Young Americans

by Josh Stallings

  Sardine and Cracker crept into the kitchen, cocksure no one could hear them. Sardine was first through the doorway into the living room.

  This was his bad luck.

  Valentina grabbed his shirt with one hand and punched his throat with the other. She landed six blows before he knew what was happening. One moment he was walking, the next he was on the floor with a bruised throat, a broken wrist and a fucked knee. Sardine looked at Valentina in stunned amazement. “Who the rabid-fucking-dog are you?”

  “Valentina Creamerosa. Confused because I just kicked your filthy ass?” From the corner of her eye she saw a second man coming on. He had a hunting rifle held at hip height. It was aimed at Valentina’s stomach. From five feet he wouldn’t miss.

  “Step away from cousin Sardine.”

  “Honey pants, you wouldn’t shoot a lady would you?”

  “I might. And I sure as fuck will shoot a she-male.”

  “Kill her, Cracker.” Sardine was pushing his back against the wall, sliding up it to stand. “Kill her.”

  “Him.”

  “What?”

  “Him. It’s a him.” Cracker’s back was to the bedroom door. He didn’t hear it swing open.

  Sardine tried to yell.

  Valentina dropped to the floor. As she landed on her ass her foot shot up. The kick landed hard into Sardine’s balls. The force lifted him up into the air. Sardine fell into a moaning lump.

  Cracker heard a footstep behind him. He was spinning around when the butt of a twelve-gauge shotgun connected with his cheek. Esther gripped the barrel and swung like a major leaguer hitting for the fences. Cracker stumbled back, blood running down his face. Valentina was up and on him. She ripped the rifle from his hands and tossed it across the room. Then she set in pounding his face, landing several punches into the exact spot the shotgun’s butt had hit. He was staggering when she dropped down and swept the back of his knee. He went down hard.

  Valentina was raging. She stomped the man’s head. He rolled over and tried to crawl onto his hands and knees.

  “Oh, fuck this noise,” Valentina said as she grabbed the M16 off the chair and took aim. “Body bag time, bitch.”

  “No, Valentina, no.” Esther was moving to get between the M16 and the man on the floor.

  “These bastards shot our Candy. No way they get to walk out of here.”

  “I didn’t say let them skate. But think about it.”

  “I am, and I think they need to go. Now, eeny meeny miny moe.” She moved the front sight from one cousin to the other and back again. Sardine covered his face with his hands and started to weep.

  “What if we need them to bargain with their kin up North?”

  “Candy demands blood.”

  “They are bleeding. The one over there is never going to have children, from what I saw. But enough.”

  Valentina let out a long, slow breath. She looked at the two pitiful hillbillies. One was crying like a little girl, the other was moaning and holding his pulpy cheek. Henry would have killed them. Henry would be wearing their ears as he rode into Humboldt. Henry wasn’t here, Valentina was. “Fine, Esther. For you they get another day above ground. But if Candy is dead? These no-style motherfuckers go. Regardless of any trades you may think we can pull off.”

  Cracker let out a long-held breath.

  Sardine kept crying—apparently he was too far gone to hear he wasn’t going to die.

  Esther leveled the shotgun at the prone men.

  Valentina went to the kitchen for a roll of clothesline.

  Terry stood in the bedroom doorway, wide-eyed. Valentina had told him and Esther to stay hidden no matter what they heard. Told them if they wouldn’t leave then they at least would stay out of the way. She said Sam would kill her if she got Moms or Terr-Terr killed. Esther hadn’t taken direction very well. Thankfully.

  Terry looked from Valentina to the beaten men and back to her. He felt a combination of pride, arousal and revulsion.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  “So, you wanna play with knives, huh? Well you picked the wrong player!” —Coffy

  Arcata.

  Midnight.

  Sam and Jacob knelt in the shadows behind a dumpster across the street from Callum’s apartment building. It was close enough to the bay to smell the salt in the fog that swirled around and obscured them. Jacob was sucking on the last of a roach. He bought a couple of joints off the Earth momma waitress. It wasn’t what she advertised. Wasn’t bad, but wasn’t that.

  “Maui Waui? Hell no, little bro, you got taken.”

  “It is definitely not Maui Waui, but it’s not bad.”

  “Shouldn’t be, that’s Breeze’s pot. Calls it Hustlers Gold. Said it was the soil or the redwoods or some bullshit. Said one day these hills will be filled with pot farms.”

  “In the States? Bullshit. Hasn’t he heard of the DEA? Nixon may be gone but we are stuck with his drug goons.”

  “Word is Breeze owns the local cops.”

  “DEA is federal.”

  “I guess his farm is either well hidden, or not on their radar.”

  “Exactly. But that will change.” Jacob was grinning.

  “You’re high.”

  “Yep.” Whatever else he had to say was lost in a deep engine rumble as the yellow Mustang rolled up the block. It parked in a loading only zone and Callum climbed out. He turned from right to left, scanning the surrounding area. His black leather blazer flapped open, giving Sam a quick glimpse of his Colt Python, a massive .357 magnum revolver. Feeling secure he headed toward his apartment.

  The apartment building had exterior stairs and walkways. Sam didn’t want to brace Callum out in the open. She and her brother stayed hidden until he was inside. Jacob lifted the lid on the dumpster.

  “What are you looking for?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Wait, here you go.”

  • • •

  Callum hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. He was spent. Hearing the knock on his door, he rolled his eyes. Who the fuck was banging around this late? Arcata rolled up the sidewalks at sundown. He pulled the Python, holding it down beside his leg he went the door and looked out the peephole. A young man stood holding a pizza. “What?”

  Jacob smiled a pot-addled smile. “Johnny’s pizza delivery. If ain’t hot, you pay naught.”

  “I didn’t order a pizza, so shove off.” The voice was muffled through the closed door.

  “Dude, um, is this apartment 2C?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dude, you didn’t order a medium works?”

  “No, now blow before you piss me off.”

  “Damn Jerry. That stoner prick got it messed up. Sorry.” Jacob turned to go, then looked back at the door quickly. “Oh, damn. Hope you don’t drive a yellow Mustang.”

  Callum ripped the door open. “What are you—”

  Sam was against the wall and she swung into the doorway. She drove the snub-nosed .38 into Callum’s gut. He coughed a spray of spittle, doubling over. Sam slammed her fist up into his jaw. The revolver made a brutal set of brass knuckles. Callum stumbled back, tripping over his own feet. He went down painfully. The Python skidded across the floor. Jacob followed Sam in, closing the door. He stepped past his sister and plucked the revolver off the floor. It had a six-inch barrel with a rib running from the cylinder to the front sight. Heavy and shiny blue-black, time and hard use had not removed much of the bluing.

  “Sam, whoa.” Callum was gasping, a hand up protecting his face.

  “Why don’t I shoot you, asshole?”

  “I get you’re angry with me. Hell, I’m angry with myself. Fucking Breeze said he would have Big Bob, Cracker and Sardine feed me to their pigs if I didn’t go along.”

  “You are so full of shit.” She kicked him in the ribs. “Where is my cash?”

  “Whaaat the hell, Sam?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wrong answer.” She pointed the snubnose at h
im. But her heart wasn’t in it and he could see that.

  “Quit screwing around. You aren’t going to shoot me.”

  “I will.” Jacob flared his nostrils. “I fucking hate guns. Hate. Because of your bullshit a girl I love had a bullet rip through her chest. She may already be dead. She may die tomorrow. Point is, your life means nothing. Not one thing to me. Fuck it. I may pull the trigger just to see what you look like with a sucking chest wound. Yes, I think I will.”

  “Sam, who the hell is he?”

  “Young man about to put a hole in your chest, looks like to me. We call him Crazy Jake. Wanna guess why?”

  “One.” Jacob aimed the .357 magnum at Callum’s chest. “Two. Three.” He pulled the trigger. Callum tried to scream but no sound came out. The hammer landed on an empty chamber with a metallic clunk. A wet stain started to spread on the crotch of Callum’s jeans.

  Jacob held up a bullet. “I forgot, took one round out. Sorry. Take two?” Opening the cylinder he slid the round into the one empty chamber. Snapping it closed he pulled back the hammer. “Now where was I? Yeah, one. Two—”

  “Stop. He, um Breeze, he put the cash into a safe in his office.”

  “What about your share?” Sam asked. “Ten percent I bet.”

  “I didn’t get—”

  “Three.” Jacob aimed down again.

  “OK, it’s in the paper bag on the coffee table. Call him off.”

  Sam lifted the bag. It was stuffed with bundles of bills. She showed it to Jacob, who went sanpaku. He stabbed the Python at Callum.

  “Call him off. I did what you wanted.”

  Sam shook her head. “Oh, sweetheart, we aren’t done. Not near done.”

  “What?” Callum was pretty sure he was a dead man.

  “Was there ever a drug deal?” Sam asked. “Did you lose Breeze’s twenty grand? Remember, you are hanging on by a frayed goddamn thread.”

  “I know. Please have him point that gun another direction.”

  “You feel like pointing that another direction, Jake?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry, he doesn’t want to. Talk fast.”

  “OK. There was never a drug deal. Breeze found out I was on probation and he threatened to have the sheriff violate me. I had to go along.”

  “You told me you’d done your full bit.”

  “I lied, I didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “And now you’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  “You better be. Now time for the biggie. Did he come after you before or after we met?”

  “I can’t go back inside.”

  “Before or after?”

  “Before.”

  Sam lost all steam. Her shoulders slumped. She turned away from Callum.

  “We done with this piece of dog brown?”

  “Yeah, Jake, we’re done.” She picked up the cash and walked out.

  Jake knelt down beside Callum. He didn’t show any emotion, let his mind go blank. Just looked at the piss-stained man.

  “What, um, what are you doing?”

  “Deciding.”

  “Please don’t. I’ll disappear, just get in my ride and be gone.”

  “Do that.” Jake eased the hammer down on the Python and walked out.

  • • •

  Sam was in the parking lot writing down the license plate on the Mustang. She’d popped the lock on the passenger door with the flexible metal ruler she’d stashed in a hidden pocket in her leather jacket. She asked Jacob for a joint and the Python. She planted them in the springs under the driver’s seat. She relocked the door and walked away.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” Jacob said as they climbed into the Firebird.

  “What is wrong with me, Jake? Why do I choose the most fucked up guy in any room?”

  “I don’t know, sister, really I don’t. What was that last stuff back there?”

  “Payback.”

  From a payphone at a Shell station Sam made two calls. First was home. Esther was overjoyed that her kids had survived. She started crying. Valentina took the phone. She and Sam agreed Sam should come home. Maurizio Binasco was their most immediate problem. If Breeze sold them out to the mob, they would quickly run out of holes to hide in.

  • • •

  “You called Pahk? Why? In a hurry to meet your jailhouse wife?” They were back on the highway pushing north.

  “Pahk’s the only cop I know, other than Sheriff Winslow who’s bent so far he can kiss his own ass.”

  “Pahk’s not?”

  “He’s a solid gold turd, but he’s not on Breeze’s payroll.”

  “Why call any cop?”

  “I left him a message. Told him I was a concerned citizen. Gave him the plates and location of a yellow Mustang. Told him it was driven by a dangerous felon who was selling pot and guns to school kids.”

  “You dimed Callum?”

  “Sold that lying prick out. The name I left, and you’re gonna love this, Judy S.”

  “The fu—oh, Judy S. Judas. Not bad actually, pretty good.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  “You feel better?”

  “Not much.” Sam pursed her lips. “Fuck it, maybe I’ll feel better when he’s in the joint snuggling up to Bubba.”

  Jake leaned his face on the window; the glass was cool and refreshing. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. They drove in silence, the road empty around them.

  Sam looked at her brother with a mixture of sadness and pride. “Back there, with Callum, you did good. I even thought you’d gone cuckoo’s nest.”

  “‘He won’t let the pain blot out the humor no more’n he’ll let the humor blot out the pain.’”

  “What? Time to lay off the weed, bro.”

  “Ken Kesey.”

  “Whatever. I’m trying to compliment you. Stanford is getting one hell of an actor.”

  “Wasn’t acting with Callum. He got Candy shot. He set you up. He started this whole ugly ball rolling.”

  “You wouldn’t have shot him.”

  “I almost did.” He looked out the window at his face reflecting back with the guardrail blurring through it. He didn’t recognize himself.

  • • •

  Sam waited until they were well shed of Humboldt County before looking for a motel. It was a Motel 6, cost six bucks and was relatively bug free. Neither of them thought they would sleep. Sam took a shower, and when she came out Jacob was asleep on top of the blankets. She covered him up, but didn’t wake him. He looked like a kid again.

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  “If they move, kill ’em!” —The Wild Bunch

  South San Francisco.

  Kaiser Hospital.

  Jacob walked through the electric doors. He had a bouquet of roses stolen from a van parked by the hospital loading dock.

  “Fifteen minutes, then I book,” Sam told him. She couldn’t risk getting caught by the cops. Using a payphone she found out that Candy was in the ICU on the third floor. She gave Jacob the room number. “Hey, Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell her I love her. I’d be there if I could.”

  “You sure this is how you want to play it, Sam? Come with me.”

  “No can do, kid. Fifteen minutes. Get going.”

  The roses did the trick. Holding them up, Jacob cruised past reception and the rent-a-cop guarding the front door. Stepping off the elevator onto the third floor he stopped. The door to the ICU was locked. Nearing the entrance he set the roses on the floor and knelt to retie his shoelaces. When a young doctor went through, Jacob was up and moving, catching the door inches before it closed.

  “You can’t bring those in here.” The nurse standing behind the station looked Jacob over, clearly not liking what she saw.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “No flowers on this ward. Who are you?”

  “No flowers? I was told—”

  “No, you were not. Now who are you?”

  Looki
ng past the nurses’ station he could see through the windows into room 315. He knew it was Candy, though her face was mostly covered by an oxygen mask. Tubes ran fluids into her arm. A spiderweb of wires connected her to the monitors. She looked tiny in the face of all that medical technology.

  “Who are you?” the nurse asked again.

  “Is she . . . is she going to make it?”

  She picked up the phone. “I’m calling security.”

  In room 315, Jacob noticed Candy’s parents. He hadn’t seen them in several years, but their pain marked them unmistakably as her mother and father. Candy’s father sat crumpled over in a plastic chair, elbows on knees, face in hands, staring at the floor. Her mother stood beside him, her hand resting on his back, eyes unfocused.

  “Security, this is ICU one, send someone up here.” The nurse looked past the phone at Jacob. He knew his time was up.

  “Forget it, please.” He gave the nurse what he hoped would pass for an innocent face. It didn’t.

  As Jacob was exciting the ICU he ran into a security guard coming on fast.

  “Catch!” Jacob yelled and threw the roses at the young man in a gray uniform. The guard instinctively grabbed for the flowers, giving Jacob time to dodge him. Hitting the stairs, Jacob took them three at a time. By the time he made it to the lobby the guard was closing in fast. Both young men were panting hard. Jumping past an empty wheelchair Jacob hooked his hand on it and sent it spinning in his wake. The young guard was moving too fast to stop his momentum and hit the wheelchair at a full run, tangling up his legs. He went down. Patients, nurses, doctors, all watched Jacob as he sprinted out the electric doors.

  Sam was just getting ready to leave her brother when he burst into the parking area. He jumped into the Firebird and they were gone.

  “Cops?” she asked.

  “No. Rent-a-guys.”