Grundish & Askew (30 page)

“Come on! Now!” shouts Grundish to Askew, pulling him away from the injured Pingle. “You’re fucking losing it, again. He was on the radio and probably called in for backup. We need to quit fucking around and get out of here, now.”

Askew throws the aerosol can at Pingle, bouncing it off of his head and tells the deputy, “you’re lucky we’re in a hurry, Fucker.” They run for the El Camino once again and dive in. Askew scoots in and works his way under Turleen. Before he can even get himself situated and close the door, the El Camino spews a stinging shower of gravel from its back wheels at Pingle.

Askew shuffles around in the car, situating Turleen on his lap. When he finally gets comfortable, Askew looks up and is startled by the cross look on Turleen’s face. She cocks her elbow and drives it backward into his nose. Flashes of light and stars float before his eyes and blood begins to trickle onto his lip. “That’s for calling me an irritating old bitch and choking me too hard back there, it is,” says Turleen. She grabs a Blue Llama from the pack on the dashboard and eyeballs Askew, daring him to challenge her. “Otherwise, Leroy, you did a fine job of getting us out that mess without even having a gun, you did.”

The whirring of helicopters and the warbling of police sirens call out to them from somewhere in the distance.

Grundish jams the accelerator pedal to the floor, and the g-force pulls them back into their seats. The El Camino barrels down the middle of the two-lane country road. The sounds of sirens and choppers grow louder.

“You still know where we’re going?” asks Grundish.

“Yeah. We’re headed the right way.”

“They’re gonna have a BOLO
^[49]
out for us. That cop back there called in on his radio after he cuffed me. This area’s gonna be crawling with pigs.”

“Well, we can just find out where they are, then.” Askew flips on the police scanner and smiles. “Jerry set this car up for getting away. Let’s just take a listen and see what we’re facing.”

The scanner crackles with the excited chatter of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s patrol cars.
El Camino west bound on 674...Suspects armed and dangerous...One hostage...Road blocks being set up at Route 37, Route 39, Balm Road and Highway 301.

“Are there any crossroads out this way that we can turn off?” Grundish asks Askew.

“It’s been a while since I been out this way but I don’t think so. Just the roads where they got the blockades set up.”

“We have to do something, we do,” says Turleen. “Turn off onto the next dirt road you see. We’re going to have to get this hay-burner off the road, we are. We can sit it out in the woods until the coast is clear, we can.” She grabs another Blue Llama and lights it butt-to-butt with her old smoke.

“She’s right,” agrees Grundish. He slows the car down to forty and lets it creep down the road as he works through the situation in his head. “We can’t go back or we’ll run into those cars that we’re hearing back there behind us. And if we keep going straight, we’re going to run right into it, too. And if there ain’t no crossroads, we got no choice but to find a dirt road or just off-road it.”

The
thwap-thwap-thwap
of a helicopter’s blades chopping and displacing the air becomes suddenly more noticeable. Askew looks out the rear window and sees a small dot in the sky moving rapidly in their direction. “Aww, fuck!” Askew beats his hand against the door, each smack on the door accentuating his monosyllabic mantra. “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack) “Fuck!” (smack). “Fuck!”

“What’s happening?”

“They’re behind us. There’s a chopper closing in. If they haven’t
holmed
in on us yet, they’re going to any minute now.”

Turleen sucks hard at her smoke, burning it down quickly with her one gimp lung. She exhales a dense cloud of smoke and flicks her butt out the window. “We need to get off this road now, we do. There’s a trail right up there.” She points off to the right with one big-knuckled, crooked finger. Like a bony, misshapen divining rod, her digit indicates the spot where they need to turn.

With the fat and fiery center of the solar system paused and squatting itself directly above the souped-up El Camino, Grundish pulls off of the paved road and onto the gravel path winding into the woods. The overgrown gravel road leads to, and ends at, a thick copse of live oak trees that blocks out the sky above them.

•  •  •

“I guess this is as good as it’s gonna get unless we want to get out and try to go somewhere on foot,” says Grundish. He grabs the Colt Anaconda, steps out of the car, and looks skyward. “These trees’ll block the copter’s view of us. And if that chopper pilot didn’t see us out there, then we might be able to just sit things out right here.”

Askew and Turleen both exit the car, both lighting up new cigarettes.

“Give me one of those, too,” says Grundish to Askew. Askew slides a pack of Blue Llamas over the top of the car. “Fuck. I picked the wrong day to quit smoking.”

“Looks like I picked the right day to resume smoking, it does.” Turleen’s shaky hand brings her cigarette up to her mouth. The shaking subsides a little while she draws in more smoke.

“She’s right,” says Askew, his voice high and tense. He paces in a circle, his hands twitching wildly in front of him, a hurky-jerky accentuation of his panicked rant. “We’re fucked here! We’re trapped, and we ain’t got nowheres to go if they saw us come in here! If we go out to the road, they’ll find us! If we go back out into view, they’ll find us! And if they saw us come in here, we’re sitting
ducts
!”

“Don’t go getting all bent outta shape yet,” says Grundish, his voice low and maybe too calm. “We don’t know if they saw us. That helicopter was way the fuck back there. He probably didn’t even notice us. We was probably too far away to be seen.”

“Well, we noticed him, we did.”

“I know,” agrees Grundish. “But that chopper is loud and draws your attention. He wouldn’t have heard our car and maybe he didn’t notice us. We’re just going to have to sweat it out here and hope they don’t find us.”

The trees’ canopy blocks out the sunlight and tints everything beneath it with a soft blue hue. From the distance come the sounds of the helicopter, of sirens, of men shouting and dogs barking. Grundish turns his head toward the road and listens.

Askew says, “Grundish.”

“What?”

“This is all my fault. Like I told you before, I fucked up. Ain’t you gonna
landblast
me or somethin’?”

“What are you talking about?” asks Grundish.

“You know. Like you done before.” He deepens his voice and does an off-the-mark impersonation of Grundish. “‘God damn, Askew, I’m always having to watch out for you and clean up your messes’ and, ‘man it would be so much easier if I didn’t have to deal with all this bullshit sometimes.’”

“Jesus Christ, Askew,” sighs Grundish. “There you go acting like a bitch again. I say something to you one time out of frustration and you commit every word of it to memory and drag it out later to make me feel bad. I suppose you ain’t gonna give me no pussy for a month, too.”

“Well, ain’t you gonna say none of that mean stuff?”

“Sure,” says Grundish, his tone monotonous and empty. “You are always trying to fuck up my shit. If I didn’t have to deal with your messes, my life would be so easy.” He stops and listens to the noise of the men and dogs getting closer. The sirens and the chopper sound as if they are just outside of the grouping of trees. “Fuck. I can’t do this.”

“What?” asks Askew. “Ain’t you gonna give me no more hell?”

“No,” says Grundish. “No, I ain’t. You’ll just use it to emotionally manipulate me later.”

“Well, I can go away. I could find my way south and live in the swamps. Build myself a little hut or something.”

Grundish shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “I want you to stay with me. You’re like my brother. I ain’t gonna have you going off into the swamps.”

Askew narrows his eyes and says to Grundish, “Tell me like you done before.”

“Tell you about what?”

“You know. About guys like us. About the ladies.”

Grundish says, “all right. Guys like us, you know, the ones that work the shit jobs and scrape by, are the loneliest guys in the world. Can’t keep jobs. Don’t fit in. They ain’t got nobody in the world that gives a sideways fuck about them...”

“Not us, though,” says Askew, flashing a busted smile. “Tell me about us.”

Grundish is quiet for a moment. He grabs a Blue Llama from inside the El Camino and lights it. He takes a hit and exhales a bluish plume of smoke. “Not us, though,” says Grundish.

“Because...”

“Because I got you and...”

“And I got you. We got each other, man. And we give a sideways fuck about each other,” Askew bursts out triumphantly.

A breeze blows through the live oaks, making the Spanish moss dangling from the limbs dance above them. The sirens, chopper, barking dogs and shouting men grow louder, much closer than before.

“It sounds like they’re coming this way, it does,” says Turleen. “We gotta get outta here.” She limps toward the edge of the woods and looks into the distance behind them to see if the police are heading their way.

Ignoring Turleen, ignoring the sounds of choppers, sirens, dogs and shouting men, Askew says, “Tell me about the ladies, Grundish.”

Grundish cocks his head and listens to the sounds getting closer to them. “Okay,” he says. “Look out at that pond across the way, Askew, and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you so good that if you close your eyes you’ll be able to see it.”

Looking out past the trees, past a flat open area of ground, Askew stares off at the pond and a flock of roseate spoonbills splashing in the pooled water. Turleen continues looking back the way they came, scanning the road for the police.

Grundish raises his gun and his hand shakes. He drops his hand toward the ground again. His eyes flood with tears that silently roll down his cheek. Grundish weeps for the end of innocence, for the darkness of his own heart, for his true and dear friend, Askew.

“Go on,” says Askew, still staring toward the pond. “How’s it gonna be. We’re gonna get a boat. A real big boat, like a yacht. Right?”

“That’s right. Maybe bigger,” says Grundish. “And we’re gonna get a stable of hookers, and maybe some hydroponic equipment to grow weed.”

“And tell me what we’re gonna do, Grundish. Tell me about the hookers again. About the international waters. And the hookers, like how they’ll all have big fake titties and whatnot.”

“Well, we’ll grow weed, have hookers, maybe some other shit that ain’t legal here.”

“And I get to be in charge of the ladies. Me and Dora, right?”

“Yeah, you’re in charge of the ladies.”

Askew giggles. “And we’ll live off the fat of their asses.” He starts to turn back toward Grundish.

“No, Askew. Look down at the pond. Look past the pond and past the trees. Look past all of that until you can see our boat floating out in the international waters.”

Askew obeys him. Grundish looks down at the gun.

“I see ’em coming down the road, I do,” shouts Turleen. “They’re a comin’, they are.” She tilts her head up and sees the helicopter drop out of the sky and hover above the main road. Grundish turns his head and looks in Turleen’s direction.

“Just stay over there and keep an eye out for us,” says Grundish to Turleen.

Askew still stares out past the pond and past the trees, straining his eyes to see their yacht swaying with the waves of the ocean. “Go on, Grundish. Tell me when we’re gonna do it.”

“We’re doing it soon.”

“Me and you. You and me.”

“That’s right. Me and you. It’s all gonna be good. No more Fuckers. No more hassles. We’re gonna be living the dream.”

“I thought you was mad at me, Grundish.”

“No, Askew. God damn. No. I ain’t never really been mad at you. And I ain’t pissed off now. I want you to understand that.”

The men and the dogs are close. The chopper moves in toward the trees.

“Let’s do it now,” begs Askew. “Let’s get the fuck out of this shit and get that place now.”

“Sure thing, Buddy. Right now. We gotta do it now.”

And Grundish aims the gun and steadies it, bringing the muzzle of the hand-cannon close to the back of Askew’s head. His hand shakes, and the tears stream down his face. His hand steadies and his finger puts light pressure on the trigger. The hammer pulls back, and the shot booms out over the land.

Askew falls to his knees. Grundish drops to the ground, too. The shot to Askew’s head grazed the top of his skull, carving a groove through bone and brain from the front to the back on the upper right side of his head. Not a fatal shot but one sufficient to render Askew a blathering useless fuckwad for the rest of his days; a drooling, shitting, breathing lump of wasting warmth and nothing more.

Grundish’s aim, initially dead-on, was thrown off by the perfectly honed and weighted throwing knife sticking into the side of his neck just below his bearded jawline, parting his flesh and severing his carotid artery. In front of Grundish, Askew remains on his knees, his lungs continue to breath and his heart pumps, pushing gouts of blood out of his head injury in great spurts. Nothing goes through his head except for a warm breeze blowing through the sizeable trench carved into his skull.