The Mortal Nuts (20 page)

But he knew he wouldn't.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let me talk to Sophie. You stay out of her way tonight, and we'll see about tomorrow.”

“What am I supposed to do till then? Can I take the truck back to the motel? I'll come back tonight and pick you up.”

Axel hesitated, imagining himself standing in the empty parking lot at one o'clock in the morning, his shoulder bag full of money, waiting for Carmen to show up, thinking about her fiat on her back at the Motel 6, snoring at the television.

“I have a better idea,” he said. “How about if you take the bus?”

The sky glittered with the nightly fireworks show as Axel returned to the Taco Shop. Sophie was frying a final batch of taco shells, getting ready for the small rush of business that would come after the grandstand show let out She looked at Axel, her jaw set, saying nothing. Kirsten was gone, her shift over at nine o'clock. Sonya, one of the part- time girls, leaned out over the counter, chewing on a plastic straw and watching the groups of people drift slowly toward the exits. Axel decided to let Sophie break the news to him right away.

“Where's Carmen?” he asked.

“I fired her,” Sophie said.

“Oh. Well, she probably deserved it.” He decided to leave it at that for now. “How did we do today?”

Sophie hesitated. “She took a three-hour break. I don't have to put up with that from any of my girls.”

“It's your show, Sophie. So how did we do today?” He pointed at the cash box under the counter.

“I'd guess close to six thousand. Maybe more. And no help from Carmen.”

“You must've been busy. Who do you have for tomorrow?”

“Juanita starts at eight, Kirsten comes in at twelve. Sonya won't be here.”

Axel nodded. “It's gonna be busy. Supposed to be a nice day, and they got Kenny Rogers in the grandstand. You want me to find you another girl?”

“We only have three days to go. I don't want to be training somebody new right now.”

“I don't blame you.”

Sonya said, “I need two tacos and a Bueno and one nachos.” Axel watched Sophie prepare the order. He could see she was tired; her movements had the needful precision of one whose energy reserves are dangerously low.

“You know,” Axel said as he watched her loading the pair of tacos, “it might be smart to keep Carmen on tap, just in case you need her. Get her in here for the lunch rush, so you can take a break.”

Sophie, focused on making the tacos, did not reply. Axel waited, letting her process his words.

“What makes you think she'd even show up?” Sophie said after handing the order to Sonya.

“Maybe she won't, but we'd be no worse off than before, would we?”

“I fired her.”

“That's right, you did. I was just thinking that we might want to keep our options open.”

“You can keep your options open. I have a stand to manage. I can't afford to count on her.”

“You're right,” Axel said. “You can't count on her.”

“She's completely unreliable.”

“I suppose if she did show up, though, and we were really busy, you might find some use for her.”

Sophie considered. “We don't need her.”

“I know that. But maybe we can use her.”

Sophie shrugged. “She's fired as far as I'm concerned. She shows up here, she's working for you. It comes out of your share.”

“I'll talk to her,” Axel said.

Timothy Alan Skeller, aka Tigger, lowered himself feet first through the basement window, the pointed toes of his duct-taped boots scrabbling against the cinder-block wall. He dropped the last ten inches to the concrete floor, then felt around in the dark for the end of the extension cord, muttering to himself. “Where's the, shit, fuckin' thing—” A beer can crackled under his boot. “Fuckin' fuck shit, fuckin' shit.” He dug in his pockets. “Goddamn, goddamn son-of- a-bitch.” Two coins fell from his pocket and clacked on the concrete. “Fuck! Shit!” He found the matchbook in his hip pocket, fumbled loose a match, made three attempts to light it before it flared up, casting a weak orange glow.

The extension cord was not where he had dropped it. Tigger had perhaps a half second to wonder where it had gone, then had his question answered when a length of thick orange electrical cord dropped past his face and tightened over his Adam's apple.

Chapter 32

Axel untied his shoes, placed them at the foot of his bed, set the .45 on the nightstand, then carefully arranged himself on top of the spread and stared up at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Too much bouncing around inside his head. Closing his eyes, he tried to find a comforting thought. After a few minutes, he reached down and unsnapped the front clips of his suspenders. The bands of pressure on his shoulders disappeared, but his arm still throbbed, his finger burned, and the money hidden in his bed—over twenty thousand dollars now—produced a dull ache in the center of his back. He wasn't sure he could actually
feel
the money. It was tucked down in the box spring. In theory, it should have been undetectable to anyone lying on the mattress. But it didn't matter whether the sensation was a physical thing, since it was undeniably there, pressing up at him.

They'd been in his room once. He couldn't count on a simple dead bolt to keep them from coming back, and maybe next time they'd look a little harder. Carmen had to figure that he was stashing the money in his room. Was she still hooked up with that kid, that Bald Monkey? Axel took a deep breath. Carmen was driven by forces he could not understand. Why had she gotten involved with a punk like hat in the first place? He could see it if the kid was good-looking, or had something else going for him. Maybe she was just going through a delayed adolescent thing, trying to drive her parents crazy—Shit! He was doing it again, thinking of her like she was his daughter. He shifted the position of his legs. The fight with the kid had really taken it out of him—he must have used every muscle in his body. He could already feel his limbs stiffening. His right elbow felt like a throbbing ball of concrete. It would be a rough morning.

He wondered how Bald Monkey was feeling. Did he have a little headache? Axel hoped so. He hoped he had a huge one. He hoped his head hurt so bad he'd go back to wherever the hell he came from. That was what he hoped, but what he feared was that the kid wasn't finished. He had a feeling about Bald Monkey, the same way he'd had a feeling about those guys in Deadwood, three decades ago.

One thing he had to do for sure, he had to do something about this cash. He couldn't just leave it in his room. He had o move it, put it with the rest of his money. Unfortunately, when he had entombed the bulk of his fortune, he hadn't thought about how difficult it would be to make deposits.

The thought of digging made his elbow throb even harder.

What Sam O'Gara hated most about middle-of-the-night phone calls was that when the fucker went off, goddamn Chester started howling And when Chester howled, then Festus would jump up on the bed and start licking for all he was worth. It was like a goddamn air raid siren going off in his bedroom, then getting drowned in dog spit.

He sat up, throwing Festus and his blankets off the bed in one motion. “All right, goddamn your tongue—Chester! You shut up 'fore I have your balls lopped!” He swung his legs off the bed and staggered toward the kitchen, where his vintage Princess dial phone was giving forth another insistent ring, followed immediately by another howl from Chester. “Goddamn it, I'm coming!” He snatched the phone off its base and shouted into the receiver, “If this is a wrong number, I'm gonna find you and shove this fucker right up your misdialing ass, you sorry son-of-a-bitch!”

“Hi, Sam, it's me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ax. You know what happens in this house when the phone goes off?”

“Let me guess. You use a lot of bad words, then you answer it.”

“You don't know the fucking half of it.” Chester and Festus sat in front of him, panting happily now that they'd done their job.

“Sam, I've got to tell you something.”

Sam shook his head, suddenly wishing he hadn't picked up the phone. Festus whined nervously. Chester slumped to the floor and rested his chin on his paws.

“Sam, I can't believe I didn't call you before. I must've been all messed up in my head. I just thought to call you now.”

“Jesus Christ, Ax.” Sam's voice came out soft and ragged. “You're gonna tell me somebody's dead, ain't you?”

“Tommy.”

“Aw, f'Chrissakes.”

That was the other thing he hated about middle-of-the-night phone calls. It was always some goddamn awful thing he didn't want to know about.

Tigger drove with one hand on the wheel, touching his neck gently with the other. “I swear to God, man, it wasn't my idea to leave you there, man.” His voice sounded hoarse. “It was that fuckin' Pork, man.” He swallowed, winced.

“You were driving the car,” Dean said.

“He told me if I stopped he'd fucking kill me.”

“And he took my jacket.”

“What was I supposed to do? You seen the guy. I mean, Sweety was big, but Pork, man, the dude's kinda scary, y'know?”

“Scarier than me?” Dean asked.

Tigger shifted his eyes to Dean, then looked back at the road. “Not right now he ain't,” he said.

“Where is this place?”

“We're almost there, man.”

“You think he's still gonna be there?”

“He'll close the fucker up.”

“Good.”

“Here it is.” Tigger turned into a small parking lot crowded with pickup trucks, Chevy Camaros, and Harley-Davidsons. A flickering red neon sign read:
THE RECOVERY ROOM.

Dean said, “How come you aren't still in there drinking?”

Tigger pulled his car into one of the few open spaces. “I got eighty-sixed, those fuckers.”

“Show me which one's his bike.”

Tigger pointed at a black-and-silver Harley. “The one with the rebel flag on the tank, okay? Can I go home now?”

“No.” Dean pulled the keys from the ignition. “We're partners now, asshole. Partners stick together.”

Tigger drew his head back, squinting at Dean. The speed and the lack of sleep made Tigger look much older, like maybe twenty-three. “Whaddya mean?”

“You want to make some money, don't you?”

“Well… sure.”

“Good. Then we're partners.”

“You mean, like, half and half?”

“We'll work something out,” Dean said as he opened the door. “I need something out of your trunk.”

“What? There ain't nothing in there.”

“Nothing? You got a spare tire, right?”

“Sure. Only it's flat.”

“That all? You don't have anything to go with it?”

Tigger struggled to understand “What, you mean like a jack?”

“I was thinking more like a tire iron. You got one of those, don't you, partner?”

Tigger shook his head. “Nope.” He brightened. “But I do got a crowbar.”

Pork was feeling hard and tight and fast. His new jacket squeezed his shoulders, constricting his movements. It made him move different, made him swing his upper body with each step, giving him a don't-fuck-with-me walk like a weight lifter's, only much more dangerous-looking. He liked the way that felt. He especially liked the feel of all that money hanging against his sides. Who would've thought it would be so easy? That punk Dean, thinking he was some kind of gangster. What an idiot! He couldn't believe it when he'd stuck his hands in the jacket pocket and come out with a fistful of twenties.

With that kind of money, Pork could have made a lot of friends at The Recovery Room, but that wasn't his style. Anybody could make friends. What Pork wanted was respect. He went for the lone biker image, parked himself at a table in the back of the bar, flashed some cash, got himself a whole bottle of Jack Daniel's, then lay back and watched the scene, seeing himself as a modern-day Mafia boss. Guys that knew him would swing by, nod, then fade. That was cool. One of the bitches sat down with him for a while, grabbed his hand, and put it on her tit. He gave her a vicious squeeze, which got rid of her in a damn hurry. He didn't need any of her biker cooties, nor anybody else's. The kind of money he had now, he could afford the good stuff. Right now he just wanted to relax and moderate his amphetamine buzz with a few shots of Jack.

By the time the bar closed, Pork was ready to hop on his Harley and take a ride out in the country, letting the night air scour him clean. He sat and watched everybody else file out of the club. It was best to be the last to leave. That was the cool way to do it. Let everybody know he was in no hurry. He let the bartender give him a few looks, then got to his feet and did the don't-fuck-with-me walk over to the bar, slapped down a pair of twenties, headed for the door.

The first thing he saw—unbelievable!—some asshole sitting on his bike. More curious than angry, he walked across the dirt parking lot toward his Harley. The light from the flickering neon sign made it hard to see. He was only a few feet away when he recognized the figure on his bike as Tigger.

Pork said, “Man, what the fuck are you doing back here?” He saw Tigger's eyes shift, look past him. Pork had seen that look before. It was the look you saw in the prison yard when somebody was about to get a shank between the ribs. Instinctively, he ducked and twisted, bringing up an arm to protect his face. Something hit him hard on the elbow. He caught a snapshot of Dean's face, expressionless, then a blur of movement and an explosion of intense pain as the backswing caught him on the side of his neck. He fell, crashing into the Harley, hearing Tigger shout something, hearing the bike crash to the asphalt, feeling the footrest jab into his kidney. The three ravaged points—elbow, neck, kidney—joined in a triangle of agony, and for a moment, as his vision filled with black bubbles, he thought he was passing out. He squeezed his eyes and rolled to the side, felt the gritty surface of the parking lot beneath his palms. He took a breath, heard the sound of air rushing into his body, tasted dust, opened his eyes. There was the packed dirt, the earth, right there in front of him, real and solid.

The worst of it is over, he thought. He knows he hurt me, knows he can have what he wants. Now we talk.

He turned his head, slowly. This was no time to play the tough guy. Again, Dean's face appeared in his eyes, looking as slack and dead as any mug shot. It was not a talking face, or even a fighting face. It was a killing face. Pork saw the hooked end of the crowbar silhouetted against the red neon. He tried to roll away, got one hand in front of his face just as the steel bar came chopping down. The force of the blow audibly snapped his fingers, slammed his hand into his cheekbone, his head into the packed dirt. He felt a scream in his throat, smelled the earth rising up to swallow him, heard the dull slapping sound of steel striking leather and flesh He heard it again, then heard nothing at all.