TWENTY-FIVE

 

When Billy introduced Adam, Diz extended his right arm to shake. All that remained of the hand were a mangled section of palm, an index finger, and a thumb. A little boy’s make-believe gun.

“’Sup, m’man?” Diz said. His grip was strong, for a thumb and finger.

Adam struggled to keep it off his face, but a cold shudder ran up his body when he closed his hand on what remained of Diz’s.

Diz was lanky, with long basketball legs, in jeans and a faded old blue Predator T-shirt. He seemed Adam’s age or so, but it was difficult to tell with all the damage. Except for the softness around his middle, he was lean and tall. A black patch covered Diz’s right eye with a round, panicky cartoon eye painted on the front, the pupil a tiny dot in the middle of all that bloodshot white. Scar tissue gnarled the right side of his narrow bald head. A jagged hole in his right cheek exposed his gums and broken molars. And there were his eyebrows, of course.

They had been removed from—probably blown off—his forehead, then reattached in segments. It looked as if spare parts of other eyebrows had been added to lengthen Diz’s. They were crooked, far too long and high. From just above the outer corners of his eyes, they arched upward, then plunged downward sharply, almost meeting over the bridge of his nose. They created an odd hybrid expression of pleasant surprise and savage rage.

“Billy-boy tells me you lookin’ for my services,” Diz said. He perched on a stool at the bar in the dining room. Billy brought him a can of beer. Diz popped the tab, raised the can in a toast and said, “It’s the fuckin’ king a beers, man,” and took some big, long gulps, the can between the thumb and two middle fingers of his left hand. He pressed the remnant of his right palm over the hole in his cheek to keep beer from dribbling out of his face. Eyes closed, eyebrows high above them, unmoving, as if drawn there in Diz’s sleep by a child.

This is like a Night Gallery episode, Adam thought.

“Uh, yeah, but actually—” Adam cleared his throat, “—we’re not sure exactly what your services include.”

“You tell me what you want,” Diz said, “I tell you if my services include it.” His voice sounded hollow and nasal when he did not cover the hole.

“Um, from what I can tell,” Billy said, “they got somethin’ they wanna blow up.”

“Let ’em answer, Billy-boy,” Diz said good-naturedly. Finished off the beer. “Get me another beer. And get beers for your buddies, too. C’mon, guys, pulluppa stool, sitcher asses down and have a brewski, huh?” Diz wobbled on his stool a bit as he smiled. He was missing a few teeth in front, top and bottom.

Carter did not hesitate to get up on a chrome-legged stool. Plucked a carrot stick from one of the trays and bit it in half with a dull pop. He left Adam with only one stool between himself and Diz.

Adam pulled the stool away from the bar, set it beside Carter, and sat facing Diz.

“You hungry, Adam?” Diz asked, waving a disfigured hand toward the food on the bar. “We got plenny a food. Mom and Pop always got plenny a food around for everybody. Prob’ly why I been puttin’ onna mothafuckin’ pounds, know what I’m sayin’?” He patted his belly and laughed, and the hole in his cheek made it sound somewhat seal-like: Yorp! Yorp! Yorp!

What there was of his left hand fished a crumpled pack of Camels and a butane lighter out of his pocket. He lit up using both hands, then pulled a small glass ashtray down the bar. Although not by choice, Diz held his cigarette like a black-and-white movie Nazi, between thumb and forefinger. Errant smoke oozed from the hole in his face. “Tell me, Adam, whatchoo wanna blow up?”

Billy brought beers for all of them.

Adam took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Actually, I...um, see, I’m not sure I...” He turned to Carter for help.

“Hey, don’t look over here,” Carter said. “You still haven’t told me dick, I don’t know what the hell you’re up to.”

Adam had forgotten he hadn’t told Carter his whole plan. He didn’t even have a whole plan yet. He turned to Diz and said, “A boat.”

“A boat, huh?” Diz nodded. “What kinda boat?”

“Well, actually, we were hoping we could—”

“You say ack-shully a lot, don’tcha?” Diz grinned. “What the fuck’s ’at mean, anyway? That ack-shully word?”

Adam looked around the dining room for an answer, thumbed through his internal dictionary and thesaurus. He came up with nothing. It was just something people said when they were unsure of what they were going to say next. He looked at Diz and shrugged helplessly. “Nothing. Far as I can tell, it means absolutely nothing.”

“Then why use it?” Diz said with laughter in his voice. “Huh? I mean, shit, if it don’t mean nothin’. ’Cause I gotta lotta respect for people who say what they mean.”

Adam’s shoulders and back chilled. He was sure that was some kind of half-veiled threat, but the specifics eluded him at the moment. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. No point in using it if it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Attaboy. Now. What kinda boat?”

“We were hoping we could...buy the explosives, you know? From you. Then we could...bluh-blow it up ourselves.”

A laugh exploded from Diz while he dragged on his Camel. Smoke burst from his mouth and the hole in his cheek. He rocked on his stool as he laughed, slapped the bar a couple times.

Gooseflesh crawled up Adam’s back. When Diz laughed—eyebrows high and sinister, smoke curling out of his face—he looked like a drug-induced hallucination. An image from a silent horror movie, Lon Chaney revived from the grave, wearing excruciating face-twisting appliances. Diz looked so convincingly—and yet, surrealistically—deranged that Adam wanted to run from the house.

“Do I look like the kinda guy’d hand a loaded gun to a fuckin’ monkey with rabies?” Diz asked. He laughed some more, but watched Adam, waiting for an answer.

Adam said, “I’m sorry, but...I-I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

Diz stood and nodded at a camera high in the corner. “Lesstep outside, take a walk around the ranch. I don’t like bein’ on that sick fuck’s tapes, y’know what I mean?”

Adam knew.

Mr. C. came into the kitchen, took a handful of potato chips from the bar.

As the others stood, Diz turned toward the kitchen and called, “Hey, Billy-boy-blue, we takin’ a walk. You hold the fort.”

“Where the fuck’re you goin’?” Mr. C. asked around a mouthful of chips.

“We’re gonna go sacrifice a live baby in the sunlight, then jerk each other off with bloody hands,” Diz said.

Mr. C. grunted.

Diz led them out the back door into the dry, hot desert air. The hill rose abruptly before them, humped with shrubs. They started up at a slow pace.

Everything was taking longer than Adam had anticipated. If all had gone the way he had hoped, they would be on their way home by now. Even walking around outside was eating up way too much time. A feeling of urgency clutched him, and it had nothing to do with his bladder.

“No cameras back here,” Diz said.

The ground crunched beneath their feet as they went slowly up the hill.

“Did Billy-boy tell you I sell explosives?” Diz asked.

“Oh, no,” Adam said. “But we got that impression.”

“You here by mistake, Adam? Zat the problem?”

“Only if you won’t sell us the explosives.”

He laughed again.

“Look,” Adam went on, “it’s not Billy’s fault. He specifically said you don’t sell explosives. It’s just that—” He lowered his voice.”—he didn’t say that until we were on our way here. But now we’re here, and I’m just hoping you’ll—”

“You don’t want anybody else involved, do ya?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want me to know what you’re gonna do with them explosives, do ya?”

Adam shook his head.

“And you two are gonna do this mysterious thing, whatever the fuck it is, you guys are gonna do it yourselves?”

“Something like that,” Adam said.

“What kind you want?”

“What kind of what?” Carter said.

“Explosives. What kind of explosives?”

Adam turned to Carter, who gave him a withering look, and said, “Like I’d know?”

“Of the two of you,” Diz said, “which one has the most experience with explosives?”

Once again, Adam looked at Carter, who shrugged and said, “You’re looking at me again, I don’t understand this. Closest I’ve ever come to explosives is firecrackers.”

“I haven’t had much, um...experience,” Adam said, realizing how ludicrous he sounded. “I always hated firecrackers. Just too damned loud.”

Diz chuckled. “Like I axed before, do I look like the kinda guy’d hand a loaded gun to a monkey with rabies? How fuckin’ dumb do I look?” He remained relaxed and jovial, but his face looked ready to kill and enjoy it. “Know what happens I do that, Adam? Send you on your merry fuckin’ way with some goodies? You fuck up and vaporize yourselves, maybe a buncha other people.” He laughed his seal-like laugh between sentences, shaking his head. As if someone had told a great joke. “But then, see, the fuckin’ cops get involved. They don’t care about you guys, you’re floatin’ around in the air with the pollen, if there’s that much of ya left.” He stopped walking and turned to them. “But they wanna know where the fuck you got the goodies. And maybe, somehow, they work their way back here. Next thing you know, we got federal stormtroopers, fuckin’ psychopaths employed by Uncle Sam, we got ’em up our asses, and the bullets and grenades are flyin’.”

Adam and Carter exchanged a glance as Diz absently kicked a few rocks.

“Now when all that shit happens?” Diz said. “That’s bad, Adam. People die when the feds get involved. People get maimed and crippled. And otherwise fucked up? Tell ya th’truth, I can’t afford any a that shit, man. That’s why I don’t do it. Now, I got nothin’ against you guys, but if you think I’m gonna sell you shit that blows up—” He laughed again, getting a big kick out of the idea,”—then you gotta gimme the recipe for your brownies, man.” Kept laughing as he continued slowly up the hill.

“Okay, I get it,” Adam said as he and Carter followed. “You’re not gonna sell us anything.”

“Yo, Adam, don’t take that personally, ’kay? I’m laughin’ ’cause thass just fuckin’ funny, man, the idea doin’ somethin’ like that in my line a work, shit, man, thass like askin’ a lawyer to work for truth and justice ’steada for fuckin’ money, you dig?”

Adam sighed. “Then we should go, Carter. We shouldn’t waste anymore of Diz’s—”

“Hey, slow down, Adam.” Diz put a twisted palm on Adam’s shoulder. “Whattaya doin’, anyway?” More laughter. That Seaworldesque Yorp! Yorp! Yorp! “Where ya gonna go to get what I won’t sell ya? Walmart? Huh? Look, Adam m’man, you got somethin’ needs blowin’ up, and I blow up things for a livin’. Hell, we’re so made for each other, man, we oughtta haul ass to Vegas and tie the fuckin’ knot!” Yorp! Yorp!

Adam shook his head. “I’m sorry, Diz, but...I just don’t feel comfortable with this. I don’t know you, I’ve never—”

Diz stopped again, put an arm across Adam’s shoulders. A mostly-smoked Camel dangled from his lips. The hole spouted smoke when he talked. “You think I’m gonna run to the cops and tell ’em about your shit? Whaddaya think this is, a fuckin’ sting operation to catch you in the act of tryin’ to blow up your parents? Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself, m’man.”

Adam stopped breathing. Turned to Diz, face open with shock.

Diz smirked, shrugged. “An educated guess, is all.” He removed his arm from Adam’s shoulder, fished another cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with the butt of the other. Licked thumb and forefinger, pinched the butt out, and dropped it to the ground, buried it with the toe of his shoe. “Adam, you gotta understand me, this is a business. You understand that much, right?”

Adam nodded.

“But it’s a sensitive business. That’s why we protect our clients. Whether they want somethin’ blown up, or some kid to blow ’em off. Why we don’t ask no serious questions. Most of our regular clients appreciate that and have enough good fuckin’ sense to do the same in return. That’s how a sensitive business like this works. Even though we may not trust each other, we fuckin’ have to, otherwise there’s nothin’ to do but stand around starin’ at each other, and no business gets done. Nobody wants to hand you over to the cops, Adam, ’kay? Think you can get that shit outta your head? This is what I do for a fuckin’ livin’, ’kay, man? Been doin’ this shit since I was eight.”

“Where do you learn about explosives when you’re eight?” Adam asked.

“From Pop. Taught me everything he knows and I took it from there. That’s what he used to do. Till he retired and went into the porn biz. The fuckin’ perv.”

They started walking again. The hot ground warmed Adam’s feet through his sneakers. Small creatures scattered ahead of them into the shrubs and rocks.

Adam said, “You took over your dad’s business? So you worked with him, right?”

“If you like sayin’ it that way, fine,” Diz said. “I was fuckin’ employed, all I knew.”

“What was that like?” Adam asked, almost whispering. “I mean, did it make you two any closer, working together? Did you get to know your dad better?”

That got a few loud, full yorps from Diz. “Fuck no, man. My dad’s a prick of the lowest order. The kinda prick who disgusts all the other fuckin’ pricks.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Adam said.

“Your dad a prick?” Diz asked.

“Yep. And he’s close friends with all the other fuckin’ pricks.”

Diz laughed again. Turned to Adam and raised his right hand, palm out.

Adam stared, confused, at the chunk of meat at the end of Diz’s arm. Then he realized Diz was waiting for Adam to give him a high-five. Adam swallowed his disgust and slapped the small, misshapen palm.

“Okay, Adam, tell me. What kinda boat?”

Adam did not hesitate this time. “A yacht docked in Marina del Rey.”

Diz nodded slowly and smiled. “Okay, now we gettin’ somefuckinwhere.”