by Mike McCrary
“Everything sucks,” I say.
Skinny Drake nods.
I look at him. My brother. Jonathan was right. He is my new best friend. A relationship I didn’t know I had until I took an elevator ride in a condo a few days ago. Then later we escaped a shootout and have been inseparable and on the run ever since. We’ve been through a lot in a short amount of time.
Came together as family really fast.
A bond forged by violence, fear and survival. Also laughter, caring and having each other’s backs. I’d tell him I love him, but it wouldn’t land well. He’s not the sort for mush and I’m cool with that. Just hope he knows. Family is complicated and we haven’t had a lot of time digest it all.
It just occurred to me that I didn’t stop to ask what Skinny Drake wanted to do. It’s not like his memories are at stake at that house. True, his money has been taken away, but Skinny Drake doesn’t strike me as the money-driven, materialistic sort.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?” he says, stealing a quick glance away from the road my way.
“You don’t have to go on this hunt for Gordo. For Marcus. Our uncle or brother or whatever the hell he really is.”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.”
I think about saying something, but stop myself. I let Steely Dan fill the empty space between us. I think I just hurt his feelings. I can feel his tension from over here in the passenger seat. Watching the country whiz by the window, I let my brain try to crack open the situation. Take it out. Play with it. Make nice with it. Then it hits me.
“You don’t have anything else to do, do you?”
He tries to fake mad then he rolls into a snicker. “Nope.”
I start to crack up too. It’s one of those simmering giggles that erupts into silent laughter then an uncontrollable wave of snorts and deep breaths. We share a long, hard, much needed laugh between us. Rather laugh than cry, I always say.
“That and I’m broke as hell now,” he gets out through his giggles.
I bust up even harder and rub my bat, which I’m holding in my lap. As crazy as this all is, I feel oddly okay at this moment. I feel together. A sense of completion, even though I know I’m as broken as a thousand cantaloupes dropped from the Empire State Building. Don’t have much of a reason to feel great about anything, but I do.
The laughter between us dies down.
I sniff and clear my throat. Skinny Drake focuses on the road.
“But seriously. What are we going to do?” he asks me.
“We don’t have a lot of strong leads,” I say, letting my mind slap back to the problems at hand. I try to think this through as I watch the countryside continue to blow past my window. A blur of trees and grass scream past as we carve up the winding snake of a farm road.
Brother and sister on the road with no clue as to what in the hell they are doing. At least this time we aren’t being chased. At least people aren’t trying to kill us at the moment. This is what passes for good news these days.
I try to boost my ego by telling myself we are the hunters and not the hunted this time. We have some vague form of control. At least I think we’re not being hunted. Anything is possible, and the level of the unknown is pretty damn high.
Focus, Teddy.
Think.
The only way out of this is to come up with a plan from nothing. What do I know? What pieces are there to work with? I run through the people I know who know Gordo. It’s a small list, to be sure.
Then it hits me like a sledgehammer.
“We gotta go find Rondo,” I say.
I hear a crunch of metal behind me. A skid.
My head launches forward, slamming into the dashboard. My face swells on impact as I bounce back, then slams forward again.
Something rammed into our back bumper. I see the steering wheel spin between Skinny Drakes’ fingers. We swerve left, then right as he gets us back under control. I push myself off the dash, pull my gun, spin in my seat. There’s a big-ass truck coming at us hard. The engine revs with a roar.
They slam us again.
I’m thrown to the side, rocking me face-first into the passenger window this time. They must have hit us at a different angle, trying to push us off the road, or at least into the ditch. Peeling myself off the window, I yell to Skinny Drake, “Take your foot off the gas then jam the brakes when I say.”
He nods as he takes his foot off the gas. We’re slowing down.
I grab the wheel as I look to the rearview mirror. I wait.
The engine revs up again. The roar is closing in on us.
“Jam the brakes!”
He obeys and I yank the wheel hard toward me.
We cut sideways, turn-spinning, back end of the Yukon fishtailing as we come to a stop in the road with a skid and burn of tires in the air. The truck screams past us then locks up their brakes, skidding to stop about fifty yards ahead of us.
Skinny Drake pulls his gun as we both pour out from the Yukon in perfect harmony. I position myself behind the door then blast two shots into the back window of the truck.
The glass pops and spits into millions of pieces.
Skinny Drake lands a shot, exploding the driver’s side mirror.
We’re surrounded by miles of farmland and trees, but civilians and/or cops could roll up here any second. Never a perfect place for a gunfight, but this will have to do for now.
Two men jump clear of the truck with shotguns in their hands. They stumble as their feet hit the road. In less than perfect harmony their ankles twist, forcing their bodies to roll into the ditch. Amazing to watch, actually. If you’d told me, I wouldn’t have believed the complete lack of grace or skill. One of their shotguns goes off into the air.
“Take the driver,” I tell Skinny Drake.
He bolts toward the left side of the road. His good arm holds his gun with his other flopping in its sling like a busted wing. I take the right side with my bat and gun ready to rock. The driver and passenger both seem dazed. Not polished pros. Not the A-team of whoever is on us. They’re clumsy.
Stupid, if I may.
I hear Skinny Drake’s kicks and punches from the other side of the road as I reach the passenger. He turns over onto his back with a thump, his gun raised at me. I kick his arm away as he fires. The blast echoes off harmlessly into the big Texas sky. Slamming my bat down into his ribs, he folds into a fetal ball of dumbass.
“What the hell, man?” I bark. “Talk or we’ll kill you both and leave you in the ditch for the buzzards.”
“Eat shit.”
I slam his ribs on the other side. He screams like a teething baby.
“Who are you? Who you with?”
“Should I kill him?” Skinny Drake calls out from the other side.
“Not yet,” I yell back, then stick my bat on the end of this one’s nose. “Last time I’m asking nice. Talk.”
His face is red. His pain is real. His level of stupid is amazing. It’s all in his eyes. The dude is not smart, but I can also see he’s not ready to die for this shit.
“She sent us a few days ago. We’ve tried to find you two for a while now. We just found the house. We got lost,” he says, defeated as hell.
“She?”
“You know, the boss’s wife. Jonathan’s wife.”
“She’s dead, dumbass.”
“What?”
“Mama McCluskey? She’s dead as a doornail. Killed her myself.” I see his eyes search for clarity. “Oh my God. You should really check in more often.”
“Dead?” He spits out a tooth. “Soooo, what? We’re cool now?”
I shake my head. I think about telling Skinny Drake to kill him on principle. I almost feel sorry for Mama McCluskey, wasting money on these clowns.
“This one thinks he’s working for Mama McCluskey,” Skinny Drake says from across the road.
“I know,” I call out. “They’re dumber
than hell.” I turn back to the passenger. “You’re like a soldier who doesn’t know the war is over.”
I turn, shooting out the massive truck tires.
“Give me your phone,” I tell him, then call out to Skinny Drake. “Take his phone.”
“How about their wallets? We could use the cash.”
“Good idea. Only cash. No plastic or other shit.” Back to my guy. “Give me your cash too.” I think for a second. “And for being stupid and working for that horrible woman, give me your clothes too.”
“Should I get his clothes?” Skinny Drakes yells across the road. “I hear that right?”
“Yes.”
We gather their clothes and cash and leave them naked in the ditch, penniless, no phones and with a truck that’s undrivable. I think about shooting them the finger as we drive off, but that’s too much. I feel oddly grateful they were stupid and all we lost was some time, a back bumper and some tire tread.
“What the hell were we talking about?” Skinny Drake asks as we get back to driving. He lost his arm sling somewhere in all this, but as long as he’s cool with it, I’m cool with it.
“Rondo,” I say. “We gotta go find Rondo.”
Chapter 5
Don’t know much about Rondo, but what I do know is Rondo is a complete disaster of a human being.
That much is clear.
Last time I saw him, he was bound up on a hill just outside the McCluskey place in Montana. Never stopped to think about what happened to him while me, Skinny Drake, Gordo and the Nasty Brothers attacked the McCluskey house like we were Special Forces.
Pretty sure he’s not still on that hill anymore.
Almost positive.
He seemed fairly resourceful. He could be anywhere, but we know where he lives in California. His little beachside riot house. It seemed like his happy place, and I’d bet dollars to dugouts he went limping back to that den of sin. I would. It looked like a fun joint.
Forgot all about the Nasty Brothers for a second.
Gordo’s buddies.
Maybe they’re his muscle now. Gordo’s got the money to bring them on full time, if they weren’t already from the beginning. Hard to tell when Gordo pulled his plan together, let alone figured out what the hell his plan is. He could have easily had those animals on the payroll from the second I met him. Had them lying in wait until the right time.
That’s the scary part about all this now.
How long did Gordo have this plan set in motion? How long has he been pulling our strings, and how long have we let him? Sucks when you realize you’ve been played like a harmonica at the annual sap convention.
Those Nasty Brothers are a dangerous couple of dudes, to be sure, and if we’re lucky they were just guns for hire and haven’t stuck around to watch over Gordo. I have a feeling I’m being a little too optimistic and the Nasty Brothers are with Gordo right now. The three of them are probably knee-deep in cocaine and hookers with my—sorry, our—money.
I’m getting pissed off again.
I think about my house, Jonathan and his goons.
I really hope those sons of bitches don’t tear up my house.
It kills me to know Jonathan and his people are inside my parents’ house right now. Raiding my fridge. Feet on the table. Violating my bathroom. I shiver at the thought of it. I think about that box Bear Boy was carrying and what it might hold. I feel my shoulders tense up around my ears. I’m getting all worked up over some shit I can’t do shit about at the moment. Not a good strategy. Never works. Always hurts. Focus, Teddy.
I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.
Was last night a fluke?
I close my eyes.
“Don’t you go to sleep, Teddy,” Skinny Drake says.
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m not driving to California in silence.”
“Want me to sing to you?”
“Nope. Just a little light chitchat for, oh, the next day or so.”
“That sounds awful.”
“I know it does. Just do it.”
The tires roll. The sound is hypnotic, lulling me into a deep trance. I know that I won’t fall asleep, but I don’t want Skinny Drake dictating what I do. Is this what having a brother is all about? Having a pain in the ass you share DNA with? I’ve grown attached to the kid in a short amount of time, but right now the guy is bugging the shit out of me.
“I want to try and close my eyes for a bit,” I say. “See if I can go back to sleep. A test.”
Skinny Drake sighs. He looks over to me. “You got a little shuteye last night and now you want it all the time. You’re a sleep-slut now?”
I give him some poor sissy eyes.
He shakes his head. “Fine. Goodnight.”
I smile and close my eyes.
This is kind of a first for me. Closing my eyes to try and sleep, knowing I’ve got a real shot at it. I haven’t even bothered trying in a long time, and it feels more than a little strange. Shutting my lids feels good though. Feels hopeful. Comforting even. I want to dream. I want to let my brain cut loose and see all the things it searches out and finds in sleep mode. Travel to places unreal. See people real and imagined. Show me all the weird and the wonderful my brain can spit out. Please.
When I close my eyes, all I can see is me bashing Mama McCluskey’s head.
My bat coming down again and again.
I close my eyes tighter. Grip my bat tighter. I can even hear it.
The thumps, the crunches and the cracks. The moans, yelps and screams. That woman deserved everything I gave her, but yet it still tears away at me. She killed my parents, and tried like hell to kill me on several occasions. If she were still alive today she’d be trying like hell to execute me and my brother right now. Shit, she had two dumbasses give it a shot just a few minutes ago and she’s deader than hell.
I was justified in doing what I did. I know I was.
Then why do I feel like shit?
I open my eyes.
“You’re such a dick,” I tell my brother.
“What the hell did I do?”
“All your bitchin’. I can’t sleep now. So, let’s chitchat dammit.”
Chapter 6
It’s been a long haul to California.
We traded off, taking turns at the driving, riding straight through day and night. Me staying wide-awake and Skinny Drake crapping out into a deep slumber here and there. We stopped in Arizona and got a cheap room just long enough to get cleaned up, grab a bite to eat, rest for a second, watch some Full House, but not a whole lot more than that.
I don’t have much of a plan as to what we’re going to do once we get to Rondo. We’ve got some guns and some money—those items seem to be effective in most situations—but I really don’t know what to expect out of Rondo.
He’s an unknown.
A wildcard of sorts.
Gordo told us he’s one of Mama McCluskey’s sons, but not one she had with Jonathan. There’s a different father somewhere in the mix. Rondo’s an off-the-books offspring she kept funded and away from Jonathan. Can’t imagine what Jonathan would do to someone who did his wife, let alone knocked her up. Of course trusting anything Gordo has told us about anything would be more than foolish. Guy lies like the rest of us breathe.
However, it seems Rondo is kept well-funded from what I can tell. Based on what I’ve seen, it looks to me like he’s living the ultimate playboy, trust fund, bastard-baby lifestyle. He lives by the ocean surrounded by sex, sun and sin. Considering I used to make a few dollars in Austin setting people up with a lot of that shit, sans the ocean, it would be highly hypocritical of me to judge Rondo. Doesn’t stop me, however.
Thinking of his life is upsetting me.
I only hope the bastard is home.
We hit eastern California like a runaway train. It’s hot as hell, barren and filled with dirt and wind. Not what you think when you think California. No blue water. No exceptionally beautiful bodies. No expensive cars. Is this even California?
A lot of everyday folks scrapping through life is what I see. No gloss. No fanfare. No bullshit.
Miles and miles of nothing. I’m drifting in and out of my thoughts as the windmills of the wide-open land and the casinos of Palm Springs blaze by. Why people would vacation in the desert is beyond me. Guy at the gas station said people from LA come here all the time. Why in the hell would you leave seventy-two degrees and head out to the dirt and oppressive heat?
Makes no sense.
We hit the outskirts of LA a couple of hours later. The density of things is growing. The population is becoming thicker. I grip the wheel as we roll down the highway, cutting through the traffic best I can.
In and out.
Left to right, right to left, carving through the lanes heading west along I-10. The Ten as it’s known around here. Skinny Drake tells me this. No idea why or how he knows this, but it’s probably all the crap TV, I’m guessing. Out beyond the haze, the never-ending rows of cars are stretched along the horizon. Something vast. Limitless. Makes me smile.
“There’s the ocean,” Skinny Drake says.
No shit, I think. I don’t say it however. It’d be well within my rights and would feel great, but we’ve been getting along for the last few hours so I’d rather not poke the bear right now.
“Yeah,” I say.
We still have a ways to go. We need to cut down the four-o-five, I’m trying to get this highway garbage right, a few miles toward San Diego. Rondo’s place is in a small beach town somewhere between LA and there. Skinny Drake remembers the name so I’ll let him navigate while I fight the traffic.
He gets jumpy when there are too many cars around him. Austin doesn’t have the traffic that this place does, but at least I’ve experienced this shit on some level. I think Skinny Drake has been in small towns for too long. He’s not a complete bumpkin, he’s seen the city and so on, but it takes time to get comfortable with it all. It took me time to adjust to something larger than a gas station and yarn store. In a way, I hope Skinny Drake doesn’t get there. I like him the way he is. Full of wonder. Slight bit of fear. Unscathed. Pure.
