"Ah, we share an interest in that country, I believe.
Would I be correct in saying that?"
"What, I'm sorry."
Gloria hadn't been listening at all, though she liked the sort of sleepy, restful sound of Ricky's voice, which was nice as Ricky Martin, better than Cheech and Chong.
She'd been thinking about poor Jack, and the awful thing Cecil had done, and it frightened her to think what the crazy bastard might do next.
Shoot, it might be anything at all, whatever crossed his mind.
She knew things Cecil had done, him and Grape and Cat, things she wished she didn't know at all.
Ricky's words, though, suddenly cut through her thoughts, and she looked at him and smiled, as if she'd been there all along.
"You've been there?
Really?
I don't believe you ever told me that."
"Oh, but yes.
And I have not mentioned this thing to you?
Surely I have."
"No, now I'd remember that."
"Well then," Ricky said, settling uneasily in a straightback chair that was clearly not designed for larger men, and wobbled on the floor.
Why in God's Holy Name, he wondered, had the cunning German engineers made this airplane of corrugated iron, like a fucking barn, like the walls at Piggs.
He wondered, too, what would happen if the ancient metal chose this moment to give way.
"I have seen the Berlin, of course, this is a must on the list.
But I spent much happy travel in the small towns as well. You are familiar with these towns, I imagine.
I am guessing you have read about them and seen them on the television as well."
"Not any, I'm afraid.
I guess I really should."
"But you are speak the German tongue."
"Heavens no."
Gloria had to laugh at that.
"I don't speak any tongues at all."
"No?
Well, then, allow me to say,
Vas gestoppen der Gretel und Fritzen, grabben de clocken und der stein, miene hair? Vo sticken ein hosen und der Heinekins, go schleepin in der Benz.
"
"Wow."
Gloria hugged her arms across her breasts.
"What exactly did you say to me, Mr. Chavez?
I hope it wasn't something foreign that isn't nice."
"No, no, no, Frawliner."
Ricky clicked the heels of his gold-toed boots.
"I said, 'Do you not think it is a cool evening here in Texas for the time of the year?'
I think–if you will excuse the familiar, Miss Mundi, I said, 'you are most kind and charming person.'"
"Now, I do not think you have to get into talk like that. Just say something else, like–okay, what you'd say if you were there, in one of those little towns you was talking about?"
"Yes, of course."
Ricky leaned back and looked at the low, threatening ceiling overhead, and past Gloria Mundi to the black and ugly half of a weapon, which poked through the side of the plane.
Earlier, Gloria had kindly pointed out that it was your standard, Beam-mounted 7.9 mm MG 15, on the starboard station.
"Ah yes," Ricky had said at that the time.
"I am recalling," he said now, "the charming, the muy hermoso villages such as Becks, Panzer, Schitzel and Hans.
Drinken is a favorite of mine.
It rests in the foothills of the Fahrtwagen Mountains."
"I think I read about that."
"I expect you have indeed, Miss Mundi.
It is quite a famous stop for the tourist person.
They make clocks of the cuckoo, and a very nice wine."
"I wish I could go sometime.
I'd like to go to see where they make the JU 52.
It's on Daddy's tape, I ought to know it by now.
I wish I could just see some of those places, instead of hearing about 'em all the time."
And, as she spoke, she leaned forward a bit, her back a slender bow, elbows on her knees, fingers dangling loose, her bare little toes picking at the corrugated floor.
Ricky Chavez felt a near desperate, overwhelming need, an ache, a longing for this lovely woman, a hunger that surpassed even physical desire, though he did not discount the nice pokies on her chest, the way her cutoffs vanished in the secret furrows between her torrid thighs, and, most certainly, he was entranced by the wondrous belly button that winked just below her T-shirt that read "Save the Badgers," which some fool had given her at Piggs.
Dios, he would give a hundred dollars, maybe up to three, simply to plant one kiss within that tiny hollow, possibly the finest innie he'd ever seen, except for that girl, whose name he could nearly recall, just south of Veracruz.
He became aware that these thoughts had partially set his loins afire, and turned, slightly, in his chair, to hide what Gloria Mundi might see, and find an improper display.
"The German nation of today," he went on quickly, "is a most pleasant place to be, for the peoples, they have not the savage nature of the past, and many now live fruitful lives, the same as you and I.
The children and the grandchilds, I do not think they remember the bad things their country do to us before."
Gloria's manner, her posture and the alarming change taking place around her mouth, her throat, and, most especially in her eyes, had begun the moment Ricky Chavez embarked on his essay of the German people of today.
Ricky, though, was so entranced with his new, and impressive fabrication of places he'd never seen, and a language no more familiar than Hindustani or Japanese, he missed the warning he should have seen.
"And what is us?" Gloria said, her jaw thrust out in a challenge that made Ricky blink.
"Who is it we are talking about here?
I don't recall any Germans bombing Acapulco or some other such town.
You want to tell me what you're complaining about?"
Ricky was appalled.
He felt the blood rush to his face.
"I must tell you I was born in Laredo, Miss Mundi.
I am an American, the same as you."
"Well muy beano for you.
That's about half a block from that other Laredo, if I got my geography right."
"I–did not think you were of the racial persuasion.
I regret to hear this is so."
"Is that so?"
Gloria stood so quickly Ricky stood as well, sending the straightback clattering to the floor.
This woman was not overly tall without her stripper shoes, but anger seemed to add inches to her height.
"The way you talk, I thought you had a real feeling for the German people, an' I see that you don't.
On the contraire, as the Frenchies like to say, you fucking don't like 'em at all."
"Please.
You are mistake my intent..."
"I know about your intent, mister, which is to stare at what I got inside my pants.
I get enough of that at work, I sure don't need to put up with it here.
And if you'd read your history careful, you'd know everyone in Germany wasn't all of the Hitler persuasion.
Some of them fought 'cause that's the country where they was born.
Just like some of our boys might have been Republican folks or someone from New York, that didn't stop them from defending their native land."
"This is–most certainly true," Ricky said, seeing all the progress he'd made fading before his eyes, thinking, now, he'd have to climb down the fucking ladder in the middle of the night, that he surely had no chance of staying up in the Junkers JU 52.
"The boy who flew this very airplane, who's name I will not mention to you, was just doing his duty to his country, and he had no part in the historic crimes of the National Social Party on people of other creeds."
Ricky looked at her.
"Excuse me.
How would you possibly know this was so?"
"And don't you approach me in a romantic manner anymore, and don't bring me any shit.
And this isn't because you're a Mescan, don't get the idea it is."
"Thank you.
I appreciate that."
"You don't like my coffee you don't have to try and hide it somewhere."
"If you will try to accept my apology, Miss Mundi.
Please.
Der Straus verdancin is kaput, und der boaten is gesunk
."
"An' what's that supposed to mean?"
"With all my heart, I beg that you–"
"Don't start, I don't need that kind of talk and I don't want it in German, either.
Get out of my house, Mr. Chavez, before I get real pissed with you."
C
limbing down the shaky ladder with his eyes closed seemed to help, or would have, if he hadn't peeked to see if he was close to the ground.
Ricky was deeply upset.
This was clearly a step back in his pursuit of Gloria Mundi.
There would have to be new thought on the matter, an entirely new approach, which did not include candy or flowers.
Possibly, this approach would not call for any of the normal practices of courtship at all.
Surely, it would have to include more in-depth research on the new Germany, and at least a basic understanding of the language.
"Dios!
How is one supposed to know the fucking Krauts are as good as us now?
When did they come up with that?"
W
hat he thought about was how it was before, how it was when things were going right, when things were going fine.
There weren't that fucking many, like you had to take a day off to count them up or anything, it wouldn't take a lot of time.
In the movies, some jerk's thinking, he's thinking how it was in fifth grade, how he's riding on his bike, running through a bunch of leaves.
It's always fucking autumn, the leaves are always falling off the trees.
The other thing is, there's a cute little chick, she's wearing this fuzzy sweater, her tits are just starting to grow, and the guy likes that, but he doesn't know what the hell to do.
Dad's out mowing the lawn and the kid says "Hi!" and goes up to his room and jerks off, thinking about the pretty girl.
They don't ever show that, but that's what the kid's doing, you can bet your ass on that.
Jack can't think of any leaves. He can think about a bike but it's broken all the time.
The thing he thinks about is riding in the Buick in Oklahoma City with the long-legged girl before the money from the job runs out.
He thinks about a guy in a shit-kicker bar, the guy is built like a side of Kansas City beef, and Jack takes everything the guy can put out, then decks him with a left to the kidney and the guy sits down and cries.
There were four, maybe six other times.
One had to do with drinking good whiskey, dropping a roll on the bar, buying drinks for the house.
One had to do with another long-legged girl, this one in a trailer in Brazoria, Texas, a dirt-poor woman who had more class than the girl in the Buick, which happened sometimes.
And all those good times Jack could keep in a very small corner of his mind, they didn't take any room at all.
What took up space, crowded everything out, was doing time in Huntsville, Texas, watching his gut go bad until it dried up all the mean he'd brought in from outside.
When that was gone the niggers and the spics and the Nazi fucking white trash remembered the tough guy they'd seen walk in, and were glad to see the fun times come around again.
J
ack wasn't mad at Cecil or even Grape or Cat.
That was a lesson he'd learned in Huntsville too.
All mad did was fuck up your head.
Mad's the same as getting hot, an old con told him. Thinking, laying back, using your head, that's the same as being cool.
The guy who told him that was likely still there, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.
What it meant was, crawling naked on the floor, everyone watching your dick bounce around didn't mean a thing now.
It wasn't anything you could ever take back, play it right again.
Lay back, be cool, you could think of something good, like punching out the big guy, riding with the long-legged girl.
Fuck it, you did that once, you could do it again, turn everything around, make it like it was before.
He still meant to kill Cecil R. Dupree, and Grape and Cat too.
Pull a nice caper, get enough money to buy some good clothes, get a haircut, get some fine shoes.
Shoes that didn't look like you played fucking nigger basketball.