by Johnny Shaw
“Plaster Blaster might be in fall,” Russell said, “but this gang wouldn’t know that. People test rockets out there all the time. Good visibility, low wind, even terrain. They’ve probably seen some. I was out there a month ago with some students from my class.”
“So the idea is, we go out, shoot off some rockets, and see if we can’t get one to land inside the biker’s fence in Plaster City,” I said.
Buck Buck took over my train of thought. “The rocket lands in biker country, we knock on the door, a couple nerdly nerds looking for their man-toy rocket ship. No reason to think we’re up to no good. They don’t want no trouble. Either they let us get it or they tell us to fuck off.”
“Stupid, but plausible,” I said. “Our kind of plan.”
“I have the perfect disguise,” Buck Buck said.
“Let me guess. A pocket protector and tape-repaired glasses?” I said.
“And a bowtie,” he said.
I turned to Russell. “Can you really aim those things that well? How close would we have to be?”
“Let me e-mail some people in the rocket community. It’s doable. It’s all math.”
Tucking in Juan, I could hear Griselda and Angie talking in the other room. It made me nervous when those two got together. Egotist that I am, I always assumed they were talking about me. There would have been some relief if I’d heard laughter. At least as the butt of the joke, I was entertaining. But all I heard were whispered voices and silence. That made me itchy.
Juan looked tuckered out from his debut music gig over at Morales. He looked up at me through tired eyes, as I pulled the sheet to his chin.
“What happened to my mom?” Juan asked.
“Angie? She’s in the other room.”
“Not her.”
That had been a dodge, a reflexive stalling tactic, and I felt a flush of shame for having come out with it. I knew he wasn’t talking about Angie.
So this was it. I had hoped that Juan would have been a little older when we finally had this talk. And even though I knew the topic would arise, I still had no clue the best way to handle it. I decided to go with honesty.
“Your mother died.”
Juan didn’t react, kept the same serious expression. He might have been young, but when you live on a farm, you gain a better understanding of mortality at a young age. Death is such a fundamental part of raising animals and farm living that it’s seen as the natural thing that it is. And Juan was about the same age as I was when I found out my mother was dead and not just absent. But as she had died in childbirth, I didn’t have any memories to contend with.
“She loved you very much,” I said, not actually knowing if that was true. One truth, one lie. At least it was balanced.
“She’s in heaven?”
“That’s right.” I counted that as half a lie. Just because I didn’t believe in heaven didn’t make it not true.
“I think of her. I see her. But now when I try, I can’t see her good no more.”
“What she looks like? Her face?” I asked.
“She had dark hair.”
“That’s right. Long dark hair. She was very pretty.”
Juan closed his eyes really tight, making his face into a little fist. “I can’t see her.”
“Maybe when you go to sleep, she’ll be in your dreams.”
Juan nodded, keeping his eyes closed but allowing the muscles in his face to relax.
I leaned down and kissed Juan’s forehead. “Good night, son.”
“Good night, Pop.”
I didn’t get up right away. Sitting with my son, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t ever want to leave. While I still wasn’t sure if I’d totally gotten the hang of this whole fatherhood thing, I knew, sitting there in the dark, that I cared about Juan more than anybody or anything I’d ever cared about. Including myself. I loved my father. I loved Angie. But with Juan, there was more to it. I didn’t just love him, I needed to protect him, to teach him, to be there for him no matter what. At that moment, I felt closer to knowing what it meant to be a father. Far away still, but closer.
Angie and Griselda clammed up when I grabbed a beer and joined them in the dining room. I’m pretty sure it was an act and they did it to fuck with me.
“Are you talking about my tiny penis again?” I said.
“Guilty,” Angie said. “It’s just so small.”
“Angie did refer to it as ‘adequate’ and ‘functional,’ if that’s any consolation,” Griselda said.
“I’ll take what I can get,” I said.
We drank in silence for a minute, my presence changing the dynamic of the room. Eventually, Griselda stood up.
“I’m going to take off. I’m picking up Bobby before my shift starts.”
“Bobby’s getting released tomorrow? He didn’t call me.”
“He called me.”
I smiled and nodded. “That’s good. I’m glad. Be sure to debrief him.”
“Okay,” she said, walking to the door.
I cleared my throat. “I said, be sure to debrief him.”
She gave me a smirk, but said nothing.
“Seriously?” I said. “You’re going to ignore that setup? No punch line? That’s like not returning a high five. You can’t leave me hanging.”
She exhaled dramatically. “Okay.”
“Be sure to debrief him,” I repeated.
“I will give him all the pertinent information,” Griselda deadpanned. “And then I will remove his underwear. Or briefs. Thusly, debriefing him in two very different ways.”
“You ruined it, Gris. You ruined it.”
Angie and I went straight to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I should’ve gotten up, but chose instead to stare at the shapes the exterior bug light made on the wall. I couldn’t remember the difference between a rhombus and a trapezoid, but the light made one of those.
I knew better than to let my brain spin all my worries and personal criticisms in my head, but somehow I couldn’t escape the sucking whirlpool of my thoughts. I should have found a crossword or grabbed a book. Usually a chapter or two did the trick, shaking the Etch-a-Sketch, but that would have required getting out of bed and I was too tired to move. Too tired to sleep. And too tired to defend myself from myself.
“You’re awake, aren’t you?” Angie said.
“Yeah.”
“You thinking about Julie and Bobby and this whole fucking mess?”
“What else would I be thinking about?”
Angie rolled over and propped herself onto an elbow. “You want me to tell you everything’s going to be okay?”
“Yeah, lie to me,” I said. “You were pretty quiet at the meeting. And when I say ‘pretty quiet,’ I mean you didn’t say a word. I’m doing the right thing, right?”
“I’ve been keeping my mouth shut. Mostly because I’m outside of all this. I hope Bobby gets his girl out of this mess, but I don’t feel like I can contribute.”
“What do you think of the plan? The rockets. Pretty crazy, huh?”
“I can’t believe the smart guy is the one that came up with the stupid idea. But as idiotic as it is,” Angie said, “it was the least dangerous idea on the table. I’ll take stupid over dangerous any day.”
“Although I’ll admit that I’m a little tired of stupid.”
Angie sat up, adjusting some pillows behind her so that she could lean against the headboard. “Here’s the thing. We started raising Juan together at the same time we started dating. Practically the same day. You had no choice. I understand. But I did, and I chose to be here. The weird thing is that it always feels like you’re the one with one foot out the door. Afraid to completely commit to this life.”
“I love Juan. And you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you are. You do. I know this, with Julie, it’s different. But you always run when Bobby calls. This is real, Jimmy. What we’re doing here, in this house. It’s real life stuff. Juan needs you.”
“I know, Angie. I didn’t rea
lize me leaving would bring those memories back. We talked about Yolanda a little. I think it went okay. Who the hell knows?”
“We’ll figure it out, but we can only do that with you here. Here and engaged, not running around all over the place with Bobby, acting like an asshole.”
“I’m not always acting like an asshole.”
“I can’t tell you to not be Bobby’s friend. I know how deep that runs. And how important that friendship is in your life. But you have to be a father first. I ain’t saying that for me.”
“I know you’re right, but I’ve got to finish this thing.”
“I get that,” Angie said. “But after you finish it, it has to really be finished. No more fucking about.”
It was good to see Bobby on his feet. He looked a thousand times healthier, despite his arm in a sling. There’s something about a hospital bed that makes people look sicker than they are. Even the people in the waiting room that are supposedly well look like shit compared to how they looked moments before they walked into the hospital. Maybe it’s the lighting.
I dropped onto the lounge chair in his living room. Bobby ducked into the kitchen and came back with a couple beers. I took one.
“You sure that’s okay with whatever medication you’re taking?”
“It better be. I’ve been knocking them back all morning. Gris is at work. I got bored. I don’t know if daytime TV has always been this bad, but fucking hell.”
“So are Gris and you . . . ?”
Bobby shrugged off the question and took a pull of his beer. “We’re not nothing until this whole mess is figured. I’m not hiding shit from her, but I’m still me.”
“Make it work, dummy. Not just ’cause you two work, but you’re a lunatic when you’re single and heartbroke.”
“I’m a lunatic all the time.”
“Gris gave you the rundown so far? Where we’re at, what we’re doing?”
“You know I want in, right?”
“Not with a broken wing, brother. Not until you heal up.”
“One hand tied behind my back.” But Bobby smiled weakly. It was obvious he wasn’t happy about acting in a supporting role, but he wasn’t about to let his pride affect Julie’s safety.
“Russell said he’d call me later today. Pretty sure the rocket would work, just figuring out some maths and sciences.”
Bobby nodded, a little distracted. “I been reading Julie’s diary, her journals or whatever. Would never’ve done it if she were here, like trespassing, reading secrets. But seeing as how she shot me, I figured, fair play.
“The move from Twentynine Palms to Indio was hard on her. She’s a kid. She don’t understand that Becky had to move for work and to get away from this asshole jarhead up there. I got the whole story on that from Beck. Julie don’t see that Beck’s trying to make a better place for her, because she had to leave her friends and her life.
“So she gets to Indio and you can tell the way she writes that there’s this point that she wants to do shit to hurt Beck. There’s a scary, teenage revenginess all over the journal.”
“Revenge on Becky and you,” I said.
“Not me. Just Becky. I don’t come up, not once in all the journals. I’m only an influence on her in not being one. Only impact I have is being not there. Thing is, if I were around, would it have been any better? Damned if you do, you know?
“She mentions a few fights she got in. Not the videoed ones, but regular two-girls-behind-the-gym catfights. Here’s the fucked part. You can tell she loved it. Or I could, because I know that feeling. I’d read it to you, but it’s awful. She talks about how it feels to get hit, how she likes the pain. But more, she talks about landing that punch that does damage, where she can see the other girl’s eyes go glassy. And the next punch that she lands as the girl is falling to the ground.”
“Damn,” I said.
“That’s heavy shit,” Bobby agreed. “It’s one thing to enjoy the scrap, but to want to hurt someone bad? What kind of pain do you have inside that makes that feel good? I like a melee, but I don’t want to hurt no one. This girl—my girl—is all about hurting.”
“Does it mention anything about Gabe and Chucho and Driskell and all that stuff?”
“They stop before all that. This is all a girl who thinks she’s a woman. And part of being a woman to her is taking care of herself, not relying on anybody else, and fucking up people that get in her way. Julie might be in pain, but in these journals, she never sounds weak. In fact, she sounds fucking dangerous.”
My phone rang, playing “The Gonk” loudly. I answered quickly.
“Hey, Russell. You talk to your friends?”
I listened and then hung up.
“So?” Bobby said.
“He can do it. He can land a rocket inside the compound. He’ll have everything he needs the day after tomorrow. We’re good to go.”
FIFTEEN
It’s not on newer maps, but every old map of the Imperial Valley has a dot between Seeley and Plaster City marked “Dixieland.” Maybe it was a town, but no one seems to know. I vaguely remember a diner there. Probably called the Dixieland Diner. But I could have manufactured that in my head. Whatever Dixieland was, it ain’t no more. A dot on an outdated map with no evidence of anything ever having been there. No concrete foundations, no burnt-out chimney, no weathered fence. Scrub and chaparral its current and permanent residents.
The remnants of a dirt road ran through the spot. Deep-rutted and unmaintained, the road was still popular with off-roaders and dirt-bikers for getting deeper into the wasteland. That rocky path led to Pumice Creek Wash, a flat expanse of nothingness. The far west end of that dry wash was less than a half mile from the eastern border of Plaster City.
Before getting the gear together, I did my due diligence and made a call to Gabe to see if he had heard from Chucho. There was a chance Chucho and Julie were somewhere else, after all, and we might be able to avoid going through with the rocket plan. Gabe told me that he had tried Chucho a few times, but no answer. Even a few mutual friends hadn’t heard from him. I thanked him, telling Gabe that if we found Chucho and Julie in Plaster City, I’d let him know.
We rode in Snout’s van, which unfortunately was painted identically to B.A.’s van from The A-Team. Something more inconspicuous would have probably been better, but it was the only van we had access to. And before you ask, yes, the horn played the opening bars of the theme song.
Buck Buck and Snout rode up front, while Russell and I bounced around in the back. Gris was with Bobby in Seeley. It hadn’t been easy to get Bobby to hang back, but beyond his injury, he was too recognizable, both Chucho and Julie knew him. And with his hair, Mr. Magoo could spot him from a couple hundred yards.
We drove past two Border Patrol SUVs headed the other way. Usually they stayed south of the highway, as the stretch of desert between the border and the highway was the high traffic zone for illegal immigration. I was relieved that we weren’t stopped. Owning a van in the Imperial Valley was practically probable cause.
We had it all planned out. Russell would land a rocket inside the bikers’ compound. Buck Buck and I would go to retrieve the rocket. If we spotted Julie, we would call Griselda. It could end right there, if we got lucky. But I leaned somewhere between realist and fatalist. The most we could hope for would be to get a better idea of how many people were in the compound. Maybe some other clue. And to not get our asses kicked.
“Is this going to be close enough?” I asked Russell.
“They’re really designed to go straight up,” Russell said. “Technically, you’re not supposed to aim a rocket more than twenty degrees from vertical. Dangerous. I might have to dip it under to cover the half mile. My fellow enthusiasts would frown on that. I can’t hit a bull’s eye, but close. Half mile is 2,640 feet. I can do it with a three-stage.”
“We’re going to shoot rockets. How cool is that?” Snout said, doing a little dance in his seat and giving Buck Buck a punch in the arm.
�
�Snout really likes explosions and explosion-related paraphernalia,” Buck Buck said.
“Maybe we’ll come out some other time, under different circumstances,” I said. “I’d love to show Juan.”
Russell nodded, but he had switched gears, concentrating on sorting through wires or whatever he was doing. This wasn’t his normal day. It wasn’t leisure. The weight of what was happening was written all over his face.
“This is going to work,” I said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. His nod was unconvincing.
It worried me that we were putting a bunch of our eggs in this basket. If Julie wasn’t there, we could be inviting trouble from a group best avoided. Julie and Chucho could have taken off to Yuma or Mexico or San Diego or pretty much anywhere on the damn globe. But if they had, what could we do? This was the thing in front of us, something we could do. And even if it led to nothing, it was better than doing nothing.
When people are scared or in danger, instinct tells them to run to friends, to a safe place, to people they trust. The only other place that Julie might have headed was Twentynine Palms to be with her old friends. But they were from her old, normal teenage life. Now she’s a bad girl on the run, and if Chucho had a say in the matter, this is where he’d go.
Snout stopped the van at the edge of the wash. He hopped out, singing “Rocket Man.” And when I say singing, I mean shouting the chorus at full volume. The back doors of the van opened. We slid out and took a look at Plaster City in the distance, a mirage of white structures. Russell looked through the scope of his high-tech laser range finder. I used my low-tech finger to point.
“You see that fenced-in area on the right? That’s where we need the rocket to land. Anywhere inside there.”
“Bigger area than I thought. That’s good.” He looked at his range finder. “This is saying 1,900 feet.”
Here’s where country living had its advantages. City folk have no idea what the length of a mile is. Not by eye, at least. They measure in blocks or minutes. In the country, particularly country as flat as the Imperial Valley, everything is measured in miles and half miles. Three hundred twenty acres is half a square mile. So for instance, the acreage near my house is a half mile by a half mile. Or in simpler terms, it’s a half mile from my house to the stop sign on McCabe Road. I could count off that distance in paces and be right within twenty feet.
