Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (14 page)

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Garage,” Angel said. “Working on a bike. What did he do?”

Bobby turned Angel toward him so that they were face-to-face. “Stay here. Sit on the ground. Don’t go inside. You got me?”

Angel nodded and sat down on the step. I picked up his drawing pad and handed it to him. He pulled the pencil from behind his ear and started drawing.

Bobby and I tore into the house. We barreled through the entryway, turned at the small dining area, and rushed into the kitchen. Gabe’s mother looked up from her cooking. A simmering pot on the stove filled the air with an aroma both oniony and sweet, a sauce or a stew that was going to be delicious and spicy. We stormed past her and charged through the garage door. Gabe’s mother’s Spanish curses attacked our backs.

In the garage, Gabe crouched on his knees working on a bike, wrench in greasy hand. It looked like an old Indian motorcycle, maybe from the late forties or fifties. It was only half-built, but it was a gorgeous piece of machinery. I don’t ride, but I have always had admiration for good design. Our entrance wasn’t exactly movie-ready, more of a stumble. Bobby pulled his pistol. Gabe knew better than to make any sudden moves.

“Remember us?” Bobby said.

“Oh, shit,” Gabe said. The statement completely unnecessary. It was implied by the context of the situation.

I closed the door to the kitchen, muting Gabe’s mother’s cries.

Bobby pointed his pistol at Gabe’s head as he walked closer. I stayed by the door, letting Bobby take the lead. At ten feet away, he stopped. His hand shook a little, but that only made the threat more real.

Gabe started to stand.
“Easy, fucko. You’re good there,” Bobby said.

Gabe froze in an uncomfortable squat.

“You weren’t exactly honest with us last night, were you? Didn’t tell us everything.”

“I don’t know where Julie is. Seriously, Julie’s Dad, I ain’t lying.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the fights? The videos? Your buddy Chucho?”

Gabe looked confused. “What fights? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You lied to me,” Bobby yelled.

“Are you kidding for real? You kicked my ass, then you kicked it again. I’m gonna give you a fucking reason to do it three times? And then you let Julie’s mom have a crack at my ass? I told you what I know. Truth.”

“What about Julie and Chucho?”

“What about them? Wait, you think—”

“Where’s Chucho? We got questions for him. He’s the one we need to talk to.”

“Chucho and Julie don’t barely know each other. What did you hear?”

“You said Julie had a black eye? How long ago?”

“Month or so. A little before I stopped seeing her.”

I had a question that had been buzzing in my head. “Chucho told you that Julie worked for Driskell?”

“Who is Driskell? I feel like I’m walking in on a movie in the middle. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“Driskell’s the rich dude in La Quinta. He said he hadn’t met Julie. Ever,” I said.

“Maybe he’s lying.”

“Or maybe you’re lying. Or maybe Chucho lied to you.”

Gabe didn’t answer. Not out of defiance. He was thinking.

“Driskell’s dead,” Bobby said.

“No shit?” Gabe said. “I mean, since I didn’t know the dude—”

“Someone beat him to death.”

“That’s fucked up.” Gabe’s eyes got a little bigger. “Wait, man. Did you guys kill him?”

Bobby didn’t bother to set Gabe’s mind at ease. “Where is Chucho?”

And then all hell broke loose.

The kitchen door swung open behind me, hitting me in the back and knocking me forward. Like a domino, I fell into Bobby. His pistol fired. When I righted myself, I saw blood spraying from the side of Gabe’s head.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Gabe screamed, grabbing at the side of his head. I exhaled, relieved he was alive. The bullet had taken off a chunk of his ear. A lot of blood, probably hurt like hell, but not major.

Bobby looked as surprised as Gabe. “Oh, shit. It was an accid—”

Gabe threw the wrench at Bobby, who twisted in time to get hit in the shoulder instead of the neck.

“Don’t kill me, don’t kill me,” Gabe yelled.

“We’re not going to—” I said, but was interrupted by motion behind me.

I turned toward the kitchen door and got a face full of burning, Gabe’s mother throwing the contents of the simmering pot in my face. Both the heat and the spice burned my skin, just below scalding. My eyes were on fire, stinging and wet. I pushed her back in the kitchen and slammed the door, trying to wipe my face with my shirt.

Gabe had found the garage door opener, the door creaking open slowly, morning light blinding in the relative darkness. I blinked out the jalapeño and onion, trying to get a gauge of the action.

“Don’t kill me,” Gabe pleaded.

Blood ran in lines down Gabe’s jaw and neck. He and Bobby would be thanking God every day that he hadn’t jerked the other way, a half-inch from a bullet in the brain. Why was his gun even loaded?

“Don’t fucking move,” Bobby yelled.

But Gabe wasn’t taking orders. He scrambled to his feet and Indiana Jonesed under the rising garage door as the words were out of Bobby’s mouth.

Bobby ran after him, ducking under the door. I took off after them.

Gabe headed toward his bike in a sprint, but looking over his shoulder at Bobby, he changed his mind. He juked right, fooling Bobby and causing him to trip over his own feet. It was a highlight reel move. The kid must have been a running back in high school. He headed into the house right past the drawing Angel, who barely looked up. Bobby got through the front door before me.

“Might got a weapon in there,” Bobby shouted over his shoulder. “Watch it.”

“He’s just scared, man,” I said. “A guy with a gun just threatened him. Shot him. What the fuck happened?”

When we reached the living room, Gabe sprawled prone on the floor. It looked like he had slid on the carpet trying
to navigate the turn into the hallway. He scampered to his feet, but Bobby tackled him, just as he stood. He fell back hard, the bloody side of his head slapping against the carpet and leaving a Rorschach. Bobby climbed up his body until he lay across the kid’s back. He held the pistol to the side of his head, pushing it hard enough to make Gabe’s neck flex.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled.

“Cut. It. The. Fuck. Out,” Bobby said to Gabe, his mouth close enough to touch his good ear.

“Let’s turn this down a notch, Bobby,” I said. “Looking at the sitch, I’m thinking that we’re the bad guys here.”

Bobby turned to me, and then back to Gabe and the gun to his head.

“Okay,” Bobby said, “I can see that.”

“We’re not going to hurt you, Gabe.” I tried my most calming tone. “Well, not any more than we have. Honestly, that was an accident. Maybe you don’t know nothing, but Chucho does. We need to find him to find Julie. Tell us where Chucho lives. We’ll leave you alone.”

Gabe’s mother rushed in the room, Bobby’s Plan Bs held high over her head. She was quickly becoming my arch-nemesis. I grabbed both of the steel pipes just as she was about to swing them down on Bobby’s head. She froze, the arc of the pipes stopping abruptly. She looked at me, registered what happened, and let go of the pipes.

I stood there for a moment with the pipes held out in the air. Then the nice lady punched me in the stomach. The cigarettes, the running, and the uppercut did math in my guts. I puked on Gabe’s mother’s head, threw the pipes to the side, and grabbed her. She was strong, but I got my arms around her thick body. I felt bad about vomiting on her, but also because in my effort to subdue her I was grabbing her tit pretty hard. What can I say? It gave me the best leverage. I held her as best I could without hurting her, but that didn’t stop her from screaming
mancha de sangre asesinato
at me. Bloody murder, to you and me.

“Por favor. Somos no aquí dolerlo. Queremos hablar. Sólo hable,” I said, trying to explain that we only wanted to talk to Gabe. Which was admittedly unconvincing, considering that he was bleeding all over the living room.

Gabe’s mother stopped screaming, the silence abrupt and jarring. It was like she had decided all at once that it did no good. But that’s not really how screaming works.

“That’s right,” I said. “Let’s all just calm down and—”

Then I saw why she had shut up.

Miguel, Gabe and Angel’s five-year-old brother, stood in the hallway, his teary eyes wide and frightened. Angel walked in from the front door, more curious than anything else. The two of them stared at the two strange men assaulting their family.

“Quit hurting him. You’re hurting him,” Miguel yelled at Bobby.

Gabe held out a hand, trying to calm the boy. “I’m okay. I just fell.”

Miguel wiped some snot from his nose with the length of his arm.

“You’re right,” Bobby said, looking up at me. “We’re definitely the bad guys.”

“Why is it everything we do turns into such a clusterfuck?”

“Bad luck? Probably stupidity. I get excited,” Bobby said. “It really kind of snowballed.”

“Definitely ain’t bad luck if it happens on the regular. The gun didn’t help.”

“Don’t blame the gun. It’s the only innocent here.”

“Except for the children.”

“Right. And the old lady. And maybe even Gabe. Everyone but us, if you think about it.”

“Let’s salvage this.”

Bobby got off Gabe. “Your brothers are here. They’re scared. That’s on us. I’m going to take a look at your ear, stop the bleeding. Do you want to call the cops? An ambulance?”

“Out here, they’d arrest me for getting shot,” Gabe said. “How bad is it?”

“The bleeding is slowing. Need to get some pressure on it. It looks worse than it is.”

“I can’t believe you shot me.”

“You ain’t going to believe me,” Bobby said, “but I feel like shit about that. I’ll be civil from now on. But you need to know, you’re going to tell me how to find that fuck, Chucho. You got to have an idea where he is.”

Gabe turned to Miguel. “I’m okay, Miguelito. See, we’re friends. Angel, take Miguel back to your room. Show him some of your drawings, okay?”

Angel nodded, took Miguel’s hand, and they disappeared down the hall.

I let go of Gabe’s mother. “Towels? You have towels? Toallas?” I went into the kitchen and started looking through the cabinets. She pushed me to the side and pulled some towels out of a drawer.

When we got back to the living room, Gabe was sitting up. His mother pressed a towel against his ear.

“Tell me what you know about Chucho and Julie and I’ll tell you where he stays.”

TEN

When we told Gabe about the fight video and Chucho’s appearance in the crowd, he had no trouble believing that Chucho was capable of some kind of involvement. But the timing concerned him. He and Julie had still been dating when she got the shiner. That Chucho and Julie were involved in something together behind his back really sat wrong with Gabe.

I got the sense that his feelings for Julie were stronger than he let on. And that his friendship with Chucho was struggling. Bobby and I had no evidence to suggest that anything was happening between them beyond the fights, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t infer it.

“Chucho and me, we’ve known each other since forever, like little kids,” Gabe said. “He’s a dumbfuck troublemaker, but it don’t make it easier to give him up. But if Julie’s in trouble and he can help, I guess I got to. And if he’s still got her mixed up in that fighting shit, fuck him.

“I talked to him this morning. He wanted to know what I told you. Never mentioned Julie. I was fixing that bike in the garage for her, you know. Now I don’t know why I am. Chucho said he was heading out to the desert tonight, that shit was too heavy, something like that. He’ll be at the shop until then.”

Chucho didn’t really have a home proper. He crashed in a room in the back of a garage in an industrial section of southern Indio. As far as Gabe knew, if he wasn’t with Los Hermanos, that’s where he would be.

So that’s where we went.

It was afternoon, but Sanchez Motorcycle Service & Repair was closed up tight. Razor wire over chain link surrounded the expansive property, which consisted of a wide parking area with two dozen motorcycles in it and the main building, which had four garage bays and a door leading into an office. Only one window, the office, but it was so covered in product stickers, I doubted that anyone could see in or out. A coil of thick chain held the rolling gate onto the property closed, a big lock keeping us out. On top of that, a pit bull and a Rottweiler roamed the property.

We had swapped out Bobby’s Ranchero for my truck in an effort for some anonymity. Also, Bobby didn’t allow smoking in his sweet ride. We assessed the security of the garage. The only movement: the two maneaters that looked like they could swallow a hand whole.

“You think he’s in there?” I asked.

But Bobby didn’t need to answer. Right as I said it, Chucho walked out the office door and lit a cigarette. His face was bandaged from our last encounter, heavy tape over the bridge of his nose. Bobby and I ducked down. But Chucho didn’t look in our direction. He carried a big sack and poured some dog food into two bowls. It took the dogs about three seconds to scarf it down and bark for more. Chucho scratched behind their ears. He flicked his smoke into the lot and went back inside.

“At least the dogs aren’t hungry,” Bobby said.

“Yeah, they’ll just maul us, chew us, and spit us out. Great.”

“You’re a pessimist.”

“We ring the bell, see if he wants to talk? Or would that be too easy?” I asked.

“Last time, he picked a fight. I knocked him unconscious. Once he sees us, what do you think he’s going to do? Invite us in for high tea?”

“We wait for him to leave?”

“Yeah, fuck that.”

“It’s the middle of the day, Bobby. There’s razor wire and dogs and who knows what the fuck else. We don’t know if he’s alone. We know nothing. I got bolt-cutters, so the gate’s no problem, but I forgot my anti-dog repellent. And did we not learn nothing from our last front door attack? Which was less than an hour ago, by the way?”

“Apparently not.”

“We did it your way at Gabe’s. We can’t do this stupid.”

“You act like you’ve never broken into nothing before. Remember when we broke into Chad Garewal’s shed because we thought there was a stack of
Playboy
s in there?”

“We were thirteen. We got caught. And it was
Penthouse
s.”

“No,
Hustler
s.”

“That’s right. Oh, shit. I wasn’t ready for
Hustler
. Scared my dick. Ruined me on vaginas for the whole year. Too anatomical.”

“But if I remember good, we scaled a fence, climbed onto a roof, and all sorts of other
Spider-Man
,
Mission Impossible
shit. We’re grown men now. I think we can get in there with stealth and agility.”

“I ain’t been able to do a pull-up in at least ten years. And my agility broke up with me and took the vinyl years ago.”

“Drive around back. See the complete layout.”

I found the alley that ran behind the buildings. Brown grass poked through cracks in the asphalt. Two Dumpsters sat next to the fence. I let the truck creep past the back of the garage. There was no back gate, so at the least Chucho wasn’t going anywhere except out the front.

The chain-link fence ran against the back of the building, less than a three-foot gap between the two. The dogs could get back there, and it looked like they did often. The ground was saturated with dogshit.

“See,” Bobby said, “this is where our ninja training finally pays off. We park up against the fence, climb onto the cab or jump on those Dumpsters, toss a blanket over the razor, up and over and onto the roof. You see how they almost touch? Bing, bang, boom.”

“Bing, bang, boom is right. You know how much noise that’ll make? That’s all chain link and corrugated tin. It’s clangy. We’d need a distraction.”

“I got an idea.”

“Is it a Molotov cocktail?”

Bobby stared at me but didn’t answer.

“You are not making a Molotov cocktail,” I said.

Bobby and I watched a mangy orange tabby dart under one of the Dumpsters.

Bobby laughed. “I have an idea that’s so crazy it just might work.”

“You’ve been waiting your whole life to say that.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken me this long.”

It took twenty minutes and about a pint of blood to catch that alley cat.

Bobby and I sat in my truck. We were back in our stakeout position, parked a half block up from the front of the garage. We kept our eyes on the gate. Chucho hadn’t reappeared. He was still inside.

I held the cat in my lap, petting it lightly. My arms were covered with scratches and bites, but the little monster had finally calmed down. It was difficult to tell if the sound it made was purring or Satan trying to speak through its fangy maw.

“So getting the cat was easy. The rest of the plan should go like clockwork,” Bobby said, feeling the three bloody lines from the cat’s claws on his cheek. “Little fucker almost took out my eye.”

“I’m going to name him Evil,” I said. “Evil Van Der Scratchy.”

“He’s a bastard, but scrappy as hell. Got to respect that.”

As if on cue, Evil bit my finger.

“Okay, that’s it. I can’t hold Evil any longer. Between the toxoplasmosis and the rabies, I’m thinking it’s time to make our move.”

“Waiting for the dogs to go to the back together. They’ve been making regular rounds, but one at a time. Eventually they’ll go together.”

Fifteen minutes later, we watched the dogs disappear around the side of the garage. Evil and I got out of the car to put the plan in motion.

“You’re going to have to run, smoker,” Bobby said.

“I can do it.”

Bobby got out and grabbed my bolt-cutters from behind the seat. We walked toward the gate, me holding Evil. He had had it with being held. He was a feral animal, after all. Evil bucked and squirmed and scratched and bit.

“I should’ve thrown the evil bastard in a gunnysack.” I got a better grip on his scruff and held him away from my body with one hand. He twisted and clawed at air.

Bobby cut the padlock on the gate and unwrapped the chain as quietly as he could. After what felt like forever, he rolled the gate open a few feet and whistled. The dogs came running from around the garage. I set the cat on the ground and Bobby and I ran like madmen back to the truck.

We hopped into my truck, watching the opening in the gate. The cat plopped down onto the ground, not threatened at all, wriggling as if it wanted its tummy rubbed.

“The dogs saw Evil. Why aren’t they chasing the cat?” I said. “Dogs chase cats. For the millionth time, I’ve put my faith in the accuracy of cartoons and been disappointed by the outcome.”

“Maybe they’re pets, for show. Not vicious, just look the part.”

“Wait.” I pointed to the gate. “Check it out.”

One of the dogs poked its head through the opening in the gate. The cat hissed and took off down the street. The pit bull didn’t chase, but instead walked out onto the sidewalk, testing its freedom. The Rottweiler followed. And without looking back, they headed down the street away from the garage at the most leisurely pace. Off on a new doggy adventure.

“They didn’t care about the cat. They just wanted out,” I said.

Bobby drew two pistols from his belt and handed one to me. For Gabe, a gun didn’t make sense. But for a punk like Chucho, I didn’t argue. I took the pistol and nodded.

“Gate, check. Dogs, check. Let’s give our regards to Chucho,” Bobby said.

“And let’s hope it’s just him in there.”

Bobby and I hopped out, guns in hand, and took off in a sprint for the gate. Once on the property, we hit the perimeter and moved along the fence toward the office door, the only visible entrance to the building. All the garage doors were shut.

We put our backs against the wall next to the door, both breathing heavily. I felt a little light-headed from the run. I really had to take better care of myself. I felt like a sixty-year-old man’s grandfather. Bobby reached for the knob and gave it a try. He looked at me and shook his head.

That’s when the dogs came back.

Apparently their incredible journey was a short one, their wanderlust limited to a jaunt around the block. The pit bull spotted us first as it sauntered back onto the property. It barked and the Rottweiler followed suit. Their lips curled up at the side, saliva dripping from their long teeth.

“Oh, fuck,” I said. Because there’s nothing else that anyone has ever said in that situation.

The dogs ran at us, feet skidding on the asphalt. Bobby fired two quick shots at the doorknob. It disappeared, leaving a hole in its place. He kicked open the door and rushed inside the office. I was right behind him, but dogs are fucking fast. I felt teeth latch onto my ankle like a bear trap. I fell inside the door, my leg still outside in the dog’s mouth. I dropped my pistol and watched it slide under the couch against the wall.

“Get it off me!” I screamed. The dog jerked my leg back and forth, trying to tear it off.

Bobby pointed the pistol at the dog.

“Shoot it,” I said. “Shoot the fucking thing.”

Bobby shook his head and jammed his pistol in his belt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Sure you can. Shoot the dog.”

Bobby leaned down and punched the dog hard between the eyes. It whimpered and loosened its grip on my ankle long enough for me to scramble inside and kick the door closed. The dogs scratched and barked and threw their bodies at the door.

Bobby wheeled, waved his gun around the office. Nobody there.

“I can’t believe you wanted me to shoot a dog,” he said.

“The fucking thing was eating my leg,” I said. I took off my shirt and wrapped it around the wound. There was a lot of blood and it was going numb.

“You shoot a dog, that’s like a one-way ticket to Hell. It’s just wrong. I couldn’t do it,” Bobby said.

Chucho et al (if there was an et al) had to have heard the gunshots and the dogs and the racket we had made. We had to move quickly. Without a knob, the door to the yard wouldn’t stay shut. Bobby slid a desk in front of it. I got up and helped. I couldn’t put all my weight on the leg, but I could walk. At least, short distances.

A big window looked out into the garage area from the office, but it was pitch-black. There were two doors, one into that garage, the other led farther into the building. A loud metal bang came from the garage, followed by a barrage of swearing in Spanish.

Bobby threw open the door and disappeared into the darkness of the garage. I hopped after him, but the pain kicked in and my leg gave underneath me. I leaned against the doorjamb and felt along the wall for a light switch.