Big Stupid (POPCORN)

by Victor Gischler

  She took another long drag, looking around slowly like suddenly we were in the middle of a drug deal or something. “Just let me get my purse.”

  She went inside. A minute passed and then another minute and I was starting to figure I’d been had. Or maybe she was calling security or her big brothers to come smash me up.

  I flicked the half-smoked cigarette away and started thinking about cutting my losses and moving along to the next useless stop on my detective to-do list, but she came bouncing out the exit a split-second later, a big canvas purse-bag slung over her shoulder.

  “I’ll drive,” she said.

  “My car’s around front,” I said. “Let me just do something real quick.”

  “Okay. That’s my Chevy Cruz over there. The blue one. I’ll get the air going.”

  “Right.”

  I slow jogged around front where Big Stupid waited in the Humvee like a loyal hound dog. I leaned in the driver’s side window, tossing the Eppert file across to the passenger seat.

  “Listen, why don’t you take off? I’ll be fine for a while.”

  His face was blank and a long second stretched into two before he said, “I’m supposed to stay with you.”

  “Yeah, well, I got some official detective shit going and three’s a crowd.”

  That didn’t seem to register. Another blank stare then: “I’m supposed to stay with you.”

  “Jesus.” I shook my head. “Look, that ain’t gonna fly, man. I appreciate the work ethic or whatever, but I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Still with the blank look.

  I started backing away from the Humvee. “So … I’m going. Okay?”

  Blank look.

  Fucking-A. Dumb as a bag of wet doorknobs.

  I turned, shaking my head, jogged back to the Chevy Cruz. Big Stupid wasn’t my problem.

  Let him sit there catching flies with his big dumb mouth hanging open.

  I returned to Sandy’s Chevy, climbed in the passenger seat. The air conditioner flailed full blast against the hot interior. Summer in Louisiana could melt the horny right out of a man.

  Almost.

  “Buckle up.” She nosed the car into traffic on Airline Highway and pretty soon we were moving along with the rest of the swarm, ten miles an hour over the speed limit and fuckers in the other lane still passing, zig-zagging back and forth like it was lunch hour at the Daytona 500. People in this town could not drive for shit.

  The guy on the radio was talking about Hurricane Gertrude. I wonder who picked the names for these things and what that job paid.

  “My treat for lunch,” I said. “You pick the place.”

  “Let’s go to my house. I got stuff in the freezer.”

  “I said I’d pay.” This had been the magic ticket with some of the girls I’d dated back home.

  She laughed, not so ugly and mannish this time. “Nothing to do with that. I need to let my dogs out. Besides, it’s a pain in the butt to get in someplace around here at the height of lunch rush.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I owe you one.”

  “I’ll file that away for later.”

  In the passenger side rearview mirror, I caught site of Big Stupid’s Humvee about four cars back.

  Shit.

  FIVE

  We made a few turns, and five minutes later I didn’t see Big Stupid behind us anymore. He probably turned off to go eat a side of beef or something, and I put him out of my mind.

  I could grab a taxi back to my truck sooner or later, or maybe Sandy would give me a ride although she might not be too eager to visit North Baton Rouge.

  Another five minutes and she was pulling into the driveway of a ranch home in a medium nice subdivision, each house on a big lot and not looking too much like each other but you could tell the architect had used a few of the same tricks over and over again.

  Enough trees for good shade. Frankly, I had expected not such a great place, but I guess administrative assistants make more than I thought, especially if they had nice round asses.

  She ushered me inside. Two big labs danced and barked inside their cages. She opened the back door then opened the cages, and the labs streaked past like black lightning.

  “They’re run around out there for a while. Kitchen’s through there. Get a drink from the fridge. I’m just going to check my messages.”

  She vanished into a bedroom, and I went into the kitchen. Linoleum made up to look like tile. Clean counters. Cabinets from the Carter administration, but fairly new stainless steel appliances. I opened the fridge and stared at the selection. Dr. Pepper and Bud Light.

  Huh.

  “You can have a beer if you want,” she called from the other room. “I’ll be in there in a jiff.”

  Nice. I grabbed the Bud Light. Popped it open and guzzled. I looked over my shoulder, and when I didn’t see her coming, I fired back the rest of the beer, found the trash can under the sink and tossed the can. I grabbed another from the fridge and popped it just as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Thanks for the beer,” I said.

  “Sure.” She opened the fridge and took one out for herself. If she was keeping count, she didn’t say anything.

  She kept looking in the fridge as she sipped. “I could warm you up something.”

  “To tell the truth, I already had an early lunch,” I said. “I was just looking to have a chat.”

  “That’s funny. I’m not hungry either.”

  I sipped beer. She sipped beer. Outside the dogs barked.

  “Well,” she shrugged, looked up at me, “Chat away, man.”

  “What do you know about this Eppert character?” That sounded like a good private dick question.

  “You pretty much covered it with Mr. Prescott, I guess. He told you all the current information. Same as he told the police.”

  I sipped beer to buy myself some time. “I mean, you know. Like personally. What sort of guy was he? Anything can be a clue.”

  “You mean like his hobbies or something?”

  “Anything.”

  “He seemed really … how do I say it?” She nibbled her lower lip, thinking. “I don’t want to say goody two-shoes, but sort of like that.”

  “Like an every Sunday church goer?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, not like that. Like he really took rules seriously, you know? Like if his lunch hour was over at 12:30 it would be the worst disgrace imaginable to walk in at 12:31. Like that.”

  “A stickler.”

  “Yeah, a stickler.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m running low on beer. You want some Jack Daniels?”

  “Don’t you have to get back to work?”

  “I’m not a stickler.”

  I asked, “You have any Coca Cola?”

  “Yeah.”

  She filled two glasses with ice and coke and Jack.

  “So did Eppert seem like the sort of guy who’d set up an armored car heist?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Sandy said. “Like I said. Straight arrow. We were all surprised. I think it just goes to show you never know. You know?”

  “You never know.” I repeated like it was wisdom off a fortune cookie.

  She sipped. I sipped. The dogs had simmered down.

  “Any more questions?”

  I wrinkled up my face, concentrating. “I’m trying to think of some.”

  “You said you thought it maybe wasn’t Eppert.” Her drink paused halfway to her lips, and I felt her eyes on me hard now.

  “I said I had a hunch,” I corrected her. “That’s standard private eye operating procedure. Sometimes I have three or four hunches a day. Better than a crystal ball.”

  “So you don’t have any proof or clues or witnesses or anything?” She glanced at her watch again.

  “You in a hurry? I thought you weren’t a stickler.”

  She smiled. “I’m thinking maybe I’m not going back today. I might call in and tell them I’m running errands.”

  “You’ve got some flexible hours the
re.”

  “I told you it was a good job.”

  I downed the rest of the Jack and Coke, smacked my lip. “That was good. Real good.”

  “Refill?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking about how much time I could waste here drinking Jack and rattling off small talk. Ray was counting on me to get some shit done, and daylight was burning.

  “I’d like to, but I don’t know. I’ve really taken up enough of your time. You’ve been a good sport.”

  She glanced at her watch a third time, and for whatever reason it sort of irritated me, but I didn’t saying nothing.

  “I don’t think you should rush off.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why not?” I was feeling a nice glow. She’d need to twist my arm about one millionth of an inch to get me to agree to another Jack and Coke.

  “Because we’re having a good time,” she said.

  “How good?”

  She moved closer, trailed fingers across the front of my jeans, pausing over just the right spot. “This good.”

  I set my glass on the counter and took her by the hips, pulling her right up against me. She laced her fingers behind my neck, pulled me down for a kiss, tongues slinking into each other’s mouths.

  She tasted like iced Jack and Coke, her mouth and lips hot and cold at the same time.

  I grabbed two handfuls of ass and squeezed. She ground herself into my rapidly inflating crotch. It got a little frantic after that.

  We kept kissing, mashing lips, slurping sounds getting loud. I was working on the buttons of her blouse and she was at my belt, working my button then the zipper. Her shirt was open now, and I reached into one of the bra cups.

  Her breast was a perfect handful. I pinched a nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  She dropped to her knees, tugged down my jeans and boxers, and I sprang out at her. She made a fist around me and started pumping. When I was max erect, she took me in her mouth, head bobbing so fast I thought I might pass out from the sensation.

  She backed away with a wet pop and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where you going?” My voice sounded a little too high. I was eager.

  “I have to, you know, put something in,” she said. “You get the rest of those clothes off.”

  She left the kitchen, and I stripped completely naked in two seconds, stood there wagging and ready.

  I heard a door open in another part of the house, the rapid shuffle of feet. At first I thought Sandy was letting the dogs back in, but it sounded wrong, not the clicking of dog claws on tile.

  Three men burst into the kitchen, rushed at me. A blur of denim and dark shirts and stockings pulled over faces. They all three swung axe handles. No matter how hard your hard-on, this sort of thing will make you go limp again. Guaranteed.

  The lead guy swung his axe handle into my gut, and I went down, mouth open wide and gulping for air.

  I started rolling away as they grabbed at me. You’ve got to really be committed to what you’re doing to grab a naked man, and I managed to slip out of their grasps, scrambling for my feet as I headed to the exit on the other side of the kitchen.

  I took another axe handle whack across the shoulders, stumbled forward but kept going.

  I came face to face with Sandy in the living room. Her shirt was still open. She pointed at me and screamed. “He’s in here! He’s in here!”

  But they already knew that.

  They’d gotten over whatever aversion they’d had to my nudity and gang tackled me. We all went down in a big pile, and I felt various punches along my side and back wherever they could get at me.

  “He knows,” Sandy yelled. “We got to find out who he’s told. Don’t kill him.”

  But they weren’t letting up. I took a smack on the ear, felt it go warm and sticky, a hot buzzing. I tried to push myself up, wriggle free. No dice.

  Another blow to the head. Darkness swirled enticingly close, and I begged it to drag me down, make the pain stop.

  Something exploded through the living room’s big bay windows, glass shattering and raining over us, blinds flying. I thought somebody had lost control of a truck, and it had come smashing through the wall.

  It was Big Stupid.

  He plucked one of the guys off me and tossed him across the room. He crashed into a book shelf with a crunch and went limp. A second guy backed away from me, squared off with Big Stupid, axe handle ready to swing.

  Sandy was screaming and screaming and screaming.

  I’d rolled over, was trying to rally and fight the last guy still on top of me. This consisted mostly of my trying to feebly push the guy’s face away with the heels of my hands while he choked me.

  The guy facing Big Stupid swung the axe handle with everything he had. Big stupid grabbed it in mid-swing, yanked it out of the guy’s grip and tossed it over his shoulder.

  A backhand from Big Stupid – almost like an afterthought – spun the guy’s head around, blood and teeth flying.

  Big Stupid bent, pulled the final guy off me. I grabbed the stocking and it came off as Big Stupid dragged him away. I glimpsed a chubby face, salt and pepper beard, dark brown eyes.

  Then Big Stupid tossed him against the wall and he joined his buddies in La-La Land.

  The room spun and blurred, and I realized Big Stupid had tossed me over his shoulder.

  “Whoa,” I croaked. “Where you going? We won.”

  He started jogging, his huge shoulder bruising my ribs. “The girl.”

  I realized I didn’t hear the screaming anymore.

  “She ran for it,” Big Stupid said. “Maybe calling for help.”

  He ran down the center of the quiet residential street, me bouncing on his shoulder like a bare-ass sack of potatoes.

  SIX

  I sat low in the passenger seat of the Humvee, my head just above the dashboard. I cast about the WalMart parking lot.

  The last thing I needed was a cop or a security guard asking where my clothes went.

  My ass was sweating on the imitation leather seat.

  I replayed current events slowly through my brain one more time, trying to figure how a blowjob went so bad so fast.

  It’s hard to think straight when you’re naked and three dudes are raining fists down on you and a giant black guy is jumping through a glass window and some woman is screaming her face off.

  So in the muggy quiet of the WalMart parking lot I tried to figure it out. Why lure me to her place and then let loose a trio of bully boys on me. Is that something she’d planned all along or decided after we got to her place? And she’d said something.

  I reached back, tried to comb the debris away from the memory I was groping for, the sounds of fists hitting flesh, men grunting and struggling then glass shattering. What had she said? He knows. We’ve got to find out who he told.

  Evidently I knew something. I wish I knew what I was supposed to know.

  I saw Big Stupid crossing the lot, headed back for the Humvee. About damn time. I’d seen firsthand that he could move fast when he wanted to, but this wasn’t one of those times.

  He ambled like a crippled glacier around to his side, climbed into the vehicle and handed me a shopping bag.

  “Thanks.” I opened the bag, started taking out clothing.

  I pulled out a Hawaiian shirt with a tropical pattern in muted yellow and forest green. It looked like some Jimmy Buffet shit Ray would wear. “I said just a regular T-shirt.”

  “Those colors are good for your skin tone,” said Big Stupid.

  “Skin tone? Okay, forget it. Clothes are clothes, right?”

  He put his hands on the wheel, waited, looking straight ahead.

  He’d also purchased me a pair of Levi jeans, size 34 waist, Spiderman boxer shorts, white ankle socks, and generic white sneakers.

  I put on the shirt last, the polyester immediately sticking to my sweaty skin. On reflex, I patted the pockets of my jeans.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Big Stupid turned his head, looke
d at me without expression.

  “My wallet and private investigator I.D. are in my other pants. Motherfucker. We have to go back.”

  A pause, then Big Stupid said, “Maybe that’s a bad idea.”

  “Well, I got no identification and no fucking money, so if you have any better ideas, I’m all ears.”

  He turned his head back, looked straight out the front window. A second passed. Then another second past. I thought maybe he’d gone into some kind of catatonic state.

  “Okay,” he said finally.

  He cranked the Humvee and drove it back toward Sandy’s house.

  I grabbed my gym bag from the floor and pulled out the revolver Ray had given me, double checked the ammo. Loaded for bear.

  Big Stupid glanced at the gun. “What are you going to do with that?”

  I made a face at him like that was a dumb question. “What the hell you think I’m going to do?”

  A few seconds slid by. There always seemed to be pause before Big Stupid said anything. Like the words left his brain and got lost on the way to his mouth.

  “In my experience,” he said, “guns usually cause more problems than they solve.”

  I blinked at him.

  I said, “Well, in my experience I find that I do not like getting my fucking ass kicked, and I’m going to blow some son of a bitch’s face off before I let it happen again.”

  He moved his huge shoulders in a way that might have been a lazy shrug.

  I told him to pull over a half block from Sandy’s house. We sat there for five minutes watching, but nothing happened. I climbed out of the car, tucked the revolver in the back of my jeans. The shirt hung down and covered it well enough.

  “Stay here,” I said. “Back in a few minutes.”

  I approached her driveway slowly, ready to turn tail and sprint back to the Humvee if I needed to. Nobody jumped out at me. No surprises. The front door wasn’t even locked. I pushed, and the door creaked open slowly. I paused, listened.

  I heard the dogs barking, but they were still in the back yard. I went inside, closed the door behind me.

  I quickly circled the interior of the house. Nobody home. I pondered what that might mean. Think about it. You just got your ass kicked by Big Stupid, but you can’t call the police because you were just gang beating on some naked dude. Those guys had split, off somewhere licking their wounds.