Grundish & Askew (21 page)

Jerry stops and spins in the direction of Grundish, pointing his stick at the large bearded man; his speed and agility surprise Grundish. “You boys are dumb as dog turds, ain’t you?” He stares at Grundish, waiting for an answer to what, at first, sounded like a rhetorical question.

“Uh...no,” answers Grundish.

“No, sir,” says Askew, feeling defensive. “We ain’t no
astral
physicists or nothing but we ain’t no retards either.”

“Well, how you boys gonna get from here to Mexico?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a boat or something,” says Grundish. “We kind of didn’t really have a whole lot of time to plan this. It all sort of just happened.”

“You boys have fake passports or IDs?”

“No,” says Grundish, his tone changing to one of slight irritation. “We didn’t have time to, and I wouldn’t have known where to get something like that anyway. I been trying to stay out of trouble since I been out of the joint.”

“And what about money? Do you have any money to get you by in the meantime?”

“Mr. Mathers,” says Grundish. The volume of his voice rises a notch. His face flushes with a slight pink tinge. He rises from his sitting position and takes several steps toward Jerry. “I understand that we fucked up and we’re unprepared. It ain’t a good situation, and if I could go back and do things differently, I would. If I could, I’d jump in a time machine and go back and slap some sense into me and Askew. But I can’t. And I appreciate your letting us stay here until we figure out what to do. But, I don’t like the way you’re talking down to us. I know we ain’t the smartest guys you’ve ever run across. But we’re trying, man. We’re really trying to get ourselves out of this hot water. And, if it’s going to be a problem, we’ll just get Turleen, and we’ll all leave you in peace.”

Jerry straightens and steps up to Grundish, looking down at him. He puts his hand on Grundish’s shoulder and says, “Now, don’t get your granny-panties in a bunch, Son. I’m just asking some questions to help you figure some of this out. If Turleen hasn’t told you, I know a thing or two about being on the run. I’m gonna help you, and I’ll try to be more gentle so as not to make you boys cry. But we have so much time and so little to do.” Jerry stops, scratches his chin, looks sideways, and shivers. “Strike that; reverse it. You know what I’m saying.”

“So, what do you suggest?” asks Dora, her left eye blinking at Jerry, making him blush. “Because we are gonna need any help we can get with getting out of here and setting up the ship.”

“We?” asks Grundish with more than just a hint of incredulity. “What’s she talking about, Askew? Sounds like she’s planning on coming along. This ain’t no pleasure cruise. You, me and Turleen gotta get the hell out of here, and we can’t have this girl coming along and mucking things up.”

“She ain’t mucking things up,” answers Askew. “And she ain’t just some girl. She’s my girl. We’re gonna be in a
mahoganous
relationship, and she wants to come along. And I want her with us.”

“Well, what’s she gonna do to help out? She’s barely an adult and has no real skills that are gonna help us run our operation. What’s she got that’s gonna help us?”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Jerry interrupts, scowling at Grundish. “You ain’t no smarter than my donkey that just lays around in his own sick. What’s that girl do for a living?”

“She’s a whore
^[37]
,” answers Grundish.

“And who do whores hang out with?”

“I don’t know. I guess probably other whores.”

“You guess probably other whores
^[38]
,” Jerry sneers at Grundish. “Of course, other whores. And you need whores for your boat. What are you planning on doing, putting a help-wanted ad in the newspaper? That little girl can help get you set up.”

“Yeah,” says Askew. “And, she’s got start up money for us. Cash-money, Bro. So, she’s gonna be our partner.”

Grundish returns to his cross-legged pose on top of his crate. Silent. He rubs the top of his head, trying to stimulate a thought. His face goes slack, and then the furry beard begins to move and his teeth form into a half-smile. “How much money does she got?”

“Over a hundred-grand,” answers Dora. She smiles at Askew and kisses him on the cheek. “And, I’m willing to put it up for a one-third interest. I can get the girls for you. I can even help keep them under control.”

“Yeah,” says Askew, suddenly flustered, “but that’s my job. I get to take care of the ladies. Ain’t that right Grundish? You always said that I get to take care of the ladies.”

“Yeah,” agrees Grundish. “Askew gets to be in charge of the ladies.”

“Okay, Baby,” agrees Dora, “you’re in charge of the ladies. I’ll be available for consultation if you need me. So what do you say, Mr. Grundish? Are the three of us going to be business partners?”

“Well,” concedes Grundish, “if Askew wants you that bad, I guess I can go along with it. But, you really have that money?”

“There you go,” says Jerry. “You’re all getting along. That’s flipping wonderful. But we have to get you guys out of here, and out of the country. The first step is gonna be getting you fake passports.”

“How are we going to do that, Mr. Mathers? We don’t know anybody that does anything like that.”

Jerry taps his walking stick on the ground several times and grins. “I’m calling my friend, Chancho. He can help. But before I do, I have a little business proposal for you boys, too.”

Alf the Sacred Burro disappears behind a lime-green VW van and awaits the return of his new friend with the hairy face. A kindle of oil-stained kittens appears from under the van and rubs affectionately against the donkey’s legs. Now that he is untethered, Alf is finding his way around the junkyard and discovering what he has been missing. Mostly it’s more of the same, junked autos rusting out where they stand. The old heaps are dead, dying or disinclined to drive. Spaced throughout the yard are blighted live oak trees being strangled to death by great, clinging clumps of Spanish moss. Jerry never sold any of the vans or even any of the parts to people. He once told Alf that he didn’t sell his babies to assholes. To Jerry, pretty much anybody who wanted to buy one of his cars was an asshole. Alf cowers behind the green van because he hears the roar and rattle of the station wagon that always brings the Mexican. That’s what Alf calls the cruel little man who kicks at him and pelts him with apples when Jerry isn’t around, the Mexican. To Jerry, the short, brown man is known as Chancho. Alf remains behind the van, hoping not to be discovered.

Simulated-wood panels span the sides of Chancho’s Plymouth Fury wagon. The faux-wood grain is intended as a complement to the creamy beige sputum-toned paint. Peeking around the corner of his hiding place, Alf sees the driver’s side door open. Below the door, two snake-skin boots plant themselves firmly on the ground. The silver-plated tips of the boots can inflict sharp pains on a donkey’s ribs. The sun glints off of the tip of one of the boots and scares Alf into a full hiding position behind the van. Extending up and out of the boots is five-feet and one-hundred-ninety-eight pounds of gold-toothed, ill-tempered, donkey-hating, illegal alien. A cowboy hat holds down the thick, black, bowl-cut crop of hair on Chancho’s
cabeza
. The gold-toothed smile fades, the wispy mustache droops in sadness, and Chancho’s pitted features go slack with disappointment when he sees that Alf is no longer tethered to the side of the building. Chancho slams his door in frustration, causing the one remaining hub cap on the other side of the car to fall off. He lets himself into Jerry’s building.

Chancho waddles through the labyrinth of stacked storage boxes, litter boxes, and assorted debris, kicking mange-afflicted felines away from his feet and stepping over cat turds. His strut is that of a pigeon, with the silver tips of his boots clacking on the floor like a lazy tap-dancer trying to work up momentum. His pock-marked face wrinkles in disgust at the overwhelming stench of cat piss. Chancho does not like animals. Chancho does not like people either, with the exception of his mama, Jerry, and the pretty girls.

When he reaches the door to Jerry’s living quarters, Chancho takes off his dirty cowboy hat and gently sets it on the ground beside the door. He rolls the pudgy fist of his right hand in the palm of his left, cracking his knuckles. The smile on the stout man’s blemished face is momentarily warm and genuine as he readies himself for battle. Turning the door knob as quietly as he can, Chancho throws the door open, turns his volume up to eleven and lets out a warbling war cry as he dives through the air, landing on his shoulder and rolling to reduce the impact. He pops up to his feet, hands balled in front of him, and readies himself for hand-to-hand combat. “Come on and get me,
Cabron
!” he yells, his hands held up and ready for fisticuffs.

•  •  •

Off to one side of the inner sanctum, just prior to Chancho’s bursting into the room, Jerry and his company were enjoying a dinner of meats Grundish boosted from the Buttwynn house. Turleen, well-rested and feeling sassy, cooked a pork tenderloin in Jerry’s microwave. Grundish, utilizing years of cellblock cooking experience, made what he called Dorito Burritos with ingredients from Jerry’s vending machine. The recipe for the burritos went a little something like this:

•  •  •

Take one packet of ramen noodles and crush them up. Do the same with a bag of spicy Doritos, and mix the noodles and Doritos together. Throw in a package of nacho cheese and mix some more. Mix all of the ingredients in a bag and add a half-cup of water heated in the microwave. Squish them all together and flatten it out. Let it get mushy and dig in.

•  •  •

The Dorito Burritos sit in the middle of the card table the group is gathered around. Only Grundish and Askew pick at the burritos.

“You know,” says Askew with a glob of cheesy noodle sauce running down his chin, “this is some awesome shit. I have always loved your prison recipes. Although I do hate that you had to be in the hoosegow to learn your
culimnary
skills. You people don’t know what you’re missing here.” He scoops up another mound of Dorito Burrito and crams it in his mouth. Grundish nods at him, scoops up a large helping for himself, smashes it on top of a chunk of pork, and spoons the whole mess into his maw. Soggy bits of Doritos and ramen cling to his beard.

“Well,” says Dora with a crooked smile, “I’ve put some bad stuff in my mouth before. But I just don’t think I can stomach that. I’ll just stick with Turleen’s tenderloin. Thanks anyways, Grundish.”

“Me too,” agrees Jerry. “Hell, I shouldn’t even be eating this meat. But damn, it’s tasty. And I’ve denied myself a lot of things in my life. But tonight I’m gonna let loose. Turleen, Baby, please bring me some more of that meat. I don’t care if it does make my stomach cramp up and gives me the Hershey squirts. I don’t care if it takes a year off of my life. I’m happy. I’ve got my girl here again, and I’m happy. Bring me some more food, Darling.” His voice trembles as he calls out for another plate of food. “And one more cup of coffee, too, if you don’t mind.”

•  •  •

“Turleen,” says Askew, “once you get Jerry more meat, you should try some of Grundish’s masterpiece. I
exspecially
think that you’ll like it. Then again, perhaps it’s not the healthiest thing for someone your age to be eating. You know...”

Before Askew can finish his conflicting thoughts, a scream gashes the air, trailing off of the crazed flying-Chancho like a ripped banner streaming from an airplane. Just as Chancho pops up from his roll, sets his battle stance, and screams “come on and get me,
Cabron
^[39]
,” Askew’s brain tries its best to evaluate the situation. The thought rolls around in his head and finally settles in that the man in the middle of the room is a threat to everybody’s safety. He pushes past Dora, knocking her to the floor from her seat. Letting loose with a bloodthirsty yowl of his own, Askew charges the stocky man in the middle of the room, tackling Chancho at waist-level and slamming him to the floor. Still screaming one long incomprehensible shriek, Askew climbs on top of him in a full mount, pummels the man’s fat head with hammer fists, and drops vicious elbows into his face. Chancho, stunned by the unknown attacker, covers up his face and strikes at Askew’s head with his elbows. He bucks Askew off of him and jumps on his back, throwing fists under Askew’s arms and connecting with his jaw.

Grundish watches his friend trade blows with the unknown man and is impressed with the ferocity with which Askew brawls. As a matter of honor, Grundish allows his friend to fight his own fight. He lets the affray go uninterrupted for several minutes, watching as the two men throw each other into storage boxes and bloody each other’s faces. Askew continues to shriek his battle howl, sounding something like a sick cat being stuck with a hot poker.

“Grundish,” shouts Dora, pushing at his back. “Get in there and help him. Your best friend needs help.”

Grundish reluctantly stands up. “Maybe I should step in,” he says.

“Hold on there, Boy,” says Jerry, grabbing Grundish’s arm and stopping him. “That there is Chancho that Askew is wrastlin’ with. He does this with me all the time. He shows up and I try to surprise him, maybe jump on his back and try to beat the shit out of him. We wrestle around, punch and kick each other a little bit – just some harmless fun. Let those boys go at it. It’s not like they’re gonna kill each other. The worst they’ll have is some black eyes and bruises. And all of the pretty has already been knocked out of Askew’s face well before today. No offense, Darling,” he nods at Dora.

Dora’s left eye goes berserk with tics. One side of her mouth turns up into a feral sneer. She snaps at the men, “Well, if you men ain’t gonna help my man, then I guess it’s up to me.” Before they can grab her to hold her back, Dora is across the room and fully committed to the battle. Askew, though, has already gotten the best of Chancho, and stands above him, stomping on the man’s fat head. Each time Askew’s foot comes down, it makes a squishy thud. Dora unites with Askew in the ruthless attack, standing beside Chancho, stomping and kicking at the ribs and chest of his motionless body while Askew crushes the man’s skull, his sock-gartered legs pumping with relentless ferocity on the bloodied head, reshaping the skull to the point where the cowboy hat will no longer be a proper fit.