.

Dean couldn't get the hang of the dodgem cars. Sweety and Tigger had him pinned down; every time he got moving, one or the other of them would slam into him from the side. He was glad when it was over. Pork, who had been watching, laughed and punched him on the shoulder. “Now you know why I don't do dodgem cars,” he said.

Dean rubbed his shoulder. “Let's go see if Carmen showed up yet. I'm getting hungry.”

“Go ahead,” Sweety said. “We'll be around someplace. I want to go see the freaks.”

“Maybe we could get some free burritos or something. I bet she'd feed us.” Dean didn't want to be alone. He had a good buzz going with the meth, and he was getting off on the skinhead energy. “Come on, we can stop at the Beer Garden. IH buy you guys a beer.”

“C'mon, Sweety,” said Pork “Let's go see Dean's bitch. We can do the freaks later.”

Sweety was clicking his teeth together, swinging his head back and forth, looking like a big lizard on the prowl. Dean started to say something, then noticed Pork shaking his head. Pork gestured in the direction of the Beer Garden, and he and Dean started walking. “He gets real pumped sometimes, and you got to be careful,” said Pork. Dean looked back over his shoulder. Sweety was following them, trailed by Tigger. “He'll follow us, but you can't argue with him when he gets this way. I seen him once throw this guy. Just picked him right up and threw him about ten feet like he was a shot put.”

“What did the guy do?”

“You mean to get tossed? He was wearing a baseball cap. Sweety don't like baseball caps. That might've been it. With Sweety you never know. This was downtown, right in the middle of the day on Hennepin Avenue. The guy landed and just up and started running, so no harm done, but this other time he went after this cop, and the next thing you know there was three cops beating on him with their sticks, and Sweety, he don't even care, he's just beating on them right back. They were hitting him on the head with their sticks and everything, and it took the three of them it seemed like hours to knock him down. Cops all had nosebleeds and shit. Sweety, blood all over his head, was just having a good old time. Point is, he's got no judgment and he's about as strong as the Incredible Hulk. We used to call him that, but he likes Sweety better.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“Just that when he's like this he doesn't care what happens. You just got to be real easy around him, he gets this way. Couple beers might calm him down some. He likes beer. It makes him happy, usually.”

Dean bought a round of watery Leinenkugels at the Beer Garden, then he bought another round. Sweety was making him nervous, staring at people and sticking his tongue out about a yard, with that
FUCK ME
scrawled across his forehead. Dean didn't like the way he was making his jaw muscle twitch. He said, “You guys want a hot dog or something?” Nobody did, so they had another beer. Except for worrying about Sweety, Dean still felt great, had a nice buzz running up and down the back of his neck, eyes getting sharper all the time. Crystal clear. Hanging with these guys, looking dangerous, cruising on the meth, the good stuff, made in America, makes you faster and stronger and smarter and improves the eyesight too. That was something he really liked, how good it made him see. Not like coke, which was for niggers and yuppies, or like weed, which was for punks and hippies. Yeah, it was a good feeling. Not like Carmen and her Valiums, falling asleep all the time. Dean liked the wound-up, tight-jawed power he got from the meth, and he liked the smooth-rolling easy confidence that came from being with his new friends. He liked the feeling of the .45 stuck in the waistband of his jeans, the barrel just touching the tip of his dick, the grip barely concealed by Carmen's Bugs Bunny T-shirt If you knew what to look for, you could see the shape pushing through the thin orange cotton. He liked the way it felt when he walked. He wasn't so sure, though, about Sweety, who was now sitting in this big room full of guys, half of them wearing baseball caps, Sweety all wound up, his eyes fixed forward, his head swinging back and forth, jaw working, neck muscles bulging, blinking now and again. He made Dean think of a double-barreled sawed-off he'd seen back in Omaha. Some guy had cut it off right across the chamber, letting most of the shell stick out past the end of the barrel; it was about as close as you could get to a hand grenade—pull the trigger and who knows? Nobody'd ever had the nerve to shoot the thing. Sweety looked like that, like his eyes were those two red plastic twelve-gauge shells full of shot sticking out an inch and a half, hanging out there looking for some excuse to explode.

Sweety finished his third jumbo beer, and Pork, who kept giving Dean this raised-eyebrow look, filled Sweety's plastic cup from his own. Tigger was cutting into the tabletop with the key to his Caddy, writing the word
FUCK
, checking Sweety's forehead to make sure he was spelling it right. Pork spoke in a low voice to Sweety, who seemed not to hear him. A group of college-student types, all wearing baseball caps with college logos, sat down at the next table with their tall plastic cups full of beer. Sweety rotated his head and fixed his eyes on them. Dean thought, Here it comes.

Pork was on his feet now, tugging at Sweety's arm, then dropping it and walking toward the exit. Dean stood and followed, not looking back.

“He might just follow us out,” Pork said. “He's mean as hell, but he's just a big old dog. He don't like to be alone.”

They were out on the street, blinking in the afternoon sunlight, when Sweety and Tigger caught up with them. Pork said to Dean, “See?”

“Where we goin'?” Tigger asked.

Pork shrugged and looked up at Sweety. “How you doing?”

Sweety said, “Those fuckers.”

“Who?” Tigger asked.

“Fuck you,” Sweety said. “This place sucks. What the fuck are we doing here?”

“You want to go home?” Pork asked. “You want to go someplace else?”

“You want a taco?” Dean asked.

Sweety swung his head toward Dean. “Yeah,” he said. “That's it. A fuckin' taco.”

“Then let's go get us some tacos.”

Dean got his good feeling back then; they were all back on track, back on the taco track. They were moving together, moving through the crowd with Dean on point. Behind him, sticking up a head above the rest, came Sweety, then Pork and Tigger hanging back, the four of them giving off that dangerous vibe that made people slide their eyes off and away.

Dean said, “All these guys are rich out here, every one.”

Pork had his own buzz going, bopping his head back and forth to some tune buried deep in his head. Dean didn't think anybody was listening, but he kept talking anyway.

“All that cash money, man. We oughta just set up a business, score off a new one every day. That's what John Donne would do. All these guys with their money, man. Make 'em share the wealth.” Dean searched his mind to see how it would be. The master plan would appear before him at any moment now, logical and complete. He would lay it out for Pork, Tigger, and Sweety. Show them how smart he was. He imagined the respectful look he would get from Pork, like he really knew his shit. Read them some more John Donne. He imagined himself talking to the old man, Axel, asking him questions. He reached a hand under his T-shirt and felt the warm wooden grip of the .45, imagined working the steel barrel between the old man's teeth. That would definitely be part of the plan, get the taco man sucking his own gun.

Except for one thing. It was probably all a figment of Carmen's stoned-out imagination. He had no reason to think the old man had that kind of money. It sure as hell wasn't sitting in his motel room. Reluctantly, Dean let the fantasy slide away. He would have to settle for some free tacos and just do the drug deal with his Tiny Tot money. That would be cool. He could turn the six K into twelve K when he got to Sioux Falls, and from there who knew? Set himself up as a distributor. The world was looking sharp, clear, and full of opportunities. They rounded the corner of the Food Building, slicing through a crowd of people in front of a busy french fry stand, and moved up the mall toward Axel's Taco Shop.

Pork said, “You say this guy has a million bucks in cash?”

“That's what Carmen says,” Dean said. “Only she's probably full of shit.”

They were passing Tiny Tot Donuts. Dean looked inside and stopped. Sweety ran into him and asked him what the fuck he was doing. Dean pointed into the donut stand. “See that guy with the bandage on his head? The little guy with the hat? I don't believe it. The guy, the guy is up and walking? I must be losing my touch.”

As Dean spoke, the guy, Tiny Tot, looked up from his work and saw him and dropped the bag of sugar he was holding and disappeared out the back of the stand. Dean laughed. “Guy's scared shitless. You see him take off?” He turned back to Pork and Tigger.

Pork was grinning. Then his face closed and he said, “He don't look scared to me.” He started walking backward. Dean turned and saw Tiny Tot, limping, coming around the side of the donut stand, red-faced, coming right at him with something in his hand.

Dean said, “Shit.” He backed away, bumped into Sweety, moved sideways away from the donut guy. The kids in the donut stand were leaning out over the counter, watching, and the crowd of customers was now turning to see what was happening. Dean turned and ran twenty yards up the mall, then stopped and looked back. He didn't see the guy at first, then he did. What was he holding in his hand? Tiny Tot was limping, not moving fast but moving steady. Dean relaxed, knowing now that he could outrun the little man. He waited for him to get closer. When he was less than twenty feet away, Dean recognized the object in his hand. It was a bright, shiny revolver. Dean backed away, holding one hand out palm forward like a shield and reaching with the other hand for the .45 in his belt. He lost sight of Tiny Tot behind a cluster of people, then saw him again, still coming. Dean had the gun out now, trying to keep it pointed at Tiny Tot as the guy raised his own gun, holding it with both hands, pointing it at Dean's chest. Dean pulled on the trigger, but the .45 did not fire. Shit, what was wrong? Was the safety on? He looked down at the gun and tripped, falling backward, seeing as he went down Sweety's broad leather-clad back eclipse the image of the donut guy, and he heard a loud snap, then another, not so loud, then screams.