The Mortal Nuts (8 page)

Chapter 11

Sophie made her first sale at eight fifty-five in the morning, a bean burrito and a cup of coffee to Willie the glassblower, who ran a concession at the top of the mall.

“You owe me five,” Axel said to Tommy Fabian. The two men were standing on the shallow slope leading up to the Horticulture Building, a vantage point from which they could keep an eye on their respective businesses.

Tommy said, “That don't count. He's a carny. The bet was you wouldn't break ice before nine.”

“So? I made a sale, didn't I?”

“Yeah, well, I don't call that breakin' ice. Carnies don't count.”

Axel held out a hand, palm up.

Tommy muttered, “Fuckin' Willie.” He pulled a thick roll of bills from his back pocket, peeled off a five. “Technically, I shouldn't be paying you. How about we go double or naught on if it's gonna rain.”

“Gonna rain when?”

Tommy looked up at the clear blue sky. “I'm saying it's gonna rain before Monday.”

“Monday's four days away. I'd need some odds on that.”

“It don't rain, I pay you twenty.”

“Fifty. And it doesn't count if it rains between midnight and eight
A.M.”

“You're killing me, Ax.”

“Then pay me the fin.”

Tommy slapped the bill into Axel's hand. “You watch, though. See if it don't fucking pour.”

“I hope to hell you're wrong. Wet people don't like to eat.”

Tommy grunted, then pointed. “Look who's here,” he said. “Sammy the motorhead. Come to look at the tractors, I bet.”

Sam O'Gara, hands buried in the pockets of his coveralls, cigarette planted dead center in his mouth, sauntered across the mall toward them, wearing a spotless green John Deere mesh baseball cap.

“Hey, Ax,” Sam said, “how do you know if a carny girl likes you?”

Tommy looked away.

“She shows you her tooth.” Sam cackled.

“I don't get it,” Axel said.

“That's because it's not funny,” Tommy snapped. He didn't like carny jokes, unless he was the one telling them.

“Where'd you get that fancy chapeau?” Axel asked.

“I stole the motherfucker,” Sam said. His cigarette bobbed up and down, losing an ash. “Where the hell you think I got it? What does it say on it? I got it from showing genuine interest in purchasing a new John Deere tractor.”

“You never owned a new vehicle in your life,” Tommy said.

Sam inhaled through his cigarette, then spat it onto the grass. “You should see these harvesters they got up there on Machinery Hill. Even got CD players in 'em. Like fuckin' Mercedes with six-foot tires. I shoulda been a farmer.”

“You were a farmer, you'd have to work all day.”

“That's true,” Sam said. “So when we gonna play some cards?” He reached out and bipped the top of Tommy's Stetson. “Ax is gonna give us a shot at his coffee can—right, Ax?”

Tommy pushed his hat back up. “You still keeping your money in coffee cans, Ax?”

Axel crossed his arms. “What do you mean, ‘still'?”

“I heard you owned the First National Bank of Folgers.”

“Who told you that?”

“That little gal a yours, Carmen. She told me last year. I figured she was bullshitting me, y'know? I mean, what kind of idiot would keep his money in coffee cans?”

“I don't know,” Axel muttered, looking over at his taco shop. A small line had formed. Sophie was serving, and he could see Carmen in the back of the stand, draining a rack of tortillas. It's beginning, he thought. The money is starting to flow.

Carmen poured herself another cup of coffee, her sixth that morning. It wasn't helping. The morning of the first day, and already she was beat.

“Three beef tacos, one bean tostada,” Sophie shouted over her shoulder.

Carmen set her coffee on the shelf above the prep table, proceeded to build three tacos. “Where's our help? I thought they were supposed to be here.”

“It's only nine-fifteen. I told them to come at nine-thirty. Don't forget the tostada.”

“I got it, I got it.” It was all that James Dean's fault, showing up that way. It had been a long night.

“What are you doing here?” she'd asked him.

“I missed you. What's the matter, you aren't glad to see me?”

“How'd you find me?”

“There's only a couple Motel 6's. It wasn't too hard.”

He had been dressed the same way she remembered: jeans, leather jacket, no shirt, heavy military boots. Only now he seemed jazzed up, talking too fast, wired from driving straight through from Omaha.

“You drove all the way up here to see me?”

“I sure did. You got anything to drink? Beer or anything? I gotta jack down. I'm thirsty.”

Seeing her chance to get rid of him for a few minutes, give her some time to think, she'd suggested that he run over to the liquor store for some of those canned martinis, maybe a twelve-pack of beer too. After he left she'd considered locking the door, not letting him back inside. A guy like Dean, he could really make her life complicated. On the other hand, no one had ever driven that far just to see her before. And he was sort of cute, if you didn't look too close. By the time he knocked on her door again, she was thinking that it might be sort of fun to have him around. They'd sat up drinking martinis and talking till after two.

Carmen wrapped the tacos and the tostada, delivered them to the front counter.

“I need two Bueno Burritos and a nachos,” Sophie said. “We've got a line, girl.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she muttered. “Keep your shirt on.” Those fucking Bueno Burritos, another one of Axel's dumb ideas, took twice as long to make. They had so much stuff in them, the tortillas kept tearing.

Some of the things Dean had been saying had been interesting. He kept talking about Puerto Penasco, about how good you could live if you had money.

“So get some money and let's go,” she had said.

“I'm working on it.” Dean had grinned, his teeth bright. “Maybe we'll stumble across some coffee cans or something.”

At that, Carmen had felt her belly go thumpity-thump, and a shiver had crawled up her back. “That's not funny.”

“Hey, I was just kidding you.” Then he'd started reading poetry from this book he had, and she'd tuned him out. Really boring. And then, all night long, he'd tossed and turned and muttered to himself. He'd still been twitching and rolling around on the bed when she'd left the room to ride over to the fairgrounds with Axel. Would he still be around when she got back? She sort of hoped he'd just go away. On the other hand, she wanted to hear more about Puerto Penasco. It gave her something to think about while she was rolling burros. Maybe it wasn't such a crazy idea after all. She wondered how many coffee cans full of cash it would take to buy a villa on the ocean.

Axel leaned through the door at the back of the stand, smiling. “Carmen, what's up?”

“Nothing!” she said, startled.

“Those Buenos selling?”

“Yeah. I'm busy as hell. You want to give us a hand?”

“Can't. I've got some business to take care of. Those girls haven't shown up yet?”

“You see them? I don't.” Carmen loaded a pair of chimichanga-size tortillas with meat, beans, lettuce, and cheese. She added a few olive slices, a spoonful of sour cream, and a glob of guacamole, which was what put the Bueno in the Bueno Burrito. She popped a tray of nachos into the microwave, then proceeded to roll and wrap the burros.

“Carmen?” Axel said.

“What?”

“I need you to roll me six Buenos. And I need a bag to carry them in.”

“What for?”

“Some friends of mine.”

“I don't have time. Roll them yourself.”

Axel continued to smile. He said, “Just roll me six, would you, sweetheart?”

Dean's naked body snapped up into sitting position, pouring sweat. He was in his cell—no! He was in his sister's apartment—no! Muscles rippled and twitched, vibrating his frame. Dream images of Mickey screaming at him gave way to the tangled mess of twisted sheets and bedspread, sunlight slanting past the heavy curtains, the collection of aluminum beer cans on the nightstand. He was alone. A headache gripped the back of his neck, and his jaw hurt from gritting his teeth. He breathed out, swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, and stood up; the room tilted, righted itself. “Where the hell is she?” he muttered, moving toward the bathroom.

Dean hadn't shaved his scalp in two or three days. His hair was about an eighth of an inch long already, and starting to curl. If he didn't take care of it soon, it would start looking like a mat of tiny ginger-colored springs. He found a disposable razor on the sink, soaped up his head, and went at it. He was a little shaky, cut himself three or four times. The bright-red spots on the white Motel 6 towel made him dizzy. He wondered whether Mickey's death would have bothered him more if there had been blood involved. Say, if she'd cut her head open. Maybe he'd have called 911. Or maybe he'd have had to leave the apartment right away. She would still be dead, but he wouldn't know it.

Now that he thought about it, it was possible that she wasn't dead. It was possible that she was in a coma. He'd heard that people in comas were cold and that their pulse was so weak you couldn't feel it. It could be.

He thought, Do I feel better now, knowing that she might be alive? He stared at his reflection in the mirror, circles beneath his eyes, soap bubbles on his head, a jailhouse tattoo of a burning cross on his right shoulder. He felt exactly the same. She could be dead or alive; it made no difference. Weird.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed in his jeans and one of Carmen's T-shirts, the orange Bugs Bunny shirt he'd seen her wear back in Omaha. His stomach needed food. He thought he remembered a Denny's just up the street. The image of eggs and bacon and hash brown potatoes propelled him out the door. He was just getting into his car when he saw this old guy coming out of a room at the other end of the motel. Was that him? The Coffee Can Man? He was old enough. Dean crossed his arms on the roof of the Maverick, rested his chin on his wrists, and watched the old man walking toward him, a green plastic garbage bag swinging from one hand. For a few seconds, he thought the guy might be coming over to talk to him, but it turned out he was heading for the white pickup parked on the passenger side of the Maverick. The old man opened the door and threw the bag into the cab, then noticed Dean and jerked his chin up, startled.

Dean said, “Morning.”

The old man nodded, his eyes quickly checking out the interior of the Maverick, then looking to each side. “Nice day,” he said. He had a big voice, but he seemed on edge, like he'd gotten caught doing something.

Dean smiled. “Yeah, it sure is.” He still wasn't sure if this was the Coffee Can Man. The guy was staring at the rings in his eyebrow. Dean could always tell.

“You staying here?” the old man asked.

“Maybe. Thinking about it.”

“It's a nice place.” They regarded each other uncomfortably, having talked a moment too long.

Dean said, “So I hear there's some kind of big fair going on here.”

The guy brightened at that, seemed to relax a little. “There sure is,” he said. “The state fair. You must be from out of town.”

“Nebraska.”

“Well, how about that.” The old man gave him a sort of wave, climbed into his truck, closed the door.

Dean said, “Hey!”

The old man rolled down his window.

“You know how to get there?” Dean asked.

“Depends on where you're going, son.”

“To the state fair.”

The old man leaned out the window and pointed. “You just head on up Larpenteur there, turn south on Snelling.

You can't miss it. Once you get there, stop by Axel's Taco Shop and grab yourself a free taco. Just tell 'em Axel said it was okay.”

Kirsten Lund showed up for work wearing a Benetton top that matched her pink lips and nails perfectly. Her hair was bound back in a French braid, and the pimple that had erupted on her nose the day before was hardly noticeable beneath the layer of medicated makeup. She put her head into the back door of the stand and said, “Hello?”

Sophie, back at the worktable trying to build two tacos and a Bueno Burrito while a line of customers formed at the front of the stand, snapped at her. “Don't just stand there, girl. Get in here.”

Kirsten stepped into the stand, looking around uncertainly. “What do you want me to do?”

Sophie rolled her eyes and shook grated cheese off her hands, scooped up the order she had assembled, and brought it to the front counter. Kirsten looked around the stand helplessly, spied an apron hanging on a hook near the door, and tied it on. Sophie took another order and rushed back to the prep table. “Watch me,” she said, laying out a row of four flour tortillas like a dealer spreading a new deck of cards. Kirsten watched her fill the flour disks with blinding speed, roll them, wrap them, and deliver them to her waiting customers. Kirsten took Sophie's place at the table and, trying to remember, set out four tortillas. Sophie looked over her shoulder. “No, no, no. Now I need two tacos and a side of beans.” Kirsten stepped back, helpless. Carmen stepped in through the back door.

“Where've you been?” Sophie snapped at Carmen.

Carmen ignored her. “Hi,” she said to Kirsten, looking her up and down. “You got my apron on.”

Kirsten said “Oh!” and reached back to untie it.

Carmen motioned for her to stop. She took a last long drag off her Marlboro and flicked it into the grass. “Relax, I don't need one.” She was wearing a T-shirt that read Axel's

Taco Shop in red and green letters. “You must be one of the new girls, huh?”

“I just started.”