PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay (20 page)

Ricky did not think Jack was a loco, a person of the nut persuasion, in the sense that Cecil could be said to truly be crazy as shit.
 
Jack was more of the cunning nature, of the sly, lacking in manners and cultura of any sort.
 
Not so much evil in the heart as a lack of reason in the head.

Still, if a man is tied naked except for his boots, lying on the concrete floor in the pen of the dogs, the difference in the Cecils and the Jacks of the world is of little matter at the time.
 
What matters is how to avoid the dying in such a wretched place.

H
e remembered most of it now.
 
Climbing down the shaky ladder from the Junkers airplane in the tree.
 
Then bop! on the head, and he's in somebody's trunk, someone else's, not his.
 
He is in a car where the exhaust travels directly through the trunk and out a ragged hole in the back.
 
Ricky recalls little after that.

If anything is more humiliating that his naked condition, it's the sight of his possessions Jack has laid out neatly on the floor.
 
His clothing, his Patek Philippe, his Cordovan leather wallet from Spain, two very nice rings of silver, sixteen-hundred dollars, and a number of credit cards.

Under the seat of his car, Jack has also found his .357 silver-plated Colt Magnum, with the Mexican eagle and serpent engraved on the weapon, and the gold pesos inlaid on the ivory grip.

In his jacket, Jack has found the damning evidence of condoms from France.
 
This, Ricky fears, could seal his fate with Jack, who knows the occasion for which they were intended.
 
More than once, Jack has let his flashlight shine in an accidental manner on Ricky's private parts. And, for the first time in his life, Ricky Chavez is grateful they are not spectacular, but only of normal size for his weight and height.

"You gotta understand," Jack said, leaning against the chain link side of the pen, studying Ricky's fine watch, "this is a personal thing with me, it don't have no racial undertones.
 
I don't care for beaners, or any of your swarthy-colored types, but this has got nothing to do with that. This has to do with trying to fuck Gloria Mundi, and I won't put up with that."

"I admit to an admiration for this woman," Ricky said, hesitating a moment to collect his thoughts, "I will not deny that.
 
But what you speak of I resent, for you are painting my intentions as soez, ordinary and coarse."

"Yeah, well coarse is as coarse does, I'm not going into that.
 
I don't want you messin' with Gloria.
 
Her and I isn't some passin' affair, we intend to settle down."

Ricky was glad the light was off his face at the time, for he was quite amazed to learn this.

"I was truly not aware of such a thing.
 
Miss Mundi has never mentioned that to me."

"That's because it's isn't your business, Mr. Chavez.
 
It's nothing you need to know."

"Yes.
 
I see."

"Good.
 
I'm fucking happy you do."

"And you feel–because I have shown my affection to this lady as well, you must murder me in cold blood, this is so?"

"You embarrassed or anything, I could find something to cover you up.
 
I'm not a mean-spirited person, Mr. Chavez.
 
I'd say having too kindly a nature has been a weakness in me, and likely done more harm than good."

"A blanket of some manner would be appreciated, yes.
 
And I must complain these restraints are uncomfortably tight."

"That's your ordinary duct tape, is all.
 
It won't cut your blood off, it'll give."

Jack paused to listen as the bozos upstairs began to cheer and stomp, and a fine veil of dust descended through the cracks.
 
The DJ put on "God Save the Queen," which meant Maggie Thatch was coming on, and Gloria would be up after that.

He looked at Ricky's very fine watch and wondered what it cost.
 
Likely more than his Buick Park Avenue, which Jack had left where he'd found it, in a brushy turnaround near the
BATTLE OF BRITUN
FAMILY FUN PARK.
 
The watch was hard to read, even with a flash.
 
It had little diamonds for numbers, which irritated Jack no end.
 
If he was right, it was half past one.

"I've had some thought on this since last night, Mr. Chavez, which might be of interest to you.
 
It's possible–and I don't say it'll happen that way–that you could be a help to me, which means I'd be keeping you alive."

"I would be most interested in being of help to you, Jack."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised to hear that.
 
The thing is, Cecil Dupree has got a box full of money up in his place, which is right above Piggs.
 
I don't know exactly how much, but it's a lot.
 
Cecil's going to make a drug buy with that dough.
 
Someone's coming up soon from the Ambrose bunch in New Orleans.
 
In case you don't know, that's a mob empire down there, a lot of whose members have been cited on network TV.

"What I am saying is, I'm going to get that money for myself.
 
It isn't legal, it comes from criminal enterprise, so it isn't stealing like you hold up a store.
 
I intend to use it for good, which is to start a new life for myself, and take Gloria away from all this."

Ricky hoped his feelings would not betray him.
 
In the motion pictures, persons of the Hispanic nature were either highly agitated, foaming at the mouth, or appeared to be drugged, with no expression at all.
 
At the moment, it was the clown, the
payaso
, holding up an adobe wall, that Ricky wished Jack to see.

"That is a most ambitious and truly daring idea, Jack. I have no experience in the robbery trade, but I should be pleased to be of service in any way I can..."

"Put a lid on the kiss-ass stuff, amigo, I don't need none of that.
 
An' I don't need help on the job, either.
 
It's your kind of stealing where I can use a little advice."

Ricky shook his head.
 
"I do not see what I can do. I am in the banking business, Jack."

"Right.
 
That's what I'm talking about. Big time crooks, your white shirt stuff.
 
I get the money, you hide it.
 
All but a little running money, the rest in like an overseas offshore truss."

"Yes," Ricky said, "I can do that."

"Good.
 
Then you got a fair chance of remaining among the living, Mr. Chavez."

"I am honored to work with you, Jack."

"Fuck you are.
 
Just don't get any fancy greaser ideas.
 
I've seen 'bout every Ricardo Montalban picture twice..."

C
ecil R. Dupree had spoken to a number of niggers up close, but never one exactly like this.
 
If Hamilton T. Gerrard had ever pushed a lawn mower in his life, it didn't show now.

Cecil's first thought, his primal reaction, was to shoot this uppity bastard on the spot.
 
Not a real good idea, with a couple hundred customers around.
 
That, and if he really came from Ambrose, Cecil needed to hear what he had to say.
 
You could always shoot a guy later, you didn't have to do it right away.

"First thing is," said Hamilton T. Gerrard, "is a message from Mr. Ambrose Junior himself.
 
Mr. Ambrose like to say he harbor no ill feelings regarding the mishap what occurred in connection to Mr. Hutt Kenny's visit up here.
 
That is water below the bridge.
 
Mr. Ambrose say an accident like that might happen once, but odds are it wouldn't likely happen again.
 
You understand what I'm saying, Mr. Dupree?"

"Yeah.
 
Give Mr. Ambrose Junior my personal regards.
 
Tell him I don't forsee any mishaps like that.
 
Tell him the odds are good he won't be sending another asshole with funny-looking shirts up here."

Hamilton Gerrard grinned.
 
"I will tell him just that, Mr. Dupree.
 
I know he'll be pleased.
 
You gentlemen mind if I sit?
 
I am cursed with abnormal height, and I can barely see y'all down there."

"Please do," Cecil said, and decided he would shoot Mr. Gerrard in the knees first. That would take care of any fucking problem with abnormal height.

"Welcome to Piggs, Mr. Gerrard.
 
Let me get you something to drink."

"I believe I'll decline right now, but I am grateful for the thought.
 
Now, Mr. Dupree, here is what Mr. Ambrose Junior suggests that we do.
 
I have brought the merchandise in the quantity you discussed with Mr. Ambrose some time ago."

"No partials," Cecil said.
 
"We do the whole thing, I told him that."

"And he agrees, sir, you'll be pleased to hear.
 
That's a gesture of goodwill on Mr. Ambrose' part.
 
The price, now, that'll be seventy-five.
 
And if you are looking surprised, Mr. Dupree, and I believe that's what I see, Mr. Ambrose thought the extra ten might serve as a gesture of goodwill on your part, you see."

"I see where Mr. Ambrose Junior is going, and with all due respect, fuck him.
 
I'll go five for goodwill, if Mr. Ambrose will agree to go back to sixty-five the next time we do a deal."

"Mr. Ambrose Junior discuss that with me, and he say because he hold you in highest regard, he accept the extra five, and he guarantee the price stay at the figure next time."

For a long moment, Cecil R. Dupree and Hamilton T. Gerrard held one another in a cold and penetrating gaze.
 
Neither one blinked, neither gave an inch, both of them willing to die before they'd look away.
 
Then, each man gave the very slightest of nods to the other, and each sat back in his chair.

"This is Grape here, and that's Cat," Cecil said.
 
"You make the trip up here yourself, or you bring some company along?"

"I get lonesome, I ride by myself."

Cecil grinned at that, and Grape did too.
 
Cat simply stared, as he had from the moment this strange, exotic creature had walked into his world.
 
Cat knew there were people who were black, he'd seen them lots of times.
 
But Cat kept things in order in his head, he knew where things belonged, where they ought to be.
 
Cars were in the street, they weren't up in the sky.
 
Soda pop was orange or brown, it never was blue.
 
Niggers were outside of Piggs, they never were in.
 
Only one was in now, and that hurt Cat's head.

"Don't mind him," Cecil said, "he don't have a big social agenda, he don't get out a lot.
 
He doesn't mean any disrespect for persons of the colored persuasion.
 
We just don't get a lot of your people in here."

"I didn't notice," said Mr. Gerrard.
 
"Not a lot of light in here."

"That's part of the illusion and all.
 
Guys come in, it's private, don't anyone know they're here.
 
But I expect you've been in a place like this before."

Mr. Gerrard smiled.
 
"I've got 1:43, Mr. Dupree.
 
I'd be pleased if we could take care of our business at four.
 
Outside. I'll have my package, you'll have yours."

Mr. Gerrard stood, unfolding his skinny frame up to a full six-nine.

"Four's kinda late," Cecil said.
 
"We close up at three.
 
Three-thirty's better for me."

"Persons of the colored persuasion stay up all night sometimes, Mr. Dupree."

Before Cecil could answer, Hamilton T. Gerrard had smiled once more and walked away.

"Pow," Cecil said.
 
He cocked his finger and fired again.

"Pow, motherfucker, your black ass is dead."

"The guy's tall," Grape said.
 
"You got to give him that."

"They're supposed to be tall, you dope.
 
A short guy, how's he going to play basketball...?"

"T
his is not right, Jack.
 
I have agreed to help you in your robbery enterprise.
 
We are working together, my friend.
 
You do not treat a person who is doing the cooperation with you in such a manner as this."

"Mr. Chavez, shut the fuck up.
 
We aren't working together, and we sure aren't friends.
 
You're doing what I tell you 'cause that's what you gotta do."