The Nirvana Blues (28 page)

A moment later, while crossing the North-South Highway, Joe cried, “Wait a minute! Take me to the bus station!”

“But it's all locked up. No bus arrives for at least an hour.”

“Please,” Joe begged plaintively, “just do as I say this once.”

From the back seat, Sasha reached up stealthily, and suddenly pinched Joe's earlobe. “Hey,
ouch!
” Joe swung around angrily. Sasha leaped over the backrest, and crouched out of sight in the well between the seatback and the rear window. “That stupid animal just pinched me!”

“Sasha, you be a good boy,” Nancy reprimanded him mildly. “Don't be flirting with Mr. Miniver.”

Joe said, “Park in front of it, with your headlights aiming inside. I'll pretend I'm reading the schedule in the window.…”

Nancy did as told. After checking to be sure they weren't under surveillance, Joe stepped down and sauntered nonchalantly up to the glass door. Pretending absorption in the arrival-and-departure schedule, he peered into the gloomy station, searching for Peter's bag.

Instead he found himself staring into the beam of a flashlight held by a startled figure dressed in black and wearing a rubber gorilla mask, frozen in a frightened crouch, the black-watch suitcase in one hand—CAUGHT! RIGHT IN THE ACT!

Joe said, “Somebody's
in
there!”

Whereupon the world exploded. It seemed at first as if a gas heater had accidentally burst inside the station, so cataclysmic was the report of a gun going off. Almost in front of Joe's nose, the glass shattered, yet miraculously the bullet flung in his direction sizzled harmlessly past the ear Sasha had just tweaked. Old athlete that he claimed to be, Joe reacted instantly, flopping sideways in sheer terror, realizing as he fell that somebody had taken a murderous pop at him, fully intending to end his life.

Asked in a moment of tranquillity how he might be expected to react to such an outrage, Joe no doubt would have declared, “I'd collapse and play dead, or scramble the hell out of there.” Confronted with the actual thing, however, his terror and astonishment were instantly replaced by outrage. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed. The
gall
of that intruder! Joe's fumbling fingers snatched up a medium-sized rock. And, instead of playing possum or scuttling off like a terrified crab, he lurched back onto his knees, and cocked an arm, prepared to hurl the rock at a protagonist toting lethal hardware and lugging the suitcase that held within it the key to Joe's aspirations.

Two more shots blahooied horrendously from within the bus station: glass bits and plywood splinters bounced off Joe's chest and shoulders as he fired his stone, but no hot lead projectiles thumped messily into his chest or forehead. Inside the depot, the masked gunslinger hollered, “Out of my way, you thon of a bitch, I'm coming through!” To Joe's astonishment, the robber leaped straight for him, suitcase in hand, and, in either a panic or an exaggerated show of derring-do, missed the door entirely, crashing through the plate-glass window like O. J. Simpson on his way to catch a plane.

Joe flung up one arm, warding off the fatal blow. Grunting hysterically, the barbarian crash-landed on top of him. The suitcase crunched into Joe's head and popped open, spilling several dozen chunky, rectangular boxes of herbal teas across the ground. The desperado's flailing body smelled of sweat, gunpowder, fear, and shoe polish. “Ah thit!” he wailed. A fist thumped Joe's shoulder; again the gun went off, this time almost in his ear. Squealing, Joe hit back. One fist glanced off the gorilla mask. A boot accidentally kicked his groin, as the masked man struggled to disentangle himself from their accidental union. “Which one ith the boxth?” he groaned, scrambling to gather in the containers. A gun clattered onto the pavement, and, surprised by his own murderous audacity, Joe grabbed it, swung it onto the black marauder, and might even have triggered a shot at point-blank range, had not the guy screamed in a near-falsetto voice,
“Don't thoot me!”
as, his arms full of boxes, he careened away. When, like a disoriented bird, he clipped the side of the depot building, boxes cascaded every whichway; he landed spread-eagled against the pavement. But this time he regained his feet instantly.

“I'll kill you!”
Joe roared. But instead of pulling a trigger, he hurled the gun with all his might: it clattered harmlessly against those fleeing heels.

At which point, all hell broke loose.

A large gray 1957 Dodge van with a cow skull welded onto the front grille and a plastic skylight bubble on the roof veered out of the shadows and screeched to a nose-dipping halt. A psychedelic sign on the van's side said
CHICKEN RIVER FUNKY PIE
. Three doors opened simultaneously, and more men in black, wearing rubber gorilla masks, and including a diminutive figure that had to be a dwarf, sailed to earth brandishing machine guns, semiautomatic pistols, and a pump shotgun. With no further ado, World War III broke out in earnest. Guns, bombs, bullets, hand grenades, smoke, muzzle flashes, ricochets—you name it, it happened! Deafened by the holocaust, Joe hunched into a fetal position among the boxes, and prayed for rain.

Apparently, they wished to assassinate the original intruder. Incredibly, their hot lead, spewed about so liberally and unscientifically, failed to fell the zigzagging klutz, whose arms still hugged a dozen boxes. Instead, the sprinter stepped on a rake: the handle twanged up, as in an old-fashioned film comedy, brutally whacking him (vertically) across the face. He catapulted backward, spraying more boxes, yet again exhibited astonishing resiliency, almost reamassing his cargo before thudding to earth. In no time he was upright again, and bounding away like a frightened deer.

A Volkswagen microbus careened into the parking lot. Brakes locked, it fishtailed with a grinding wail of protesting rubber and a blazing horn into the Chicken River Funky Pie van. Metal crunched and crumpled, glass popped, motors yelped shrilly and hissed: steam arose. More black-outfitted goons disguised as apes emerged from the VW, pistols, rifles, and other assorted noisy accoutrements blazing.

Such turmoil!

The original fugitive collided against a garbage can and sprawled to the turf, landing in a heap of chattering oilcans and mushy coffee grounds. The Chicken River death squad continued their fusillade in his direction, even as they busied themselves near Joe, snagging tea boxes, which they dumped into a burlap sack. The dwarf hooligan screamed orders: “Get the boxes! Kill the son of a bitch! We need 'em all! Shoot that asshole! Gimme some more bullets! Die, scumbag,
die!
”

When the VW crowd had entered the fray, it seemed as if everybody must fall within the tornado of crisscrossing slugs creating a withering whirlwind of almost certain annihilation. Yet, though weapons were repeatedly discharged at point-blank range, everybody's marksmanship left something to be desired. Assailants cursed, ducked, lurched, jumped out of the way, crouched behind Nancy's Bug, the bus, the van, the corner of the depot, and did not fall. They slugged each other, toppled to earth only inches away from Joe, but bounced to their feet like Silly-Putty, unawed and unafraid. In the heart of such deadly choreography, Joe waited for a stray bullet to end his life. Chips of cement pelted his thighs, butt, and shoulders; bullets whined between his legs, searing his Levi's without causing an actual rent in the fabric.

Automobile windows disintegrated from errant shotgun blasts. The depot provided a seemingly endless supply of loudly erupting crystal. The original intruder survived his garbage-can collision, but five steps later he pitched into a ditch. Closer to the situation's core, the dwarf manhandled an empty tommy gun, wielding it like a baseball bat. Oofs, grunts, expletives, epithets, gurgles, and soft-nosed bullets mangled the airwaves as all parties involved continued gathering herbal tea boxes. One man secured an armful, only to lose it when tackled by another pug. Gunsmoke and dust, as thick as if laid down by a Hollywood smog machine, circulated among the scufflers. Joe had difficulty following the action.

Then, out the corner of one eye, Joe caught a flash of beige fur leaping from Nancy's Bug. Sasha landed upright, apparently unnoticed by any of the free-for-allers. The monkey danced through a dozen flailing arms and kung-fu legs, snatched up a single box of herbal tea, gave Joe the finger, and obnoxiously scampered back to his mistress with his prize.

All the boxes were gone. Somebody kicked the empty suitcase. An order was given: “Let's scram!” The clumsy oaf who'd launched this bizarre episode heaved out of the ditch, but immediately tangled his legs in rusty barbwire coils and went down again. Screeching backward, the Chicken River Funky Pie van banged the VW bus, knocking it sideways: spinning tires kicked up spurts of stinking smoke. A horn was stuck. Hollering men piled into both vehicles. A final shotgun blast took out the microbus windshield. Other pellets, aimed at stars, chopped the pavement around Joe like hailstones: one BB actually pinged harmlessly off his head.

Minus a headlight apiece, the van and the microbus tore free of each other. The van's rear end smacked into the Miracle Auto Supply display window, setting off a burglar alarm. The microbus had a flat rear tire, but lurched onto the highway going sixty, sparks whizzing off the rim. The van swerved away in the opposite direction, its denizens imparting a few lead epilogues toward the VW crew.

Silence, but for the burglar alarm, dropped like a curtain upon a bad show; and only Joe remained to tell the tale. Seated dumbfoundedly in a glittering puddle of shattered glass and spent cartridge shells, he was unnicked despite the fire fight that had raged around him for those rabid moments. Obviously, he had lost the contents of Peter's suitcase, hence also his life savings, Eloy's land, and the hope of a serene and productive future.

Matter-of-factly, Nancy said, “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Joe gasped. “But I still can't breathe. Are you okay?”

“Of course. Now come on. We'd better leave.”

“I don't know if I can walk.”

“Try.”

Joe raised himself gingerly, expecting to discover blood spurting from a hole in his thigh, to feel his steaming guts bulge from a gaping gutwound. But nothing leaked or protruded from his trembling body. Apparently, all his organs were performing their crucial functions inside his body's fragile sheath. A miracle? Or just dumb luck. Incredulously, Joe said, “I'm not even scratched.…”

Joe faced Nancy's Beetle, his jaw dropped open. “Oh my God—!” Her car had not suffered even a minute blemish. And inside it sat Nancy in her sexy bathrobe, lipstick glistening, absolutely unruffled, like one of those magic-show ladies in a large basket through which dozens of harmless sabers had been thrust.

“Look at your car…” Joe stammered. “How in the name of Christ did it avoid being hit…?”

“Hop in, please. You look awful.”

Dizzily, Joe wrenched open the door. Crouched on the passenger seat, Sasha clutched the tea box to his chest.

“Sasha, sweetie, Mr. Miniver wants to sit down.”

The monkey leered and plucked a booger from his nose. Grasping his tail in one tiny, scaly pink hand, he poked the tip of the tail up a nostril, swabbing around.

“Sasha, darling…”

Bounding fluidly, Sasha leapt into the back seat, still clutching the tea box.

Joe collapsed. Nancy turned the ignition key, and the engine started up without a whimper.

She said, “I wonder what that was all about?”

Dully, Joe moaned, “It's gone.”

“What is?”

“Everything. My past, my present, even my future.”

“Explain.”

“They got it all.”

“All what?”

“The dope in that suitcase. I just blew twelve thousand dollars.”

“Joe, what are you talking about?”

“You honestly don't know?”

She nodded.

“Then you're the only person in town who doesn't.”

“Doesn't know what?”

“One of those tea boxes held pure cocaine. That's how I hoped to buy Eloy's place.” Joe buried his face in his hands. “I don't
believe
these past twenty-four hours!”

“Sasha picked up a box.”

“Big deal. One out of thirty. Some odds.”

“You never know. With just a little faith—”

“Do me a favor with your ‘faith,' would you?”

“At least we could check.”

“You check. I'm sick.”

“Miracles can happen. All they take is a smidgen of belief.”

“Sorry, pal, I'm plumb out of smidgens.”

“Sasha,” Nancy coaxed, “give me that box.”

The monkey chattered busily, ignoring her command. He plucked at the box, forcing open an end tab. Turning completely, Nancy reached in back, and, soothing him—“There, there, that's a good little boy”—she wrested the carton from his arms.

Joe grumbled, “I'm gonna commit suicide. Actually, I might not have to. I'm being smothered by an invisible pillow. I want my asthma medicine!”

“First we'll check out this carton. It feels almost too heavy for tea.”

“Oh sure. In the middle of a crazy gun battle the world's nastiest monkey grabs a box at random, and voilà!—a hundred Gs worth of cocaine.”

“I wouldn't be at all surprised.” Nancy pried open the end flaps.

“I would.” Joe wallowed in melancholic self-pity. “The way my luck's been running, not only will it not be full of cocaine, but there'll be something horrible inside: a Gila monster, or a black-widow spider. It'll bite me, I'll drop into a month-long coma, and accumulate twenty-eight thousand in medical bills.…”

“I doubt God would have let Sasha risk his life just for a box of tea.” Nancy pried up another flap.

“If that's the one with the coke,” Joe joked leadenly, “I'll be a monkey's uncle.”