“info freako”
— VOICE OF THE BEEHIVE
ON WEST GATES PASS ROAD, as Speedway Boulevard winds its way from the city of Tucson, you hit the International Wildlife Museum. Dade was driving, no destination set, speed cranking in his veins, Tammy on the speakers, “Funny Face,” he shouted,
“You sing it, babe.”
Times like this Tammy was speaking to him, he hit the volume.
No shit, she knew Dade was her man . . . he hit the volume again, the noise near swaying the vehicle, he was driving a pickup . . . Sherry gone to get her hair, as she said,
“Prettied up.”
Dade had bought the pickup for eight hundred bucks, from a guy out of El Paso, it was beat up, had serious milage but the sucker moved. All he needed was a hound dog, Hank Williams on the speakers, gun rack, he'd be the complete redneck, the image made him smile, Tammy was onto “I Fall To Pieces.”
Dade went,
“Bitching . . . fucking song kills me, darlin’.”
He sang along, into it, seeing him and Tammy, heads together, at the microphone, leaning in for each alternate line, high-fiving it to the massive, chanting crowd . . . could hear that crowd, howl,
“Tammy . . Dade . . . Tammy . . . Dade.”
He spotted the sign . . . International Wildlife Museum . . . thought why not? . . . jarred to a halt . . . paid seven bucks admission and was seriously pissed, returned to the admission booth, asked,
“The hell kind of scam you running here?”
The woman, bored, focused dull eyes on him, went,
“What?”
“The animals are stuffed, what's that about?”
She gaped at him and he asked,
“Why doesn't it say on the sign . . . ‘Dead Animals'? . . . huh, roadkill! I can get in my truck and drive, get all that crap on the side of the goddamn highway?”
She said,
“You want live Mister, you need to get down to the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.”
She looked at her watch, cautioned,
“Don't go today.”
“What, they closed?”
“It's nearly noon, the animals have their siesta.”
She refused him a refund and he had a moment, climb in the booth, stuff her, line her up with the other stiffs. Stormed outa there, to see a bum sitting on the kerb, who asked,
“Got any change, buddy?”
Dade kicked him in the side, said,
“Get a fucking job.”
Back in the truck, the music died, he seriously lost it, thrashed the panel till his hands hurt, then his cell buzzed, startling him, he got it to his ear, rasped,
“Better be good.”
“It's Fer.”
Dade hadn't expected him for another week, needed to get Sherry in gear if they were going to take the dude down. Apart from ripping off the guns, the cash, the dope.
Dade just wanted to waste an angel.
Like a country song:
“Wasting the Angel.”
He vaguely remembered Sarah McLachlan, she did some tune along those lines, got famous ‘cause Clinton gave Monica Lewinsky the album or was it the other way round. His brain was so fried, he couldn't remember, thought
“What . . . the . . . fuck . . . ever.”
Bodily fluids had been exchanged, sort of, that's what counted.
Fer grunted,
“You there?”
Dade's head bounced back, he said,
“You betcha.”
Mean chuckle from the biker and,
“Y'all been messing with that there mescal?”
Pronounced it mess-cal, a biker's humour, added,
“You all fucked up on that wetback hooch, that it, partner?”
Dade was going to enjoy slamming the Walther in this hog's mouth, said,
“I'm cool, bro, got my shit together, just waiting on da man, waiting on you, amigo.”
Fer was talking to someone in the background, sounded heated. Dade flashed on the biker chick, the suburban wannabe outlaw, then Fer said,
“We're ready to roll, you got the cash dollars?”
Ready and waiting.”
More background debate, then,
“We figure to haul into Tucson tomorrow evening, how's that?”
Dade figured, yeah, get it done, said,
“Cool.”
Then Fer said,
“Slight change of venue.”
Dade's antennae was up, cautiously he asked,
“Why's that, bro?”
Belly laugh, with,
“Lest you figuring to bushwhack me, try to take me off.”
Dade put some hurt in his voice, let a little whine leak over the words, asked,
“You don't trust me?”
The laugh out loud and,
“Man, I don't trust my mom and she's like dead, ten freaking years.”
Mom?
They set up the meet at a flophouse off Congress Street. Dade knew of a club nearby, specialised in indie music, suggested that as alternative.
No bite.
Fer wanted the flop joint, and Dade conceded.
When he caught up with Sherry a few hours later, he almost didn't recognise her, her hair was short, coloured brunette, she asked,
“So, you like it?”
He hated it. Before, she'd looked a little like Tammy, now she looked like an accident; he waited a beat too long and she snapped,
“The fuck you know.”
He moved to touch her, got his hand slapped away, felt the familiar rage coast, tuned out . . . A moment, refocused, heard,
“Anyway, it's not like it's permanent, just till we get this Irish prick buried.”
Dade wondered . . . who?
He asked,
“Who?”
She glared at him, used her down-home voice, the trailer trash out to play:
“Dun tol’ you the whole fang, who whacked my ol’ man, the prick, he sees me now, he don't know me, he saw a blonde but now . . . “
Back to her own voice:
“I coldcock the sucker.”
Dade had forgotten the whole thing, so caught up in partying, it seemed like Sherry had been round forever; he asked,
“What makes you so sure this cat is going to like . . . you know . . . come to town?”
A smile now, a smile of pure maliciousness, her anger replaced by a lethal certainty, she tapped a smoke, got it in her mouth, lit, exhaled, said,
“He's coming. A young guy who works at the Lazy 8, I slipped him a couple of bucks, keep his eye on the register, new guests, like that.”
Dade figured, from that smile, she'd slipped him more than a few bucks, something further as a sweetener and realised with horror, as an icicle slid along his spine . . . he was like . . . jealous? The fuck did that happen, and seeing her eyes, knowing she knew. His carefully constructed persona, the composite he used to cruise, was flaking away. He needed more dope, felt a pain in his gut, needed violence, managed to ask,
“What makes you so sure he'll show?”
She was stubbing at the cigarette, in the way that women do.
Halfheartedly.
Dab it, maybe twice in the ashtray, short stabbing gestures, attention focused elsewhere, leaving the goddamned thing to smoulder, like it no longer had any connection to her. When Dade had done his jolt, the years behind bars, he'd read some psychology book, found it in the yard, first fifty pages shredded, for a spliff or toilet paper more likely, took it back to his cell, began to read it, trying to get a fix on his own self. All sorts of interesting shit, like a man, strikes a match, he strikes in inwards, living recklessly, the flame not a problem. But a chick, always strikes outwards, protective, away.
Dade was fascinated by that detail, somehow realised that in that data was the massive chasm between the sexes. Excited, worked up, he'd shared the info with his cellmate, a supremacist outta the hills of Kentucky. The guy, picking his nose, with intense concentration, said,
“Like, who gives a fuck?”
Chow time, Dade had put powdered glass in the bigot's stew, early in the morning, the cracker on his knees, spitting blood, Dade asking,
“Like, who gives a fuck?”
Sherry said,
“He had CDs delivered yesterday.”
Dade was confused, she sighed, explained,
“The Mick, he had stuff posted from New York, so, like, he's arriving . . . soon.”
She opened her bag, took out a slip of paper, read,
“The music store, East Village, he likes music, I'll give him some songs, I'll give him some thrills.”
Dade blew it off with,
“Don't mean nothing.”
Her voice raised, going,
“Over two hundred bucks on CDs? . . . he's coming.”
Dade veered another direction, asked,
“You stuck on this guy, that it?”
In a cold exact mimic of Dade's remark, she sneered,
“Don't mean nothing.”
He shucked out a cig, got a book of matches, lit up, striking outwards, trying it, didn't work, couldn't do it. She reached over suddenly, fury writ large, snapped it alight, he asked,
“So, what's the deal, why you going to all this trouble, I mean, if the dude don't, like, mean nothin'?”
Got some edge in it, let it sound mean, she got right in his face, the Juicy Fruit he'd given her, all over his nostrils, her eyes huge, said,
“The fuck walked out on me, upped and left . . . like . . . like I was a one-off!”
Dade went,
“Uh-huh.”
She was in front of the mirror, checking her hair, frowning, said,
“Nobody, no two-bit Mick fuck walks on me, not now, not ever.”
Dade filed the warning.