Gerrard shook his head.
"This night has been an irritation to me.
Don't guess it's going to get any better for a while."
"You're from New Orleans, I guess," Rhino said.
"I been there.
Isn't any hotter here."
"Don't start, Mr. Rhino.
I am getting considerable tired of hearing that..."
J
ack could see the sky turning a liverish shade of purple, just above the top of Piggs.
Only the sign read iggs, since those assholes had shot the "P" out.
Lord God, if it wasn't a mess down there.
He couldn't see it all from the trees, but he could see a lot more than he cared to see.
Everyone started shooting, dope went everywhere.
Cecil was on the ground, he couldn't see Cat anywhere.
A skinny black dude was screaming at everyone, kicking at the ground...
"Fuck it," Jack said aloud, "I don't need this."
He squinted at the dawn, turned and walked quickly back through the trees, picking up his steps, anxious to leave the whole business behind.
It wasn't hard to figure what to do next.
Go.
Just go.
Head away from Piggs, keep out of sight.
If he made it to Mr. Chavez' car, fine.
Maybe he'd try and catch a ride. Stick up the driver. Make him go to Dallas, hole up there awhile.
Maybe it'd be a good-looking babe.
Maybe they'd talk, get along fine.
One thing he'd do as soon as he could was stop somewhere, get a big screwdriver, some kind of pry.
A tire tool'd do just fine.
Carrying the box around was driving him nuts.
It was like you know what you're getting, but you got to wait for Christmas to see.
If he could just look at it, get a few bills in his pocket, put the rest back...
Jack stopped.
Someone was up there, just past the trees.
He listened, heard it again, something moving, something stirring up the dead leaves.
Drawing the big silver revolver from his belt, Jack carefully pulled a branch aside, took a cautious step, then another after that.
A twig snapped under his foot. Jack sprang back.
Ricky Chavez whirled around and faced him, knees bent, gripping a piece of lumber, hard against his shoulder, like a naked Yankee, possibly a Met.
"Dios, Jack, what are you doing here!"
"I was going to ask you," Jack said.
"Put that thing down, Mr. Chavez, I'm armed, as you can tell."
"You put down the revolver, Jack.
Or give it to me, and I will happily kill you on the spot."
Jack lowered his weapon, but kept it at his side.
"I'd like to know how you got loose.
That duct tape was on there tight."
"There are many rusty cans by the place of the dumpster."
"I didn't think of that.
I was–aw, man who's that?
What'd you do, Mr. Chavez?"
Jack's stomach did a flip.
He knew who it was, didn't have to ask.
Grape was sprawled in the brush.
His eyes were open and he looked real surprised.
His neck was turned in an odd direction, one Jack knew wasn't right.
"He came upon me.
I was resting at the moment, he is coming through the woods."
"You hit him with that."
Ricky looked disturbed.
"He said he had never seen a naked greaser before.
One with very small–private parts."
"You look okay to me.
Not that I'd care if you do or not."
"It is most improper to speak of a man's
pene
, Jack. I was quite humiliated.
I do not think I would have reacted so strongly if I had not had such a bad day."
"I feel partially responsible for that."
"I feel this is true.
You have the money there?"
"I got it, all right.
I didn't screw up that."
"How much is there?"
"I don't know.
I got to get something to pry off the lock.
I got your car keys, Mr. Chavez.
But it's a hell of a walk."
"I cannot go anywhere like this.
I must have clothes of some sort."
"A lot of the time, your fugitives on TV will steal clothes off a line.
We might run across a farm somewhere."
"I think people do not use the lines anymore.
I think they use the
maquina de lavar
, the laundromat."
"Yeah, okay, we can do that."
Ricky turned the thick club in his hands.
Started to drop it, decided to keep it a while.
"There was a great disturbance at Piggs.
What exactly occurred back there?"
"We'll get you some clothes, I'll tell you about it.
You going to hold onto that?"
"Yes.
I feel that I am."
"You first, then.
I'll keep an eye out behind..."
O
rtega guessed it was nine.
He didn't have a watch, and the clock in the Plymouth hadn't worked since l989, when he bought the car second hand.
He guessed it was nine, because the heat wasn't rising off the road, and the tar didn't really start to melt until ten.
Another sign was he wished he was dead.
Drink all night and watch the sun rise, you know there's no point in being alive.
Worse still, he'd let Ahmed come along.
He didn't like Ahmed, and Ahmed didn't like him.
But Ahmed had money at the time, and Ortega had a car, and life is full of compromise.
Ortega swore this was something he'd never do again.
After two beers, Ahmed started singing, songs from Iraq with a military bent.
The bar was called Tejas Tel Aviv, and some of the patrons had strong opinions about the Middle East.
Ortega slowed before he got to his place beneath the ancient oak tree.
Slowed, because he didn't like the look of things at Piggs.
"I don't like the look of things," he said.
"Doesn't look right to me."
"W'at it lookin' like to you?
Ees lookin' like Piggs to me."
"That's because you don't look.
There's nobody here.
Nobody here, nobody at Wan's.
There's nothing in the lot but Cecil's car."
"Is a tit bar an' a res'rant, man.
Ees nothin' to do when the sun coming up."
"There's always someone, though.
Grape's van, the guy brings the beer, someone hanging around."
Ortega pulled up behind Cecil's alligator-green Cadillac, got out and closed the door. Ahmed groaned, got out the other side, peed on the asphalt, squinted at the sun.
In the desert, it would be about a hundred and ten.
In Mexican Wells it was
nice in the morning, maybe ninety-two.
"You can mess 'round all you want.
I t'ink I go an' wake up Jhack.
I am not sleeping, Jhack, he is goin' to be awake too–"
"Shit, oh shit, Ahmed, come look at this!"
"Looka what?"
Ahmed zipped up, muttered to himself.
Ortega had opened the back door of Cecil's car.
"Oh, sheet," Ahmed said, "looka dat."
"That's what I said.
Don't say what I said, say somethin' else."
Ahmed could scarcely recall when he didn't have something to say.
Now was maybe, four, maybe six times.
Cat sat in the car, staring straight ahead, all the color drained from his face.
His enormous bulk took up the back seat.
He always smelled very bad, but he smelled really awful today.
"Hi, Ahmed.
Hi, Ortega.
It's me," Cat said.
Ortega almost jumped at the voice.
It sounded like a frog had crawled inside his head.
"You don't sound good.
You don't look good, too.
I think you got a hole in your head."
"Tha's w'at he got, he got thees hole in the haid."
"What happened," Ortega said, "what the hell happened here, where's everybody at?"
Ortega leaned in closer, suddenly wary, suddenly certain he was right to have a bad feeling about this very hot morning at Piggs.
The hole in Cat's head was ugly and dark.
A crater, a pit, dry and crusty on the rim, shading down to black.
In the center, Ortega could see something shiny, something bright, something the color of lead.
"What I think," he told Ahmed, "I think that Cat has been shot.
I think he's been shot in the head."
"I am agree wit' dis," Ahmed said.
"What happened Cat, can you say?
Who did this to you?"
"Hosa...hosa-piddle."
"What?"
"Hosa...hosa..."
"Hospital, yes?
You want to go to the hospital.
This is what you're saying."
"You crazy or w'at?
I am helpin' de Cat?
Give me a ghon, I shoot heem agin."
"He's a real asshole, all right.
But he's a human being like us. We'll have to take him in this car.
Couldn't both of us move him into mine."
Ahmed looked stricken.
"We are drivin' Cecil's car?
Now I know 'pletely nuts."
Ortega was already around the side, in the driver's seat.
He found the key on the mat.
Started the Caddie up.
Groaned, and slapped the wheel.
"Damn thing is nearly empty.
We are not driving very far."
"Good.
We try an' do the erran' of mercy, we have fail.
That settle dat."
"You got money, we can get some gas."
"I got twenny, t'irty cents.
You drink eet all up."
"Least I can finish more than two beers."
"Thass a beeg lie.
I drink six, maybe ten."
"You didn't even get to three–"
"Muuuny..."
"What?"
Ortega leaned over the back to look at Cat.
"What you saying?
What you trying to say, man?"
"M-m-misster Cecil...he gonna len' Cat a dollah...won' mind..."
"Yeah, right. Well Mr. Fucking Cecil isn't here right now, and I am not about to go and look."
"Focking right, mahn."
"Won' mind...len' it tah me..."
"Look, man..."
Cat's eyes crossed twice.
His face filled with agony, twisted with pain.
He lifted a great paw, lifted it with torturous effort, reached out and dug his fingers into the panel of the door.
Struggled, groaned, sweat popped out on his brow.
Plastic ripped and tore.
The door handle snapped, dropped and fell away.
With a final, wrenching sound, the panel burst free.
Money dropped in Cat's lap, rushed, tumbled, spilled in a green avalanche to the floor, rolled out on the ground.
Twenties, hundreds, an endless flow, pack after pack of lovely bills.
"Holy shit," Ortega said.
"Holy sheet," Ahmed said too.
"Munny..." Cat said.
"That son of a bitch," Ortega said.
"That sly old bastard hid his dough in the fucking car.
The dummy saw him, and Cecil didn't care."
Ortega picked up a stack of fifties, tried to do something in his head.
Gave up, looked at Ahmed.
"I think I will go home again.
It has been a long time."
"I never have be to Mexico."
"Wisconsin.
I got roots, I got family there."
"I am t'inking Califor'ya.
I am t'inking the beech, I am t'inking the gorls."
"Hosa-piddle," Cat said.
"Focking right.
Hosa-piddle, mahn..."