Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (15 page)

A gun fired, the flash bright but not revealing anything. The bullet pinged off at least two metallic things.

“We just want to talk,” Bobby yelled.

“Stay the fuck away,” a voice yelled back.

Another shot fired. I caught sight of the light switches in the brief flash. I counted three to myself, and then jumped up and hit all the switches. The garage lit up in the brightness of the fluorescents. Bobby hunched behind a large rolling tool cabinet. It was old and heavy and the thick steel looked like it could withstand a howitzer. I scanned the rest of the garage but couldn’t see anyone else.

“Where is he?” I said.

Bobby pointed toward the far corner and a row of metal shelving that held various parts and tools. Chucho was cornered, but he would be able to see out through the openings better than we would be able to see in.

“Chucho, we didn’t come here to do anything but talk,” Bobby yelled.

“Fuck you, whoever fuck you are. You shoot the door, Goyo’s dogs, and then tell me you’re here to talk? I ain’t stupid.”

“We didn’t shoot the dogs. Listen. You can hear them barking.”

“I ain’t going to let you do me like Craig.”

Chucho fired again. It ricocheted off the top of the tool cabinet and knocked a can of motor oil off a shelf.

“Fuck this,” Bobby said. Staying low behind the rolling steel cabinet, Bobby pushed it, crab-walking, toward Chucho’s position. As he got closer, Bobby put his back to the cabinet and pushed it as fast as he could. The cabinet crashed into the shelves. The shelves tilted but didn’t fall. Parts fell down. From Chucho’s yelps, it sounded like some of them hit him.

“What the fuck?” Chucho said.

Bobby crashed the cabinet against the shelves again. That was the one. The shelving fell inward, all the heavy parts and tools falling with the shelves onto Chucho. Bobby quickly jumped on top of the shelving, gun pointing into the mess.

“Don’t,” Bobby said.

“Okay, okay,” Chucho said.

I hopped closer, using the wall and anything else to keep my balance.

Bobby reached into the pile of parts and came up with a small pistol. He shoved it into his waistband. “Keep your hands away from your body. Don’t fucking move. You don’t know how much I want to shoot you.” Bobby lifted the metal shelving up at the edge.

Chucho avoided any sudden moves and slid out from underneath the shelving. He lay on the greasy floor, breathing heavily. He looked like he had a few fresh cuts and bruises.

“Can you stand up?” Bobby asked.

Chucho nodded and stood slowly. Hopping on one leg, I patted him down and checked his pant legs for any weapons. I found a lettuce knife in his boot and pocketed it. I sat on a stool over by a workbench and gave my leg a rest.

“Don’t kill me,” Chucho said.

“I’m not here to kill you, you asshole. I didn’t shoot at you once. You were the one doing the shooting,” Bobby said.

“You broke in, had guns,” Chucho countered.

“If I wanted to kill you, don’t you think I could’ve by now?”

Chucho was about to answer, but the door to the office slammed open. We all jumped and turned at the noise.

Julie walked toward Bobby and Chucho from the office. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a T-shirt that said “Bitch” in glitter across the front. More importantly, she held a revolver pointed directly at Bobby. She did not look scared, her hand held frighteningly still considering the weight of the gun. Instinctively, Bobby had his pistol up and pointed at his daughter.

“No, no, no,” Chucho and I said in unison, the two of us immediately becoming distant bystanders in what I hoped wasn’t an unfolding tragedy.

“Julie. Thank God,” Bobby said, his gun hand falling to his side. “Holy shit is it good to see you.”

“What are you doing here?” Julie asked, her gun hand still steady and straight and aimed at Bobby.

“You can put the gun down.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been looking for you. Oh, Christ, I thought you might be dead or hurt or I don’t know what. You won’t believe the shit we’ve been through. I’m here to save you.”

“What was all the shooting?” Julie asked. Then she saw Chucho. “Did you hurt him?” It almost looked like she was smiling.

“Put the gun down, sweetie. I know it’s been scary, but you’re safe now. Your mother and I have been freaking out. We didn’t know where you were. If you were okay. What happened?”

Julie didn’t respond. She stared back at Bobby. The expression on her face, some sick combination of anger and amusement, made my stomach queasy.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bobby said. “I don’t care what happened. I’m taking you home, sweetie. All this is over.”

“Why would you care?” Julie said. There were tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t crying.

“I’m your father. Of course I care.”

Julie laughed. And then she shot Bobby.

PART TWO

ELEVEN

Jail cells aren’t the most conducive environment for sound sleep. Take my experienced word for it. A veteran of overnights in the hoosegow, I’d been brought in for more than my fair share of drunken brawls (thinking I was impressing a girl I wanted to have sex with) and been thrown in paddy wagons at more than one protest march (thinking I was impressing a hippie girl I wanted to have sex with).

Many people’s biggest fear of jail is that you have to keep one eye open for the possibility that your cellmate’s crush has graduated to the physical stage of the relationship, but that’s more a prison thing. In county jail, it’s far more likely that your fellow incarcerates have developed a grudge against society and need to actualize that aggression on something soft and punchable. Still not a best-case scenario, but at least the scars are visible.

And even if you get the cell to yourself, the sounds of the men that surround you are more than enough to keep you awake. The dark rainbow of human experience voiced through the cries of the detained. Past the almost-pleasant snoring and farting lie the grim sounds of crying, vomiting, and helpless murmuring. Beyond those auditory tragicomedies, all that remain are the grotesque, abstract sounds that are definitely violent, though amorphous.

Not a place for some shut-eye, when the only bedtime story you might hear is a deep baritone threatening you. And instead of sheep, you’ll be counting the mistakes that put you behind bars. And the only stuffed animal you’ll be hugging is . . . You get the picture.

I’d been awake over forty hours. I figured that my body would eventually shut down. No such luck.

Hours after the cops brought me to the holding cell at Indio Police Department headquarters, I lay wide-awake, dog tired, and staring at the ceiling. The room had no bars, only a locked door with a small, wire-reinforced window. The only furnishings were a slab bolted to the wall that acted as both bed and bench, and a stainless steel sink and toilet with no seat. I had no idea of the time. It was still quiet outside the door, so I assumed that it was before midnight. Police stations get louder once the late-night drunk rush kicks in.

I stretched my arms and legs, the screaming pain in my bandaged calf reminding me that a dog had gnawed some of the meat off my drumstick. According to the paramedic, the dog had chomped down hard, but not enough to warrant a hospital visit. I asked her about rabies shots. She said that was for strays. I attempted to bribe her to tell the cops I needed to go to the hospital, but the fourteen dollars I had failed to impress her.

I shifted to a sitting position. My face itched like hell and I felt a few blisters that had formed from Gabe’s mom’s sauce. There was no mirror, but I imagined that I looked like Two-Face, except the blisters covered my entire face. One-Face.

I got up and walked to the door. My leg throbbed but held my weight with only a slight limp.

“Hey! Anyone out there?” I shouted.

A middle-aged Mexican man’s round face f
illed the small window. His voice was muffled through the glass. “What?” he asked.

“When do I get my phone calls? I need to talk to my family.”

“Not my job.”

“Any news about my friend? His name is Bobby Maves. Robert Maves. They took him to the hospital when I got brought in. He was shot.”

“Not my job.”

“Yeah, but you can find out, right? Ask someone?”

“That’s not my job.”

“You’re just going to say that, no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

“Not if you ask me something that is my job.”

“What’s your job?”

“I’m a security officer. I guard.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“And you’re guarding right now?”

“Doing a good job of it, too. You’re in your cell. Another successful day. I might get a gold star on my report card.”

“And you won’t do anything that isn’t guarding?”

“Not my job.”

“I fucking hate mediocrity.”

The guard looked at me. He might have been thinking of something to say. He might have been considering giving me a blanket party. He might have been working out a plot point for his
Gor
fan-fiction novella for all I knew. Whatever thoughts had passed through his fat brain, he had thought better of it and walked his fat legs back to wherever he stationed his fat ass.

Damn screws. They never gave a con a break.

Not surprisingly, the local PD didn’t take kindly to two maniac vigilantes breaking and entering and getting shot in the middle of their town, even if it was in the service of said maniacs looking for a missing teenage girl. They hadn’t officially charged me with anything yet, and hopefully wouldn’t. Maybe trespassing, but without Chucho, they didn’t really have any other story besides Bobby’s and mine. And it was Bobby who got shot and me who got dog-chawed. That’s not to say that we hadn’t committed a few criminal violations. Was accessory to punching a dog in the face a crime? I tried shifting my thoughts to something that made me happy, but thinking about my family only made me feel useless.

What the fuck was I doing here?

I had tried to help my best friend. Tried to save a lost girl. Tried. Then it all went to shit. Noble, schmoble. It didn’t matter why I did the thing, only the result. It’s like I was constantly driving recklessly on the road to Hell (fueled by good intentions, of course). But staying in the fast lane the whole time, the only way to take the off-ramp was to cut everyone else off.

When Julie shot Bobby, everyone in the room felt the immediate wrongness of the act, the Greek tragedy of it, the shock and inevitability rolled together. For the briefest of moments, the world froze. And despite the other shots that had been fired, the single gunshot from Julie’s gun was the one that lingered in the air. Nobody moved. Not me. Not Julie. Not Chucho. Not even Bobby. The movie froze to a still photograph. A bloody version of Cartier-Bresson’s decisive moment.

Then Bobby fell, blood blossoming onto the front of his shirt. His pistol plunked to the floor, hand reaching to stop the flow of blood escaping from his left shoulder. But it was his eyes that told the story. Bobby never took them off Julie. Sad eyes that didn’t understand.

Freed of Bobby’s weight, Chucho scrambled from underneath him. He picked up Bobby’s gun and briefly pointed it at Bobby. I don’t even think he knew I was there. He decided against it and hobbled to Julie. Still pointing her gun at Bobby, Julie looked like the child that she was. Small and alone and surprised by her own capability. She snapped out of it and let out a small laugh. Chucho pulled her toward the office door. Once she turned, she never looked back at what she had done. Then they were gone.

I grabbed a fistful of dirty rags from the ground, ran to Bobby, and pressed the wadded-up mess against his shoulder. It quickly became saturated with blood. I reached my hand around his back to feel for an exit wound. There wasn’t any, but I didn’t know if that was bad or good. At least it was one less hole to plug up.

“She shot me,” Bobby said.

Chucho’s motorcycle revved to life outside, disappearing quickly.

“My girl shot me.”

“We’ll get you to a hospital. Just hold on. You’re going to be okay.” I dug around my pocket for my phone while trying to maintain pressure on Bobby’s wound.

“I don’t want Julie to feel bad. About shooting me. I don’t want her to be sad about shooting her old man.”

“Doesn’t really matter right now, but okay.”

“Kids do stupid shit.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to. She was scared.”

“No, she meant to. That’s not the thing.”

Bobby’s eyes went a little glassy.

“We’ll talk about this later.” I shook him. “Stay with me, Bobby. Try to stay awake.”

Noises came from the office.

“See. Someone’s here already. You’re going to be okay.”

“You didn’t call no one,” Bobby said, his voice slurring.

He was right. EMTs or an ambulance would’ve had to already be parked out front. It wasn’t the paramedics. It wasn’t firemen. Hell, I would have settled for a Reiki Master or intuitive healer at that moment.

It wasn’t even a someone. It was those fucking dogs again.

“Of course,” I said.

The two dogs stood in the office doorway, drooling and staring and working on their horror movie personae. Luckily Chucho had only grabbed Bobby’s pistol and had forgotten about his own. I rolled Bobby over. He grunted in pain. I grabbed Chucho’s pistol from his waistband and pointed it at the dogs.

“You fuckers even think about it and I’ll plug you both. I swear to God.”

I fired a shot just to the left of them. The dogs jumped and yelped, frightened by the sound. They didn’t exactly run away, but they retreated, doing their best to maintain their dog dignity.

I finally dug out my phone and called 911. I gave the too-calm lady our location and told her that my friend had been shot, but kept the details vague. She instructed me to be patient and apply pressure to the wound.

Patience. Pressure. I would have repeated it as a mantra, if Bobby and I didn’t have a few things to discuss before he passed out and the ambulance arrived.

After all, we had to get our story straight.

The cops came with the ambulance. After the paramedic lady patched my leg, I went with the cops. Bobby went with the ambulance. They were cool enough to tell me that it looked like he was going to be okay, that the bullet wound appeared to come from a small caliber, and that it hit high enough to dig into the meat of his upper pec muscle. They weren’t cool enough to let me go.

The EMT handed me off to a very patient, or possibly bored, detective who took my statement. I told mostly the truth, although I didn’t mention the guns we had brought. Mine was still under the couch in the office and Chucho’s was at the bottom of a big drum of used motor oil, a needle in the haystack of the very messy garage.

The gist of my statement was that Bobby’s innocent teenage daughter had gone missing. We had reason to believe that she was at the garage with her boyfriend, Chucho. The gate had been unlocked and open. Thinking that the garage was open for business, Bobby had gone into the office. I had waited outside. The dogs attacked me. Someone shot Bobby, he didn’t see who.