by Johnny Shaw
“With a shoe?”
“I’ll show you when this is over. It’s pretty cool. I’m just saying, I don’t want to, but I’ve fucked up and’ll fuck up again.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
“I’m out here, ain’t I? Lying to her again.”
Three loud knocks from the cab shut us up. Rudy telling us that we were pulling into Plaster City.
“They’re waving me in,” Rudy said, muted through the truck panel.
The truck slowed and took a right turn, which meant we were pulling into the factory and not the compound. That put us on the wrong side of the highway. He stopped, the engine idling.
“Ocotillo Beer & Ammo. I got your kegs. Where you want the bar set up?” Rudy asked.
A faint voice replied. “Drop the beer and ice over there in the shade. We’ll take it from there.”
“Didn’t Lorenzo tell you? Had a problem with his refrigeration. No ice. Brought the Kegerators and a genny. It’ll keep the beer cold longer and you’ll be able to swap out kegs without having to pre-ice.”
“We always use ice.”
“If you want to run to El Centro and get ice, I don’t care. Going to need a lot.”
“No fucking ice. You’re kidding me. It’s ice.”
“That’s what Lorenzo told me. Talk to him. I’m the guy who drives the truck.”
“Set the shit up. I ain’t going to El Centro. Ice’ll melt before I get back.”
“This setup will work better,” Rudy said. “Here’s what I’ll do. Looks like you’re setting up for a heck of a party. Not only will I set up the bar, I’ll bartend for you, work the keg. Since my divorce, my Friday nights are free. I might be able to make some tips on top. You got some bands playing?”
“Fights.”
“Betting allowed? I just got paid.”
“Definitely. Everyone bets.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I’m going to have to ask about the bartending thing. Unpack the truck. Someone’ll come over and talk to you, old man.”
The truck crept forward, turned, and stopped. Rudy cut the engine.
“Not bad on his feet. I hope that wasn’t too suspicious,” I said.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Bobby said.
Bobby and I reached into the big bag of guns and each took out a pistol.
“Guy walking toward us. Angry walk. Sit tight.” Rudy’s door opened and then it was quiet. There was some faint talk outside, but I couldn’t make out the words.
Bobby and I waited. The back of the truck slid open and I could feel the weight of men climbing inside.
Rudy said, “Fifteen kegs, two Kegerators, a genny to run them, and enough diesel to keep the genny humming. Lorenzo threw in cups for the inconvenience.”
“And you want to stay and be our bartender?”
“Man said it was fight night. I did a little boxing in my younger days. Used to go all the time to Mexicali, but the Indian casinos took all the good fights. Too expensive now. Nothing like a smoker on a Friday night.”
“You pat him down?”
“No, Goyo. He was in the truck. I called Lorenzo. Said he was his guy. Look at him, hair like that, old dude, he’s not a cop.”
“Frisk him, cabrón.”
“Cool with me,” Rudy said. “I got a knife in my boot, I’ll tell you right now.”
There was some shuffling around and a few scattered comments. “Careful, son. My balls hang lower these days.” “While you’re down there, why don’t you check my prostate?” “If I wore a wig, would my hair look like this?”
“He’s clean.”
Goyo said, “You know how to work all this shit? Set it up? Keep it running?”
“That genny’s a little persnickety, but yeah, I can keep the beer flowing if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Alright, old man. You’re our bartender. I hope you ain’t expecting no tips from this crowd. You’ll be lucky they don’t steal your truck.”
“Are you serious? If anything happens to this truck, Lorenzo’ll fire my behind. Only job anyone’ll give me with my record.”
“Yeah, they jam you up like that. After you unload the truck, Flaco will take it across the road.”
“It’ll be safe over there?”
“Yeah, it’s all fenced in.”
After the truck was unloaded, someone—I assume Flaco—drove us across the road. Bobby and I kept as quiet as we could, even when the truck bounced hard and threw Bobby’s shoulder against the wall. He bit his lower lip, but kept quiet.
Flaco parked and got out. We waited another fifteen minutes in silence before we removed the false wall. Out of the stale air of the compact space, the openness of the empty truck trailer felt fresher and cooler, even though it reeked of dust and sweat.
Bobby leaned down and looked through one of the peepholes we had put in the back of the truck.
“We’re in. North side of the truck bays. Still some scattered Mexi-bikers strolling the grounds. I got to figure once things get going on the other side it’ll clear out.”
“We wait.”
Because heat rises, Bobby and I laid down flat on the filthy trailer floor. We passed the remaining water back and forth.
“You’d think that raiding a biker gang’s camp would be more glamorous, wouldn’t you?” Bobby said.
“I don’t do it for the fame. I do it for—well, mostly the stupidity. My gut says in short order, we’re going to wish we were back here in the dark and quiet.”
“You, maybe. You’re all about stability and shit now. Family life. Home and garden. Quiet and responsible.”
“You make it sound bad.”
“For you, no. But you’re you. All that gallivanting in your past led to life as a gentleman farmer. Me, I’m me. I can’t wait to get out there and kick some fucking ass. Itching to wallow in the blood and guts of the thing. Fuck some shit up.”
“And bring Julie home.”
Bobby rolled his head to face me. “Fuck you. I didn’t forget that. Don’t change that I’ve been antsy for a fracas since the hospital.”
An hour later, the compound cleared out. From what we could see, all the bikers made their way across the highway to the factory. Music blared, Spanish lyrics over what sounded like a video game soundtrack. The only bikers that we could see were two men shooting dice on a sheet of cardboard. While they weren’t doing a good job of it, I assumed they were guarding the trailer they knelt in front of, most likely there to keep the girls in and not us or anyone else out. Who would be stupid enough to raid a biker camp?
The two guards looked up when two of their compatriots approached. One of them went into the trailer. Less than a minute later, he walked out with two teenage girls. One of them was LaShanda, the girl who had fought Julie in the video. The other one was a blonde, short with a thick neck. From the distance and through the peephole, it was hard to gauge their expressions, but their body language was surprisingly more invigorated than subdued. And while they didn’t look like they disliked each other, they looked ready to fight. They walked with the two bikers out the gate.
“Ready?” Bobby asked.
“I’m never ready for shit like this,” I said. “Which makes me wonder how I always seem to end up doing it.”
“Soon as we’re out of the truck, run to that shack thing over there. We can’t make the distance to the trailer without being spotted, but from there we can wait for our moment. Don’t shoot your gun unless it’s life or death. No fear-firing.”
I nodded.
Bobby walked to me and gave me a hard hug with his good arm. “I know what you’re risking and how hard it is. Thanks, Jimmy.”
“You would do the same for me. Hell, you have.”
“It’s different for me. You’re scared and you’re here. Says something, brother.”
“Let’s go get killed before I start crying.”
I popped open the trapdoor (I’m telling you, this truck was tricked out full-on smuggler-style
. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had an ejector seat and smoke screen) and hopped down below the truck, immediately pressing myself against the back tire out of view. Bobby climbed down gripping with his one hand, but made it next to me without much problem. The open air and shade felt great.
Staying low to the ground, I scooted over to what was essentially a lean-to, a shed wall of corrugated tin leaning against a storage container. If the guards looked up in the three seconds I was in view, things would get shitty quick. They didn’t and I slid into the room. My right foot hit something. That something groaned.
Gabe looked surprisingly happy to see me, considering that I had kicked him in the head. They had trussed him up like a calf, his arms and legs tied together behind him, bending him in a C. His mouth was duct-taped and I could see that he had spent some time chewing at it.
Bobby ducked under the wall next to me. I stared into Gabe’s eyes and put my finger to my lips. He nodded. I tore the duct tape off Gabe’s mouth and immediately covered it with my hand, feeling the gummy glue sticking my hand to his cheek. I waited a few seconds and then took my hand away.
Bobby had pulled out his knife. He sawed at the complex web of ropes that held Gabe. They tied him down the way I secure stuff, the bigger and stupider the knot, the better. When all you got is a granny, quantity beats quality.
“Thanks,” Gabe said in a voice above a whisper.
“You seen Julie?” Bobby asked. “Julie here?”
“Ain’t seen shit. Been in a container for days. I pulled a dumbass move coming here. Pretty sure they forgot about me. Then someone remembered and thought I was going to die, so they put me here. They’re fucking idiots. Chucho comes in, kicks me a few times. No Julie. Sorry.”
“Want to help?” I said.
“I’ll fight every one of these motherfuckers. Tie me up? Fuck that.”
Gabe’s arms and legs fell to his side as Bobby finished cutting him loose. He rolled onto his stomach and shook the blood back into his hands.
“What do you need me to do?” Gabe asked.
“Make some noise,” Bobby said. “Loud enough for those two fucks to hear.”
Bobby took out his pistol and pointed it toward the entrance. I did the same, waiting for the space to fill. Gabe grabbed a pipe just to be armed, and then he screamed for help in two languages.
Both dice-rolling guards rushed into the space, the faster one almost running directly into my pistol. He stepped back, confused. Both men’s eyes got huge when our presence and the presence of our pistols registered.
“Who the fuck are you?” the one with hair said.
He didn’t get an answer. Unless pipe was an answer. Gabe dropped him, not unconscious, but to his knees. He put a hand to the visibly growing lump. I reached down and took his pistol from his belt.
“Don’t got to hit me, man.” The bald guard reached down with two very dainty fingers, plucked the pistol from his waistband, and dropped it on the ground. Gabe quickly picked it up, feeling its weight and examining it. The man held up his hands.
“What the fuck, Pelón?” Pipe Lump said.
“They got us,” he said to Pipe Lump. “Why should I get hurt, too? And I know you been cheating at dice.”
“You’re out of Los Hos,” Pipe Lump said. “When Goyo, Chucho, when they find out, you’re done. These pendejos are just a couple of backward ass country fucks.”
“You must like getting hit with a pipe,” I said.
Bobby pointed at the men with the barrel of his pistol. “This is you, Gabe. We got to keep moving. Only got a short window. Got to go now. You watch these guys. Have Pelón here tie up fuckface. Then you tie him up. Keep them quiet. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Pistol at the ready, I threw open the trailer door and rushed inside. Girl screams greeted me. Seven teenage girls, their ages ranging from fourteen to nineteen, lounged around the living room area of the trailer.
There wasn’t much in the way of furnishings. Mattresses filled most of the floor areas against the walls. Water and soda bottles sat piled in one corner next to full garbage bags that stank of takeout Mexican and Doritos. Six fans blew the stench around, but did little to cool the stuffy space.
“Anyone else here? Is there anyone in back?” I shouted.
Bobby didn’t wait for an answer, rushing into the back of the trailer, throwing doors and curtains open as he passed various alcoves. It only took him a few seconds to come back out with a young black girl, held by her skinny bicep. The girl didn’t look scared, like she was used to being manhandled and told what to do.
“Back’s clear,” he said.
A Mexican girl with neck tattoos and serious chola eyebrows stood and put her hands on her hips. “Who the fuck are you? You don’t look like no fucking cops. And what the fuck is up with that dude’s hair?”
“Where’s Julie?” Bobby shouted.
“She ain’t here.”
Bobby and I looked at each other. Could I have been wrong?
Bobby let go of the black girl and grabbed Chola by her shoulders. “What does that mean? Not in this trailer? Or not out here in Plaster City?”
“Get off me,” Chola said, shrugging out of Bobby’s grasp. She hit his bad shoulder hard, Bobby biting his lip to avoid shrieking in pain. “How the fuck should I know where she is? That bitch don’t stay with us. Why you want to talk to her?”
“We came to bring her home.”
“Are you like her daddy?”
Bobby turned to me. “What the fuck do we do now? If she’s not here. Grab the truck and Rudy and go?”
“You got a ride?” Chola said. “That means you can prison-break my shit. Take me out of here with you.”
A couple girls stood, shouting “yeahs” and “me toos.” The others soon followed. They started to surge toward us.
“Hold on, hold on,” Bobby said. “We came here for Julie. We can’t take all these girls.”
“We got the truck,” I said. “They stay and Tomás comes in, he’ll take them. Same game, new team. They’re trapped for good.”
“Fucking Morales.”
“Tomás Morales? He’s coming here?” Chola said, her face turning white. She looked around wildly, like a trapped animal. “You got to get us out of here.”
The other girls whispered to each other, Tomás’s name sparking fear in English and Spanish. The rising terror on the girls’ faces made them look even younger, in need of protection.
“Damn it.” Bobby waved me over.
I turned to the girls. “Stay there. Don’t move.”
“Don’t leave us here,” Chola said.
Bobby and I huddled near the door, heads close, whispering to each other.
“We can’t take them,” Bobby said. “Julie. That’s it. We can’t.”
“She’s not here. I say we have to. And officially it’s still my show. They’re all someone’s daughters. But instead of having a dad to break them out, they got us.”
Bobby looked at the girls. If he saw what I saw, in front of him were children forced not into adulthood, but into some purgatory where they were objects for amusement.
“Fuck,” Bobby said. He broke the huddle and then one of the fans by kicking it. “For nothing, man. All this and no Julie.”
A few of the girls started from Bobby’s mini-tantrum, taking a few steps away.
“He’s not going to hurt anyone,” I said, trying to calm them. “He’s just upset about his daughter.”
“Julie really is his daughter?” Chola said. “Yo, she’s probably in her trailer.”
Bobby turned to Chola quickly. “You said you didn’t know where she was.”
“I don’t. I said she’s probably there. We don’t leave this fucking trailer except to fight. I don’t know where no one is.”
“Which trailer is hers?”
“Once you’re out the door, turn right. You’ll see it. It has a bird painted on the side.”
I barked orders to Chola. “Okay, you’re in charge.
There’s a panel truck at the far end of the loading docks. You’ll see it. Says OCOTILLO BEER & AMMO on the side. There’s a trapdoor underneath. If you climb under the truck, you’ll be able to get in the back. Find water—a lot of it—wait for us, stay out of sight.”
“You seriously did like a Trojan Horse to get in here?”
“I guess we did,” I said.
“Do I get a gun?” Chola said.
“No,” Bobby said. “Soon as we find Julie, we’ll drive everyone the fuck out of here.”
“Julie know you’re coming to save her? She might’ve used to been like us, but she ain’t got to be saved no more.”
“And why is that?”
“She runs this shit, yo. She’s the fucking boss.”
“Of course she is,” I said.
We found Julie for the second time in our long hunt, sitting at the kitchen table of her air-conditioned Winnebago. She sorted and uncrumpled different denominations of bills, stacking them in neat stacks and making a tally of the count on a columnar pad. When the door crashed open, she jumped in her seat and turned quickly to face us. Seeing me, she put one hand on the money and reached for her backpack with the other hand.
I brought my pistol up quickly. “Don’t do it, Julie. Bobby might not have the heart to shoot you, but he’s your father. Me? I’m looking for a reason.”
Julie called my bluff and reached anyway. Of course, I didn’t shoot her, but I covered the distance quick enough to grab her wrist before she was able to pull her weapon. I easily pried the small pistol from her girl fingers, wondering if this was the gun she shot Bobby with. It was small, compact, and deadly. Just like her.
The whole time, Julie screamed the entire Spanish/English dictionary of obscenities at me. Not in alphabetical order, but she was under duress. She definitely exceeded my limited vocabulary, making me curious as to what a panocha and a joto were.
Bobby watched from the doorway, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. Julie stopped struggling when she saw him. As if out of reflex, her face took on that teenage girl face that every parent knows, the snide one that looked like she smelled bad yogurt.
