That Old Ace in the Hole (30 page)

“That man come again. He’s down at the bunkhouse.” Bob waved and drove on.

He could see a hulking form on the bunkhouse porch, a huge man with shoulders too wide to fit through the door except sideways. Bob parked, got out and looked at the colossus on the porch. There was something familiar.

“Bob!” The basso voice came up through the plinth of neck. The creature held out a monstrous hand. He bulged with muscle. He wore a black rayon short-sleeved shirt handpainted to show a barroom interior with a pneumatic blond on a green bar stool drinking a martini. The shirtsleeves could hardly contain the great biceps.

“Orlando? Orlando! I would never have recognized you—” They were slapping each other on the shoulder and laughing.

“Lifted weights. Prison’s ideal for working out, exercising, bulking up, carb loading. Goddamn place looks like Mr. America–land. And since I got out I got into steroids. Hey, I’m on my way down to Austin. Got a partner there, but I wanted a see you. Got your address from your uncle. He looks pretty old.”

“That Porsche—that’s yours?”

“You bet, Bob. I got another one just like it only red. You are looking at one wealthy son of a bitch.”

“But how? When did you get out? I mean—am I missing something here?”

“In the clink I played the stock market through my dad. Tech stocks and we sold when everything was high dollar, just before the crash. Lucky. Then, in there, a bunch of us used to do silly things and we made this weird CD that we sold through my dad on the Internet. It’s done good. Every fraternity has to have one of these.”

“What, singing fraternity songs?”

The colossus brayed. “No. It’s called
Live Fart Rock Hits from Prison
and that’s what it is. In prison you discover some surprising things about your body, and some of us noticed a variance in fart pitch. And we had one guy was a real star. Nothing he couldn’t do—basso profundo to coloratura, whistles and quavers, tremolo. The Louis Armstrong of the asshole. It was simple after that. I just recorded samples—I had this little Casio digital sampler that looks like a wristwatch—and when I got out I spliced them together. People love it. We got ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and ‘Freebird’ on there, but ‘Stairway to Heaven’ plays for eight minutes and it is dynamite. A lot of studio work, but worth it. It wasn’t like we all got together in the Tabernacle Fart Choir—technology made it happen. And I had a couple hits after that, not farting, but in the same mode.”

Bob did not want to know the nature of the subsequent successes. He could imagine a series of grunts and slobbers and wet smackings rendered as tunes and the delight such renditions would cause in fraternal circles.

“What about the computer scene? I thought that was what you wanted to do.”

“Ah hell, I don’t got the savvy for it. All the good times was back in the seventies with Cap’n Crunch and the Phone Phreaks. It’s all different now. It’s no good since the crash. Now I’m focused on CDs.”

“I suppose there’d be a market for these with the Elks and the VFW too?” said Bob. “Firemen and oil rig workers and National Guard guys? How about the military?”

“Man! What a great idea. I hadn’t even thought about those guys. Bob, tell you what, how about you sign on with me—be our sales manager. I got a partner down in Austin—my old cellmate, Smoko—but there’s room for you. You got good ideas. We want a get into Dolby five-point-one mixes of fart stuff that can be played on DVD home systems—with video. We can really clean up. But getting the cash together for the console—hell, it’s real expensive.” He looked critically at the mud-stained, dusty Saturn. “You could buy yourself a Lexus or whatever. What do you say?”

Bob did not want to refuse his old friend within ten minutes of their reunion but the thought of selling fart records to old veterans and Elks was repellent. He thought Orlando’s difficulties in getting the money together for his console were negligible compared with the problems of making a watchable video based on fart music.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said. “I’ve got a pretty good job.”

“What? What is your ‘pretty good job,’ Bob, that you’re living in this hole in the Texas panhandle? Come on, Bob, it looks like something out of
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Remember that girl in the hot pants? And the meat hook?” His dismissive glance took in the bunkhouse, the Saturn, the landscape, the Busted Star horses, the weeds in the ditch, the turkeys scratching in the leaves, the cloudy sky. “Look, Bob. I been in prison and I made a success. You been out in the world and what have you got to show for it?”

Bob said nothing. He doubted he could make Orlando understand about Global Pork Rind and following through on something he’d said he would do no matter how much he hated it.

“Well hell, let’s you and me go on out and get some barbecue and get drunk.”

“We’ll have to go up to Guymon in Oklahoma, or over to Woodward, or to Amarillo. Woolybucket County is dry and there’s no barbecue joints.”

Orlando’s expression was incredulous.

T
hey ended up in Amarillo after a long and fruitless trip to Woodward. In the vicinity of Fort Supply the headlights illuminated a sign:
HITCHHIKERS MAY BE ESCAPING INMATES
. They turned west, roaring across the Oklahoma panhandle to Boise City and down through Stratford and Cactus, where they became entangled in a slow, slow parade of low-riders. Orlando played Jim White’s “A Perfect Day to Chase Tornadoes” over and over. It was after eleven when they reached Amarillo and engraved in Bob’s mind was the line
“…sometimes I feel so goddamned trapped by everything that I know.”

The whole trip Orlando had storied along, telling about the zine collection of his cellmate, Smoko.

“He had maybe fifty, sixty. See, he was in for hacking too. But he got just a bushel a zines—not
2600
, they wouldn’t let him have that one, but
Dishwasher, Whackamole, Mouthnut, Tripwire
and
Bill of Kansas
. That was the best one,
Bill of Kansas
. It’s like a comic book showing this religious farm youth’s struggle to combat science. Smoko always read it first and he’d kind of spoil it by saying what happened. He’d say, ‘Poor Bill’s up against it this time. He’s trapped in a cave by a gang of geologists who are tryin to get his dad’s farm. The dad’s pretty far gone too. He don’t even go to Wednesday night prayer meeting no more.’ ‘Come on, Bill,’ he’d say. And I had to give him cigarettes to let me read it. The drawing was good too. Bill was this geeky guy with an incipient bald spot. And he wore overalls. Old Smoko. He got out a month before me. He had like his little tricks, you know? Everybody’s got some physical talent, like the farting thing, usually something you discover when you’re a kid, like wiggling your ears or whistling through your teeth or bending into a hoop shape. Smoko could work up a little spit into a foaming lather, made him look like a fox with rabies. And he used to do that if somebody hit on him. He would make this foam and it saved him from getting porked. The guy would see the foam and say, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ and Smoko would sort of bubble through the foam and say, ‘Just a disease thing, like,’ and the guy would get real nervous and say, ‘Git way off away from
me
, dude.’

“Route Forty cuts right through the top of Texas,” said Orlando portentously. “And where there’s trucks there’ll be clubs,” as they eased into Amarillo. He had changed to a tight black T-shirt stamped with the words “If I Gave a Shit You’d Be the First One I’d Give It To.”

“There’s one,” he said suddenly, pointing at a low-slouched cinder-block building with a red door. “I knew it. We should a headed to Amarillo first.”

A neon sign threw its red light on a man standing in the doorway, coloring his cigarette smoke a devilish crimson.
TEX’S JOINT
, read the blinking sign.
COME ON IN
. Bob pulled into the parking lot among a dozen pickups in various stages of dissolution. They made their way to the red door, jumping puddles in the cinder parking lot.

“Must have rained here,” said Bob.

“You could paddle a canoe across this one,” said Orlando, skirting an enormous brown puddle edged with glistening mud.

Before they reached the door they could hear the music, loud and punchy, a stentorian male voice bellowing. The drumbeat was slow and physical. They opened the door and went inside.

“Jesus!” shouted Orlando above the music. “This’s like
Violet’s Night on the Town
. Remember that movie? Remember Violet, this big-butt blond, gets a box from the florist and she opens it and it’s a bunch a goldenrod? And she reads the card and it’s from a guy she doesn’t know? But he gives his address as some club? And says if she wants to come down she can have free drinks all night? And she goes? And this guy with a diamond belt brings her a drink? And tells her he is the one sent the flowers? And he gets her in the back room and gives her an injection? And she goes crazy? You gotta remember that one! There’s the shot where they stick a baby crocodile nose-first up her skirt? You loved it. This place is just like it. Same layout. And look at the bartender! He could double.”

Bob did not remember the movie nor the actor who played the bartender in it, but he glanced at the man behind the bar, extremely thin and very old, his carefully combed white hair hanging to his buttocks. He was wearing a grimy rhinestone-studded shirt and looked like Gravel Gertie.

“Get you,” the bartender said to Orlando.

“Two Maker’s Marks,” said Orlando, ignoring Bob’s head shaking. “And a couple Fat Tire chasers.”

“We don’t stock that stuff. Four Roses and Bud work for you?”

“I guess,” said Orlando unhappily. “I guess it’s that kind a place.”

“Oh yeah. It’s that kind a place,” agreed the bartender, looking at Orlando’s tattoos. “But I’ll tell you what. Ten years ago you couldn’t get in the door it was so packed.”

He slid the drinks to them and they carried them to a table in the corner.

“I don’t see how you remember those old movies,” Bob said.

“Remember? How could I forget them? We did that in the clink, told each other the plots of old movies. There was one guy, Reg Curl, specialized in westerns. He’d seen hundreds of westerns and he remembered them all pretty good—the stars, the set, the characters’ names, but actually I had the best ones. All those great horror and weirdo flicks. Remember
Locked in a Bank Vault with Three Nymphos
? Remember
Re-Animator
? They must a used a hunderd gallons a fake blood makin that. I only seen one movie since I got out—
Cyberspace Duchess
. This Jap woman dressed in Mylar with live ants glued on wins the title ‘Cyberspace Duchess’ because she’s so fast at web surfing. But see, because of her speed she makes a mistake e-shopping and instead of sending her boyfriend a birthday card she gets involved with some hard-core criminals.”

“That’s great. Telling the plots.” Bob laughed, shook his head and looked around. There were fifteen or twenty people in the place, most of them old, oddly shaped women: a bony, braless woman of about fifty with dyed black hair gazed worshipfully at the singer, a pudgy woman with white spiked hair danced alone. All the women seemed to stare with various degrees of longing at the singer bellowing into a mike, an octogenarian with a red toupee. A sparkled sign on the edge of the stage read
RUBY LOVING
. A heavy blond with a beer gut, leaning against the sleazy faux-tweed shoulder of her date (perhaps a retired coal stoker who feared ablution, judging by the ingrained black lines in his face), kept crying to the singer, “Oh Ruby, oh Ruby, you beautiful man.”

“More like
Night of the Living Dead,
” said Bob.

Ruby Loving’s huge, pendulous ears were so wrinkled and knotted they resembled strings of dried mushrooms. He was toothless, but his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and beads of sweat sparkled in a lawn of white chest hair as he shouted
“Don’t let the stars get in your eyes…”

“Orlando,” said Bob. “You got us into a senior citizens’ club. There’s not a person here under sixty-five. And the bartender’s got to be eighty. He’s an octogenarian.”

“Yeah,” said Orlando. “But I dig it. And there’s liquor. What the hell, you want a drive around some more?” And he called out to the beer-gut blond, asking if her name was Violet.

“Nah. Della,” she answered, looking at Orlando with interest. “You been here before?”

“No way. I been in prison. Me and my buddy”—he gestured at Bob—“just got out.”

“Orlando,” Bob mumbled. But there was no stopping the muscle man. He invited the woman, whom he insisted on calling Violet, to sit with them. Her black-seamed date came too, rather eagerly, no doubt figuring, thought Bob, that he was in for a night of free drinks. Well, let Orlando pay for them. He claimed to be rich.

“I’m Della and this is Bob,” said the woman, patting the shoulder of her dark-lined companion.

“Oh now,” said Orlando. “We can’t have that. Already got one Bob. You’re Violet and your friend is—Bram.” Bob guessed that the name Bram Stoker had come to Orlando. “Violet and Bram.” He waved for drinks and paid, tipping the old bartender, who shuffled over with a slanting tray.

But the elder Bob didn’t take to Bram for a name.

“My name is Robert Bodfish,” he said loudly and belligerently, glaring at Orlando. “And you call me Robert, or Bob, or Mr. Bodfish. Got that?” He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket.

Orlando’s face fixed in a sneer as he opened his mouth but he saw, at the same time Bob did, the glint of metal rising from the man’s pocket.

“Sure, Bob,” he said smoothly. “Whatever you like. And you,” he said to Bob Dollar, “I’ll call
you
Bram. Want a dance?” he said to Violet, who nodded and jumped up. As they moved toward the floor Bob heard Orlando say, “Honey, I’d like to get you over to my side a the seat,” and in a few minutes they were gyrating to “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini.” The two Bobs sat silent, their eyes down. Finally, as the singer segued into “Moon River,” Bob Dollar said, “Uh, Mr. Bodfish, what’s your line of work?”

“Hogs.” The dark-seamed man lit another cigarette and shot out a stream of smoke that would have done credit to a cigar.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said ‘HOGS’! Pigs. Swine.
Oink oink
.”

“Do you raise them or sell them or butcher them or what?” He knew there was a meatpacking plant up in Cactus, but had thought it was beef as it was near a feedlot.

“Manager. Hog farm manager. Day shift.” He said the last two words with some pride.

“Is that right?” said Bob. “What’s the name of the outfit? I mean, who do you work for? I mean, are you an independent? Are you with Texas Farms?” The other Bob’s eyes were fastened on Orlando and the blond. Orlando was saying something to her and she glanced over at the table where the two Bobs sat, and frowned. There was something about her expression. Bob tried to connect it with
Violet’s Night on the Town,
but in place of the film a memory of himself leaving Tater Crouch’s place and a dusty SUV in a cloud of gravel appeared with its frowning blond driver, followed by the lightning recollection of the back page of the Global Pork Rind newsletter and the woman with the tape recorder interviewing Freda Beautyrooms.

“My God,” said Bob Dollar, as the images clicked into place, “Evelyn Chine!”

“Nah. Global Pork Rind. Big outfit in Tokyo. Japs own it. I manage one a the farms. Used a be a pipe tester for Texola but this pays better. And it’s not so much stress. Your pipe inspector’s got a lot a responsibility. Especially on the gas lines. Take down in Garland where the drought was so bad the soil is cracked and the gas line leaked. The gas, travelin through the cracks, got into some houses and they blowed up, killed three people. At least hogs don’t kill you so sudden. I got a second job too. At the carbon-black plant in Pampa.”

That, thought Bob, explained the dark creases in the man’s skin. He was ready to ask a hundred questions about hogs, thought that at last he’d found a way to get into a restricted plant, but Orlando was steering back to the table. The beer-gut blond was making her way to the sign that read
GIRLS
.

“Hey,” said Bodfish to Bob, “you ever check out that Alley Bates flint quarry? Over by Lake Meredith?”

“No,” said Bob. “I been meaning to go have a look at it. What’s there?” He had been pronouncing the word “Alibates” as Ali-BAH-tees.

“Flint. It’s a flint quarry. The Indans used a knock out these flint blanks and make arrow points and knifes and such. It’s real pretty, too, different colors. Indans that lived there on the Canadian was rich, compared to other tribes. They had this flint everbody wanted. I got started at flint knapping couple years ago. Hobby. It’s a lot harder than you think. But I got so I’m pretty good at it now. Course you can’t get the Alley Bates stuff, they got it all closed off to the public. You got a go with a guide, watches you. But there’s other places along the Canadian got it too, and I get that. What I do, see, is make up a bunch a arrowheads, bury them a year or two so they look old, keep them in my glove compartment. I go someplace like, say, Michigan or Kentucky, if there’s Indan ruins or places they was known I drop a few a them arrowheads. Them archeologists get all excited, think they found some big trade route.”

Before Bob could respond to this evil confession Orlando threw himself into his chair.

“Man, she’s a good dancer,” he said. “But this music sucks. Lot a times in prison I’d whistle and dance by myself in my cell. Keep the muscles toned up. But you don’t learn the new dances that way. So I missed a lot. But this old stuff, hell, anybody can dance to it.”

“They used a be good music around. The old days they had good dance music. Bob Wills used a play that Texas swing before he went to Tulsa. Before my time but I got a collection a CD music from the fifties when the swing started a come back. Merle Haggard got Asleep at the Wheel goin,” said Robert Bodfish.

“How about Jim Skin? You ever hear of him?” asked Bob.

“That Okie fathead? Give me a break.”