Cecil said, "Get us a couple more beers. Get yourself a big orange. Get some fucking peanuts over here."
"Sure, Mr. Dupree."
Cat stood, rose up like a grizzly, like a mountain, like a tree, blocking out the light, the bar, Minnie Mouth and Alabama Straight, the southern end of Piggs.
It always aggravated Cecil, always caused him to wonder how a person so big, a person with the strength of a Cape buffalo, could have the brains of a brick. The guy's head alone, there was room in there for two, three brains to spare. Instead, there were only instructions how to walk, how to shit. How to tell which is a banana, which is a fish.
Every time he asked Cat to get something for him, Cecil wished he'd sent Grape, or done it himself. The agony, the effort, the dreadful confusion that overwhelmed Cat was a terrible thing to see.
Cecil watched him coming back, watched him mouth the words, trying, with fierce determination, to hang onto them before they simply drifted away.
'beer...big orange...fucking peanuts..."
Good, doing fine, the dummy remembered what to get, remembered where to bring them back.
Then, as Cecil watched, some neural lint, some static from outer space, twisted Cat's features into awesome disarray. Something scrambled the tortured process in his head, derailed his train, tossed him off the track.
"Orange," Cat said..."beer...fucking peanuts...nigger...
beer...fucking orange...nigger...fucking beer..."
"Huh?" Cecil blinked, squinted his tiny eyes, certain, now, Cat's cheap wiring was shorting out.
"What you talkin' about, what's the matter with you?"
Cat didn't answer, didn't have to try. Someone appeared, someone walked past the giant into view. White shirt, white tie, pearl-gray suit, purple shades and silver shoes. Cool, slick, six-foot-eight, black as blackest night.
"Mr. Cecil R. Dupree," the man said, smooth as ice cream, fine as peach pie, "I am Hamilton Taylor Gerrard, and I represent Mr. Ambrose Junior of New Orleans, who would like to offer you a fair, square and honest business deal..."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"This is a criminal act that you are doing, you are in the very deep trouble, my friend. When you are detaining a person this is a most illegal matter for which the penalty is severe.
"However, I am willing to look upon this as a grave misunderstanding, possibly a humor, a joke of some kind. If you agree to be releasing me at once, I would even consider a modest reward."
Jack pretended he wasn't paying any mind, but he was. Looking the other way, like cleaning your fingernails, doing something else, what that did was de-moralize your captive, in a psychological way. This was a proven technique, used by agents of many nations, and the cops in Dallas and Oklahoma City, two cities he knew about for sure.
"You are fucking through, Mr. Chavez?" Jack said finally.
"If you're finished talking, you can shut your lip an' listen to me. You don't want to do that, I'll leave you here and you can yell through the stomping and the stereo up there an' someone'll come and let you go, they ever figure where the hell you are, which by the way don't anybody know."
"I will not yell or shout," Ricky said. "I do not feel this would help the matter at all. I would like to deal with you directly on this matter, Jack. I think we can come to the solucion, the answer that will satisfy your needs."
"You ought to thank me, is what you ought to do. You'd be a cold burrito if it wasn't for me. You can believe that or not, it don't matter to me."
Ricky supposed, in a most peculiar way, this was so. It was not impossible to believe the gringo mobster with the Lone Ranger face would kill him, simply because he wished to have relations of an intimate nature with the lovely Gloria Mundi. Possibly, he dared imagine, relations of a more permanent nature than that.
On the other hand, Jack had made it clear his rescue was for the purpose of dispatching Ricky himself. This, to Ricky's mind, took some of the air out of Jack's noble act.
Ricky did not think Jack was a loco, a person of the nut persuasion, in the sense that Cecil could be said to truly be crazy as shit. Jack was more of the cunning nature, of the sly, lacking in manners and cultura of any sort. Not so much evil in the heart as a lack of reason in the head.
Still, if a man is tied naked except for his boots, lying on the concrete floor in the pen of the dogs, the difference in the Cecils and the Jacks of the world is of little matter at the time. What matters is how to avoid the dying in such a wretched place.
He remembered most of it now. Climbing down the shaky ladder from the Junkers airplane in the tree. Then bop! on the head, and he's in somebody's trunk, someone else's, not his. He is in a car where the exhaust travels directly through the trunk and out a ragged hole in the back. Ricky recalls little after that.
If anything is more humiliating that his naked condition, it's the sight of his possessions Jack has laid out neatly on the floor. His clothing, his Patek Philippe, his Cordovan leather wallet from Spain, two very nice rings of silver, sixteen-hundred dollars, and a number of credit cards.
Under the seat of his car, Jack has also found his .357 silver-plated Colt Magnum, with the Mexican eagle and serpent engraved on the weapon, and the gold pesos inlaid on the ivory grip.
In his jacket, Jack has found the damning evidence of condoms from France. This, Ricky fears, could seal his fate with Jack, who knows the occasion for which they were intended. More than once, Jack has let his flashlight shine in an accidental manner on Ricky's private parts. And, for the first time in his life, Ricky Chavez is grateful they are not spectacular, but only of normal size for his weight and height.
"You gotta understand," Jack said, leaning against the chain link side of the pen, studying Ricky's fine watch, "this is a personal thing with me, it don't have no racial undertones. I don't care for beaners, or any of your swarthy-colored types, but this has got nothing to do with that. This has to do with trying to fuck Gloria Mundi, and I won't put up with that."
"I admit to an admiration for this woman," Ricky said, hesitating a moment to collect his thoughts, "I will not deny that. But what you speak of I resent, for you are painting my intentions as soez, ordinary and coarse."
"Yeah, well coarse is as coarse does, I'm not going into that. I don't want you messin' with Gloria. Her and I isn't some passin' affair, we intend to settle down."
Ricky was glad the light was off his face at the time, for he was quite amazed to learn this.
"I was truly not aware of such a thing. Miss Mundi has never mentioned that to me."
"That's because it's isn't your business, Mr. Chavez. It's nothing you need to know."
"Yes. I see."
"Good. I'm fucking happy you do."
"And you feel–because I have shown my affection to this lady as well, you must murder me in cold blood, this is so?"
"You embarrassed or anything, I could find something to cover you up. I'm not a mean-spirited person, Mr. Chavez. I'd say having too kindly a nature has been a weakness in me, and likely done more harm than good."
"A blanket of some manner would be appreciated, yes. And I must complain these restraints are uncomfortably tight."
"That's your ordinary duct tape, is all. It won't cut your blood off, it'll give."
Jack paused to listen as the bozos upstairs began to cheer and stomp, and a fine veil of dust descended through the cracks. The DJ put on "God Save the Queen," which meant Maggie Thatch was coming on, and Gloria would be up after that.
He looked at Ricky's very fine watch and wondered what it cost. Likely more than his Buick Park Avenue, which Jack had left where he'd found it, in a brushy turnaround near the BATTLE OF BRITUN FAMILY FUN PARK. The watch was hard to read, even with a flash. It had little diamonds for numbers, which irritated Jack no end. If he was right, it was half past one.
"I've had some thought on this since last night, Mr. Chavez, which might be of interest to you. It's possible–and I don't say it'll happen that way–that you could be a help to me, w
hich means I'd be keeping you alive."
"I would be most interested in being of help to you, Jack."
"Yeah, I'm not surprised to hear that. The thing is, Cecil Dupree has got a box full of money up in his place, which is right above Piggs. I don't know exactly how much, but it's a lot. Cecil's going to make a drug buy with that dough. Someone's coming up soon from the Ambrose bunch in New Orleans. In case you don't know, that's a mob empire down there, a lot of whose members have been cited on network TV.
"What I am saying is, I'm going to get that money for myself. It isn't legal, it comes from criminal enterprise, so it isn't stealing like you hold up a store. I intend to use it for good, which is to start a new life for myself, and take Gloria away from all this."
Ricky hoped his feelings would not betray him. In the motion pictures, persons of the Hispanic nature were either highly agitated, foaming at the mouth, or appeared to be drugged, with no expression at all. At the moment, it was the clown, the payaso, holding up an adobe wall, that Ricky wished Jack to see.
"That is a most ambitious and truly daring idea, Jack. I have no experience in the robbery trade, but I should be pleased to be of service in any way I can..."
"Put a lid on the kiss-ass stuff, amigo, I don't need none of that. An' I don't need help on the job, either. It's your kind of stealing where I can use a little advice."
Ricky shook his head. "I do not see what I can do. I am in the banking business, Jack."
"Right. That's what I'm talking about. Big time crooks, your white shirt stuff. I get the money, you hide it. All but a little running money, the rest in like an overseas offshore truss."
"Yes," Ricky said, "I can do that."
"Good. Then you got a fair chance of remaining among the living, Mr. Chavez."
"I am honored to work with you, Jack."
"Fuck you are. Just don't get any fancy greaser ideas. I've seen 'bout every Ricardo Montalban picture twice..."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cecil R. Dupree had spoken to a number of niggers up close, but never one exactly like this. If Hamilton T. Gerrard had ever pushed a lawn mower in his life, it didn't show now.
Cecil's first thought, his primal reaction, was to shoot this uppity bastard on the spot. Not a real good idea, with a couple hundred customers around. That, and if he really came from Ambrose, Cecil needed to hear what he had to say. You could always shoot a guy later, you didn't have to do it right away.
"First thing is," said Hamilton T. Gerrard, "is a message from Mr. Ambrose Junior himself. Mr. Ambrose like to say he harbor no ill feelings regarding the mishap what occurred in connection to Mr. Hutt Kenny's visit up here. That is water below the bridge. Mr. Ambrose say an accident like that might happen once, but odds are it wouldn't likely happen again. You understand what I'm saying, Mr. Dupree?"
"Yeah. Give Mr. Ambrose Junior my personal regards. Tell him I don't forsee any mishaps like that. Tell him the odds are good he won't be sending another asshole with funny-looking shirts up here."
Hamilton Gerrard grinned. "I will tell him just that, Mr. Dupree. I know he'll be pleased. You gentlemen mind if I sit? I am cursed with abnormal height, and I can barely see y'all down there."
"Please do," Cecil said, and decided he would shoot Mr. Gerrard in the knees first. That would take care of any fucking problem with abnormal height.
"Welcome to Piggs, Mr. Gerrard. Let me get you something to drink."
"I believe I'll decline right now, but I am grateful for the thought. Now, Mr. Dupree, here is what Mr. Ambrose Junior suggests that we do. I have brought the merchandise in the quantity you discussed with Mr. Ambrose some time ago."
"No partials," Cecil said. "We do the whole thing, I told him that."
"And he agrees, sir, you'll be pleased to hear. That's a gesture of goodwill on Mr. Ambrose' part. The price, now, that'll be seventy-five. And if you are looking surprised, Mr. Dupree, and I believe that's what I see, Mr. Ambrose thought the extra ten might serve as a gesture of goodwill on your part, you see."
"I see where Mr. Ambrose Junior is going, and with all due respect, fuck him. I'll go five for goodwill, if Mr. Ambrose will agree to go back to sixty-five the next time we do a deal."
"Mr. Ambrose Junior discuss that with me, and he say because he hold you in highest regard, he accept the extra five, and he guarantee the price stay at the figure next time."
For a long moment, Cecil R. Dupree and Hamilton T. Gerrard held one another in a cold and penetrating gaze. Neither one blinked, neither gave an inch, both of them willing to die before they'd look away. Then, each man gave the very slightest of nods to the other, and each sat back in his chair.
"This is Grape here, and that's Cat," Cecil said. "You make the trip up here yourself, or you bring some company along?"
"I get lonesome, I ride by myself."
Cecil grinned at that, and Grape did too. Cat simply stared, as he had from the moment this strange, exotic creature had walked into his world. Cat knew there were people who were black, he'd seen them lots of times. But Cat kept things in order in his head, he knew where things belonged, where they ought to be. Cars were in the street, they weren't up in the sky. Soda pop was orange or brown, it never was blue. Niggers were outside of Piggs, they never were in. Only one was in now, and that hurt Cat's head.
"Don't mind him," Cecil said, "he don't have a big social agenda, he don't get out a lot. He doesn't mean any disrespect for persons of the colored persuasion. We just don't get a lot of your people in here."
"I didn't notice," said Mr. Gerrard. "Not a lot of light in here."
"That's part of the illusion and all. Guys come in, it's private, don't anyone know they're here. But I expect you've been in a place like this before."
Mr. Gerrard smiled. "I've got 1:43, Mr. Dupree. I'd be pleased if we could take care of our business at four. Outside. I'll have my package, you'll have yours."
Mr. Gerrard stood, unfolding his skinny frame up to a full six-nine.
"Four's kinda late," Cecil said. "We close up at three. Three-thirty's better for me."
"Persons of the colored persuasion stay up all night sometimes, Mr. Dupree."
Before Cecil could answer, Hamilton T. Gerrard had smiled once more and walked away.
"Pow," Cecil said. He cocked his finger and fired again.
"Pow, motherfucker, your black ass is dead."
"The guy's tall," Grape said. "You got to give him that."
"They're supposed to be tall, you dope. A short guy, how's he going to play basketball...?"
Chapter Thirty
"This is not right, Jack. I have agreed to help you in your robbery enterprise. We are working together, my friend. You do not treat a person who is doing the cooperation with you in such a manner as this."
"Mr. Chavez, shut the fuck up. We aren't working together, and we sure aren't friends. You're doing what I tell you 'cause that's what you gotta do."
Ricky didn't answer, and that was fine with Jack. The guy was irritating, talking all the time. Which is what your Mescan's doing, that's what he's got to do. A taco don't talk a lot is fine. You get a good Mescan boxer, he's hell in the ring, he don't talk all the time. Same thing with your black sports figures, they can beat a white guy coming and going, on the field or in the ring. Jack didn't know why, but it was so.
He couldn't blame Chavez for being pissed. Crawling out the cellar up the hole has got to be pure aggravation, a guy's stark naked, his hands taped up, that's got to be a bitch.
Now the guy's really complaining, he's triple-duct-taped to the dumpster back of Wan's, his ankles taped too, taped around his gold-tipped boots, Jack figured he'd be pissed too.
"I got to put this stuff on your mouth, an' there'll be some discomfort in that. It's for your protection, though, in case you start yelling or something, it's Cecil or one of them that's coming, and you don't want that."
"That is not necessary. I will not call out."
"I know you think you won't now. But I seen
panic set in when you least expect it to."
"I will not lie to you, Jack. I intend to keep my end of our agreement, but that does not mean I do not hold you in contempt. I think you are a puerco of the very worst kind."
"Whatever that is, I don't expect it's any good. And I wouldn't respect you, Mr. Chavez, if you didn't resent the treatment you've received."
"That revolver has the sentimental value to me. The watch does not, but it is very expensive as you can see."
"Right. You hang in there, Mr. Chavez, you going to be just fine."
Before Ricky could speak again, Jack wrapped the duct tape across his mouth, stretching it around his head twice. Ricky didn't move, but he had much to say with his eyes, which Jack thought were hostile at best.
Ortega's car was where it ought to be, under the ancient oak. Mr. Chavez' watch said 3:29. Ortega would be sleeping in the kitchen. Ahmed would be in the storeroom, dreaming of desert nights. Rhino was the only member of the crew who made enough to keep his own place, which was a blue double-wide east of town.
All the girls were gone from Piggs. Cecil, Grape and Cat would be where they always were after closing time. They'd sit at Cecil's table, drinking and playing cards half the night. Grape wouldn't drink much, and Cat would curl up like a giant hound on the floor.
Jack peered in, to make certain they were all in place, then backed outside again. The night was extra dark, and the air was steamy hot. Jack's gut was knotted up tight, but he couldn't help that.
He stood against the corrugated wall for some time, breathing in and breathing out, staying in shadow, listening in the dark. A train rumbled by a mile off on the crossing, the road to I-35. Far down the street, a single traffic light blinked on and off.
Stand here forever, asshole, and you can blow it all off, say the time isn't right, you just need to wait it out...
He heard the sound then and froze. A shoe, scraping on the ground. And close, shit, right in the parking lot, only no one was there, everyone was gone!
PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay Page 12
