PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay (19 page)

"The best thing to do," he told himself, spilling egg rolls in his wake, "is to walk out back and down the road, get to 35 and hitch a ride, and don't come back again."

S
omeone said hello.
 
It might have been Laura, it might have been Minnie, he couldn't tell which.
 
He had to see Gloria, had to talk to her, and he couldn't do that.
 
She'd see the whole thing, see it in his face, plain as the ten o'clock news.

Halfway through Piggs, he saw the college dudes again.
 
The trucker guy, the one who'd been a horsie the night before, had brought along some friends.

From the shadows near the bar, he risked a look at Cecil's table.
 
Cecil was alone, no one else was there, just Cecil R. Dupree, no shirt, no shoes, just bib overalls.
 
He was bent nearly over the table, tearing at a rib, ripping off the meat, spitting out the gristle, tossing the bones on the floor. Now and then he drew a thick hand across his face, wiping the sauce on his pants.

As Jack stood in shadow, stood there and watched, Cecil stopped and froze, a rib in midair, jerked up straight, so fast, so quick, Jack was certain those razor-black eyes had caught him, found him and pinned him to the wall.

Then the eyes shifted, found a target to the right, squeezed into tiny little slits.
 
The lavender mask turned purple, then solid bloody black.

Grape and Cat came through the door that led to Wan's, three feet from Jack.
 
They didn't look at Jack, didn't know he was there. Didn't look at Cecil, either, and Jack knew why, knew where they'd been, why they were back.

He was caught, in that moment, somewhere between desperation, diarrhea, and the exquisite sense of being totally alive.
 
He was either James Bond or fucking Peewee Herman, and, for an instant, his belly didn't hurt at all...

"T
he greaser wasn't home, Mr. Dupree, that's what I'm saying, that's the God's truth, we was there all night, the guy don't come, the fucker's not home."

"He wasn't home," Cat said.
 
"Fucker's not home."

Cecil looked at Cat, looked at Cat a while and gripped the table till his fingers turned white.

"You tell me somethin' he's telling me, you tell me somethin' twice, you do that again I'm burning your dirty magazines, I'm cutting off your cable TV."

"I'm sorry.
 
I'm real sorry, Mr. Dupree."

"You're sorry as you can be, Cat.
 
You're no good for nothing I can see."

Cat wanted to cry.
 
When Cecil got after him for something, he was scared he might crack, shatter into little pieces like they did on the cartoon shows sometimes.
 
Cat wondered how they did that, how you could do that and be okay again.

"How you know he wasn't in there," Cecil said, making the two stand, like you make kids do, they go to see the principal, showing these clowns he was too pissed to let them sit down.

"You go in, you check the place out, the guy's not hidin' under the bed somewhere?"

"They got alarms, Cec– Mr. Dupree.
 
It's all wired up, it's a nice part of town."

"They got a garage?"

"Every condo, they got a garage, it's built in."

"The Mescan got a car in there?"

"You can't see in.
 
You gotta have a beeper you want to get in."

"Fuck, you dropped it, Grape, that's what you did.
 
I ask you do somethin' easy, you fucking drop it, you come back to me and feed me shit like this.
 
A guy, he's got a security thing, he's got it so it whoopas you come inna door, it isn't on every fucking window, guy's got a half-ass lock on the door out back.

"You dropped it, Grape.
 
I am very disappointed you are dropping somethin' like this. The taco, I'm thinking he's up in his bed, his car's inna garage, you and the dummy here are riding round the fucking block, you're eatin' burgers and fries."

"We didn' have no fries," Cat said.

"Mr. Dupree," Grape said, "I got to say, an' I'm saying this in all respect, you're not being fair about this.
 
It isn't right, the guy's not there, I'm not wrong about that, the guy is not in the house–"

"Get me a couple Coors.
 
Get 'em from the back where it's cold. Don't open them or nothin', bring 'em here."

Grape didn't argue, didn't let it show, knew why Cecil was giving him this gofer job instead of Cat.
 
Didn't give a shit, now, didn't care.
 
You want a couple beers, asshole?
 
Fine, good old fuckin' Grape, he's bringing you couple beers.
 
Fuckin' Grape don't forget about that...

"Y
ou can sit," Cecil said to Cat, "sit, don't talk, you talk you drive me fuckin' nuts."

"Okay, Mr. Dupree."

"You hear what I said?"

"Yes, sir. Don't talk, you drive me fuckin' nuts."

"I give up, forget it.
 
Shit, you already forgot, right?"

Cecil looked around the room, checked the list he carried in his head, checked the crowd, checked the bar, knew, in a blink, which bartender was sweetening a drink for a friend, what girls were letting some big spender cop an extra feel.
 
He could tell, to the nickel, to the dime, who was goofing off, who was stealing him blind.

"What's wrong with Grape?
 
Why's he acting like that?
 
I chew the guy out, he's giving me a look.
 
I don't like it, he's giving me a look like that."

He was talking to Cat, but Cat didn't hear.
 
Cecil had told him not to talk, he was off on Neptune somewhere.

Thinking on it now, Cecil wished he'd held off on Grape for a while.
 
He counted on Grape, and Grape knew it, and he'd hit him heavy on the Chavez deal, because he was pissed Grape hadn't pulled it off.
 
Fucking beaner in his fancy clothes, hitting on Gloria all the time, that shit had to stop.
 
The girl was hard enough to nail without some Mescan feeding her a lot of crap.

Now he was going to have to tell Grape he was wrong on something else, that a call to Ambrose looking like a good idea.
 
Not a good idea, fuck that, but something maybe had to be done to get the buy off the ground.

The thing was, he wanted to work with this bunch because they had the connections, had the merchandise, and were smart about the business, in spite of this moron Kenny or Hutt or whatever the fuck, and Cecil had the outlets, knew how to make money on the stuff without getting close to the street end himself.

Okay, the two stiffs in the trunk, the Ambrose guys could maybe take offense, you had to give 'em that.
 
It wasn't on purpose, and didn't mean any disrespect, but you could take it like that, which Cecil figured was the reason these assholes were holding up the game.

So they made their point, and that's enough of that.
 
Now, the disrespect's the other way, it's coming at Cecil R. Dupree, and Cecil isn't sitting still for that.

"I'm not sitting still for that," he told Grape, as Grape delivered the beers, bringing two for Cecil and two for himself.

Cecil acted like nothing had happened, like he always did, you had to go along with that.

"I'm calling, I'm telling New Orleans get a guy up here, get him here tomorrow, day after that, or forget it, we're buying from somebody else."

"That's the thing to do," Grape said, "I gotta agree with that.
 
Those guys are messing with us now."

"You think I'm right in this."

"Yes sir, I surely do."

"Good.
 
I'm glad you're not saying this because I'm pissed about the greaser thing.
 
You make it right, I'm okay with that."

"Consider it done, Mr. Dupree."

Cecil looked at Grape a long time, waiting for Grape to look away, but Grape held on, didn't look funny in the eye or anything, he looked okay.

"I got no grief on this, we're okay, you get the thing done."

"I appreciate it, Mr. Dupree."

"Cecil.
 
You can do Cecil again, I don't tell you something else."

"Me too, Mr. Dupree," Cat said.

"Me too what?"

"What he said.
 
What Grape did."

Cecil said, "Get us a couple more beers.
 
Get yourself a big orange.
 
Get some fucking peanuts over here."

"Sure, Mr. Dupree."

Cat stood, rose up like a grizzly, like a mountain, like a tree, blocking out the light, the bar, Minnie Mouth and Alabama Straight, the southern end of Piggs.

It always aggravated Cecil, always caused him to wonder how a person so big, a person with the strength of a Cape buffalo, could have the brains of a brick.
 
The guy's head alone, there was room in there for two, three brains to spare.
 
Instead, there were only instructions how to walk, how to shit.
 
How to tell which is a banana, which is a fish.

Every time he asked Cat to get something for him, Cecil wished he'd sent Grape, or done it himself. The agony, the effort, the dreadful confusion that overwhelmed Cat was a terrible thing to see.

Cecil watched him coming back, watched him mouth the words, trying, with fierce determination, to hang onto them before they simply drifted away.

'beer...big orange...fucking peanuts..."

Good, doing fine, the dummy remembered what to get, remembered where to bring them back.

Then, as Cecil watched, some neural lint, some static from outer space, twisted Cat's features into awesome disarray.
 
Something scrambled the tortured process in his head, derailed his train, tossed him off the track.

"Orange," Cat said..."beer...fucking peanuts...nigger...

beer...fucking orange...nigger...fucking beer..."

"Huh?"
 
Cecil blinked, squinted his tiny eyes, certain, now, Cat's cheap wiring was shorting out.

"What you talkin' about, what's the matter with you?"

Cat didn't answer, didn't have to try.
 
Someone appeared, someone walked past the giant into view.
 
White shirt, white tie, pearl-gray suit, purple shades and silver shoes. Cool, slick, six-foot-eight, black as blackest night.

"Mr. Cecil R. Dupree," the man said, smooth as ice cream, fine as peach pie, "I am Hamilton Taylor Gerrard, and I represent Mr. Ambrose Junior of New Orleans, who would like to offer you a fair, square and honest business deal..."

"T
his is a criminal act that you are doing, you are in the very deep trouble, my friend.
 
When you are detaining a person this is a most illegal matter for which the penalty is severe.

"However, I am willing to look upon this as a grave misunderstanding, possibly a humor, a joke of some kind.
 
If you agree to be releasing me at once, I would even consider a modest reward."

Jack pretended he wasn't paying any mind, but he was.
 
Looking the other way, like cleaning your fingernails, doing something else, what that did was de-moralize your captive, in a psychological way.
 
This was a proven technique, used by agents of many nations, and the cops in Dallas and Oklahoma City, two cities he knew about for sure.

"You are fucking through, Mr. Chavez?" Jack said finally.

"If you're finished talking, you can shut your lip an' listen to me.
 
You don't want to do that, I'll leave you here and you can yell through the stomping and the stereo up there an' someone'll come and let you go, they ever figure where the hell you are, which by the way don't anybody know."

"I will not yell or shout," Ricky said.
 
"I do not feel this would help the matter at all.
 
I would like to deal with you directly on this matter, Jack.
 
I think we can come to the
solucion
, the answer that will satisfy your needs."

"You ought to thank me, is what you ought to do.
 
You'd be a cold burrito if it wasn't for me.
 
You can believe that or not, it don't matter to me."

Ricky supposed, in a most peculiar way, this was so.
 
It was not impossible to believe the gringo mobster with the Lone Ranger face would kill him, simply because he wished to have relations of an intimate nature with the lovely Gloria Mundi.
 
Possibly, he dared imagine, relations of a more permanent nature than that.

On the other hand, Jack had made it clear his rescue was for the purpose of dispatching Ricky himself.
 
This, to Ricky's mind, took some of the air out of Jack's noble act.