Six Bad Things (21 page)

The Westphalia rings a bell somewhere in my scrambled brain.

—Rolf, how did you find me?

Turns out Rolf, not being wanted by the police, flew back to the States on a commercial flight, took a bet that I’d try to cross at the busiest port of entry on the border, and started hanging out in T.J. And he found me. Motherfucker actually saw me walk out of the border station, jumped into Sid’s Westphalia, followed me into San Diego, where they almost ran me over, and then tracked me up the I-5. And can you believe that shit?

—Can you believe that shit, dude?

No.

—I mean, I hopped online at the airport before I flew out of Cancún. Got all kinds of stuff about you, like where your folks live and all. You being a novice at border hopping and probably headed for Cali, I figured T.J. was a no-brainer. But the stakeout at the border? That was Sid.

Rolf is driving, Sid is in the passenger seat and I’m on the bench-seat behind them. Sid raises his hand.

—The stakeout was mine.

—Yeah, ’cause I was all about heading for Patterson and looking for you there, ’cause there was no way I figured we’d spot you coming across.

—And I was all,
Dude, what if he doesn’t go to see his rents? Then what?

—Turns out we were both right.

—Yeah, but come on, give me props.

Sid holds out his fist and Rolf punches it lightly.

—Props.

The lighter on the dash pops out, Rolf hands it to me. I light the cigarette I’m holding, hand the lighter back, and he clicks it back into its slot.

—Then we just kind of hung back to see what was up.

Sid turns to face me.

—We didn’t want to freak you out, and Rolf was all,
Dude, we need to wait till he makes a move for whatever ducats he has stashed.

—We drove by the house every hour or so. Hung out at the Mickey D’s by the highway and then parked up the street after dark.

—We had the beds down and our bags out when we heard that crash, and then the shots. I was all,
Hit it!

—Took us a couple turns to find the scene. By then the fire department was there, so we cruised by and went around the block to your folks’ place.

—And, dude, there you are, comin’ out the front door. Like, total kismet.

—We lost you when you hopped the fence, but we had seen you take your car to the garage, so we went there.

—And there you are blastin’ away from that cop. Damn! Wicked!

—So we followed.

—And I took care of that deputy dog and here we is. More props.

He sticks out his fist and Rolf props him. He offers his fist to me. I look at it.

In the cabinet with the true crime books, Sid also has some of the most rancid and violent porn I have ever seen, a stack of
Soldier of Fortune
back issues, the boxed
Faces of Death
DVD set, and some other shit that makes me suspect central casting called and requested a potential serial killer. He’s waiting, his fist held out for props. I give him props. Now is not the time to get squeamish. I just have to make sure to kill him before he can hurt anyone else. That should be easy. Look at how much more experience I have at it than him.

IT’S ABOUT a hundred and fifty miles through the Mojave to Vegas. Even at the Westphalia’s putt-putt top speed, we should be able to do it in three hours. After that? We go to Tim’s, I pay off Rolf, and he and Sid disappear. I take the rest to Dylan, and he accepts it even though it’s a bit light. I walk into a police station and turn myself in, and my folks stop getting hassled. And I begin what will end up being years and years of trials and appeals and…

But it won’t work out like that. It will never work out like that.

For now I focus on getting a step closer to the money, and keep smoking cigarette after cigarette because they seem to help just slightly with the massive headache I’ve had since Rolf and Sid started talking football.

They’re both San Diego Charger fans and are looking for help this week from my precious Fins. Rolf is still behind the wheel, Sid is in the living space of the van, stripping and stuffing all his clothes into a plastic garbage bag.

—Dude, if they can just beat the Raiders, and we take the Broncos, we clinch the AFC West. That’s all I’m asking for, one win.

As he drives, Rolf is taking hits off a sneak-a-toke that’s camouflaged to look like a stubby cigarette.

—Ain’t gonna happen, dude. And you shouldn’t be thinking like that anyway. It’s so negative. Our destiny is in our own hands: win the last two games and take the West. Don’t be looking for help from other teams, especially not the Fish, and, dude, not without Miles. Without Miles they’re rank.

I keep my eyes closed and pinch the bridge of my nose, which also seems to help a bit with the pain.

—Actually, Sid, he’s right. The Dolphins have a long history of choking in December. Win your own division and let me worry about mine. I mean, after we lose this week, we have to go to New York and get really humiliated by the Jets to finish the season.

—Dude, losing to the Jets sucks.

—Yes, it does.

Sid climbs back up front. He’s changed into bright red hemp jeans tucked into fringed moccasin boots, and a short-sleeved, blue Lycra rash guard.

—Your turn.

—Right.

I climb around him into the back and start taking off my tattered clothes. I’m still in the thermal top and ragged jeans I had on at Wade’s. The clothes I cleaned at Mom and Dad’s got left in the Monte Carlo. Now Sid wants us all to change and bury the stuff we’re wearing so we don’t “leave a chain of physical evidence.” I drop my dirty clothes into the plastic bag.

The bandage the EMT put on my leg is expert and still holding firm. It has a large red stain on it. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, but it’s a much more manageable pain than the rods of agony that shoot through my concussed head. There’s not much I can do about that right now. The only real treatment for a concussion is rest, and that’s not an option.

I look through Sid’s duffel bag and cabinets for something to wear, but, at five nine and about a buck sixty, Sid is five inches shorter than me and forty pounds lighter.

—None of this is gonna fit.

—It’s all baggy shit, try it on.

I end up decked out in a pair of drawstring pants that just go over my waist, the cuffs dropping to the middle of my calves, and one of those hooded surf tops with the kangaroo pocket in front. There’s no way his shoes are gonna work for me, so I stick with the trail sneakers I put on way back at the bungalow.

I stop, pull my Levis out of the bag, and go through the pockets. Nothing.

—Rolf?

—Dude?

—Do you have my cash and stuff?

—Yeah, sorry, man, kind of went through your pockets while you were out. Look in the zipper pouch on my day pack under the sink.

I open the sink cabinet and take out Rolf’s red, white, and blue day pack. In the pouch I find the cash, the Carlysle ID, and the Christmas card I took from Wade’s kitchen table. I also find the Anaconda and Danny’s pistol. I stuff the card and money in my pocket. I look at the ID. I don’t recall the border guard making any record of my name when I crossed, but with my face all over the TV who knows what he’ll remember. I dump the useless ID in the garbage bag and leave the guns in Rolf’s pack.

—You’re up, Rolf.

He scoots out of the driver’s seat and Sid scoots in under him, a smooth and practiced move. He comes back and I sit on the floor while he strips naked except for the money belt. Up front, Sid slips System of a Down into the stereo and cranks it up.

Rolf dumps his clothes and finds Sid’s black leather pants.

—Haven’t worn a pair of these since I moved to Mexico.

He’s Sid’s height, but a couple pounds heavier. He has to lie on his back, kick his way into the pants, and suck in his stomach to button them.

—Sweet.

He shrugs on a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt with black stripes running down the arms, and gets his feet into a pair of Red Wing work boots.

—Kinda metalish for my taste, but fuck it, we’re incognito, right?

I don’t say anything, just tilt my head toward Sid. Rolph looks over his shoulder toward the front of the van. Sid is singing along to “Chop Suey!” Rolf looks back at me.

—What’s up, dude?

—Where did you get him?

—He’s the kid brother of this chick I used to hook up with in San Diego. Couple years ago he came to Mexico on a surf trip and looked me up. We stayed in touch. I needed a ride and some help here, so I called him.

—You know he’s a psycho.

—Dude. I knew he could get pretty violent. I mean, his pop kicked him and his sister around pretty fuckin’ hard, so that’s like his socialization, right?

I don’t say anything. He licks his lips, nods.

—OK. Yeah, dude, I know. He’s psycho. Why do you think I brought him along?

—What?

—Dude, no way I’m gonna go bustin’ a cap in any more people. I most especially don’t intend to be doin’ it now that I am north of the border. That would be unwise. But there may be killin’ to be done.

—So you brought Sid.

—So I brought Sid. Killin’ time is hard time. And, if we get caught? Hard time is
not
in my plans. Sid can take that heat.

I don’t say anything to the man in front of me, the man I used to go fishing with in Mexico.

—Dudes!

Rolf looks over the seat into the front of the bus.

—What’s up?

—We need gas. Baker’s right up here. I’m gonna pull off. And, dudes, we can check out the World’s Tallest Thermometer.

I stay in the back and look at Rolf’s day pack and think about the guns in it.

SID PULLS off the I-5 onto Baker Boulevard, into the heart and soul of Baker. That heart and soul is an expanse of tarmac that hosts the Mad Greek, the “Original” Bun Boy, the Country Store (“the Luckiest Lotto Dealer in California”), and the Will’s Fargo, Bun Boy, and Arne’s Royal Hawaiian motels. All have a great view of the thermometer. Then again, all of Baker has a view of the hundred-and-thirty-four-foot thermometer.

—Sid?

—Dude?

—Isn’t this stop playing against the plan to keep moving?

—Dude, we need gas. Oh, man, check it out!

He’s pointing at the thermometer.

—I’m gonna get a picture.

He grabs a disposable camera from the glove box and jumps out of the VW. We watch as he runs to the base of the thermometer, stands with his back to it, holds the camera at waist level, pointing it up at himself, and clicks a picture. Then he runs back and jumps in.

—That is gonna be rad.

He pulls the bus under the brightly lighted awning of a Shell station.

—Uh, dudes, I could kinda use some gas money.

Rolf pats his pockets, ignoring the seventy-five grand wrapped around his middle.

—Yeah, dude, I’m kinda tapped too.

I reach in my pocket. After buying the BMW, I have just under four thousand left. I take five hundred off the roll and hold the cash out to Sid.

—For travel expenses.

—Dude, you sure?

—Yeah.

—You are so cool. Thanks, dude.

He hops out to fill that tank and climbs back in a couple minutes later.

—Dude in the station says we got to have a strawberry shake at that Mad Greek place. How ’bout it? My treat, seein’ as I’m flush.

He parks at the far end of the lot, away from the lights, and goes in for the shakes. I get out and stand, stretching my cramped limbs and trying to walk the stiffness out of the wound in my left thigh. My head is still goofy. If I turn it too quickly everything blurs and I have to wait for all the ghost images to catch up with the real world. But my stomach has settled and I’m looking forward to my shake.

Sid comes back. I slide the side door of the bus open, sit on the floor with my feet hanging out, and sip my shake. Rolf stays in the front seat, sucking hard on his straw. Sid is pacing back and forth in front of me, drinking his shake and trying not to look like he’s watching me, but he is.

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to talk to him. But I need him to like me. I need it to be harder for him to kill me, if it comes to that. When it comes to that.

—Sid, why don’t you sit down?

—That’s cool, dude, I’m OK.

—You’re making me a little nervous, have a seat.

He shrugs and sits next to me, leaving as much room as possible between us. He kicks his feet against the tarmac, takes a sip, and lifts his shake.

—Good, huh?

—Yeah.

—Yeah.

There’s a loud gurgling slurp as Rolf hits the bottom of his shake. He climbs out of the bus and points at the Mad Greek.

—I’m gonna piss, dudes. Then we roll.

Sid bobs his head.

—Dude, yeah, we, like, still have to find a spot to bury the clothes and shit. I mean, that’s cool right, Hank? That’s the way to do it?

—Yeah, sure.

Rolf walks toward the restaurant. Sid watches him disappear inside. He sucks some shake into his straw, pulls the straw from the waxed paper cup, and shoots a stream of shake onto the ground. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

—It’s OK, dude.

—What’s that?

—If you think I’m a freak. Like the story of my life. Whatever.

He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, fills his straw with shake again, and starts Pollocking little abstracts on the ground between his feet.

—I don’t think you’re a freak, Sid. I just don’t know what you’re doing here.

He shrugs.

—I don’t know.

—Is it the money?

Thinking about his cabinet of fetishes, knowing already it is not about the money for this guy. He shakes his head, hard.

—No, dude, I don’t want your money, man. I mean, like, I like money. I’m not that big a freak, but.

He takes another sip of his shake, then pulls the top off and dumps the rest of it on the ground, obliterating his design.

—What, Sid?

He crumples up the cup, throws it in some bushes alongside the parking lot, stands up and faces me.

—I don’t want your money, dude. I want to be a part of something. I just, like. Like, when Rolf told me he needed help finding someone, and there was cashish in it, I was all,
Totally, I’m in.
But then, when I found out it was you? Dude! I was, like, all,
No way!
I’m… I
am
such a freak, and I’ve never done anything. I mean, if I told you, if I told you just how fucked up, how stupid my life is,
dude,
you just wouldn’t fucking believe. But you? You’re this totally famous dude! You’ve done so much with your life. When I found out Rolf knew you and all, I just wanted, I just wanted to meet you and. I just wanted to help out, do my part and be a part of something for once. Be a part of something important, dude. Like when, dude, when I shot that cop? That was, that was, it was so ir-fucking-revocable. That was real. I was all,
This is me now doing this and I can’t take it back.
And I totally felt it. In the moment. More than anything I’ve ever done in my life. More than fucking or getting high or holding up a gas station or even catching a monster wave, dude. I mean, I’ve been
dreaming
about a feeling that real my whole life. And I got to feel that because of you.