Against the Wind (59 page)

It was hot, her T-shirt was clinging to her tits, she was showing through practically, like in a wet T-shirt contest. One thing she did have was good tits, he had to admit that. But the rest of the package was too damaged, there was no mystery left to her at all.

They smoked a joint, Richard and him, it was righteous weed, they were feeling mellow. The night was still young and he was not ready to go to bed with nobody to play with except five-finger Mary, so he was about to shove off when he heard the motorcycles approaching. They were Harleys, no mistaking that sound.

They pulled into the parking lot, spraying gravel, and parked their hogs, just so, lining them up symmetrically. Four beautiful machines. Be nice to ride one of those babies. But not here and now. Scott wasn’t about to even get close to take a look, he knew this score, you don’t fuck with the likes of these, you keep the hell out of their way. He’d known outlaw bikers from dealing dope, if you had brain one in your head you kept a wide berth.

He’d already told Richard he was splitting, so he started to his car, and as he’s opening the door he hears Richard starting to talk to these bikers. He’s standing in the shadows so it’s okay to watch, and here’s Richard talking to these guys, and it sounds like they’re having a brief conversation. What it was, he couldn’t hear clearly. But one of them raises his voice at whatever grief Richard’s giving him, and all of a sudden another one of them slaps Richard across the mouth, hard, it sounded like a gunshot, and another one rabbit-punches him in the kidneys, and Richard collapses, and they start laughing and jeering at him, and Richard’s crawling away, and then he gets up and starts running, which is the first smart thing he’s done all night.

Then they all go inside (Rita’s already in, she ran in when the shouting started), so Scott starts up his car and heads out down the highway, and fifty yards from the entrance there’s Richard hobbling along like his ribs are broken, so out of kindness for the dumb shit Scott pulls up and tells him to climb in, he’ll drop Richard back at the motel on his way to his next rendezvous.

So they’re cruising on down the road and Scott asks Richard what the beef was all about.

“Drugs,” Richard said.

“Like what,” Scott kidded, “you wanted them to give you some?”

“Fuck no, I wanted to sell them some. I got five kilos of fresh-harvested Michoacan stashed up in the hills, where do you think that righteous weed I’ve been laying on you came from, I need some fast money to get my car out of repair and pay off a bunch of bills, somebody could really make out dealing this stuff.”

Right away, the light-bulb went on in Scott’s head. Ten kilos of primo Mex grass, he could unload that in Denver for fifteen to eighteen thousand.

“What do you want for it?” he asked.

“I’ll sell the whole load of it for two thousand, five hundred,” Richard had told him.

Scott didn’t waste a second. “It’s a deal.”

Richard looked at him. “You got that kind of money?”

“That and then some.”

“Let me see it.”

Without slowing down, Scott reached into his pocket, pulled out his roll. Richard looked at it and smiled. “Let’s do some business,” he said.

Scott’s throat is dry from talking. He asks for a glass of water. I walk to the defense table, lean in to the defendants.

“Do you remember any of this?” I ask.

Lone Wolf shrugs.

“I vaguely remember some asshole saying something stupid in the parking lot. It could have been the way he says it was. Whatever it was, no one was dead when we went inside.”

“What about him?” I nod towards Scott.

“Never saw him in my life.”

The others nod; he’s a cipher to them.

I cross back to Scott Ray.

“Please continue,” I tell him.

They stopped at the motel first. Richard had to get something out of his room. Scott waited in the car. Richard was back in a flash with a knife so Scott could cut off a taste to check it, and a paper bag to put the money in, and they started to drive up to the mountains, where Richard had the grass stashed. Richard was enjoying himself, singing along with the radio. Scott was enjoying himself, too; he was about to shear this poor lamb for all his wool. Twenty-five hundred for five kilos. The profit he’d make would set him up for months. Richard had good weed, no question there, but he had no head for business.

Too fucking bad. For Richard.

They drove up into the mountains northeast of town. It was pretty up here. The road was winding, doubling back on itself, at times you could see the entire town and valley laid out below, the lights twinkling like Christmas ornaments, and up above the stars twinkling like more Christmas ornaments, each mirroring the other. It was peaceful and beautiful, and Scott was happy.

Three days ago he’d limped into town with nothing but dust on his shoes, and he was going to leave with new clothes, a bono car (he’d take it as far as Denver and ditch it there), and beaucoup money to be made. His luck was finally changing for the good; about time.

“Pull off here,” Richard said abruptly.

They were high up now. It was a flat area, bordered by trees. Private—as soon as they pulled off the road they were hidden from view.

Richard got out first. Scott turned off the engine, followed Richard deeper into the wooded area.

“What’d you do, bury it?” Scott asked.

“Not exactly,” Richard answered. He turned back to Scott. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re going to get what you want. Or at least what you deserve.”

I have a map in my hand. It’s an aerial map of the area where Richard Bartless’s body was found. I set it on an easel in front of Scott, at an angle that both he and Judge Martinez can easily see.

“Is this where you stopped?” I ask, pointing.

“Yeh. That’s it.”

Scott Ray is trembling now. His leg’s doing a Saint Vitus dance.

“Are you all right?” Martinez asks, picking up on his nervousness. “Do you want some time to collect your thoughts?”

Scott Ray looks up at him.

“I’ve had two years to collect my thoughts,” he says. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Go ahead, then,” Martinez tells him.

Scott looked at Richard. What the fuck was he talking about?

“What do you mean, ‘what I deserve’? We’re doing business here, don’t worry about what I fucking deserve.”

Richard was looking at him in a funny way. It made the hair stand up on the back of Scott’s neck.

“Where’s the stash, Richard?” Scott asked.

“I got your stash,” Richard said. “Right between my legs, man. Your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

The gun was in Richard’s hand all of a sudden. He had taken it out of the paper sack, along with some bungee cords.

“Stop fucking around, Richard,” Scott said. “I don’t suck cock. Put the goddam gun down and let’s do the deal.”

He was scared; if you’re not scared when somebody’s pointing a gun at you you’re either crazy or brain-dead. But he was more angry than scared; fucking Richard, the bastard was going to try and make him suck him off as part of the deal? No fucking way.

“Put the gun away,” Scott said again. “Let’s do the business we said we were going to do and bail out of here.”

Richard smiled at him then.

“This is our business,” he said.

The lamb had sheared the wolf.

“You ain’t got no grass up here, do you, motherfucker?”

“That’s right, baby,” Richard said, grinning. “The only grass you’re going to be tasting tonight is the clump growing around my root.”

He cocked the gun, walked to Scott, placed the end of the barrel against Scott’s temple.

“On your knees, cocksucker,” he commanded.

Scott had no choice. He went down to his knees.

“Hands behind your back.”

He tied Scott’s hands together with one of the bungee cords.

Scott’s eyes were squeezed shut. This isn’t happening, he told himself. It’s a bad dream.

“Open your eyes, sweetie,” Richard said. “I’ve got that joint you’ve been waiting to suck. I’m going to get you high like you’ve never been.”

Scott opened his eyes. Richard’s cock was in his face. He may have been a limp dick with a woman last night, but now he was stiff as a poker.

“Kiss it,” Richard said. He stuck the end of the gun barrel in Scott’s ear, “Like it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted in your life.” He had a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Admit it to yourself, man. You’re gay. You’re as gay as I am. So start doing what comes naturally.”

Scott had no choice. He put his lips around the tip of Richard’s penis, and started sucking.

Richard started moaning. He sounded like a girl, almost like last night’s whore, when Scott had eaten her.

Scott was a primo pussy eater; lots of women had told him he gave the best head they’d ever had. He was good at it because he loved it. But that was women; he didn’t suck cock, never had, never would. Until now.

“More,” Richard said. “Take more of it. You love it, goddam it—take it all.”

He was moaning, gyrating his hips, fucking Scott in the mouth. With his free hand he grabbed the hair at the back of Scott’s head, pulling Scott to him, pushing his cock deeper into Scott’s throat. Like Scott had done two nights before in the men’s room of the gay bar. Like he’d done to the sad faggot he’d mugged.

Richard started to come in Scott’s mouth, spurting semen. Scott gagged, tried to spit it out.

“Swallow it!” Richard pushed the gun into Scott’s ear.

Scott swallowed. And then he was crying. He didn’t know when he started, he was crying like a baby.

“What’re you crying for, miss?” Richard asked him, mocking him.

Scott stared up at him. What kind of asshole question … ?

“What are you crying about?” Richard asked again. “You liked it. You fucking loved it, didn’t you? Admit you loved it.”

“Fuck you,” Scott said.

“Wouldn’t you like to,” Richard answered.

He squatted down, his face right next to Scott’s.

“You loved it,” Richard taunted him. His cock was still semierect, spider legs of semen spurting out. “That’s why you’re crying—because you liked it. You’re gay, Scott. You’re as gay as I am. You just wouldn’t admit it to yourself. But now—now you have to.”

Richard started laughing.

“Big macho stud. You’re as queer as any queen on Forty-second Street. You’re the ultimate macho queen. The ultimate phony queen.”

He stood on unsteady legs, weaving his dripping phallus in Scott’s face.

“You’re out of the closet now,” Richard said. “And you can’t go back in.”

Richard was staggering around, laughing, his cock flopping in the breeze, waving the gun around like a drunken sailor. He was into himself, he’d gotten what he wanted from Scott.

“I’m going to give you a treat,” Richard said. “I’m going to let you fuck me. Right up the ol’ chocolate highway. Something I’ll bet you’ve had a lot of practice doing.”

Scott’s hands were still tied, he couldn’t do anything, Richard had the gun.

“Pretend I’m one of those whores you like to fuck, except when you close your eyes you’re wishing it was a man. Admit it, Scott,” Richard said.

He had to do what Richard said. It scared Scott, because Richard was a gay doper, and the thought of AIDS popped into Scott’s mind, but Richard had the gun on him, he had to.

He fucked Richard royally. Like he was fucking a fourteen-year-old virgin.

When he finished, Richard started mocking him again.

“Don’t say I never did you no favors,” Richard said. “I just gave you the ride of your young life, son.”

He was sitting on his bare ass on the ground, laughing to beat the band.

And one of the ends of the bungee cord popped, and the rope went slack on Scott’s bound wrists.

And he was moving at Richard, rising, and Richard didn’t see him coming, in his euphoria he didn’t realize that Scott had broken loose, Scott felt like he was moving underwater, in slow motion, he was off his knees, pushing up, and then Richard saw him, and his face had shock written all over it, and Richard started to raise the gun.

“
He
had the gun on
me,
” Scott says in a low tone, his voice quivering from crying.

“He was going to shoot you,” I say, confirming for him.

“He would’ve,” Scott nods. “No question.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“’Cause I was too fast for him. He couldn’t react fast enough.”

“You managed to get the gun away from him.”

Scott nods.

“I grabbed it out of his hand. I wasn’t thinking, I just knew if I didn’t he’d kill me.”

“Then what did you do?”

He looks up at me, tears streaming down his face.

“I killed him, man. I blew his goddam brains out.”

He looks past me, begging understanding.

“I had to. He made me. He made me! I ain’t no faggot, man! He made me! I ain’t no faggot! Never!”

Martinez recesses the court to give Scott Ray time to pull himself together. Scott sits on a bench in a corner of the empty corridor outside the courtroom, reading the Bible. I watch from a distance, making sure no one disturbs him.

“What happened then?” I ask.

It’s been an hour since Martinez excused everyone, after Scott finished telling what he had done. We’re back inside the courtroom again.

“After I shot him?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember exactly. I kind of freaked ’cause I didn’t really mean to kill him. It’s like I didn’t have control over myself … over anything.”

He’s becoming agitated again, reliving the events up on the mountain.

“Take your time,” I say. “Just take your time and try to think straight.”

“I freaked out. I remember hearing a bunch more shots and wondering where they came from, then I looked down at the gun in my hand and thinking ‘why is this gun going off?’ And then I realized I was firing it at him, until it was empty. I don’t even know if I hit him any more times, I wasn’t aware of anything right then.”

He looks up at Martinez, as if in supplication.

“I don’t know nothing about what I was doing then,” he says. “It was like it wasn’t me; it was somebody else using me.”

“I understand,” Martinez says.