Six Bad Things

  —A half fucking mile?

  Rolf puts his hands up palm out.

  —Dudes, chill. Even if they find it.

  —When they find that car they’re gonna wrap up this whole area. We have to go.

  Sid points to Rolf.

  —Told you, dude.

  —Dude! You said it’d be cool.

  —Well, you were all, We can’t walk too far. So, I was, like, OK, we can leave it at the motel, but we don’t want to be around it too long, and you were all, No prob, we’ll scoop up Hank and be outy. So, yeah, I said it was cool to be here for a little while, but dude, not this long.

  They grab their day packs while I collect the cell phone and my hat and put on my boots. Rolf goes out and starts the Cavalier. Sid and I wait inside for him to beep, telling us the coast is clear. The car horn sounds, and Sid starts to open the door. I put a hand on his shoulder.

  —Hang on.

  I run back to the spare room and find the map I bought at the ampm. I head back to the front door, but stop at the bathroom. My head feels like badly scrambled eggs. As much as I need to clean it out and get it straight, I also need to be mellow and clear for the next hour. I open the medicine cabinet and get out the Percs. I try to shake one onto the palm of my hand, but a whole pile tumbles out. I put one in my mouth, start to drop the others back into the bottle, and shove them in my pocket instead. T may be in bad shape. He may need them. That’s what I tell myself.

  SID AND I pile into the car, me in the back and Sid up front. Rolf pulls away from T’s trailer and stops at the exit from the park. Sid and Rolf look left. Down the highway I can see the Super 8 sign, sticking up above the telephone poles. Rolf elbows Sid.

  —See, dude, no problem.

  —Whatever.

  —Well, where to?

  Where to? It’s just after two PM. I slept for almost six hours. Might as well get started.

  —Got that address?

  Rolf pulls the scrap of Hustler cover from the tight pocket of his leather pants.

  —262 Jewel.

  I uncrumple the map and spread it on my lap. I point to the right.

  —That way.

  —Dude, I thought we weren’t supposed to show till six?

  I check our route on the map. Jewel Avenue is just a few miles away. Ten minutes at most.

  —No problem. She kept saying the sooner the better. And this way, we’ll be done in time for kickoff.

  Rolf flicks his turn signal and takes the right.

  SANDY LIVES in a pink stucco tract house with a roof of fake ceramic tiles. There’s a tidy little lawn out front with a sprinkler waving water over it. A red Miata with a dented back end is parked in the driveway. T’s Chrysler and a black Land Cruiser are at the curb. Rolf drives past, flips a U-turn, and parks across the street. We sit there, the engine running, and Rolf adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me without turning around.

  —Dude, remember all that shit about me not being a tool?

  I poke at one of the bruises on my torso.

  —Yeah.

  —Just for the record, I know something is fucked-up here.

  I can see only his eyes in the mirror, staring at mine. I shrug.

  —OK.

  He turns around.

  —What I’m saying, dude, is, let’s not fuck around here. For everybody’s spiritual and physical well-being. Is there anything going on in there we need to know about?

  I look at the house, then back at him.

  —I don’t know what you want me to say, man. You were there when I took the calls. Far as I know, Sandy took my buddy T home with her, he passed out, she got the call from her guy, and now we’re here. Are they gonna be displeased I brought friends? Sure as shit they are. Do I think it’s gonna be trouble? No. Could the whole thing be a setup? Shit, man, anything can be a setup. Should we be on our toes? Well, it always pays to be prudent, right? That’s all I can say. If it’s not good enough, we can drive out of here and wait for her to call again and set up something else. But I’d just as soon get this done.

  He looks me over, turns back around, and looks at Sid. Sid nods. Rolf reaches under the dash and untangles the two red wires twisted together there, and the engine dies.

  —OK. But, dude, if it’s fucked in there? Sooner or later we’re just gonna get sick of your shit and kill you, money or no.

  He opens his door and gets out. Sid tucks his pistol into the rolled waistband of his too-loose jeans, drops the tail of his shirt over it, and we get out and follow Rolf.

  From the porch we can hear Hitler barking somewhere inside the house.

  Rolf taps me.

  —That your buddy’s dog?

  —I guess.

  —What’s he pissed about?

  —Nothing, he always barks.

  I face Sid and Rolf.

  —All paranoia aside, guys, let’s remember these are just some mellow potheads. Try to be mellow too, OK?

  Rolf shrugs.

  —Hey, dude, they be mellow, we be mellow.

  Sid adjusts the pistol in his waistband.

  —Whatever.

  I ring the bell.

  Hitler’s barking gets louder. I wait a minute, ring again, and hear what sounds like someone shouting at Hitler to shut up. We wait another minute, then Rolf nudges me.

  —Ring again, dude.

  —Hang on, they’re probably sleeping or fucking or something.

  Or getting ready to jump us.

  —Just ring.

  He reaches past me and pushes the button three times in a row and Hitler gets even louder.

  —Hang on! Who is it?

  Sandy’s voice, right on the other side of the door.

  —Sandy! It’s me, Wade.

  Barking.

  —Hey, baby, what’s up?

  —I’m here. Open up.

  Barking.

  The door opens a crack and Sandy’s face is framed in the five-inch gap.

  —Hey, hey, Wade.

  —Hey, I got my shit together a little early and thought I’d come by.

  —Yeah, uh.

  She’s looking past me to Rolf and Sid.

  —Sorry, these are my buddies. They gave me a lift over. Is your guy around, or?

  —Uh, uh, yeah, he’s here, but.

  She looks back into the house and then at us.

  —He’s here, but your buddies, they should. Can they wait in their car? He’s in the kitchen and won’t come out till they leave.

  —Yeah, sure, but they’re totally cool. Also.

  I hook my thumb at Sid.

  —He needs to use the can.

  She bites her lip.

  —Wade, this is pretty uncool. I mean you know.

  —Yeah, but T knows these guys. They’re cool. Go get him, he knows these guys are cool.

  —Yeah, but T, T is still out, and.

  —Jesus, what did you guys?

  —We just came back and smoked out and he went down.

  —Is he?

  —He’s cool, he’s OK, but he’s out.

  —Cool, OK, but just let us in so he can use the can and then they’ll leave and we can talk. Be cool and let the guy take a leak.

  —Uh.

  Another glance over her shoulder.

  —Uh, OK, OK, that’s cool. OK. Just, all of you can come in, that’s cool.

  She pulls the door open. I step inside. The house is dark. All the curtains are drawn. I pull my shades down my nose a bit so I can peek over them. Rolf and Sid come inside. Rolf nods at Sandy.

  —Hey.

  She half smiles at him.

  —Hi.

  Sid doesn’t say anything. Sandy closes the door. She points straight ahead.

  —You guys can kick it in the living room. The bathroom is just to the left.

  I stay where I am.

  —What’s up with Hitler?

  Sandy is wearing only a shorty kimono, her legs and feet bare. All her makeup is gone, her hair mussed, face flushed. I can see now how young she is
; no more that twenty. She draws the kimono tighter, hiding the stars on her chest.

  —He, he freaked a little and chased my cat, so I made T put him in the master bathroom.

  —Hunh.

  I walk into the living room. Sandy touches Sid’s arm. Sid just stares at her. She tries a smile.

  —Bathroom’s down there.

  Sid looks down the hallway, the open door of a bathroom visible at its end. A closed door on its right, Hitler’s barking coming from behind it. He looks at me.

  —Well, go on, man.

  He looks at Rolf, then turns and walks into the bathroom and closes the door, his movements as stiff and unnatural as a robot. But he’s not afraid. He’s excited; charged with violence.

  I look around the living room. Electric blue velvet couch against the left wall, matching love seat against the right, a deco coffee table between them, wood floors partially covered by a fake Moroccan rug, fireplace in the far wall, entertainment center next to it, two floor lamps with colored scarves draped over them. On the walls, framed movie posters for I Want to Live and Betty Page’s Variatease, along with a print of Klimt’s The Kiss. Billie Holiday is singing “Good Morning Heartache” on the stereo. Sandy is clearly going for a 1940s Hollywood-starlet bungalow kind of thing.

  She goes to the coffee table and finds her pack of Camel Ultra Lights among a jumble of binge trash. Two overflowing ashtrays, a mirror smeared with white residue, crumpled squares of magazine paper, three empty Veuve bottles, a colored pot box like the ones we found at Tim’s, a loaded bong, and three Bic lighters. She drags hard on her cigarette.

  —So you get some rest?

  There’s a doorway covered by a beaded curtain next to the love seat. I’m guessing that’s the kitchen. Terry is in there, listening. I light one of my own smokes and bob my head up and down.

  —Oh, yeah, I’m good to go. But, man, was I wasted.

  —Yeah, me too.

  I drop a spent match into one of the ashtrays and point at all the gear.

  —Not too much to keep going.

  —Yeah, yeah, well, me and T got started and then he, you know, and the guy, my boss, Terry, came around so we.

  —Kept the party going.

  —Yeah, yeah, but yeah, I’m ready to crash.

  The toilet flushes and Sid comes back into the room. Sandy jams her smoke out in an ashtray and starts for the front door. I sit on the couch, Rolf drops down next to me, and Sid moves over by the fireplace. Sandy stops.

  —So, you guys need to, like, go wait in the car now.

  —They’re gonna stay here, OK?

  She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

  —Motherfucker.

  —It’s cool, Sandy.

  —Fucking, what is this, Wade?

  —It’s cool, baby. These guys are just helping me find Tim and they need to hear what your guy has to say.

  —This is so uncool and you know it is.

  —Baby, the guy, he wanted a grand, right?

  I take my money out of my pocket. After T shopped for me, after paying Sandy last night, and after partying my ass off, I’m down to about fourteen hundred. I count off a thousand.

  —Tell him he can have it. All he has to do is walk out here and talk to us.

  She looks at the money.

  —This is wrong, this is so.

  —Baby, take the money and go talk to the guy.

  The index and middle fingers of her right hand are scissoring against each other and she’s shaking her head.

  —Please. Don’t.

  I push the money to the edge of the coffee table.

  —I’m sorry, baby. But this is the way it’s gonna be. These guys have to stay. So take the money and go talk to your guy and make him understand. Take the money, baby.

  She rubs her forehead.

  —Shit.

  She steps to the table, scoops up the money, and pushes through the curtain, the strings of beads swinging and clicking behind her.

  She’s afraid.

  And she should be.

  We are violent men.

  TERRY’S BEEN spending a lot of time in the gym and the tanning salon. I can tell because of the way his tailored black slacks stretch to cover his thighs, and because his light blue silk shirt with the white French cuffs and collar is hanging open so we can all look at his washboard stomach. He’s completed the look with high-gloss blond hair, sculpted straight back from his forehead, black loafers with no socks, and a Rolex. Terry may be a pot dealer, but he clearly has higher aspirations.

  He sashays into the room, his arm draped over Sandy’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers dipped inside her kimono, grazing the top of her left breast. He reclines with Sandy on the love seat across from us.

  —Get me a smoke, babe.

  She leans forward, gets one of the Newports from the coffee table, hands it to him, and lights it.

  —Thanks.

  He puts his arm back around her and draws her close until her head is on his shoulder. He looks at Sid by the fireplace and then at me.

  —You Wade?

  —Yeah.

  —I’m Terry.

  He waves his cig in Sid’s direction.

  —Want to tell your friend there to sit down?

  —Why?

  —Because he’s making me a little uptight and if he doesn’t sit I’m gonna walk out of the room and you can fuck off.

  Sid doesn’t move, but Rolf looks at me.

  —Dude.

  I put my hand on his thigh.

  —It’s cool.

  Terry points his cleft chin at Rolf.

  —He gotta problem?

  —It’s cool.

  Rolf rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. I point at the end of the couch. Sid takes three tightrope-walker steps and sits down.

  —Better?

  Terry nods.

  —Oh, yeah, love it.

  Sandy has half her face buried in his shoulder. I can see tears on the other half. Her left hand is clenched in a fist, balling the material of Terry’s shirt. Whatever’s coming is coming soon.

  —Hey, Sandy.

  She jumps at the sound of my voice.

  —Yeah?

  —You got any coffee or anything in the kitchen you could make for us?

  Her lips stretch in a tiny smile.

  —Uh, yeah, yeah I could.

  She starts to lean forward to get off the love seat, but Terry keeps his arm around her, holding her in place.

  —She’s cool here. You guys won’t be around long enough for coffee.

  Sandy crouches back into his embrace and hides her face again, closing her eyes this time. Hitler is still barking, somewhere on the other side of the wall right behind me. Barking and barking and barking. Terry smokes and says nothing, a dicky smile on his face. I pull another of T’s cigarettes out of the box in my breast pocket.

  —So, Terry, what’s up?

  He raises his eyebrows.

  —With me?

  I put the cigarette in my mouth.

  —Yeah.

  He shrugs, the smile still on his face.

  —Not much, just hanging out mostly.

  Rolf slaps my leg with the back of his hand.

  —Dude!

  —It’s cool.

  I start to light my cigarette, and realize that I am already holding a lit one. I flick my eyes up at Terry and watch the smile spread wider on his face.

  —Hate it when I do that, don’t you?

  I keep my mouth shut, light the new smoke, and stub the other one out in one of the ashtrays already crammed with butts. Camel Ultra Light butts. Newport butts. Pall Mall butts. Lots of Pall Mall butts. Hitler’s barking gets louder.

  I look from the ashtray to Terry. He nods.

  I start to move, but the sound of a shotgun being cocked to my right stops me. Terry takes a drag from his cigarette and blows a smoke ring.

  —So whatsay we all be cool now and just wait for the Russian?

  TERRY’S GOONS are a coupl
e of clowns that smoke Pall Malls.

  Both wear Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association T-shirts with the word CLOWN spelled out in Western-style lettering. The one with the Remington shotgun has set his outfit off with an NFR 2003 cap, while the guy with the weird little rifle is wearing a camo-patterned cap. NFR stands a few feet away, across the coffee table, covering us with his twenty gauge while the other one pats us down.

  He starts with me, holding his gun in his right hand while he feels me up with his left. I look at his gun again. What the . . . ?

  —Is that a crossbow?

  He runs his hand over my pockets and pulls out my phone and the last of my money, and puts everything on the table.

  —Fuckin’ A right it is, boy. So don’t you go movin’ round or I’ll put a bolt through your eyeball.

  I stay still. He stands back and takes a long look at me.

  —He’s clean, but I can’t figure out what he’s s’posed ta be.

  He points the crossbow at my face. I flinch away from it. He laughs.

  —Ya s’posed ta be a cowboy? That it, you a cowboy?

  He turns to face the guy with the shotgun.

  —Hey, Ron, fella thinks he’s a cowboy.

  He knocks the hat off my head and the sunglasses from my face.

  —Shit, ya ain’t no cowboy.

  Camo Hat finishes with me. He moves on to Rolf and looks at his dreads.

  —An’ who the fuck you s’posed ta be, Snoop Doggy Daaaaaawg?

  He laughs and puts his hand on Rolf’s shoulder. Rolf slaps it away.

  —Uh-uh, dude.

  Camo Hat guy stiffens and brings his weapon up in both hands. Ron shifts so he can blast Rolf with the shotgun without hitting his pal. Rolf puts his hand down. Camo Hat leans in and presses the crossbow against Rolf’s forehead.

  I lean away, not knowing how much blood might spray if he shoots that thing.

  —Don’ you fuck around with me, boy. This is a two-hundred-pound Exomag. I pull this trigger an’ this bolt’s gonna jump at three hundred and thirty feet per second. Know what that is in real numbers, boy? That’s over two hundred miles an hour. It’ll go clean through your skull and inta the next room and stick the guy in there.

  Guy in there. Now I know where T is.

  Terry flicks his cigarette. It bounces off the back of Camo Hat’s neck and Camo jumps.

  —Hey! Don’t fuck around like that when I’m holding a weapon.