Grundish & Askew (29 page)

“It just seems kind of risky going right back into the area where they’re looking for us.”

“You pipe down,” says Turleen, her voice slightly garbled from the alcoholic slurry creeping and seeping its way through her digestive tract, leaking the central nervous system depressant into her blood. “Jer Bear knows his onions, he does. He got you’se guys out of that hubbub back there, he did. Jer Bear says that if we go anywhere else, you boys are gonna draw attention to yourselves, do something stupid, just like you been doing all along. Listen to Jerry and we’ll make it out of this, we will. And by the way, give me that fag. I’m gonna do some living, I am.” She plucks the smoldering Blue Llama from Askew’s mouth and places it to her lips. The smoke rushes down into her brown, feeble lung and sends nicotine throughout her system, increasing her heartbeat and breathing, releasing dopamine into the pleasure center of her brain, putting a soft smile on her wrinkled face.

“Come on, Turleen,” Askew protests. “You know you shouldn’t be doing that.” He reaches for the cigarette, but Turleen holds it out of his reach and smacks his arm away with her free hand.

“Leroy, you don’t know nothin’ from nothin’, you don’t. You drag me along on this crazy caper. We just narrowly avoided getting into what would have been a losing firefight with a hoard of inbred redneck police. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to us next. I’m going to live like it’s my last days, I am. So don’t you give me no guff about one little smoke.”

“Fine.” Askew screws his mangled face up into a pout. “But you don’t get no more smokes. Your habit gets out of control fast and I’m gonna
nip it in the butt
right now, before you get yourself addicted again.”

“Fair enough, Fella,” she agrees, tapping her ashes out of the cracked window. “But you could let me enjoy this one without giving me the business, you could. And you could open me another one of those chunky beers too, if you don’t mind.”

Askew pulls the tabs on several Olde Frothingslosh cans and hands them out to Grundish and Turleen. “You know, I been thinking about that promise you made me,” he says to Grundish, changing from the touchy subject with Turleen. “You know, the one about if it looks like I’m gonna go to prison?”

“Yeah,” says Grundish. “I don’t really wanna talk about that right now. I know I made the promise and I’ll keep it, okay? Just don’t bring me down with that shit right now.” Grundish shifts his body and pulls at the Colt Anaconda, removing the uncomfortable hunk of metal from his waistband and setting it on the console between the car’s bucket seats.

“No, listen. I’m not gonna bring you down. I think we’re gonna get out of this shit. But if we don’t...”

“Quit talking your shit, and let me drive.” Grundish turns on the radio, flips through the dial and stops on
Flirtin’ with Disaster
. He turns up the volume to drown out Askew. “Fucking-A right, Molly Hatchet!” He beats rhythm on the steering wheel with one hand and tries to ignore Askew.

Askew turns the song down and stares at Grundish. “I’m serious, Grundish. I gotta tell you this. I’ve changed my mind. Things have changed. I want to take it all back. If it looks like we’re gonna be caught, I don’t mind going to prison. I think I can do it. I’ve got Dora. I’ll draw strength from her. She’ll stay with me no matter what. I ain’t never felt this way in my life before. It seems like prison would be tolerable, as long as I have Dora.”

“You know they don’t let you have no conjugal visits in Florida prisons, don’t you?”

“Whattaya mean?” Askew fumbles at his pack of Blue Llamas for another smoke. A look of concern washes over his face.

“I mean, no sex. Even if you get married to Dora. Your relationship will have to be more on a spiritual level, if you know what I mean.”

“No conjugal visits? You serious?”

“Seriously, Bro. I mean, once a week she could give you quickie handjobs in the visitors’ park if you don’t mind covertly spooging all over yourself while some kid is visiting with his dad at the next table. And as long as you can be inconspicuous enough that the guards don’t notice.”

“Seriously?”

“No shit, Brother. And if the guards catch her giving you a dishonorable discharge, they’ll throw you in the hole and cut off her visitation.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit. I take it back. My request is hereby revoked. You don’t have permission to put me out of my misery even if it does look like we’re gonna go down for this shit.”

“Good,” says Grundish sharply.

“Good,” retorts Askew.

“I wasn’t never gonna do it anyway.” He turns up the music again. The opening riff of
Gator Country
kicks in. “Fuck yeah, two-fer-Tuesday Hatchet.”

Askew turns the volume down again. “Now, that’s a shitty thing to say.”

“What? I like Hatchet. You gonna start blowing me shit about that.”

“No. I mean that you were never gonna do it anyway. You,
supposably
my best friend, made me a fucking promise. And now you tell me you were never going to honor it. That’s just plain old shitty, Brother.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” says Grundish. “I can’t win with you. You’re worse than a bitch. Next thing you know, you’re gonna start arguing with me about something I said last month that hurt your feelings.” He turns the music up again.

Askew stares out the window, stewing, gritting his teeth. “Pull over,” he says. “I need to get out.”

“Come on. Don’t go getting all huffy on me. We gotta keep moving.”

“No, seriously. Pull over. I have to go to the bathroom something fierce.”

“You can hold it, you can,” says Turleen. “I have to go, too, but you don’t see me giving in to my weak old bladder, you don’t. You need to just put your fingers in your pocket and pinch it or something.”

“I ain’t fucking kidding. And I don’t have to bleed my lizard. I’m talking about feeling a major shit storm brewing in my tropical zones. If you don’t pull over now, I’m gonna drop mud in my drawers, and we’re all gonna have to marinate in my stink. Otherwise I need to get out about two minutes ago...”

Before Askew can finish his sentence, the El Camino is at a full stop on the shoulder of the road; a cloud of dust and burnt-rubber-smoke briefly envelopes the car. Askew tosses Turleen from his lap onto Grundish and ejects himself from the car, sprinting for the woods at the side of the road, his pants already dropping and exposing his pale, hairy ass as he disappears into a copse of oak trees.

“Well, I might as well go and cop a squat myself,” says Turleen, disentangling herself from Grundish and letting herself out through the passenger door. “My old bladder can’t hold out much longer anyway, it can’t.” She opens the glove compartment and finds one oil-stained napkin. “I guess this is gonna have to do for me, it is.”

Grundish lays his head back against the back of his seat and closes his eyes. The stress of the day, the beer, the hot sun, and then a silent moment. He shuts his eyes and momentarily allows himself to drift off, expecting Askew or Turleen to rouse him upon their return.

•  •  •

“Hey! Boy! Hey!” The sound of metal tapping on the roof of the El Camino wakes Grundish from his catnap. He reluctantly shakes off the sleep. “Hey, Boy! You need to step out of the car with your hands up.” A round face with a well-trimmed mustache and mirrored aviator sunglasses has words coming out of its mouth and they seem to be directed toward Grundish. One of the arms that is attached to the body of the cop-face holds a service revolver, pointing it directly at Grundish’s head. The portly deputy’s name is Henry Pingle. “If you make any sudden moves, I will splatter you all over the inside of that beautiful classic automobile.”

Raising his hands and turning his head directly toward the source of the threat, Grundish realizes that he is facing a Hillsborough County deputy. With one hand still pointing the barrel of the gun at Grundish’s head, Pingle opens the driver-side door and steps back, allowing Grundish room to exit the car.

“I don’t want no trouble, Officer,” says Grundish, holding his hands in front of him, palms out, and stepping out of the car. He towers over the cop but tries to make no threatening moves. “I was just taking a nap here on the side of the road. I worked a late shift last night and I’m tuckered out. Thought it’s better to be safe and take a little snooze instead of falling asleep while I’m driving.”

“You go to work looking like that, Boy? Where you work?”

Grundish looks down at his clothes: blood-stained shirt and shorts, sandals and sock garters. He has not brushed his matted hair or groomed his beard in days, leaving him looking like some sort of demented homeless person or a musician. “Yeah. I work at a slaughter house. I still haven’t even cleaned up yet. Listen, I ain’t looking for no trouble officer. I just want to go home and go to bed.”

“You think I’m a God-damned fool, do ya? You think I don’t know who you are?” He steps back several feet from the Grundish towering over him, out of the big man’s shadow. “You one of those boys we been looking for. We been looking all over for you and your buddy.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I ain’t done nothing wrong. I just wanna go home.” He takes one step toward the officer. “I’m tired, and I wanna go to bed.”

“Hold it right there!” screams the cop. “No closer!” He jams the gun in the air at Grundish. “Get down on the ground! Face down! And put your arms behind your back! You make any quick moves, and I’ll shoot you. Try anything funny, and I’ll shoot you. Give me the stink eye, and I’ll shoot you. In case you can’t tell, I’m looking for an excuse to shoot you, Boy.”

“Fuck,” is all that Grundish says, nothing more. The word leaks out like the hiss from a deflating tire and drops to the ground in front of him. He goes through a familiar dance with the officer, raises his arms above his head, drops to his knees, lowers himself to his stomach and puts his hands on the back of his head. With Pingle’s knee in the small of his back, Grundish feels the clacking of metal as the handcuffs are placed too tightly on his wrists, securing his thick arms behind his back.

“You stay right there, face down,” says the cop. He backs away from Grundish and toward his cruiser. “I’m going to my car. And guess what I’m going to do if you so much as start to wiggle around?”

“I’m guessing you’re going to shoot me.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look, Boy. Now just stay there.” He reaches in his cruiser and grabs the radio handset, mumbling something under his breath into the microphone.

•  •  •

“Put the radio thingy down and move away from your car!” Askew materializes from the patch of oak trees with one arm wrapped around Turleen’s neck and the other arm out of sight, just behind her back. “Do it now, or I blow this old bag’s innards right out through her belly button and mess up her pretty red dress.”

Pingle’s eyes burn behind his mirrored shades. He drops the handset and swings his gun in Askew’s direction, and then back toward Grundish. “I have my sight locked on your buddy’s head,” he screams at Askew. “Drop your gun and let the lady go.”

“Fuck that shit, Fat Boy!” Askew, his eyes throwing off sparks of madness, continues to advance deliberately toward Pingle. “I ain’t got nothin’ to lose at this point. You go ahead and shoot my friend. I’ll just plug this irritating old bitch full of lead and then start blazing at you.”

“Please! Mister, please! Do what he says!” Turleen begins to weep, her cries verge on hysteria. Her raspy voice cracks with emotion. “The man is crazy! I’ve already seen him kill three people, I have! If you don’t do what he says, he’ll kill me, he will!”

Pingle’s head swivels on his neck back and forth between Askew and Grundish while his gun stays trained on the man face-down on the ground. Askew stops just on the other side of the cruiser.

“I’m gonna count to three,” says Askew. “And if you haven’t dropped your gun nice and slowly, I’m gonna paint your car with this old bitch’s guts. One...”

“Please! Mister, please! He’ll do it, he will...”

“Two...”

Pingle’s head swivels back and forth and his features go slack. “Okay,” he shouts. “Okay. I’m gonna set my gun down and step away from my car. Don’t do anything crazy.” He sets his revolver on top of the cruiser and steps backwards from the car, holding his hands up in front of him.

“Good,” says Askew. “Now go over there, real nice and slow, and undo the handcuffs on my friend.”

Pingle slowly moves toward Grundish and undoes the cuffs. Grundish stands and brushes away the gravel stuck to his forehead and cheeks.

Askew stays behind Turleen, his flabby forearm unintentionally wrapped too tightly around her throat, her face turning red from the limited air intake. “Now give my friend your handcuff keys, and then get over here and lay face-down on the ground in front of your car.”

Pingle lies face down in front of the cruiser and begins to sniffle and convulse, trying to hold back the tears. “Please don’t kill me,” he begs. “Please. I have a wife and kids. They need me. Please don’t kill me.”

“Shut up, you Fucker,” says Grundish.

“Yeah,” says Askew. “Don’t have a fucking
Grandma
seizure.”

Grundish drops one knee solidly in the center of Pingle’s back and slaps a handcuff on one of his wrists. He works the other cuff behind and then over the top of the cruiser’s steel bumper, fastening the remaining cuff to Pingle’s other wrist, chaining him to the front of the car. Grundish rounds the front of the cruiser and retrieves Pingle’s gun from the roof. The steel on the gun is already hot from soaking up the sun. Grundish grabs the keys from the ignition and puts them in his pocket. He rips the radio handset from the car and flings it toward the oak trees on the side of the road. The curled cord of the handset catches and wraps around a high branch, dangling out of reach. With the revolver, he shoots one of the rear tires flat.

“Let’s go,” says Grundish. They all run to the El Camino.

“Just a second,” says Askew. He turns and runs back to Pingle. Askew grabs the mirrored shades from Pingle’s face and puts them on. “Now listen up, pardner,” he says to Pingle, hooking his thumbs in his pants’ pockets. “I don’t like the way you was treating my friend back there. I’d file a formal brutality complaint against you if I had the time. But I’m in a hurry so I’m just gonna have to take matters into my own hands.” Askew grabs Pingle’s pepper spray from his belt and blasts the deputy’s face with a thick fog of Oleoresin Capsicum. Before he realizes what he is doing, Askew begins slamming the bottom of his sandals against Pingle’s back, his legs pumping violently and snapping ribs like twigs.