Scotilly said, “You’re going to be able to write twenty or thirty great songs about that?”
Anna, Stella, and Jools looked at Paul, and waited for the answer.
“I am. It’s one of the most important things in life; trying to find someone you can be with, reasonably happy, for the long term. It’s what most people want, because it provides some comfort and security in a harsh world. So yes, I can do that. I want to do that. This is the time and place to do it.” He looked at Anna and Stella. “But I need help. It’s a big job, and time is short. I need support, both moral support and physical support. I need another musician to help with orchestrations and recordings. And I need someone I love and can trust (not looking at Scotilly here) to help me with the physical and emotional demands of creating music out of thin air. I need you two.”
Anna and Stella sat next to each other on the eight seat sofa, and looked at each other. Anna leaned over and whispered, “We can do this. I’m all in.”
Stella whispered back, “You really want to live in a smelly concrete bunker for two months, with no men? No sex. Two months. Putting up with Jools and Scotilly?”
“You grew up with Paul McCartney as your father. For me, he’s like one of the great men in the world. I can live with no sex for two months if it means hanging out and working with him. Writing music, producing an opera.”
Still whispering, with the other three watching and trying to hear, Stella said, “Sex isn’t totally out of the question. There’s Jools. He is a little cute.”
They both sat back on the sofa and stared at Jools. Then they put their heads together again, mouths to ears, and giggled. Jools looked at Scotilly. Paul, the intuitive one, figured out what was going on, and smiled. Scotilly also figured it out and said, “Knock it off. Your jobs are in the bunker.”
Anna whispered, “It may not be two months. The Junes are hunting for us, and they’re hunting the morons who have Richard. I put my money on them. Richard may show up here sooner rather than later. Then I’m ok. What about you?”
Stella said, “Um, well, I guess I’d have to rough it for the two months.”
“Not exactly, girl.” And they giggled together, again.
Scotilly said, “Ok, let’s cut the crap. Are you going to work with him on this idea of relationships? It sounds ok to me, if he can do it. It’s serious, and that’s what we want. That combination of entertainment and message.”
Stella looked at her father and said, “We’re going to help you. It’s going to be great.”
Paul said, “What about being cooped up in that place for two months, just us? That’s a long time.”
Anna turned towards Scotilly with a defiant look and said, “It’s not going to be two months. The Junes are coming.”
Chapter 40 - SYAMF
Little Jinny Blistov stood at the gas range in the June’s kitchen, sautéing shrimp, garlic, red peppers and butter, which he was going to serve over rice to the Junes, Nev, and Constantine for their lunch. There still had been no call about what the NNs were demanding for Richard’s return. Constantine was explaining to the Junes his analogy of truffle seeking pigs. “The only idea we have for finding the nitwits is that they may go to places here in town where other nitwits of their persuasion hang out. Other racist types. You got any places like that? Most towns do, whether you’re in Ireland or Bangladesh or Mexico. There are nitwits and morons everywhere.”
Gwen put a forkful of shrimp in her mouth, a signal to Roger that she wasn’t going to answer the question. He said, “We haven’t been in a while, have we dear, but there’s a place up on the interstate just outside of town that has a big sign, and it catches a lot of attention. It’s a black and white sign about twenty feet by twenty feet that shows the bottom of a pair of huge boots with tire tread soles. Underneath the boots are the big letters SYAMF.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, and Jinny asked, “What’s that mean?”
“It means Stomp Your Ass Motherfuckers.” Jinny and Constantine looked at each other, then back at Roger for elucidation. “It’s a strange, multi-faceted message. On the one hand it’s a warning to the world that some tough guys hang out there. On the other, it’s an invitation to people of similar world views to come on in and join the fun. Like I said, strange.”
Gwen said, “It’s been there for a lot of years, most of the locals know it’s there, even if they don’t know what it means or what goes on there. Sometimes there’s a Confederate battle flag hanging from the bottom of the sign, and sometimes there are a lot of motorcycles out front. I’ve seen a noose hanging from the sign a couple of times. The cops raid it once or twice a year, but it always stays. It morphs from a bar to a tattoo shop to a private clubhouse to an abandoned building. But there’s always something going on.” She looked at Roger and said, “It has been awhile since we visited. You’re getting soft and boring in your old age.”
Jinny finished his second plate of shrimp and rice at the same time the others finished their first. He said, “We need a pig. You know anyone can go up there and sniff around? See if the morons are hanging out?”
Gwen said, “How about you, tough guy?”
Constantine said, “I thought we were hunting the NNs?”
Gwen used an analogy from football, saying, “Sometimes ya gotta change the call at the line.”
Chapter 41 – Richard Does the Possum
It turns out, of course, that the NNs did know about SYAMF, and had been there twice since arriving in Charleston a couple of weeks earlier. The symbol of the bottoms of a pair of big boots was known to them in the pacific northwest, and had caught their attention from the interstate right away. They hadn’t solved their immediate problem, which was where to stay now that they had a kidnap victim with them, and were thinking of procuring another. It’s risky staying in a motel with a kidnap victim or two, no matter how much you like the suite arrangement. One little scream could ruin your whole day. So after driving around town for an hour or so, squashed shoulder to shoulder in the cab of the truck, the BMIBC headed up the highway to SYAMF. He figured, one, they could have a couple of beers while they thought about their problem; two, no one in that joint would squeal on them about having a kidnap victim with them; and three, with any luck they might find someone there that would put them and their victim(s) up, privately, for a few days. SYAMF had seemed to them to be a fraternal sort of place, where like-minded brothers could find succor in time of need. And a beer.
When they entered the building the first thing the clientele noticed was that only three of the four guys had tats. And the guy without any tats did not have a single piece of black clothing adorning his not very muscular body. He was, so to speak, an anomaly, which would bear at least some level of investigation. There wasn’t a conventional bar in the place, behind which stood a man or maid wearing a white apron, clean or not, who in exchange for legal tender would serve you a drink. No stools or large mirror on the wall behind the bar into which you could stare at your own sodden and depressing visage, or diagonally and surreptitiously catch a glimpse of someone of the opposite sex at the far end of the bar. This didn’t mean you couldn’t get a drink. You could, and they did. Beer could be found in any of the half dozen coolers set on the floor around the interconnected rooms, and bottles of hard liquor could be found on a surprisingly large number of bookshelves attached to the walls. What a customer couldn’t find anywhere would be a book or a wine glass. No reading going on around here, and no wine served. And don’t ask for a chocolate martini, either, which, upon reflexion, demonstrates a subtly high level of sophistication, in and of itself, on the part of the managers. Each room had a barrel on which sat a glass goldfish bowl, into which the customer put whatever amount of money he or she thought commensurate with the value of the drink they drank. Apparently there is honor among morons, at least the ones who patronize SYAMF.
Richard was scared to death from the minute he entered the
establishment until the minute he left. He clung to the NSSMIBC like a baby possum to its mother, at one point even considering climbing onto his back. This was when a completely bald androgynous woman approached him, ignored the three nitwits standing around him, grabbed his crotch, and said, “If you need momma, I’m right here, little baby.” And walked away.
The nitwits each got a beer out of a cooler and tossed a couple of bucks into one of the bowls. They looked around at the crowd, who looked back, the regulars debating whether the approach by the androgynous woman constituted a full and complete vetting of the tatless interloper. None of them felt compelled to issue another challenge, apparently deciding it had, and the nitwits nodded to a few of the regulars they had seen or met in their previous visits. Maybe the regulars thought Richard was some kind of prey the nitwits had captured, or a prize they had won in a poker game, and were going to take back to their lair later for fun and games, or perhaps to devour in some fashion or other. It took the guys about one minute to drink their first beer, at which time, as was customary in the joint, they crushed the cans and threw them into a corner, where it joined a legion of similarly dead soldiers. The NSSMIBC offered Richard a beer when he got a second one out of a cooler, but Richard declined, sensing he could barely swallow his own spit, and likely would have a really tough time downing twelve ounces of sorry quality suds.
There was blue denim and black denim, red confederate flags and red pinwheel swastikas, some black lightning bolts on a red field, and a few white and black stormfront logos. And there weren’t any sandals on any of the feet, no Birkenstocks or flipflops. This was not a place for Jimmy Buffet parrotheads. After knocking back the second beers, this time taking two minutes to do so, the BMIBC began to circulate, rubbing elbows, so to speak, with his bros. He bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and filled some glasses, asking the exact significance of the battle flag symbol, and answering questions about Idaho. Was it really true everyone there refused to pay federal income tax, and got away with it? Is there a course at the University of Idaho about the history of the National Socialist Movement? Do you hunt coon with dogs in Idaho? He scored some points when he answered the last question by saying that coons ain’t the only thing we hunt with dogs, up in the ‘ho. H
While he conducted a cultural exchange with the boys from the low country, the other two nitwits went looking for food. They were given two choices: boiled hotdogs on stale buns with a choice of yellow mustard or brown mustard, and boiled peanuts. This choice kept the culinary demands on the kitchen staff to a manageable level. They used the cooker to do the peanuts in the morning, and then used it (no cleaning required) for the dogs around noon. The dogs they cooked at noon still were available twelve hours later, just as tasty, though perhaps not with same aesthetic allure. Every passing hours added another wrinkle to the skin. The NSSMIBC asked, “What the hell are boiled peanuts?”
The answer, confirmed by three other patrons, was, “They good cause they slimy.” The MSMIBC realized his not so smart buddy had made a tactical error in asking the question ‘what the hell are boiled peanuts’, because now they would have to eat some, not wanting to demonstrate or display any sign of Idahoan weakness to these local boys. So they downed the obligatory handful of peanuts, endeavoring successfully not to puke, and then went on to down half a dozen dogs with gourmet yellow mustard, and another couple of beers. The locals, noticing that Richard didn’t eat or drink anything, refrained from commenting on the observation, in the same way they would refrain from commenting to someone who brought in a three legged dog. If Richard indeed was prey or prize, his life was hard enough without enduring ignoble comments from strangers. There was a measure of compassion, as well as honor, among the denizens of SYAMF.
Richard endured an hour and a half of terror, during which the BMIBC and his buds killed the bottle of Jack, told a few dirty jokes, told a few racist jokes, and generally had a good time raining abuse on Jews, blacks, and gays without favoritism. The Idahoans made a favorable impression on the local boys, resulting in an invitation by one of these eminent Charlestonians to harbor them at his homestead outside of town for the next week or two. The invitation included Richard, the local boy hoping he might get a piece of the action, whatever that might be.
The homestead consisted of two quonset huts set amidst a barren landscape of dirt, barbed wire, and abandoned farm equipment. One quonset hut was the guy’s house, while the other served as his shop in which he worked on his Harley. The front half of the hut was the shop, while the rear half was adorned with Army cots, plastic chairs, particle board bookshelves and dressers, and a propane stove and refrigerator. Richard looked around, hoping to find a bottle of bordeaux somewhere on a shelf, but no such luck. He really had gotten spoiled, hanging around with the Junes. The MSMIBC also looked around, mentally comparing his new living quarters to his former motel suite. His and Richard’s sense of disappointment ran neck and neck in the intensity department. The local boy said, “I got some surplus blankets up in my place I’ll bring back to ya. Won’t nobody bother y’all here, whatever it is y’all might be inclined to want to do. Nearest neighbor is a ways away.” He looked at Richard and reiterated, “Whatever y’all might be inclined to do.” Richard again felt the need to emulate a baby possum, climbing onto his mother’s back for protection, such back belonging to the NSSMIBC.
When the local left to get the blankets, the MSMIBC said, “Boss, this place sucks. We really gonna stay here? All sleep in the same room? Smells like motor oil and exhaust in here.”
The BMIBC looked around and said, “It does suck. But we can keep the boyfriend here without him screaming and alerting anyone to his plight.”
“His what?”
“Plight. His circumstance. Life situation.”
“Oh.”
“And his friend.”
“What friend?”
“The other person we’re gonna kidnap. So we can offer a two-fer for the Stirg bitch.”
Both of the other Idaho boys perked up at the prospect of another kidnapping, which temporarily distracted them from the reality of the precipitous social slide from their $100 a night suites to their new digs. The MSMIBC said, “Who’s the next person we gonna grab?”
“Don’t know yet. I think we’re going to have a discussion about that with the boyfriend here. Ask him who might qualify as a candidate? Who his friends might want back bad enough to trade for the bitch? Before that, we’re supposed to call them and tell them what we want for his return. Ransom. We gotta do that now.”
As the NSSMIBC sat down on one of the folding Army cots, three springs broke simultaneously, and his butt sank through the wire mesh surface and came to within an inch of touching the oil stained concrete floor. Richard, in light of the slightly salacious looks directed his way by the local property owner, and wanting to establish a tight relationship with his possum momma, reached out a hand and helped the NN to extricate himself from the cot.
“God damn. Now I gotta sleep on that thing?”
The BMIBC ignored the incident and the question. Sitting down on one of the plastic chairs, he said, “We want money and we want to hurt Stirg. We hurt Stirg by kidnapping his granddaughter. Violate her some.” He looked over at Richard. “Where is she? That’s what we grabbed you for, to tell us where she is. So, where is she?”
It was early evening at this point, and Richard had had a hard day. It had started off alright, sitting on Stirg’s yacht, eating caviar. Then things had gone downhill, getting grabbed in the vestibule of his condo, riding around in the cab of the pickup, crammed shoulder to shoulder with the NNs, then migrating up to the SYAMF place, where he was viewed either as prey or prize. Now he was in a quonset hut out in the coastal scrublands, being asked by his kidnappers to tell them where his girlfriend was, so they could kidnap and violate her. Eating caviar to the rape of his girlfriend. That was a transition he could do without.
He rubbed his ey
es with his knuckles, closed them, and tried to relax. He really wanted a glass of bordeaux. When he opened his eyes, he felt better, almost at ease. His thoughts fell into place and his emotions quieted. He looked at the boss man and said, “She’s with the Junes. She lives with them.”
“Who are the Junes?”
“They’re the ones who live on Church Street. You paid them a visit.”
“She lives in that house? Now?”
Richard nodded, yes. Despite being stressed out for most of the day, his thinking was clear and certain. He wanted to send these boys towards the Junes. Right into the lion’s den.
The BMIBC leaned back in his chair, also trying to relax. It had been a taxing day for him, too, with the kidnapping and all, then the drinking at SYAMF, and their relocation to their present quarters. He said, “Ok. Maybe we go pay these Junes a visit tomorrow. Or maybe we take the day off, get a little R&R right here.”
Richard said, “Either way, I have a feeling y’all will meet up. Soon. You can go to them, or just sit tight. In that case, they’ll come to you.”
The three NNs pondered on that cryptic remark, and a feeling of disquiet descended on the hut.
Chapter 42 – Jinny and the Locals
Little Jinny Blistov thought the assignment to go to SYAMF and see if he could get a lead on the NNs sounded like fun. Go to a place whose motto was Stomp Your Ass Motherfuckers, a place known to harbor bikers, racists, dimwits, and other unsavory types, and ask the clientele if they knew the whereabouts of three neo-nazi morons from Idaho. Gwen asked him, “Who do you want to go with you?”
The only woman Jinny liked more than Gwen was his girlfriend, Guignard. He thought Gwenny June was just about the hottest woman god ever had placed upon the earth, whether in his hometown of Saint Petersburg, Russia, or his adopted place of residence, Charleston, South Carolina. If Gwenny told him to cross country ski from Saint Petersburg to the North Pole, he’d do it. With Guignard’s permission, of course. He looked around the June’s kitchen, first at Roger, then at Constantine. He liked them both; they were his pals, and they had had some significant adventures together. But there just was something about this assignment that screamed, solo. So he said, “I’ll do this one alone. Think I’ll head up there right now. See what this all-American place is like.”
The Kidnapping of Paul McCartney Page 16
