DEAN’S MOTHER STOOD in front of a life-sized doll in a tank top and cut-offs holding a ridiculously massive assault rifle. She poked a finger in the woman’s navel.
“Nice Barbie, dude.”
“That’s not a Barbie. It’s PTSD Babe,” said Chip.
“Movie star?”
“Video game character.”
A sound emerged from Dean’s mother like an unfortunately depressed dingo with a sinus infection.
“Kid, whatever Vietnamese child laborer made this doesn’t know the difference between a rifle and Kentucky Fried Chicken. The ejector port of the ACR is on the wrong side, and there’s no way in seven Chinese Hells the poor girl could fire it one-handed. I know––I’ve tried.”
“I guess you’re right, Mrs. Cook, but it’s just a game.”
“Spare me the excuses. It’s just a game, it’s just a movie, it’s just another pill, it’s just a small Asian country that needs American boys to die for it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am or Mrs. Cook. The name’s Billie.”
“Fine, no problem.”
Billie swung her arms wide like a mad karate warm-up. “Is there a trash can in this mess?”
Chip pointed to the kitchen. Billy reached inside her lower lip with thumb and index finger and tossed a brown wad into the trash. She pulled a can of Skoal from her back pocket.
“Want some?”
“No, thanks.”
Billie pointed the green hockey puck of Skoal at him. “Didn’t think so. You look like the sort of weed-smoking loser who spends all day in front of his computer until he turns forty, then panics and orders a bride from Lower Karjackistan because he’s too afraid to talk to girls around the corner.”
“Excuse me?”
Billie stared at Chip with her pale blue eyes and stuck a pinch of snuff in her lower lip.
“Excuse me, what?”
“Nothing,” said Chip.
Billie closed the plastic lid of the can with a loud snap. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Chips? I’m starting to question this theory that my son’s out for a walk.”
“I honestly don’t know where Dean is. Like I said, he could have gone somewhere with my mother. Her car’s out front, but I haven’t seen her around.”
Billie poked him in the chest. “Today’s my son’s birthday and I’m going to make it the best I can, all right? His noodle-headed girlfriend said he came here yesterday. It’s always up to his family to throw him a party, because the poor boy doesn’t have one friend worth a fish fart. Now, I’ve got ten cases of MGD sweating in the back of my pickup, so I’m two seconds from punching a hole through your drywall. Is what I’m saying getting through those clouds of reefer smoke? Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”
Chip raised his hands. “Okay, okay! Let’s see if they’re back.”
He walked outside with Billie’s heavy work boots clomping behind.
“Holy mother of cats!”
“What?”
Chip pointed at the oil-stained concrete driveway. “The Party Patrol’s missing!”
“You mean the pink ambulance? If someone stole that pile of trash you should count your blessings.”
“It’s not a pile of trash!”
Billie shrugged. “I’ve seen better decoration sprayed across the inside of a Tijuana jail cell. Now that I think about it, that wasn’t paint.”
“Lady, the engine on that thing is worth more than your entire truck. It’s got a custom-built interior, top-of-the-line driverless navigation system, and enough electronics to send a NASA scientist into sugar shock. So don’t talk to me about the paint job! I wanted it to look bad so nobody would steal it.”
Billie sniffed and spit across the porch railing. “Cool plan, dude. It’s miles away by now.”