Fast Bang Booze

by Lawrence Maddox

  The motor died. It wheezed with two subsequent tries.

  Cape Man tried it again. “Frosty was supposed to fix it, the stupid tweaker.”

  The barn door swung open. We both looked up to see Frosty standing before us. The world’s biggest chain saw was in his hands, decorated with the same serpents that adorned his tattooed body. The saw came to life with a well-oiled snarl.

  I grabbed Cape Man’s now-frozen hand, making it turn the ignition. I slammed my foot on his, flooding the engine with more gas. Cape Man went limp.

  “He wouldn’t,” Cape Man said.

  Frosty charged.

  I tapped the gas with just a whisper of pressure. The engine ground to life. We shot forward.

  Frosty tumbled over the hood and onto the convertible’s cloth roof. I crouched to the side as the saw buzzed through the roof between us. Frosty bounced off the back of the car as we sped off into the alley.

  I watched Frosty rise to one knee in the rearview.

  “Reverse!” Cape Man called out. “Let’s run that tattooed freak over.” I ignored him and kept going. We were thirty fast seconds away when I realized I was still driving, even though I was in the passenger seat. I transferred vehicle control back to Cape Man.

  “You’ve injured my car!” Cape Man beat his head on the steering wheel. “I told you what I’d do to your nuts, Speedy, and I meant it. But that’s nothing compared to the evil that shall be wrought upon the flesh of that tattooed freak.” It was just the cloth roof that was ruined. Cape Man, I was learning, was all about the drama.

  Cape Man checked me out in his periphery as he played with his perky metal-band hair. Out of habit, I fiddled with the A.M. radio.

  “The antenna is stock ’69. The base is a little rusty, but it’s worth it. Genuine real thing.” He kept observing me out of the corner of his eye. “Of course, if I ever need an extra spanker, an authentic ’69 Spyder antennae makes a nice addition to the old toolkit.”

  I motioned him over to a 7-Eleven parking lot. I didn’t want to waste more time, but I desperately needed an eye-opener. I tore out a page from my pocket journal and wrote a small list, then handed it to Cape Man.

  “A grocery list?”

  I handed him my last sawbuck.

  “These are just my stage clothes,” he said. “I don’t prance about the sidewalks like this.”

  I nudged him with my Ruger.

  He opened the door, stopped. “I can’t. There’s some tough-looking guys in there.”

  Inside, three pimply teenagers stood vacantly around a Ms. Pac Man arcade game. I pushed the gun into his ribs.

  “Rick Zandar will never forget. You’ll beg for easy death, but it won’t come.”

  I pushed him hard. He fell out of the car.

  Cape Man picked himself up.

  He covered himself with his cape and entered the store. The teenagers watched as he casually strolled over to the beer section.

  I sure can pick ’em.

  Cape Man grabbed an oilcan of Labatt’s, a Heineken, and a fifth of Jim Beam. He paid and rushed out.

  “You could’ve just told me,” he said. “Three items aren’t hard to forget.”

  He handed me the change.

  “I think you’re playing non-verbal to tip the balance of power. It’s a ploy that won’t work.”

  He handed over the Labatt’s and the whiskey. “The Heineken is for Zandar.”

  I popped open the Labatt’s, drained half, filled the remainder with Jim Beam, making a Jim Brew.

  We drank together in silence. Cape Man gave me a sideways glance, like Moby Dick checking out driftwood. “As if you would care, but I doubt I’ll be invited back to Frosty’s again. Not that I get a big draw in the boonies.” Cape Man took a slow pull off his Heineken. “By the way, am I to consider myself kidnapped? If so, I’d be careful. Rick Zandar has a way of getting the binder bound.”

  The bizarro presence next to me meant little compared to my real problem. I had to get to Popov’s house. Back to Pasadena. But there was a stop I had to make first.

  Chapter 19

  1994

  “You better open that front door before I open my fly and piss all over the peanuts on your floor,” I told the bartender. I couldn’t focus. I hoped holding the gun in his general direction would be enough to scare him.

  He belched his dusty laugh. “You ain’t gonna shoot no one,” the bartender said. “This is gonna be good what I’m gonna do to you two.”

  I steadied myself, closed one eye, and fired. Nothing happened. I tried it again. Same result. The bartender was still standing.

  No he wasn’t. He was walking toward me.

  “Why aren’t you shot?” I asked out loud.

  “Frank, do something!” Janie panicked.

  “Gun’s not working.”

  Janie pulled the gun out of my hand and fired. It worked this time, smashing a row of gin bottles behind the counter. The bartender stopped right in front of me. Janie could blow his slob face off from this range.

  “I knew you was a dirty bitch when you walked in,” the bartender said.

  Janie backed away from him. “Let’s get out of here.” Janie pointed the gun at me now. I didn’t tell her not to shoot.

  “Uno momento, gorgeous.” I staggered over to the till, popped open the drawer. It didn’t look like much cash, but I helped myself. “I hope you don’t mind,” I told the bartender. “You see, I need extra money in case I visit a friend of mine. Her name is Joe Mama. Joe Mama Von Whore.”

  The bartender was raw, dirty hate. “You rotten bastard,” he seethed.

  “Let’s leave now, Frank!” Janie said.

  I walked up to the bartender, getting as close to a caged tiger as a drunken idiot should. I cocked back and threw a handful of peanuts at him. He didn’t even blink. “Here’s some nuts for you to play with.”

  “I’m gonna find you and I’m gonna take my time with you, skinny prick.”

  I went behind the bar.

  “Frank!” Janie yelled again.

  I took some bottles of beer out of the cooler and rolled them up into the front of my shirt.

  “I hope you like that beer, Frank,” the bartender said. “Now I know your name. I’ll find you and feed you your gut. You drink that free beer real good.”

  “That’s not my real name, stupid,” I said, backing off towards the door. “That’s just to throw you off the trail. My real name is Ed McMahon, and you just won a million damn dollars!”

  “You dumb no-good son of a bitch.”

  “That does it. Say goodbye to your tip.”

  “I’ll fix you. Your prints is all over here, too. I got a name and prints and I’m gonna burn the skin off that pretty mug a yours with a hot coat hanger.”

  I fiddled with the lock, but I couldn’t figure it out. Janie started working on it. She was about to hand the gun to me, but had second thoughts. I yanked it out of her hand.

  “Hey, it’s my gun, baby.” I said. “Give.”

  Janie opened the door.

  I twisted the lid off one of the bottles and took a big swig. “Ahhh!” I moaned, rubbing my belly. “That’s the best damn free beer I’ve ever tasted.”

  Janie pulled me by my shirt. We sprinted to the car. It was still running like we’d left it. The smartest move I’d pulled all night. We got in. I slammed on the gas, jumped the curb, and hit the asphalt accelerating.

  “Shit!” Janie winced with the impact.

  “Don’t worry, Janie. I’m a professional.”

  I saw the bartender way back in the rearview. He didn’t look small enough as he leveled a shotgun at us.

  “That dick!” I gunned it.

  I heard the boom while I tried to make an abrupt zag. It came out as a limp right turn. I think I even signaled.

  Pellets caught the left corner of the windshield, cracking it.

  “He’s firing, Frank! Step on it!”

  “Hey, it’s mellow.” Somehow I’d turned the car around and we now faced
the bartender.

  “You’re going the wrong way!” Janie screamed.

  He leveled the gun once more. Janie grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard. We swung right as he fired again. We jumped over the curb and bounced.

  “Left!”

  I obeyed. We raced down small tight streets. I took a turn too wide, knocking off a mirror from a parked Roto-Rooter van.

  When we were far enough away, I screeched the car to a halt.

  “Janie, you are way out of control. I suggest you stop drinking immediately.”

  “You are the all-time worst driver I’ve ever seen!” she said.

  “I just saved your ungrateful life.”

  “I thought after all those damn stories, you could at least handle a car. But you can’t handle a car, a gun, or your alcohol. You suck!”

  We were in the middle of the street. I chilled out and lit a cigarette. She waited for me to say something, but I sat behind the wheel and smoked. I was in no hurry.

  “Are you retarded?” she asked. “What the hell are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

  Again that word. “Get the hell out of my car.” I slurred.

  “What?”

  “What do you think I’ve been drinking all night? Orange Julius? Don’t act superior because that you are not.”

  She looked at me in shock. I knew what she must have been thinking. That I was a fraud, that the coin-toss was all a trick. That she needed to create some distance between me and her quick. I also knew I was so toasted, I couldn’t even be sure of what I was thinking, let alone what she was thinking.

  “I’m not messing around here.” I said. “I do this dangerous stuff for a living. You’re really starting to be a pain in the ass, you know that?”

  I felt guilty as hell. There she was, looking great after having listened to practically my whole story, and here I was acting like some maniac. I was a regular moron, and anybody could see it from a mile away. I often felt, deep down, that when people thought something was wrong with me, they were right. It was more than just my speechlessness. It was some pee stain on my soul that they could sense. What else could they expect to come out of my mouth other than some alien turkey screech? And she had lain there and listened and let me enjoy myself without feeling completely worthless and inhuman. “Janie, look—”

  “Forget it. Let’s just drive back.”

  “All right.” I rolled down the window, hoping I’d evaporate into the ether. We drove along in silence. I looked over at her. She was still beautiful. I was still sloshed.

  “Look, Janie. What can I say? I’m a jerk and I’m sorry. I just, I mean, all that stuff I told you,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. “You handled yourself pretty good in there,” I finally added. “No, really. I mean it. I know you saved our asses in there. How’d you get that gun to shoot, anyway?”

  “You had the safety on. Why didn’t you know that?” she said.

  “Fine. I’ll drop you off where ever you want.” One thing I knew was that this was terrible. Truly awful. I wanted to melt into the seat and take all memory and trace of myself along with me.

  “I’ve shot guns before, Frank. My brother took me out shooting. I know about safeties on guns. I’m not as drunk as you, true.” Then she did something really unexpected. She burst out laughing. “Oh shit! You should have seen yourself in there. If I was as drunk as you, I’d be dead! We both would!”

  She was laughing at me, but that was cool. I wanted to be angry, but I wasn’t. I fought off a smile. “Not my best moment.”

  “C’mon, I was only playing with your head a little. I mean, true enough, you weren’t exactly in top form. If I’m to believe you about your crime adventures, that is.”

  “I don’t like people playing with my head. If people want to know what’s inside my head, they can talk to me and hear what I’ve got to say.”

  “Are you going to take me home?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer right away. Honestly, I wanted her to stay so badly. The night was young, sort of. All I wanted to do was take her back to Ray’s. “I know what I want. You tell me where you want to go.”

  “I guess I’ll hang. I mean, you just robbed a bar. That makes me an accessory. Plus the free beer.”

  “I’m the accessory. You’re the one who blasted our way out of that shithole.”

  “That’s right. I am,” Janie agreed. “I’m the dangerous one. Don’t forget it.”

  Chapter 20

  1993

  We hurdled down the Ventura Freeway. The Spyder’s little dashboard clock said one-forty. Two hours and twenty minutes left. Time was precious, so I made Cape Man gun it. He winced at the whining uncertainty of the engine.

  “I know what you’re up to,” Cape Man said. “Being silent. You’re messing with my mind.”

  I ignored him.

  “You have the power. Yet you assume the quiet of a bound player. Mocking me. As if I’m to wait for you to mutter the safety word, or even gesture, that would force me to end your pleasurings. Yet I cannot do so since you have the gun!”

  I didn’t know what to do next. I could charge into Popov’s house alone. Like Popov had said, Vlad could be at Popov’s with a posse; or Popov’s million-plus bankroll could be waiting for me in Popov’s garage.

  I could try to find Popov at one last stop.

  I’d driven Popov to Violet’s, a Russian restaurant in Eagle Rock, the night he hired me. He needed to meet with someone there he called the “Grandfather.” Popov didn’t invite me in, but he’d explained that the Grandfather wasn’t his real grandfather, but some old dude who was the Russian version of the mob’s Godfather. His blessing would mean success or failure in LA’s Russian underworld. If Popov was still looking for help, this could be his last stop. It was a few miles from his Pasadena stilt house. It made sense to drop in.

  Cape Man and his classic Spyder were an immediate hit on Eagle Rock’s Colorado Boulevard. Especially on drag race Friday night.

  A Honda pulled up alongside at a stoplight.

  “What is that, a sixty-seven?” the driver yelled out his window.

  “Sixty-nine,” Cape Man tersely replied.

  “You supposed to be Count Dracula or something?”

  When the light turned green, the Honda peeled out, leaving us in the dust.

  “Vermin,” Cape Man grumbled.

  We turned right and parked in the back lot of Violet’s. In front, an American flag and an old U.S.S.R. flag flew side by side. Old enemies had finally become buds in Eagle Rock.

  I pulled my Ruger and motioned Cape Man out of the car, walking him into the back alley. The drama queen was remarkably cool.

  “Is this the part where you shoot the hostage?” he asked. “And I had such romantic notions about my own death.” He folded his cape over his head like comic book dragon wings.

  I pushed him with my foot and shooed him towards a side street.

  “That’s it?” Cap Man asked incredulously.

  I tucked the gun in my belt and walked away.

  “My car keys then? Hello?”

  I flipped him the bird.

  “I want my car!” he called after me. “We’re not done!”

  I spun and aimed my gun at him. He scurried off. I was going to need Leopold a little longer.

  Violet’s was empty. The bartender sized me up as a non-Russian right away.

  “What do you want?” he asked in that thick Russian accent that was running all over LA tonight.

  There was no sign of Popov or the Grandfather. I decided to check out the hallway.

  “Hey,” the bartender called after me. “Ostanovka! Stop!”

  I passed a men’s room to my left. Ahead, the back door stood open. A breeze filled the hallway, filtered through a screen door covered with dead bugs. To my right was a door marked “Electric.” That’s how I felt.

  I stood close and listened. I could hear music, scuffling feet. I rapped on it gently. No answer. I stepped back. I’d paid my dues tonight and I was re
ady to rock.

  I pushed the door open and rushed inside. A shot glass flew straight at my head. I sidestepped. It shattered on the wall next to me.

  Popov danced opposite me, back straight, arms crossed, bent low at the knees, kicking wildly. He spun around and stood up grinning. A man lay on the floor that I recognized as another damn Russian from Popov’s pool party. Popov reared back and slammed his Lorenzo B’s into the man’s ribs. The man didn’t respond. Popov took a shot of sweet booze and smashed that glass as well.

  “Frank!” Popov gave me a bear hug. He examined the bandage on my neck. “Hickey?” he asked. “You get girlfriend tonight? Good to see Popov’s better traits rubbing off.” He turned to the others. “My driver,” he said. “Dangerous.”

  The three other men glared at me. They didn’t look happy to see either of us. Popov patted me on the back. “Be ready,” he whispered.

  “On gavarit pa ruski?” one of them asked.

  “No,” Popov answered. “American. Like you wish you were.”

  The Russians looked exhausted. One sat in the corner, collar open, gasping for breath. Another sullenly gulped from a bottle of Stoli. Seems Popov had just won a dance contest.

  I stood next to Popov. He playfully grabbed my neck. “Gun?” Popov whispered.

  I nodded.

  A crooked, mole-faced man walked out of a room at the far end and swept the broken glass into a dustpan. He scuttled by, looking up at us through thick glasses, sniffing at the air. Mole Man motioned to Popov with a short, hairy finger. I could hear the sound of water running behind the door at his back.

  The man with the open collar walked Popov to the door. Popov turned to me, raising his eyebrows as if to say, “This is it, pal.” Mole Man went inside and shut the door in Popov’s face. Popov waited, cracking his knuckles in succession as one of the Russians brought him a chair. He took a seat by the door and leaned his head up against it. The other Russians glared at me.

  A toilet flush sounded behind the mystery door, followed by a hacking cough.

  Popov waited, checking his fingernails. He pressed the side of his head against the door with a look of concentration. He stayed there, whispering against the wood. He pressed closer as someone on the other side of the door, the Grandfather I guessed, whispered back.