PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay (13 page)

Daddy hadn't fought in the war, he'd barely been born at the time.
 
But he had a good background from comic books and movies with Audie Murphy and Alan Ladd.
 
He'd watched "Hogan's Heroes" and knew what he liked, and what he didn't like at all.

Considering the times, Gloria felt that was likely fair.
 
That's where Daddy was coming from, and the library lady as well. Germans weren't our friends at the time.
 
Especially fucking Nazi butchers with acne and piggy little eyes who struck without warning from the air.
 
That was the worst kind of all.
 
If you went through the
BATTLE OF BRITUN
at the time, you could see these butchers, plaster pilots formerly from Fricker's Mens Store, dying in the cockpits of Heinkels, Arados, and Messerschmitts of every shape and size.
 
They were splashed with red paint, and had real bullet holes from Daddy's .45.
 
When the park closed down for the night, Daddy liked to roam about with a bottle of Vat 69, and shoot Germans in the head.
 
For a while, there was screaming from the bad PA, but tourists didn't seem to like that.

Still, Gloria couldn't bring herself to hate Hauptmann Wilhelm Klass for what he might have done at the time.
 
Could never bring herself to feel that way, for he was the only man she'd ever loved at all.
 
Fate and the cruel years had deemed they'd never meet in this life, but that didn't mean they'd always be apart.
 
Gloria believed this was true.
 
She felt she knew Wilhelm better than she knew a lot of people living at the time.

Whatever he'd done so bad, he'd done it some sixty years past, and so had a lot of folks as well.
 
Shoot, was he any worse than Cat Eye or Grape or Cecil R. Dupree?
 
Lord God, he'd have to be pretty fucking bad to get as low as that.

Gloria could look at the faded picture on Wilhelm's ID, stuck right there on the panel with all the little dials since l943, and look in his faded blue eyes and know he was good inside.
 
One thing for sure–you're dancing buck naked every night for a bunch of truckers and such, you sure as hell know about eyes.
 
You know what some fella's thinking, and it isn't always what you'd imagine it would be.
 
Sometimes, it's something you wouldn't ever guess.
 
And the thing she saw in Wilhelm's eyes went right to her heart, touched something there that always brought the hot tears, made her know he was with her somehow, right there close by.

"We're going to make it," she said, "I just know it's so."
 
The words caught in her throat like they always did, and she gripped the wheel tight right where his hands had been.

"We're going to make it, and you're going to fly again, Will. And you don't have to be a Kraut motherfucker this time, either, you can be whatever you like.
 
Whatever it is, hon, my love for you isn't never going to change..."

"W
here I find him, you know where the little fuck is, you know where he is?
 
He's in the fucking back, got his head in the dumpster back of Wan's, he's tossing up, for Christ sake.
 
That's what he's doing, little fuck is throwing up."

"You told me what he's doing, don't tell me what he's doing no more, I don't want to hear the little fuck is throwing up."

Cecil turned to Jack.
 
"Why you doing that, Jack?
 
You eat somethin' bad, why you throwing up?"

"I guess I eat something bad," Jack said. "All I can figure is I eat something bad, Mr. Dupree."

Grape laughed.
 
"He might've eat something bad."

"Shut up, Grape.
 
I got fuckin' ears as good as you."

Cecil looked at Jack like he always did, like he was looking at a bug, at a wall, at a real exciting brick somewhere.
 
Jack looked at Cecil like he always did, like he wasn't looking anywhere at all.
 
That was the best way to look at Cecil R. Dupree. You look at Cecil, look at his fat little fingers, look at his toes, look at him anywhere at all, Cecil figures you're looking at his face, you're looking at his strawberry mask, you're thinking "Hi, Ho, fucker!" and Cecil's going to get you for that.

"Cat thinks he oughta cut off your balls, something on that order, Jack.
 
I told him, I told him Jack didn't strike you with harmful intent, he's not as dumb as that, he wouldn't do somethin' like that.
 
Cat don't think that's right, he ought to get you back, but you know Cat, he don't know how to stop.

"I don't need no cripple, some fuck washin' dishes with a stump, I got no use for that.
 
So you get out of this, Jack, you don't get hurt or nothing, all right?
 
I already tol' Cat you're sorry, you don't gotta do that.
 
Best thing to do don't get in his way for a while, don't do nothing, you unnerstan' that?"

"I surely do, and I appreciate what you done, Mr. Dupree," Jack said, careful not to look anywhere at all.
 
"That was a kindly thing to do, I sincerely mean that."

"He says it's a kindly thing to do," Grape said.
 
"The fuck's saying that, You gotta say, 'you're welcome, Jack, wasn't nothing at all."

"You want to watch that mouth," Cecil said.
 
"I need someone show me how to talk, I'll get me fucking Tom Rather, some New York fuck's got better talk than you."

"That was a joke, Cecil.
 
Wasn't nothing more than that."

"I want a joke, Grape, I'll get me fucking Dave Leno, some dude like that.
 
Go get me some ribs over to Lockhart, don't get no sausage or nothing, get me some ribs and don't eat one on the way.
 
You eat my ribs I'll smell it on your breath.
 
Don't eat a fucking mint.
 
You do, I'll smell that too, I'll know what you're covering for, we clear on that?"

"Yes, sir, Cecil, we sure are clear on that."

"It's Mr. Dupree till I'm not pissed anymore, you figure when that'll be.
 
Jack, what you doin' standing 'round here?
 
I have saved your life, what more you want out of me?
 
God damn, I got you and Grape an' Cat, I got me the whole Three Stooges, now what in the fuck did I do to deserve a crew like that?"

"H
e said, what he said was he isn't going to let Cat get back at me at all. Said I was out of that, 'cause I didn't do anything with harmful intent.
 
That means it wasn't on purpose, so I don't have to get hurt or maimed or nothing like that."

"I know about this harmful intent," Ortega said. "This is something you can do hard time for, you messin' with the law."

"Is batter you got the law on you back, you got the Caht," Ahmed said.
 
"Sometime they don' kill you too much, you dealin' wit' the law."

"This is true here.
 
It's not so true, I'm sorry to say, you're down in Mexico.
 
We still have some problems there, which will be solved shortly by our new president."

"Hey, you don' wan' to get toss in the greaser jail, thas bad t'ing to do."

"You watch that Middle Eastern mouth of yours, amigo.
 
You don't want to be doing no ethnic slurring with me."

"I don' have the harmful intent, so ees okay.
 
You can't do not'in to me."

Ahmed was seized by his sudden flash of humor, seized to such degree he was forced to clutch his stomach to hold the joy in.

Jack doesn't laugh.
 
Jack dumps dishes in a warm and soapy sea, in a sea afloat with pork, shrimp, chicken, bits and pieces of creatures of every sort, in a pseudo-chink whatever sort of sea, whatever Ahmed imagines at the time.

The food at Wan's has little to do with the menu at all, for the people who stop here don't know shit from Szechwan. What they know is Piggs is next door, they can chase down the food with a Shiner or a Bud, step across the way, gaze at something hot as chili pepper, sweet as ginger rice, something they wouldn't dare order up at home.

"Once I am driving trock to Qal'a Sharqat, I am seein dis guy he is havin' flaht, he is havin' two flaht what he is havin', one on de fron' one on de bahk.
 
Is hunert twenny somet'ing, which is not so bahd in Qal'a Sharqat, this is the cool time of de year, you know?"

"Yeah, when's that?"

"When is the what?"

"When's the fucking cool time of the year?"

"Why you askin dat?"
 
Ahmed is annoyed when he's talking and someone else is talking too.

"Why you askin dat, you never hear of thees place, you don' know where is Qal'a Sharqat, you wanna know when is cool up dere.
 
Is south of Mosul and Al Qaiyara.
 
Is north of Tkrit.
 
You t'ink you got it now?"

"Bueno, I got it now."

"You don' got sheet, mahn–"

Ahmed raised his big steel cleaver and came down with a whack, with a shudder, with a fervor and a glee that plastered green onions to the ceiling and the wall.
 
One green snip hit Ortega right between the eyes.
 
Jack was near certain the ay-rab could see Mescan fingers go shick-shick-shick beneath his blade, see the sever, see the hack, see the slick little stubbies bounce about.

He knew this was so, knew it was going on right in Ahmed's head. Knew everyone who worked in the place thought Ahmed was a clown, eighty-two pounds of camel shit, but Jack knew better than that.

It made him itch in the middle of his back to know Ahmed was aware of his hidey-hole under Piggs, that it wasn't a secret anymore, someone knew he was there.
 
 
Ahmed might tell someone or maybe not.
 
A person of the Arab persuasion could turn on you just like that, they did it all the time, everybody knew that.

Ortega was humming some Mescan tune, thinking, maybe, how whales were doing something evil, grinning down there in the deep because no one knew their true nature at all, no one but Ortega who knew they were Satan's minions of the sea.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt bad about using Ortega's car to run away, and he was glad he'd decided to stay.
 
Not stay, but not exactly go, not until he hit a couple stores so he could take Gloria Mundi out for pie, ask her to quit and go away. Tell her he had enough money, she wouldn't have to do what she was doing anymore.

Sure, she'd told him she liked what she was doing, but a stripper, what's she going to say?
 
Man, I really love stomping naked under red and purple lights, wearing these godamn shoes, showing all my parts to a bunch of assholes, it's a fun thing to do.

Course she didn't like it.
 
There wasn't a nice girl would.
 
Okay, maybe Maggie and Alabama Straight and Whoopie LaCrane, but Gloria wasn't like that.
 
What Gloria needed was a guy who could see how fine and decent she was with all her clothes on, you can't see her tits or nothing else.
 
And you can't get that from some fucking Mex got gold on his boots and candy you can get at the Walgreen's store...

"You got nothing to do, I will find you something, you fuck.
 
Mr. Cecil Dupree isn't paying you to stand 'round watchin' a ay-rab cook."

Jack did a little jump, did a little hop before he could stop, and cussed himself for letting Rhino come up behind him like that.

"I was just getting to these dishes, finish 'em up," Jack said. "There isn't but a few, I'll be done with 'em quick."

"Don't let me stand in your way, then.
 
I wouldn't fool with a man's work ethic, Jack.
 
You just dive right fuckin' in."

Jack didn't move because Rhino's eyes were an inch or two from his, which said Jack better not move till Rhino was through.
 
That was a hard thing to do, because Rhino had little BB. eyes hidden under rolls of baby fat.
 
Little black eyes, cookie dough fat, and pores the size of craters with stuff coming out. Rhino looked like Yellowstone Park, everything bubbling and oozing all the time.

Even worse was the way Rhino smelled.
 
Everyone thought he got the name from his size, but it wasn't that at all.
 
He smelled like a rhino.
 
Not like a human or anything else.
 
No one in town had ever smelled a rhino, but no one had to, everyone knew.

"I fear I been hearing reports on your behavior, Jack," Rhino said.
 
Rhino knew exactly how long Jack could hold his breath, and grinned when he had to let it out.
 
"You in a little trouble, seems to me."

"I made a mistake, is all," Jack said.
 
"I talked about it to Mr. Dupree.
 
He said it wasn't no harmful intent."