by Layla Wolfe
Ford and Turk had come into the alley by now. They were standing just below the truck cab looking up, arms crossed, as though absorbed in a good movie.
Iso actually chuckled. “Helium Head needed some more air in his brain.”
Lytton cocked the trigger without even thinking. That sobered Iso up a bit. “So you did get the security code before bashing him to death?”
Iso licked his dry lips. “What do you mean? What security code? What hammer?”
Lytton stretched over the console and jammed the silencer into Iso’s forehead. The guy reeked of every body odor known to man. Lytton hadn’t noticed him take a single shower while staying at his house, and he was still probably covered with the blood of Helium Head and others too painful to think about. “Motherfuck! I saw you kill that driver beaner in cold blood, you scum-sucking rat bastard! Now just fucking tell me you got the security code from Helium Head!”
Iso lifted his hands in a surrender pose. Real fear was in his eyes now, finally. “Okay! Okay! I got the code, all right? Jesus. I was having a bad day. I was bored being stuck in your nerdy little incubator house with those dweebs all day long. Why should I be punished for icing a wetback? That’s all in a day’s work, my friend! Helium Head was a dime a dozen. As for your old lady, I still take no credit for having handcuffed her and beaten—”
Lytton’s finger squeezed the trigger before his brain had even told it what to do.
It was amazing how quickly consciousness vanished from Iso’s eyes. The silencer was amazingly effective. Over the idle of the big truck’s engine, Turk and Ford might not have even heard the shot. Blood and grey matter like a dozen smashed snails splattered the driver’s window, like an air bag that had exploded.
Iso was buried. Now he was just a scummy, smelly outlaw whose time had come—had probably come a long time ago.
Lytton had to place the piece in his lap in order to unscrew that signet ring from Iso’s hammy hand. Thinking of June’s two pitch black eyes and her broken jaw, Lytton jammed the ring onto his own thinner finger so it went easily onto the first knuckle. He connected such a lightning fast jab to Iso’s stupid cheekbone, he could readily see the imprint of the shield and eagle’s head left there. He shoved the ring carelessly back onto the tip of Iso’s finger.
He didn’t want to linger. He didn’t know how to drive an eighteen-wheeler, so he stuck the pistol in his waistband and dragged Iso’s body off the driver’s seat. He shuffled in the paperwork on the console until he found a bill of lading with the name A Joint Effort typed in the “ship to” box. Jamming this into his jeans pocket, he tore out the last page of the log book that was open on the console before leaping out the passenger door.
He passed the Sig Sauer to Turk as he walked by the men. “You can handle an eighteen-wheeler, can’t you?” he said to Ford.
“Sure can.” It was not his imagination that there was newfound respect in Ford’s eyes. The two men shared a brief glance that conveyed so much in just a fraction of a second. Time was of the essence, though, so Lytton continued on into the dispensary while Ford climbed into the driver’s seat, yelling at Truitt and the other guy to get in, too.
Toby was standing in the back hallway gaping and guffawing. “Unreal! I hid in the computer room, but that dickhead Saul was just wondering why there was so little medicine on the shelves. Of course we couldn’t admit to having the load jacked last week, so Turk was coming up with all sorts of lame explanations, like mold in the last batch. Then he got desperate and mentioned aphids and beetle borers. Thank God Saul picked up Madison’s call. Worked like a charm. I almost feel sorry for the guy panicking, thinking his wife was hit by a car. Then I remember he’s a corrupt toolbag.”
Lytton barely paused as he breezed past his business partner. “You might want to erase the past half hours’ worth of security footage while you’re at it.”
Slushy was still in the locked storefront, safely in the zone of plausible deniability. Just to pass the time, he was obliviously chewing on a brownie from a box clearly labeled “Make Me Happy.” He shook his head with pity when he took note of Lytton’s stance, his regal bearing. Slushy had worked for the Ochoa cartel before coming to work for The Bare Bones. He’d seen plenty newly-minted members of the “Filthy Few” in his time.
“I knew the second I saw you, you were nothing but bad news.”
Lytton said, “Those Cutlasses were going to serve us with a truckload of China White. I just refused the shipment.”
Slushy gulped his brownie so he could tsk-tsk without a full mouth. “I take it that’s ‘refused…with extreme prejudice.’”
Lytton shouldered the security guard aside. “I’m going to the hospital now to be with June. Send me the carwash bill.”
Slushy gave a thumbs up while nibbling the crumbs off his other palm. “Will do, hot stuff.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JUNE
To celebrate the removal of the arch bars from my teeth, we closed down The Bum Steer to the public.
I’d had a bilateral mandible fracture that had left a couple of teeth dead—we didn’t notice that until the arch bars were removed. I was beyond ashamed that I had to appear in public still puffy with both eyes slightly blackened, as though I’d looked through some nerd’s high school microscope that was dusted with black chalk.
Lytton was closing up at The Joint System. That was an amalgamation of the two stores. Physically it was A Joint Effort’s storefront—Doug Zelov had backed out of the medical marijuana business, given up the Entwistle Street property after being stuck with a load of poisonous pot and no product from Leaves of Grass. Oh, and maybe losing his sergeant-at-arms to a traitor among the Dotards, some idiot named Truitt, had something to do with it. All I knew was that when I was discharged from the hospital, Lytton had cut all ties with The Cutlasses and abandoned his idea to open a rival dispensary. The two brothers had banded together and triumphed in some intra-club rivalry. I was beyond ecstatic that Lytton and Ford were finally on the same side.
We sat at a couple of tables near the bar. A few hang-arounds ran The Bum Steer now, although a decade ago it was The Bare Bones’ clubhouse, before they moved to the Citadel. Madison had told me a couple of horror stories about stopping by here back when it was their clubhouse, something about a box of adult diapers, so I’d pretty much been scared off of ever entering the premises until now. This was supposed to be a party for me, so I had to come.
Toby was saying, “So I told him, we’ve already got Helium Head and Crybaby. We already sound like a motorcycle club.”
Slushy pointed at Toby with his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. “You don’t want to be a Prospect, nerd boy. Just ask Speed. They made him wander in the desert without food for five days until he saw a blue unicorn.”
“Purple,” said my brother, who had been fully patched for a year. “And in my own defense, I really did see a unicorn. It was biblical. I ran into a group of those furries doing their yiffing thing in the middle of nowhere. I seriously wasn’t hallucinating. But yeah, Toby. I don’t think you want to try to prospect. You’d never make it.”
“What are furries and yiffing?” My BFF Emma was by far the most inexperienced and naïve person in the entire bar and grill. The Bum Steer was open to the public normally but the forbidden, dangerous aura was still there owing to the Harleys parked in the side alley and the cut-wearing brothers who still worked the bar and kitchen. Emma’s unhot boyfriend Paul hadn’t come to our party. I wondered if she had even invited him. I knew The Bare Bones could sure use having a building inspector on their side, but Emma had currently been ogling one of the inked waiters.
Speed was the knowledgeable one to explain. “Furries are people who like to dress up as cartoon animals, I think. They have whole conventions and all. Not all of them yiff, though—have sex while in costume.”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that kind of hard to do with all those layers of fur?”
Speed shook his head at the floor, awash with wall-to
-wall peanut shells. “You’d be surprised.”
Slushy was taking the wrapper off one of Turk’s “Make Me Happy” brownies. I was surprised he’d been so into those, since I thought he was allergic to pot. “The Califur convention is one of the biggest in all of furry fandom.”
Everyone stared at Slushy. Finally it was Turk who said, “Have you been eating too many brownies, Slushy? Sort of sounds like you attended one.”
Slushy looked up from his brownie and chuckled half-heartedly. “Yeah. Makes it sound. You guys know me. Mister Close to the Vest. I keep a low profile, watching my Christopher Guest movies and pretending to enjoy classical music. I’d be invisible if I got any whiter.”
“Does anyone even know where you live?” I asked.
Everyone shook their heads, murmuring their Nos.
Faux Pas said, “I ran into him picking berries at a farm by Mormon Lake once.”
Tuzigoot said, “He’s got one of those oval two-letter Oregon bumper stickers.”
“I saw a photo of your daughter once,” said Turk.
“Slushy’s got a daughter?” I asked.
Slushy held up his hands. “Hey, hey. I support community agriculture. Don’t you prefer it this way, no one knowing where your lawyer lives? I brought you some of the heirloom tomatoes I grew, and Duji, I saw you at IKEA a couple months ago.”
Duji looked embarrassed. “What the fuck would I be doing at IKEA? Prospect! Another Bud!”
Behind the bar, the Prospect waved his acknowledgement. Emma leaned over and whispered, “That’s the one I think is hot.”
I actually hadn’t noticed the heat level of anyone other than Lytton for months now. Jake Gyllenhaal could be strutting through The Bum Steer’s bar wearing adult diapers and I would nurse my beer. I’d even gotten over my childish crush on Ford, although he did bear a strong resemblance to Lytton. No, Lytton was the only one for me.
He’d been nothing short of wonderful throughout my whole recovery. He knew instinctively when to back off when I was timid and jittery. Understandably, that whole Iso incident had left me with a sort of post-traumatic stress. It was difficult for me to open up and trust anyone. I even saw a counselor Madison recommended for awhile, a Dr. Petrie. Lytton didn’t push me. I was slowly relaxing with Lytton, but we still had not fucked again. Some teeth still hurt, I had popping and pain in my ear drum, and there was nerve damage. I knew Lytton wouldn’t wait forever. The only good thing—I’d lost a lot of weight due to not eating. Milkshakes get very old after awhile.
Lytton was hotter than ever, and meeting more women than usual in his new position as budtender of The Joint System. It shouldn’t be a shock that some “patients” who come into dispensaries for “medicine” aren’t really ill—they are just recreational users. So Lytton saw many new able-bodied healthy women every day, the fresh-faced idealistic type who wanted to discuss vortexes. While I was feeling vulnerable, unattractive, and disabled with these ugly arch bars on my teeth, Lytton was leaning over the counter having in-depth conversations with pretty, younger girls about the benefits of his home-grown Young Man Blue.
But Lytton claimed to never go to the Racquet Club in Flagstaff, that Master Hawk was dead and buried. In fact, he’d disassembled his playroom at the Leaves of Grass ranch. He’d bought ten acres much farther down the mountain where he already had architectural drawings for a new house. There hadn’t been any talk of me sharing the house—the old house would remain as offices for the Leaves of Grass, but even Toby didn’t want to live there after what had happened. Toby would be coming to the new house, too.
So in a way, although Lytton gave me no reason to doubt him, I felt insecure. I couldn’t give Lytton blowjobs, and everyone knows blowjobs are ninety-five percent of men’s reason for living.
Now I told Emma, “Would you dump Paul if you could get Bobo Segrist to dance the mattress jig with you?”
Emma giggled behind her hand. “You think he’d want me? I’m so much squarer than these sugarbutts.” But since just hearing “dance the mattress jig” was causing Emma conniption fits, I doubted she would.
“Sweetbutts.” There were only a few sweetbutts at my party because old ladies were also invited. Old ladies, historically speaking, didn’t like to see the chicks their old men were probably fucking. “Sure, Bobo would give you a hot roll with cream.” I was getting all of these terrible euphemisms from Toby. He wished he could park his yacht in Hair Harbor. Although lately he’d been getting a lot more action due to being a hang-around of The Bare Bones.
“I don’t know,” said Emma. “Lately I’ve been sort of bored with Paul. All we do is watch TV, and then I see you guys. Every night of your life is some death-defying excursion, some exciting run. That, or you’re going on Toys for Tots runs, doing good for the community, teaching archery to Boy Scouts.”
“Emma,” said Ford, grabbing a chair and slamming it down between me and Emma. “Good to see you. I’ll see you at the policeman’s dinner next week? You’ll be with Paul Goodhue?”
Emma visibly deflated. “Yeah,” she said unenthusiastically. She worked at City Hall too, so she’d been seeing Ford at the policeman’s function for years. “I’ll see you and Madison there.”
Ford said, “And Lytton and June. Right, June?”
“Oh, sure.” Lytton hadn’t actually asked me yet, but I didn’t want to admit that to Ford.
Ford’s tone changed now. “And how’s your mom doing? I should go visit her at the hospice.”
“Don’t bother. It’s spread to her lungs and peritoneal cavity. It’s metastatic, and we’ve stopped chemotherapy.”
Once Ford had found out that Ingrid had pancreatic cancer and we’d moved her from the drug addict hospice to the more expensive, nicer one, he stepped up to the plate too. He actually got mad at Madison for not telling him that Ingrid needed money. He said he would’ve stepped up a lot sooner even if it meant going against Madison’s wishes. Maddy was the holdout, the embittered one holding the massive grudge against Ingrid for how she’d treated us.
I was a believer in the adage, “Your parents make you what you are, but it’s up to you to change it.” I tried not to carry on a vendetta against our mother. People say “oh, she tried, to the best of her ability,” but that wasn’t true. Ingrid truly didn’t “try.” If she had “tried,” she would have reigned in her awful, nasty temper. She wouldn’t have beaten us for tiny infractions. Most of all, she would have found a way to provide for the three children she’d brought into the world. Nobody had forced her to have us. There is such a thing as birth control. She made us all feel as though we weren’t worth a damn.
But I didn’t want to regret anything when it was too late. So maybe it was still selfish that I moved her to the nicer facility and let Ford and Lytton split the bill. Maybe it was their way of feeling better about their own mothers, both drug addicted alcoholics from the same tribe who might have even known each other. It certainly had given the two brothers something to bond over. I was really relishing their new friendship.
“I still want to go. I’ll go tomorrow with Maddy on her day off.”
“Oh, Maddy wants to go?”
Ford grinned adorably. “She does. She just doesn’t know it yet. How is it working up at Leaves of Grass? Driving Hawk paying you a decent salary?”
“More than the Peace Corps paid.” Helium Head had actually been the hydraulic engineer, taking care of the watering, irrigation, and the recycling for all the plants. It was a hell of a way for me to get my job. It might sound weird or callous, but I just took over his duties seamlessly. I worked with Toby and Crybaby, the cultivator, but was rarely stuck working with Lytton since he was spending most of his time downtown at the dispensary. It worked out perfectly.
I’ve never understood those couples who delight in working together. Don’t they get sick of each other? I was glad I didn’t have to work with Lytton, and at the end of the day it was a gorgeous drive down the mountain where I could stop and see him at The Joint System. S
ometimes we’d go to The Hip Quiver, where Lytton was brushing up on his nerdy high school sport of archery. He was even helping Kneecap out by teaching some kids. I couldn’t shoot due to my facial injuries, but I hoped to, soon. And Lytton usually brought some edibles to Slushy in the range’s back office.
“Well, I’ll tell you, June. I don’t blame you for moving into Lytton’s new house, but I’ll sure miss you around ours.”
I was confused. Lytton hadn’t said a word to me about moving into his new house. Ford must’ve just assumed that. “Oh, well, he’s barely laid the foundation so far. It’ll still be a few months.” It had kind of been bothering me that Lytton hadn’t asked me to move in. I thought it had something to do with how ugly I looked with the scary metal arch bars on my teeth. I knew I should give him credit for deeper feelings than that. After all, he’d given me a gorgeous diamond and garnet choker to replace the plain leather cuff he’d given me on the spur of the moment. This signaled his ownership of me. I was his property.
“I know,” said Ford. “I just don’t get to talk to you much. I wanted to let you know how much we’ve appreciated having you around, taking care of Fidelia so we can go out and relax. Uh-oh. Speaking of.” Ford looked over my shoulder toward the front door, his face lit up, raising his beer can. “Hey, Prospect! Get me a cold beer!”
This prompted a whole round of men raising their cans and yelling, “Prospect!”
“Another Bud!”
“We need more chips over here!”
“My ride is dirty. I need it washed!”
“There’s no toilet paper in the bathroom!”
The catcalls became grosser and baser, things like, “Yeah, the toilet’s plugged up! August had a double serving of Bobo’s chili!” and “Some hang-around puked in the back hallway, clean it up!”
