Authors: Stuart Spears
Last Call Lounge (19 page)
TWENTY-FOUR
I sat at the bar. My ears were still ringing from the gunshot. My shirt and raincoat were covered in blood. I rubbed my eyes, got up and got the bottle of Beam and a shot glass. I had a shot and left the bottle of Beam on the bar. I poured another shot, sipped it this time. I pulled my cigarettes out of my pocket, but they were soaked, so I went behind the bar to get a pack. My lip was split and I had to hold the cigarette in my teeth. My heart stopped racing. I thought about what I needed to do, about what I had done and what was possible for me to do. The rain thrummed on the roof and the wind was blowing strong enough to make the walls creak. When everything seemed clear and thought out, I fished my phone out of my pocket and called Frank.
“Come to the bar,” I said when he answered. “I need you.” I gave him some instructions, then hung up.
Then I went into the storeroom. In the big mop sink, I rinsed out my shirt and washed the blood off my arms and out of my hair. There was a tarp, behind a cooler, from a time a few years before when the roof leaked and we had to cover the jukebox during storms. I took that into the hall and placed it next to the office door. Back in the store room, I took a large bar t-shirt off the shelf and put that on. I put my wet shirt in a small trash bag and shoved it into the bottom of the big trashcan behind the bar.
I went into the men's room and propped the door open so the light from the emergency lights would come in and I could see myself in the mirror. My lips were puffy and purple and my teeth were covered in blood, but other than that I looked okay. My head was tender but most of the bruising was hidden by my hair. I washed my face and rinsed my mouth out, spitting blood into the sink.
Then I went back in the office. The pool of Oscar's blood looked black in the dim light. I stepped over him, grabbed the bag with the money, and went back out into the bar. I pulled out the two bundles of money – one of $12,000, one of about $30,000 – and then put the larger one back in the bag. Frank pounded on the front door, twice like I had told him, and I let him in. He had backed my truck up onto the curb, right outside the front door. Just like I told him. He handed me the money belt and some clothes I'd asked him to get from my dresser. In the money belt was my passport.
“In here,” I said and led him to the office.
Frank was wearing his stained work pants and my father's shoes. When the light from the hall fell onto Oscar's face, Frank flinched. He breathed through his mouth for a moment and looked like he might be sick. Then he nodded.
“I can't lift him by myself,” I said, and Frank nodded again.
I got the tarp from the hallway and Frank and I spread it out as best we could next to Oscar's body. We then hefted up one side of him and flipped him, face down, onto the tarp. I lifted the edge of the tarp and wrapped it over him and we rolled him over again. He was too close to the wall now, so we pulled him a few feet away before we rolled him again. Then we lifted him – me under his shoulders, Frank grabbing him around the waist – and slipped and slid and carried him to the front door of the bar.
I opened the front door and stepped out to the curb. The street was still empty. It was afternoon, but the light was strange and greenish and moving. Rain felt like sleet striking my face. I dropped the tailgate of my little truck, then Frank and I hefted Oscar in his packaging into the bed. We adjusted him a little to get the tailgate closed.
We got back inside, locked the door, and sat down at the bar. I poured Frank a shot, but decided not to have one myself, considering what I had ahead of me. I went into the men's room and changed into the clean pants that Frank had bought, then went back out to the bar. Frank got up without a word and got the mop bucket out of the storeroom. I got a mop out of the utility closet in the men's room as Frank filled the bucket at the mop sink behind the bar. He pushed the mop bucket down the hall and propped the office door open with it. I had just put the mop in the water when there was strong, fast rapping at the front door.
Frank and I froze, staring at each other. Then he pushed the mop bucket into the office and shut the door. I moved to the front of the bar.
“Who is it?” I yelled through the door.
“Little John,” Allen yelled from the other side of the door. “Open up.” I looked at Frank and he looked at me. I shrugged. Frank moved away from the office door. I mopped the sweat off my face and opened the door.
Allen was in a long, black, hooded rain slicker with safety yellow lining. His patrol car was parked diagonally across the driveway, lights spinning. One hand was on the gun in his holster, the other on top of his head, holding his hood down.
“You okay?” he yelled over screaming wind.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I saw the Jeep,” he yelled. “Thought I'd check.” The fucking Jeep, I thought. I stepped out the door and looked around the corner of the building into the parking lot. Rain stung my cheeks and eyes.
“I didn't see that when I got here,” I said. “Is anyone in it?”
“Didn't see anyone,” he yelled.
There was nothing else I could do, so I yelled, “Come on,” and led him back in the front door. Frank was sitting at the bar with a beer in front of him. Allen stood just inside the doorway, shaking the rain off his jacket.
“Whoo,” he said. “Ever seen anything like this?” His voice was casual, but his eyes were scanning the bar. The emergency backup lights cast dark blue shadows into the corners.
“Not since Allison,” I said. “You want a drink?” I moved behind the bar, trying to keep my battered face in the dark.
“No,” Allen said. “I'm driving, pulling people out of ditches.” He walked to the end of the bar and stood next to Frank. Frank kept his eyes on his beer. I moved behind the bar. Allen unzipped his long jacket. “What happened to your face?” he asked me.
I touched the welt on my forehead.
“Ah,” I said. “I was drunk. And pissed. And I convinced a guy at the Galaxy to beat the crap out of me.”
Allen nodded, looking around the room again. The office door was shut. Allen ran his tongue around in his cheek and pursed his lips.
“What's in the back of your truck, Little John?” he asked.
My skin went tight. Frank froze, his beer halfway to his mouth.
“My baggage,” I said.
Allen leaned against the bar. “You leaving town?”
“Trying to,” I said. “I don't know if I'll be able to get out now.”
Allen nodded at me, held his chin in his pasty hand. I rubbed at my eyes, then took a chance.
“Look, Allen,” I said, sitting back against the bottle cooler. The wind was shrill going through the rafters. I yelled to be heard over the storm. “Worm stole money from Oscar. Worm told him I was holding it. I couldn't tell you any of this without telling you that Worm was my coke dealer and without getting Worm into a whole lot of shit. Oscar came in here looking for it and that's when Tracy got shot.”
Allen's expression didn't change. He chewed on his lower lip a little, nodded. “Worm was my friend,” I said. “As fucked up as he was, he was my friend. I was trying to help him.”
If he asked, I decided, I would tell him the rest, tell him everything. But he didn't ask. He looked at the swelling of my face, back at the back exit, and finally at Frank. Then he pushed himself off the bar.
“Walk me out,” he said.
We stood just outside the front door, under the awning. The wind shrieked through the power lines. The streetlights were out. The only light outside came from the flashing lights of Allen's patrol car. My truck was backed up, almost to the front of the bar, and we could just see the blue tarp flapping frantically. Allen zipped up his jacket. His hat was wrapped in a plastic cover. He stared for a long time at my truck. The wind was whipping the rain under the awning and I had to squint to stand there next to him.
“Strange about the blue Jeep,” he said finally, standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” I said. We stood for a long moment, watching the trees across the street bend in the wind. The rain was thick and blowing almost horizontally.
“You know that underpass on Allen Parkway, where it goes under Waugh Drive?” Allen asked. He was still looking at my truck. I nodded. “Every time it rains like this, that underpass gets flooded with ten feet of water. And almost every time, somebody drives right in to the water. We find the car, keys still in the ignition, lights still on. Usually the driver's side door open. But no driver. Couple of times, we never found the body. Even a Jeep like that one,” he said, turning to me. “Even that couldn't make it through ten feet of water. You understand what I'm saying?” Allen asked. I nodded. Allen snapped the hood of his jacket up. “You be careful, Little John,” Allen said.
“I will,” I said. “Thanks.”
“And get out of town for a while,” he said. “It'll do you some good.” Then he ran to his patrol car and climbed in. Something occurred to me and I ran out into the parking lot and waved to him. He rolled down his window.
“Allen,” I yelled. “Were you in on the raid at the Galaxy?”
He cocked his head.
“What the hell kind of stupid question is that?” he yelled back.
“Somebody was just talking about it,” I said.
He shook his head and grinned.
“Nope,” he said. “I was home with my boots up on the coffee table.” I nodded and he laughed a little. “Now I'm gonna roll up this damn window,” he said. “I'm sick of getting rained on for no reason.”
He started the car and rolled up the window. The lights were still flashing as he pulled out of the parking lot and drove off down the street.
Back in the bar, as the wind screeched through the rafters and the rain pounded at the windows, Frank and I went about the long job of cleaning up the office. A couple of times, one of us would have to stop to fight back a retch. With flashlights and bar rags, we cleaned everything we could find. Then I wrapped everything we'd used in a trash bag and put it in the bed of the truck. With Frank's help, I unwrapped Oscar enough to get his wallet and keys out of his pocket, then wrapped him up again.
I had a cigarette and Frank had a cigarette and a beer. Then I went into the office and grabbed the new bottle of Blanton's out of the desk. At the bar, I pulled the cork and poured two shots. Then I grabbed bag with the two bundles of money next to the register and pulled the smaller on out and set it on the bar in front of Frank.
“Here,” I said.
He just looked at it.
“This is mine, do you understand? It's money I had saved before any of this started. It's $12,000,” I said.
He continued to stare at it.
“Take it. Just do me a favor. Stick around here for a while. Just a couple of weeks. Mitchell's gonna need your help and I'm gonna be gone. Just for a little while,” I said.
Frank's hand moved to the stack of cash.
“Stay in my place,” I told him. “I have to take the truck, but there's a bicycle in the garage you can use.”
Frank's index finger lay on the edge of the bundle, then he picked it up and shoved it deep in the pocket of his work pants. We downed our shots.
“Thanks, Frank,” I said.
He nodded.
“Can I have another one of those cigarettes?” he asked.
While he smoked, I poured a shot for Pancho and set it on the bench below him. I went back into the office and put the Blanton's in the drawer where it belonged. From the shelf in the store room, I took a bottle of Don Julio tequila, to get myself in the mood for my trip. Then I gathered up the rest of the cash, the two guns, and a shot glass just for the hell of it, and went outside and put them under the seat of my little truck.
Back inside, Frank was standing up.
“I need the truck key,” I said. “You'll have to walk home when it clears up.” He nodded, then wriggled it off the ring. I fished the bar key out of my pocket and put it on the bar in front of him.
“Here,” I said. “Lock up when you leave.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I drive the blue Jeep to the underpass that Allen mentioned. It is, just as he predicted, full of water. No one is in sight. I put the Jeep in park and open the door. Then I step out, reach in, and pull the shift into drive. The Jeep rolls straight into the black-gray water, pulls itself slowly further and further.
The walk back to the bar takes about a half an hour. Rain whips at my face so hard my skin feels sunburnt. One car passes me, but I step into a store doorway and he doesn't seem to notice.
Back at the bar, the light is on and, through the window, I can see Frank still sitting at the bar, his nose bandaged, a half of a pint of beer in front of him. I get in my truck.
The roads are quiet. I head toward the interstate, but a patrol car blocks the on-ramp, so I turn off and take the feeder road to the old highway, past an empty shopping mall, running generally parallel with the interstate. The wind is so strong I can feel it pushing my little truck to the side. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
About two miles from the beltway, I stop at an intersection. Nothing and no one in any direction. There's a convenience store with a dumpster behind it. All the lights in the store are off. I get out, throw the trash bag full of bloody rags and my bloody clothes into the dumpster, then quickly get back in and drive away.
I take the beltway down to the interstate. The on-ramp is open. I merge carefully onto the highway, even using my signal although there's not another car in sight. I can only go about thirty. The wind is pushing my little truck around and driving the rain in through the weather stripping. I get in the left lane and roll down the window. Wind and rain come crashing in. I reach under the seat and throw one of the guns over the concrete barricade along the median. About five miles down the road, I roll the window down again and throw the other gun out.
About twenty-five miles west of town, the highway crosses the Brazos River. I exit the highway, drive along the access road, and take a small farm road north. The pine trees are thick and dance frantically in the wind. I pass one house, then a second, then for several miles, nothing. I drive until I see the next house, five miles from the previous one. Another mile and the road turns right. A low concrete bridge crosses the now swollen Brazos. I back the little truck up to the edge of the bridge, blocking the road. Then I get out, open the tailgate, and with all the strength in my legs, shove Oscar's body out of the truck and into the water.
Tonight, I will drive to San Antonio where I will get a hotel room and sleep for the first time since Tracy died in my arms. I will park the truck in the rain, let the storm wash all remnants of Oscar out of the bed of my truck and into the gutters. No evidence of him will remain, not that anyone will be looking that hard for a drug dealer's killer.
In the morning, I will call Sarah, tell her of my plans. I will take a bus to Mexico, to Oaxaca, my Mom's hometown. Oaxaca is on the Pacific coast, far from Gulf hurricanes. I will lie on the beach, sweat out the impurities, and let my skin get dark. In a couple weeks, when the storm has passed and it is safe to return, I'll come back.
Ruby came home looking for family and she found it. I will do what I can to help her adjust to her new reality. Our new reality.
Then I will sell my father's house, get an apartment near Jacob. With the money from the house and the money from Oscar, maybe I will open my own bar, maybe in the Heritage, near Jacob. The violence of the last few days has given me an opportunity, to start over, to make things right. It is an imperfect foundation for the change that Jacob deserves, but I will do with it what I can.