Your Day In The Barrel

by Alan Furst

  But the Professor, the Dean, Sister Mary and Joyce Quarterly seem pretty tight, into the group vibrations without vibrating too much on each other. I couldn’t tell you who is fucking who or what those arrangements are, but they are together and seem happy. I don’t like to hang around big lots of dope and other people’s houses too long, so I give Genelle the high sign and Robbie says goodby to the goat and we drive back to the Yacht. We take showers and change back into the uniforms and I follow Genelle into the car-rental place where she pays cash, there being only a minimal sort of legal personality constructed for Mrs. Walter Knauch. There are a lot of things you just don’t get around to doing.

  In three hours we are two towns from Meridan State College, our next drop-off point, and we find a Best Western and snug down for the night.

  I wake up at six the next morning with a bitch of a cold. One tonsil feels like it’s in flames and swollen twice its size, my ear itches, I’ve been breathing through my mouth all night and my throat is covered with whatever covers throats. Also, it’s pouring down rain but that doesn’t seem to have lowered the temperature any.

  “Oh no,” says Genelle when she wakes up, ’cause she sees what kind of day it’s going to be. Robbie is crying as soon as he’s awake ’cause he’s got the same damn bug that I do. We patch up best we can, on go the costumes, and we drive through that goddamn rain for two hours, mostly looking up the ass-end of trucks creeping up hills and tearing down the other side. It’s one-thirty when we hit the outskirts of the town and find the Terrible Camper People in their secret enclave. They’re all goosey about the rain what with screwed-up vacations and we won’t get to mother’s by Wednesday, and a little snoopier than usual. Some old bag in pink pedal pushers wants to trade bean recipes with Genelle and won’t take a hint. To make matters worse, our connection here isn’t answering his phone. So we sit in a public campsite, Robbie and I snuffling and honking, with our nest egg, which is annoyingly large even in the middle of our giant turtle house.

  At seven the next morning Villegas answers his phone. His name is truly Anthony Villegas, he made a point of telling me that, and I checked it in the campus directory. We make a vague sort of signal and he calls our payphone back from another payphone about a half-hour later (I’ve got fifty bucks in dimes in the glove compartment) and we set up a meeting at a drive-in movie that night. So we kill another day watching Sunday movies on the portable. Genelle and I could screw away the afternoon, but Robbie is up and about and there’s not even a chance of sneaking one. Finally it gets to be near dark and Genelle does the car-rental business again and the security^ spin and by 8:20 we’re off in our rented Impala to see five (count ’em) Clint Eastwood movies at the Nite-Lite drive-in. Villegas and I meet at the refreshment stand at 9:45. The rain has stopped but there are big puddles in the gravel and some ferocious flies whizzing around the fruit drinks and dead pizza. I’m now running, I’m sure, a fever and all my n’s come out d’s. Villegas nearly breaks my thumb by shaking hands revolution style. I usually go very loosely at a handshake ’cause you never know what kind you’re going to get. But my cold is making me stupid and I shoot out a straight Dale Carnegie

  Howareya and he hooks my thumb in his at the last second. He’s strong, with cordy arms coming out of a cutoff denim shirt, taller than me and I’m an even six, and wild blue eyes that pin you to the wall. He is, as we say, heavy. A Nam vet, a Chicano from East Texas, and political as hell. He says “How’s it going, brother?” “Not too well, I got a awful cold.”

  “That’s too bad. You oughta drink soup and stay in the bed.”

  “Pretty soon, I’m gonna do just that,” I say. It’s getting a little weird talking to this guy, ’cause over his left shoulder Clint Eastwood is blowing away Mexican ban-didos by the carload. Villegas has a big Zapata mustache and I’m sure Clint Eastwood never tangled with him ’cause they’re both still around.

  He says “I’m sorry about having to meet here, man, but I got to be careful about who I see, so I like public places, you understand?”

  “Sure. That’s okay.”

  “I don’t know if you’re hip to what’s going down here, but there are a lot of people in this valley real pissed off at me.”

  “Oh yeah?” Which is a “tell me more,” ’cause I’m real cautious all of a sudden.

  “Me and some people who were in Nam. Chicano, black, white, it don’t matter; we’re tryin’ to help these people in the valley who pick the crops.”

  A little light dawns. “In Pennsylvania?”

  “Hey listen man, stoop labor doesn’t just happen in Texas and California. There must be six thousand of us around here, livin’ in shacks.”

  “You mean migrants?”

  “Used to be migrants ten years ago, then some people started to settle down here, try to make a home. Next thing is a union, a sell-out with the teamsters. Along comes Chavez, and the people get their own union together. The farmers here aren’t that bad, but some rednecks in town got into it. Now some people can’t get credit. When you’re pickin’ in the summer, you got to have credit in the winter.”

  “Goddamn.”’ I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m sorry for the people, but right now I got my own problems, 100 keys of grass sitting in the trunk of the Impala.

  “This dope I sell, man, some of the money goes to those people. For lawyers, you know? The people in town got it figured that the money’s cornin’ from me but they think I’m gettin’ it from China or Cuba.”

  “So you got to be careful.”

  “Brother, I got to be real fucking careful. I disappear into that county jail and maybe there’s an accident and Villegas don’t come out.”

  “You got a point.”

  “You don’t know. My brothers from Nam, we’re all in the college but that other shit you don’t just forget, y’know. Something happens to me and somebody’s gonna get hurt. There’s gonna be fucking war with these people.”

  “Alright. I’m careful, Jesus, don’t worry about me being careful. You just don’t know how careful I am.” “I’m glad you say that, I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Where do we go?” I’m beginning to have visions of coming face to face in the woods with Villegas’s brothers, Chicano, black, and white, all waving M-16’s at me and my stash.

  “There’s a brother with a house in the woods. You take twenty-three south to Krupptown and turn left at the traffic light. You come to a dirt road, take that, don’t continue on the curve. Go about two miles up and you’ll see a house on the left with a big Great Dane on the porch, that’s the one.”

  “I’ve got a kid with me.”

  “Don’t worry, the dog’s cool.”

  “Okay, you leave, I’ll wait ten minutes and follow you. There’s no heat on me.”

  “For me I can’t say. If you see two tail lights ahead of you on the dirt get the hell out of there. One of mine is busted.”

  “Okay, see you in a while.”

  Villegas vanishes in the rows of cars, and I buy a small pizza, take one bite and throw it in the garbage. I go back and get a grape soda for Robbie and hunt around ’til I find the Impala. Genelle is asleep, but Robbie is watching cowboys full blast and is a little pissed-off we have to leave. Genelle promises him a rerun back in NYC. I explain the drill to her, give Robbie his grape soda, wait five minutes, and it’s off to the woods to sell a little grass to La Raza.

  We pull out of the drive-in and it starts to rain in sheets. I think I see Villegas somewhere up in front of me, at least there is what looks like a panel truck with one tail light gone. We get to Krupptown in about a half hour, find the town’s one and only traffic light, swing left, and in about three miles the dirt road pops up dead ahead as promised. I fiddle with the Impala dashboard and get the lights down to parking lights. But the rain is pouring down and the road is ruts and holes so bad the front of the car is dipping way in and the back wheels are spinning in the mud. I’m maintaining about twenty m.p.h. and come sliding around a curve and sud
denly a few hundred feet ahead of me are the biggest fucking taillights I ever saw. I flash that it’s that Ford with the wraparound jobs that blind you when the brakes are hit. I think “What car do cops drive in this county?” and I realize I haven’t done my homework ’cause I don’t know. But those taillights are big and brash enough to be law. I hit the brakes, off the parking lights, throw the car into reverse. I’m halfway screwed around in the seat and driving about thirty-five by the red glow of the backup lights. About fifteen seconds of this and I trash some kind of tree with my right rear. I throw it into forward, and I can hear Genelle swearing quietly. She’s on her knees reaching over into the back seat to hang onto Robbie who’s woken up saying “Wazza matter mommy?” The car moves a liitle, stops, thows up some mud and moves forward. I go ten feet and fling it back again, this time I get the other side. I can hear the glass tinkling and I lose one taillight. I’ve also got metal on rubber on the other side but the wheel is turning, just. It takes what seems like an hour to get back out to the paved road. Nothing’s after me that I can see so I get out and have a look.

  There’s chrome sticking out all over the place and the trunk’s gonna be opened only with a crowbar. Various lights and flashers are splintered, missing, or hanging out on little wires. One side looks like some metal-loving dragon chewed on it awhile.

  I take a two-hour detour in the opposite direction from which we came, moving pretty fast while Genelle grumbles over the roadmap. I’ve got the metal pulled up off the tire but things are making horrible noises in the right rear and my goddamn nose is running. After about eighty miles of farm and county road, we’re headed in the opposite direction into town. We park the Impala about half a mile from the picnic ground and leave the keys in it. The walk back to the Yacht, with Robbie in my arms and the rain pouring down, I won’t describe except that I jammed my gas-pedal foot back on that dirt road. We get into the Yacht, stop by the busted Impala, pry open the trunk to retrieve the goodies, and take off due north, putting a hundred miles between us and Meridan State College before we stop. Along the way Genelle tears that driver’s license into little pieces and floats them out the window. Goodby Mrs. Walter Knauch, I’m glad I didn’t bother to make you very real. The rental agency will probably get its Impala back eventually, but I’m just as glad I won’t be there when they do.

  We sleep in the Yacht for the rest of the night and I’m afraid that Robbie and I are both going to have pneumonia in the morning. Problem is, when you’re carrying 700 keys of dope, you can’t call off your trip and go back home. There just isn’t anywhere to stash that much stuff and remain anywhere near sane.

  But in the morning I feel better. The sun comes out pretty strong and Robbie is all better, except for a small sniffle. Genelle is getting her period and spends the morning in the shotgun seat of the the Yacht with a heating pad plugged into the cigarette lighter. I call Villegas from a payphone, wait twenty minutes, and he calls my payphone back.

  “Hey man, what the fuck happened to you?”

  “I came up on a pair of big fat taillights and split.” “Oh shit, that must have been Charley, he came by just before you were supposed to get here.”

  “Well look, how about we do some other things and get back to you in a week or so?”

  His voice is tight. “No way, man. I got people’s money. You do that, a whole lotta shit is gonna come unglued.”

  “Okay, look, you hang around that payphone for awhile, I’ll get back with you in twnety minutes or so.” “I gotta go to a math class.”

  “Screw math class. We do this my way or no way.” “All right, calm down.”

  “I’m calm. What are you driving?”

  “A panel truck. GMC. Painted green.”

  “Okay. Wait for my call.”

  I find a place I like, another roadside rest, about three miles away. I collect the dope order, get out and walk into the woods about twenty yards, and tell Genelle what to do. She drives the Yacht back to the payphone and calls Villegas at his payphone, describes the spot and tells him to drive past her twice and go around again a third time. If she pulls out behind him, it’s okay. If he doesn’t see her in the rear-view mirror, keep on going and tell his friends to get high off Jesus.

  That little place in the woods is pretty nice. I have a couple of hours to wait for Villegas, the birds are carrying on like crazy, and sunlight filters down through the trees real delicate. I get comfortable in the pine needles and light up a cigarette and eat a fudge Space Stick I find in my pocket.

  In a way I have to sympathize with Villegas. I remember my own college days. Things that look small outside grow very big in that atmosphere. I don’t doubt that Villegas’s sympathies are real, I guess his parents might have been stoop labor. But dealing off that much grass in a small college town, when you’re already goddamn noticeable, to pay legal fees yet, is goofy. The reason the college kids got into Nam being so bad is that the working guy doesn’t think about that shit. His boss is hassling him, his old lady is hassling him, his kid needs a coat for the winter, the dog needs shots, and the parakeet is moulting. What the fuck if a bunch of slants get themselves killed. For him it’s survive, today and tomorrow and forever. He can’t see the end of his street, let alone Saigon. But in college now, it’s like a long, long vacation. You got what to eat and grades are no problem one way or another, so you start thinking about the World, and figure it should be as good as your World, which is some little town with elms.

  I tried liking it, I really did. But the professors either coughed at you or cleared their throats—lots of phlegm in that college town. A lot of them were incredible wimps and lames, but there were corporate-type sharks cruising around there that would put the worst middle-management butcher at IBM to shame. The students were about the same, half of them trying to climb up somebody’s back, the other half trying to climb down off their parents. But how do you grow when the greatest demand anybody makes of you is that you read some books?

  I dealt dope for two years, low-level chippy stuff, lids and pills, and that became a niche. Some people are impressed by even the littlest bit of balls-out operating, so prit’soon I had a little group that was letting their hair grow and lighting matches with their thumbnail, wearing cokespoons around their necks—advertising. Some YAF narc must’ve dumped me ’cause one night I was peddling a little shit around a dormitory hall and here comes a kampus kop, six-three and wide at the hips with mean acne on his face and thick glasses. He must have been majoring in law enforcement or some nasty shit like that, ’cause I could see from the elephant stride he was taking that he was gonna pinch him a dealer that night. “HEY” he says, one hand on his little belt radio, and one big meaty paddle reaching toward my shoulder. I saw out of the comer of my eye I wasn’t gonna get any help from the customers—about ten sophomore long-hairs were in the process of melting into the walls—so I sapped him upside the head. It was a reinforced sweatsock I carried in my jacket pocket, with lead fishing sinkers and sand in it. I didn’t catch him right the first time ’cause he started back-pedaling like he was on a unicycle, saying “hey-hey-hey-hey” which meant: “I’m only trying to put you in jail for selling weed—students don’t hit, they ‘come-along-quietly’.” I came along alright, frustrated with the whole college thing and the assholes I did business with and myself, and I fetched him a good one on the bridge of his nose which sent his glasses in two directions and he sat his fatass down on that cold dormitory linoleum and covered his head with both arms. I bent down, ripped that radio off his belt, and threw it out a closed window, “Calling all birds,and got the hell out of there, out of my room, and out of that town forever. I guess I wasn’t ready for college.

  But Villegas is. He’s caught going two ways, really, half of him dreaming that American Dream, ready to go back to Brownsville with law degree in hand and straighten some of those assholes out. The other half knowing where it always started and where it always ended and that made him a stone revolutionary—after he learned in Nam that
dying wasn’t that big of a deal.

  Here he comes too, chugging along in his panel truck, looking paranoid as hell. I let him sit in the picnic area for a minute, then Genelle comes steaming by in the Yacht and I thrash my way out of the woods, lugging the suitcase with me. I stop dead just at the edge of the forest, ’cause Villegas is resting an automatic on the window, pointing in my general direction ’till he sees who it is and puts it away.

  “What’samatter, ain’t I worth killing?”

  “Sorry man, I didn’t know who was comin’ out of there. I got to be careful.”

  “Well, you can have too much of a good thing.”

  “Shit, you just don’t know what is going on around here. I’m getting vibrations, all the time downtown. These people are crazy and Mexicans just make ’em crazier.”

  “You can do time for weapons, you know.”

  “This is registered. They know I have it too, better believe it.”

  “Anthony, I ain’t here to give you advice. But I have never known people who were holding heat who didn’t get around to using it sooner or later, some way or another. Never.”

  “I’ll use this, baby. Some redneck messes with me.” “Aw shit, this ain’t Texas.”

  “Everywhere is Texas, all over the world.”

  I open up the suitcase and Villegas looks it over. We’ve done business before and he doesn’t have to taste, anything—he knows I give value. He does the tooth trip with the cocaine, though, and I don’t blame him, ’cause more people are burned in coke deals than anything else. We count money together and he’s off, his parting shot “Thanks man, see you next month. Revolution’s gonna move right along this week, and those people in the valley are gonna be glad to see that new lawyer we got cornin’ in.” I give him a clenched fist—you gotta keep the customers happy—and he fires up his truck and scoots out of there. While I’m waiting for Genelle, a little old lady in a Dodge thinks I’m hitchhiking and asks me if I need a ride somewhere. I thank her and say no and wonder what she’d say if I told her I had 12,000 bucks in my jeans pocket.