CHAPTER 8

 

Out of the blue Bud said, “I wonder what Kimmie’s doin’ right now?”

I needed that. Immediately, a picture of Donna popped up and I had half a mind to turn the car around and head north. In a few minutes the feeling passed. At least it died down to a manageable ache.

This fucking swamp went on forever! The locals must use another highway as I bet there hadn’t been a car by on the other side in more than ten minutes. I kept thinking, we have us a flat and they’ll have to cut some gator open to find enough to bury by the time help arrived. Just before we got to the highway, Bud said pull off up there, I got to take a piss.

Soon’s he hit the bushes he started yelling.

I jumped out of the car, quick opened the trunk and took out the Mossberg. Gator’s got him is what I thought. Maybe a snake.

It wasn’t neither. When I reached him he was just standing there, holding his pizzler, a look on his face like somebody’d just told him his best dog got run over.

“Jake,” he said and there was some serious stress in his voice. “Jake, I...” He looked up at me and I could see the pain pinching his mug. “I got me a dose. It’s a bad one, Jake. Worst I ever had, bro. Oh me, oh my, it hurts.”

It looked like he’d been peeing on a log mighta been an alligator.

“Teach you to always grab the best-lookin’ one,” I said. “That cross-eyed gal I had was sorta ugly but least I don’t sound like James Brown crankin’ out a hit when I make water. Bud, I think you might wake up that log you’re peein’ on. I believe I seen some eyes on it.”

I didn’t laugh but I couldn’t keep from grinning when he jumped back.

“First town we hit we’ll get you a doctor, partner.”

“You think this is funny, Jake?” I guess he seen me smile. Try as I did I just couldn’t wipe that sucker off my face. “You might have a case yourself, you know.”

I hadn’t thought about that. Shit.

The speed limit was sixty-five but I kept it pegged at just under eighty.

“Lake Charles” said the sign and we found a doctor on Calcasieu Boulevard. He give Bud the biggest shot I ever saw and drew blood from both of us. “Don’t drink any beer,” he said. We had to go back that afternoon when the blood tests came back. “I don’t need blood work on you but I’ll take one anyway,” he said to Bud. “My dog could diagnose you. See how he went to the other side of the room when you came in?” There was one’a them little Pomeranians in the doctor’s chair when we walked into his office and sure enough, when Bud stepped over to pet him he ran into the corner and stood there shaking all over like someone had just stepped on and crushed his paw. “Are you allergic to penicillin?” the doc said, grinning.

We drove around looking for a place to kill some time until we could see if I was infected too. About four blocks from the doctor’s office there was the biggest black cow we ever saw, about fifteen feet tall. Black Angus, said the sign on the building. Cold Beer, it said, under. We got us a place at the bar which wasn’t hard as we were the only customers.

Half hour later I went to take a dump. Just as I was getting comfortable I heard Bud come in. I knew it was him by his moans.

“Told you not to drink that beer,” I called out. “Doctor told you, too.”

“Fuck you,” he said. “I’m gonna go in a bar and not have a beer? Just shut up, Jake. I got problems enough without you up my ass. I think you got a worse disease than I do, buddy. Something crawled up inside you and died. Think that doctor has a shot for what you got?”

I swear I heard him bending the plumbing only it was hard to tell over his groans.

Then I heard another voice, not Jake’s.

“I want to thank y’all for making this easy.” What the fuck? I thought, but before I could say anything the door to the stall burst open and there stood a little guy couldn’t have been much over five foot tall, bald-headed, looked like an accountant, stood there grinning at me. He was a little guy but the gun he was holding was good-sized. Looked like every inch of a .357.

“My friend, I want you to ease off that stool and lay down on the floor on your stomach.” He waved the gun over where I knew Bud was standing. “You too big guy. Lay down on the floor by your partner.”

This was humiliating. My butt was sticking up in the air and I could feel shit oozing out where I’d broken off my crap. My nose was picking up the smell of piss on the floor. I lay beside Bud who was already down when I crawled out of the stall like a crab.

“You don’t smell so pretty good,” the bandit said. He walked over and took out my wallet and then Bud’s. “I’m a nice guy,” he said, opening the door. “I just want your money. I’m gonna leave you your wallets.” He tossed them on the floor beside us after he lifted out the bills. “Come out before I git gone y’all’l be making a big mistake. Adios, amigos.” The door wheezed shut and we heard the click of his heels outside on the linoleum.

“Come on,” Bud said, standing up and zipping his fly. “He’s gonna get away.”

There was no way I was pulling up my shorts over a shitty ass. “Hold your horses. I’m wiping before I leave. Sucker’s gone anyway,” I said. “Don’t wait for me,” I said. “Go on out, see if he means what he says. Fucker’s long gone, Bud.”

He was. We ran through the bar to the front and out to the car, looking down the street both ways. I flipped the keys to Bud and he unlocked the trunk and fetched out his pistol.

“Put that in your pocket,” I said, looking around to see if anyone had noticed the man waving a pistol. Luckily, we were alone. “You crazy?”

He stuck it in his belt and pulled his shirt out of his pants to cover it.

“Let’s check the rest of the parking lot,” he said. You could see all of it from where we stood but we looked anyway, peeking under cars.

Back inside we inventoried the damage. There was the change on the bar from the round Bud had bought. Sixteen bucks and a couple of quarters. I had a twenty in my sock, Bud nada, zip, zero.

“Thirty-six stinkin’ dollars,” Bud said. “This just ain’t right.”

The bartender was standing there looking at us. It occurred to me he didn’t have the foggiest what had just happened in his bar.

“Let’s call the cops,” Bud said.

“We can’t,” I said, the voice of reason.

“What? Why the fuck not?”

“Think about it, Bud. I broke parole. You think that’s a wise move, calling the cops? Cops like to check up on people, even victims. They got these computers they love to use.”

“Well, fuck. You mean I got to lose my money just because you did a stupid thing like break parole? You think that’s fair?”

He was just mad. I gave him a couple of minutes to think about it and calm down. He knew what being partners meant when it come down to it. He drank down the rest of his beer and mugged at the wall for a couple of minutes and then he said, “You’re right. We can’t call the cops. Wouldn’t do much good anyway. Guy’s long gone by now. He’s a pro.”

The bartender came up.

“Got a problem?”

“Yeah,” said Bud.

“No,” I said. “Everything’s fine and dandy. ‘Cept I need a job. Need another bartender?” One thing you learn when you outlaw for a living, you get a loss you cut it loose and go on. Nothing’s gained by crying about what might have been. Time for that shit when you’re old and sitting in a rocking chair and don’t have nothing else much to do ‘cept think about couldabeens.

Bartenders they was flush with, the guy said, “but you might could get on as a swamper. Guy we had quit just last night. Boss’s running an ad today. He’s in the back. Hang on, I’ll ask him.”

Turns out I was in the right place at the right time. The boss, Mr. Fryin Pan-ee, sounded like, one of those French names, hooked me up with an apron on the spot and a locker in the kitchen, gave me the lowdown on the job, which didn’t take five minutes. Roll over the tables, clean ‘em off when the parties leave, take out the garbage for the cooks, help out on the service bar when things got busy, any kind of shit work cook needs done, or the waitresses. Everybody’s your boss. The Black Angus was a steak and dance place, got busy at night when the families cleared out he said, the bartender nodding. Every time Mr. Fryin Pan-ee said something, the bartender, name of Joe, nodded his head up and down like the bossman was Elvis and he was one of the roadies.

“This is the hot spot in town,” the boss said. “We got us a killer band here, plays a lot of Seger stuff. You get minimum wage and the waitresses give you part of their tips. I catch you stealin’ I cut your nuts out. Don’t be fucking with the waitresses and definitely don’t be fucking with the customers. I catch you fucking with the customers, I cut your nuts out.”

There was some other general rules and regulations, same as you get anywhere and the penalty for each transgression seemed to be, “Do that and I cut your nuts out.”

I looked at Bud and he at me and I know we was both thinking the same thing—this guy’s got a thing for balls.

Going out the door—I had two hours before I had to report back for the night shift —Bud said, “You think he’s queer? He sure talks a lot about dicks and stuff.”

“Nuts, Bud. He didn’t say nothing about dicks. Just nuts.”

Bud grinned. “Oh, he’s a bisexual.”

Going back to the doctor to see if I had the clap was out of the question now. He’d expect to be paid and I didn’t want to chance what he’d do if we didn’t take care of the bill, being strangers and all. And Yankees.

First night we slept in the car out along the Dismal Swamp. We were both broke-dick dogs. Me from working my ass off, cleaning greasy plates and generally running around like I was in training for the Kitchen Olympics and Bud from the tenseness of his condition.

His condition put work on the back burner far as Bud was concerned. He looked, sorta, but couldn’t find anything. Almost got a job in a warehouse but the straw boss smelled booze on him and that was that. To be fair, he didn’t feel much like working. It was about all he could do, anticipating the next time he had to take Willie out. That kept his mind off employment, minor things like that. I told him, quit drinking beer like the doc said, you don’t have to go as often. It was all right, though. I was making enough for us both to get by.

The first day I sold my Mossberg and rifle to the night manager, Mexican guy named Jose, at the Angus and got us enough to get a cheap motel. Jose musta took a shine to me ‘cause he took me aside and told me he’d pay me cash every night first week, so’s we could get set up. It was tight, but it worked out and we began to settle in. I was going to go for a barber’s job as soon as we could get Louisiana licenses, only I had forgot about the parole violation thing and happily remembered it before I did something stupid like apply for one, have my ass show up on the Crime Computer Network, whatever they called it.

One thing I did, soon as I knew we had a place to stay and a few bucks. I went down and bought a postcard at a drugstore. It was a picture of Lake Charles—there was a lake in the middle of town that had the same name as the town—it was a picture off this bridge going over it and water-skiers and folks doing family shit like that down below—and I sent it off to Donna.

I wrote on the back: “Dear Donna, How are you? I am fine, down here in the Deep South. I have got a position at a fine restaurant and night club. They made me an assistant manager right off. You’d be proud of me. I miss you. I tried to kill myself. Ha. Ha. I have been thinking about you and still love you, Donna. I hope we can still have a future.” I signed it, “Best Wishes and All My Love, Jake.”

I thought a minute, sucking on the ballpoint top, then added:

“P.S. You shouldn’t have done that to the baby.”