Grundish & Askew (28 page)

Askew stirs on his friend’s shoulder, struggling to get free of Grundish’s grip. Grundish sets him down. Askew wobbles on his legs like a newborn colt. He leans against a decrepit van, tossing his head about like a dog shaking off water. “Where’s Dora?” Askew says, looking suspiciously around.

“She’s gone, Bro,” says Grundish. “We got her out of here so she’d be safe. Traded her for pizza and beer. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Askew rubs at his inflamed eyes and shakes his head again. He pulls out a Blue Llama and lights it. “Yeah, that’s right. For fuck’s sake I hope she’s all right.”

“And we have to skedaddle, we do,” interrupts Turleen. She tips her jug of wine and absorbs of the last drops of the vino.

“The lady is right,” agrees Jerry. “The time is now. Do you remember the escape plan, Leroy?”

“Yeah, I remember now.” Askew smiles his big gap-toothed grin. “I was just a little out of it. But now I’m back in it.”

“Well, then get moving,” says Jerry, nodding toward the opening at the end of the Volkswagen corridor. “If you boys stick around here any longer, you’re going to get us all killed.” He grabs Turleen by the wrist and pulls her close. Jerry has to contort his lank frame in an uncomfortable stoop in order to embrace her. He wraps his spindly arms around the red-headed octogenarian and kisses her on the neck, looking like a praying mantis wrapping its spiked forelegs around a beetle and readying to dine. His buck teeth lightly scrape the skin, shooting shivers down her back. “I’ll come for you when it’s safe,” he says. “I promise you that.”

Jerry releases Turleen from the embrace and turns back to Grundish and Askew. “You better take care of my lady,” he says. “Just do as I’ve told Leroy and you should get out of this fine. And once you’re clear of this area, just lay low. You’ll do best for a while to not to show up on the street, unless you wanna draw the heat. Just jump down a manhole and light yourself a candle, if you know what I mean.”

And they did know what he meant.

“Look, Mr. Mathers,” says Grundish, “I just wanna say thanks and that we never meant to cause...”

“No time for teary goodbyes, Grundish,” says Jerry, slapping him on the back. “Turleen is right. You need to scoot now. By my estimate, you’ve got about fifteen minutes before the fecal matter hits the air redistribution device, and you all need to be as far away as possible.”

•  •  •

The VW corridor leads them through a break in the cinder-block wall that surrounds the compound. The gaping orifice at the end of the tunnel spills them out like effluence from a sewer drain pipe, dumping Grundish, Askew, and Turleen into a tangle of vines, palmettos, and live oak trees blanketed in a stifling cover of Spanish moss. A low, narrow clearing is cut through the overgrown undergrowth. Askew, now awake and sober enough to carry himself, leads the way, running and stumbling through the jungle-like foliage, tripping over roots and rocks now and again and springing right back up to continue the churning and burning of his legs.

Turleen, with her still-swollen ankle, allows herself to be cradled in Grundish’s arms as he carries her through the forest. Grundish charges forward, bent over in order to avoid getting his head caught in the mess of vines and branches just above him, occasionally taking a stinging whack in the face from branches snapping back into place in Askew’s wake.

Askew leads them, thumping and bumping along the swath cut through the dense vegetation. Out of breath and sweating profusely, they stop as the undergrowth tunnel opens to a clearing. The afternoon sun bakes their already red and sweaty faces. Askew steps slowly toward a car covered with a camouflage tarp. He throws back the cover and squeals like a happy little girl.

“Fu-huck yeah!” says Askew, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “Jerry told me there’d be wheels here. He said it’d be juiced up and ready to rock. He didn’t say it’d be this.” In the center of the clearing sits a gleaming, jet-black ‘72 El Camino SS, flames painted on the hood, mag wheels, and jacked up in the rear like a thick-bodied booty dancer. Chrome silhouettes of well-stacked naked ladies pose provocatively on the mud flaps. In the bed is an untouched case of Olde Frothingslosh
^[47]
, the steel rims on the cans slightly rusted. “Good God. It’s a ‘72 El Camino SS. V-8 engine. Fucking turbo-charged automatic beast.”

“I think that beer there may be from ’72, too, I do,” says Turleen.

“I don’t know about all the automotive shit. But it looks good to me. Maybe things are starting to go our way,” says Grundish. He sets Turleen down just in time to turn and catch the beer can projectile tossed at him by Askew.

“I think I’m gonna need one of them there brewskies, too, I do.” Grundish pulls the tab on his and hands it to Turleen. He grabs another can for himself.

“Well, let’s chug these down and then get the fuck out of Dodge,” says Askew, pulling the tab on his can.

Turleen holds her can up for a toast. “Through the teeth, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes, it does.” They clink their cans together and upend them, spilling half of the skunk-piss-tasting contents down their throats and the rest on their faces and necks. The beer is chunky, hot, metallic and nearly flat, but it tastes like freedom.

“I’m gonna give you the keys,” says Askew to Grundish. “I’m still too fucked up to drive. And we don’t need to be getting picked up because I’m swerving us all over the road.”

“Well, you two cram in the passenger seat, and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Grundish turns the ignition. The engine sputters a sickly wheeze and craps out. He questions the engine again and gets the same answer. “Shit! Fuck! Damn!” he shouts at the car and smacks it on the dashboard. He tries the ignition again and the engine roars to life, a low-pitched heavy metal growl that the men feel in their testicles. “Ayyy,” says Grundish, cracking a smile and holding both thumbs up in approval. “Let’s make like a banana and split, mother fuckers.”

They drive out on a dirt road and don’t hear the cacophony of explosions and gunfire back at Jerry’s building. They turn onto the paved road, following the directions given to Askew by Jerry. Off to the side of the road a group of turkey vultures gathers in a circle, their hooked ivory beaks tearing into a roadkill armadillo, pecking at each other and making easy work of dismantling the creature.

•  •  •

“Mr. Grundish,” says Mojado over the loudspeaker of his cruiser, “please return to the roof. We need to discuss your demands.” The speaker cracks and feeds back, screeching painfully in the ears of the cops near the car.

Grundish does not return to the roof. Grundish does not speak over the bullhorn. He makes no further demands, nor any additional threats to the wellbeing of the hostages. Grundish is gone from the building, dumping botulism-tainted hot beer down his throat and getting ready to load into a souped-up El Camino.

“Mr. Grundish, we have all of your demands and need to speak with you.” A dump truck loaded with gravel backs up to the gate of the property. Three heavily-armed officers lie still, just inches under the surface of the gravel. Mojado grabs a yard-waste bag full of fruity Jell-O from Officer Finn and holds it up for anyone on the roof to see. The Jell-O is laden with large enough doses of chloral hydrate
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to temporarily put Grundish and Askew into comas. “We have everything you’ve asked for and we are going to need you to send out another hostage.”

The absent-Grundish still does not answer. A chill of unease runs through the men. Deputies,
Swat
members and the jumpsuit-clad posse all take positions behind cars and the fence, pointing rifles and handguns toward the front of the building.

Detective Carter nods at Mojado.

“Mr. Grundish,” says Mojado over his loud speaker again, “we are going to give you two minutes to answer us. We have been working with you. But, if you do not answer, we will storm the building and take you dead or alive. You have two minutes, beginning now.”

Inside the building, Jerry feeds Alf the Sacred Burro one last apple and scritches his friend on the head. The moribund donkey coughs up a lump onto the floor. He rubs the side of his face against Jerry’s hand and looks at him with a sparkle in his eyes.

“
Mis amigos
, it looks like our time together is over on this plane. You’ve been good friends.” Jerry kisses Chancho on top of what’s left of his head and slaps him on the shoulder lightly. He kisses Alf the Sacred Burro on his puke-stinking prehensile lips. The coarse hairs around the donkey’s mouth tickle Jerry and remind him of an incident which would be better off forgotten, an incident involving large quantities of tequila and a bisexual Kenny Rogers impersonator. Jerry gently and lovingly slaps at the donkey’s face. His eyes mist up as he stands straight and chokes back the emotions, saying to his friends, “If you find yourself alone, riding in a green field with the sun on your face, don’t be troubled. For you are in Elysium and you are already dead.”

Alf snorts in a way that almost seems to be a chortle. Chancho sits still on the donkey’s back unable to form a smile on his non-existent face.

“Brothers,” says Jerry, “just remember, death is not the end. For what we do in life echoes in eternity.”

Outside, the voice of Detective Piso Mojado barks out a final warning. “Mr. Grundish. Mr. Askew. You have one minute to acknowledge me. If you do not respond, we come in and get you. One minute!” The men around Mojado are crouched behind their cars, muscles tensed, safety mechanisms undone on their guns, fingers on triggers, eyes focused on the front door and the roof, minds and weapons set for the kill. Off to Mojado’s left, behind the fence, an assault-team member cracks the barrel of a grenade launcher and loads a teargas canister into it, snaps the barrel back into position and undoes the safety latch. He aims it at the roof. On the other side of the gate another officer loads a flash-bang canister in a similar launcher in order to stun the hostage-takers.

•  •  •

One long fuse dangles from the fireworks strapped to Chancho’s back. Jerry sprays a can of charcoal fluid on the rear of Chancho’s head, strikes a blue-tip match against the door, and lights the fuse, waiting as it nears the first string of Black Cats. Seconds before the firecrackers explode, Jerry throws back the front door and whacks the donkey on the ass with his bony hand. Alf the Sacred Burro bounds through the door. The fireworks explode and the charcoal fluid ignites, prompting the donkey and his deceased, gun-wielding, flaming-headed passenger, to leap straight up into the air. They land and charge in a zigzag bucking trend toward the front gate, right at the cops in their way.

After applying his hand forcefully to Alf’s backside, and just before the fireworks begin, Jerry sprints back into the building, his gawky legs high-stepping it toward the bowels of the warehouse, knees pumping chest-high, hoping to have enough steel walls between him and the sure-to-be oncoming barrage of bullets to keep his body from being perforated by hot lead slugs. Turning one corner, and then another, and safely out of danger of being shot, Jerry hears a fusillade of gunfire erupt and shots slamming into the metal walls of his building. He runs faster, shutting and locking doors behind him, until he reaches his living room and intentionally runs head first into a wall, knocking himself unconscious.

•  •  •

Having recently honed their marksman skills on an allegedly armed arrest-resistor, the officers outside of the gate are excellent shots. As Alf charges the police, Detective Carter calls down a curtain of fire on the flaming, burro-riding maniac coming at them head-on with his guns seemingly blazing. Chancho, his black hair throwing off great thick trails of flame, putrid charred flesh coughing out streams of dense black smoke from his head, looks like a demon horseman charging up through the ground from the depths of Hades. Carter’s men, practiced, accurate, and unduly violent, entirely and surgically remove the top half of the Mexican’s corpse from Alf the Sacred Burro with almost no injury to the ass. By the time the officers, SWAT team members, and camouflage-jumpsuit deputies have exacted their meat grinder onslaught of bullets on Chancho and ceased fire, Alf stands still, ten feet from the gate, with his head slung low. Chancho’s pathetic remains played the part of a target until there was nothing left of him from the waist up and a semi-circle of gore and gristle spread out to the rear of Alf. Alf raises his head, dredges up a massive vomit-shit log and, with a cough, propels it out several feet in front of him. Aside from one small-caliber shot to his right rear quarter, Alf is undamaged.

Explosions erupt as flashbang grenades and teargas canisters are fired into the open front door of the building. The men strap on gas masks and bum rush the front door of the building, giving a wide berth to the sick donkey with half of a dead Mexican duct-taped to his body. Alf sits, leaning toward the uninjured side of his rear end, and begins to chew at the tape that holds Chancho’s legs to his midsection.

“You sure this is what he said to do?” The El Camino weaves through back roads, circumnavigating the beehive they had likely kicked over in Bartow, and finds its way heading west on country roads toward Hillsborough County again.

“Yeah, positive.”

“It don’t seem right.”

“Well,
evidentually
Jerry knows what he’s doing. He got us out of a pretty bad situation back there. I think he’s gotta know what he’s talking about when he tells us to go back toward Tampa and lay low. He gave me directions.” Askew pulls a pack of Blue Llamas from his shorts. He takes out two smokes and lights them, handing one to Grundish. Tucked into one of his sock garters is a folded-up piece of notebook paper. He retrieves the sweat-stained note. Unfolding the page, he studies Jerry’s handwritten directions. “He’s got another place for us to lam it until he can come get us. And it ain’t exactly Tampa. It’s in Ruskin. Maybe this place won’t be as
luxuriant
as the one we just left, but
supposably
it’s pretty safe and secure.”