I ain’t Alden, is all.
Boone’s all right.
I can’t get a title for the Eldorado ’til I ain’t Alden Boone.
And with Mrs. Jubal White still out there knowin’ the name and able to tie it to Baer Creighton from North Carolina, who killed upwards of ten thousand men with the jaw bone of a pit bull and called down the bears on teenage ruffians and last, spent all the time in the cave half mad jawin’ at the Almighty — maybe it’d be wise to get some room ’tween the sinew and gristle of the mortal man and the lie they got projected all around him.
Got to drop Alden Boone and pick up Günter Stroh, with papers.
Waitress bring the hotcakes and syrup in one to-go box and a second got the eggs, hash browns, sausage, bacon and ham. Next got the biscuits and gravy. Last box is filled with taters and toast. She put the grape jelly packs in the bag, and I ask for the strawberry.
“We’re out of strawberry. We have peach, how would that be?”
“Peach is fine as water.”
Back at the car we sit in the shade by the trunk and I split the grub with Joe, give him a fair portion given his size and overall duties in the operation. He finish while I butter my toast and spread jam from the plastic square.
Look at me. Over here. Still hungry. Hey! Look at me!
He nudge my leg with his nose and I’m a softie so I trade bites with him ’til the fast is broke and it’s time for step one in the big plan.
I got to get me a new name, and the only way to do that is with someone knows fake papers, and not knowin’ the guy in town that does the fake papers I figger to find him at the bar.
Bar ain’t like to be open at 9am but the good news is after three pound of cakes and syrup I need a nap.
Splash water on my face in the restaurant restroom and find breakfast already’s built up the back pressure.
Which I mitigate.
I saw a bar while cruisin’ Glenwood Springs yesterday. Park on the gravel lot and leave Joe in the Eldorado with the windows down.
Go inside in my skippy duds and these boys is workin’ class, not a high falutin’ desperado like me. Eyeballs turn. Couple heads dip howdy. I dip howdy back. Feller give a half wink and half nod the same time. Don’t know the code on that so I say, “Yep. Morning.”
“Afternoon. What’ll you have?”
“Seven Up.”
“Sprite. What you want mixed with it?”
“My dog made me give up the likker.”
He stuff his tongue in front his upper teeth and think on it.
“All right, Sprite. You ain’t from here.”
“Nope.”
I find a place at the bar on the right so I can look left easy and see the entrance, and they’s no doors nor windows behind. No one gets behind without I see him — standard precaution.
That Sprite taste sweet after the syrup and jam this morning. I sip slow and listen to the words floatin’ all ’round, thinkin’ one these boys’ll say somethin’ll let me know he’s the feller or knows the feller that gets shit done. Surprised we got seven men plus the barkeep, but none look up to date on printin’ technology past Gutenberg’s day.
Fella next to me says, “So my brother in law said my sister won’t — ”
“I don’t care,” says I.
“Let him tell the story,” says the man on the other side.
“Didn’t know it was a story.”
“Yeah, so he said he found the new thing. You know.”
“The best way to get a blow job if you can’t get a lady,” says the man on the other side him.
“Gentlemen,” says I, “Y’all talk too much.”
“Dick fishin’,” says the storyteller.
“Listen,” says a man on his other side.
“Yeah it’s like this. My brother in law says you put the lawn chair in the river where it’s slow, right?”
Says I, “Have a pleasant afternoon. Is all.”
I grab a table solo.
Two minutes. I’ll drink the Sprite as I paid for it and be gone.
Main door opens and John Wayne stands in the sunshine so bright I can’t see nothin’ but his outline.
He step inside and close the door.
“Abe,” the barkeep says.
Light’s brighter at the bar and Abe grabs a stool. He nods at the other fellers and swings his ten-gallon noggin my way. Lowers his head and stares for a better see.
“Yep,” I say.
“Hey!” Abraham Church says. “Looks like you found a watering hole.”
“A Sprite hole.”
“Each his own. You ever hear anything about those girls in the car accident?”
Nod. Sip Sprite.
“What did you hear?” he say.
“It ain’t good for the one.”
“That’s just too damn bad, isn’t it?”
“What, you know her, something?”
“Not me,” says Church.
“Hey, shit.”
“What?”
“I got a question.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You seem the kinda feller… You won’t know the answer, but you’ll know the fella who does. Follow me?”
“I know people, yeah.”
“Good. You know how some folk’ll say, I’m asking for a friend, but you know it’s bullshit?”
“I’m with you.”
“Good — we ain’t gone far. Well, I ain’t askin’ for a friend. I want to know myself, meanin’ you got to keep it close.”
“I’m not a talker.”
“Good.” No sparks nor juice. Here goes. “I want a new name and papers. Legit.”
“You can’t.”
“What?”
“Not legitimately. There’s only one of you and you already have a legitimate identity.”
Man’s a stickler for the truth and the knowledge of it is like a cool pine breeze on a sticky afternoon. Fella can breathe easy and enjoy the shade.
“Well not legit, but looks damn near.”
“Understood.”
“What’s it take? Someone knows how to print a document.”
“You know, I’ll bet twenty or thirty years ago a college kid could’ve set up a basic print shop in his dorm room and made bank selling fake driver licenses. If he had a business sense, he could have charged a couple hundred each. And he could have nailed some of the girls for a twenty-dollar discount.”
“You did that in college.”
Grin.
“You still got the print press?”
Head shake. “No, that became the property of the State of Colorado. What you’re talking about isn’t possible without some high-tech equipment and I don’t know what else. If you think about it, there’s a lot of documents involved. Driver’s license, but to get that you need a birth certificate. To do anything official you need a Social Security card. To drive somewhere, insurance cards. To pay for anything, bank cards.”
“Or gold specie.”
“Yeah. More and more. I don’t know what to tell you, partner. I don’t know anybody who does what you’re talking about. I mean, you don’t want a fake license. A cop’ll stick the number in his computer and find out you’re supposed to be an eighty-six-year-old woman. That means the number has to be legitimate, so you’d need a person who can put your picture on someone else’s card.”
“Or get a birth certificate, and use that to get a real driver license.”
“And a real Social Security card.”
“Yep.”
“But I don’t know anyone who can fake a birth certificate. It’d have to be an old one.”
“Well it was good jawin’ on it. I just figger it’d be pretty slick, use the regular driver license for the insurance, and give the new name to the cops every time I get a ticket.”
He look at me like he got a bullshit sensor goin’ off. I still ain’t worth a shit at tellin’ lies — and that’s a virtue.
“Everyone has a secret,” he say.
I guess it’s gonna b
e Nat Cinder have to save the day after all. But that means me drivin’ from Colorado back to Flag, in the thick of things… or callin’ Mae on the phone and sayin’ what I need and where to mail it while I lay low.
Noise.
Light cut in from the main door and afore I look, the curviest shadow I ever see jiggle up the wall. Like we boys said in school, I scrotate on the bar stool. Check her out.
Framed in the doorway there with the bar mostly dark and the sun a spotlight, it’s so Hollywood the eye don’t grab an image. They’s motion behind and after a second or two, shit if this gal ain’t got a compadre.
Pickin’ up the Spanish lingo….
Second gal got a light gauge rack and seem tighter at the hips. Tough call. Six months back I didn’t see a woman but once a month and that most often Mae. Or Kitty from the grocery — and from the top of Kitty’s jugs I wouldn’t want to see the bottoms.
But Skinny Tatas here… Fertile ground for a mammary connoisseur.
The ladies draw near and I shift my lean on the bar to accommodate them lookin’ me as much as me lookin’ them. They give the whole joint a scan and I suppose it’s the fancy duds but when a woman flat out point at a man’s heart and smile so her cheeks ball up, safe to say her mind’s made and it’s good to know what you know, else she’ll have you knowin’ somethin’ else.
I don’t poke the bar women, but if I did.
Damn.
Skinny Tatas shifts her hip while I take her in. Shoulders roll back a wee bit and the whole carriage adjust, end result is them jugs drift a quarter inch closer to the eyeballs judgin’ ‘em. Not an insignificant gain.
Got the denim skirt and bundled up wool socks in the hiking boots. Looks like a smudge of motor oil on the thigh. Perfume, maybe, these parts? Tiny jacket made of bubble gum wrappers and glitter. Tattoo on her neck — small and tasteful — says LOVE. Looks like a letter opener under the word. She wears the bubblegum jacket off the shoulders so skin from clavicle to cleavicle — or clavage to cleavage — glows like a strawberry milkshake. Woman’s body’s at war with her clothes and I’m on her side. Want her free. Pour this woman out.
It wasn’t six month ago I’da felt compelled to tell this thirty-something young lady I got my female obligations spoke for. Now I marvel. Second girl, Skinny Hips is beside Skinny Tatas but now I get a look, I’ll take the Tatas.
“We’re lesbians.”
“Settles that.”
“What?”
“For a second there I thought I was headed down a certain path.”
“Oh, we’re still headed.”
“We must ain’t be talkin’ the same thing.”
“Don’t think, Sugar. Feel. Listen, you’re the only guy here who can help us.”
She talks slow and I bet it’s to give me more time to enjoy lookin’ at her.
“How’s that?”
“We just rented the apartment in the building next door. There’s a Ryder truck right outside in the parking lot, maybe half full. Nothing a strapping man like you couldn’t handle in twenty minutes.”
She touch my shoulder, drag the hand half down my arm. Other girl gets close on the other side. Body tingles with the juice a wee bit. Wee bit. And back of my head I wonder if these girls ain’t pattin’ me down.
Strange thing, got a chub and the juice at the same time.
Skinny Tatas put her mouth at my ear and after a flicker of somethin’ wet and warm says, “You notice I got a stud in my tongue?”
Try to figure how she got a breeding male or a two by four…
“Can’t say as I follow.”
She shifts her head in front and open her mouth. Got an earring in her tongue.
“See?”
Nod.
“Show him yours.” Skinny Hips drops her jaw, rolls out her tongue and hers sparkles too.
“No, the other one.”
She unbuttons her shorts.
“Ladies, uh.”
Tatas smiles at Hips and she leaves off with the top button loose but the zipper fast.
“You know why a woman might get an earring in her tongue?” Skinny Tatas says.
“Sure makes your mouth purty.”
The blood in my fingers and toes seeks greener pastures.
“We’ll give you a blow job if you unload that Ryder truck.”
Brain need an extra second or two. “Uh… What’s in it for me?”
She smirk. “You ever have two girls at the same time?”
“I ain’t entirely sure I had the one.”
Skinny Hips lowers a hand to my leg. “What do you say, partner?”
“You prostitutes, that it?”
“No — ”
“Yes — ”
Tatas smiles big. Just the regular red and electric what’s normal in a bar.
“We’re not prostitutes. Per se.”
“But you want to trade my labor for your oral work.”
“No money changes hands. We both get what we want.”
More smile. Shoulders ain’t back so far. She’s more into skin than economics, maybe.
“No money? What you think labor is?”
Skinny Tatas pull back her head like the fella behind her sunk a meat hook and give it a jerk.
“Fine.”
“Well shit, is all.”
“Hunh?”
“It’s economics.”
“Are you a professor?”
“I profess on occasion.”
“Then what are you, Cowboy?”
“That my name now?”
“I’m getting a beer,” Skinny Hips says. “You buying?”
“You didn’t study the economics neither.”
Skinny Hips rolls her eyes and drops ’em on Skinny Tatas. Tatas blink and smile and raise two fingers. “You want a beer?”
“Nah, got the Sprite.”
“Just two,” Skinny say to Skinny.
“You not drinking tonight?”
“Dog made me give it up.”
“Hey listen.” She puckers the lips and stares at the far wall while I wait. “You know, we really need your help. Hey — how old are you?”
“I got a good twenty on you.”
“So how about we show you all the sex that didn’t get invented ’til after you quit having it?”
“We have a Ryder truck out there and all we need is some help with the big things. My brother loaded the truck, but he had to go to work. And we have to get the truck returned in six hours or else we’re paying for another day.”
“I’ll help with the truck and all, that’s just bein’ neighborly. And truth told” — got to lean in here. Don’t think I ever even confessed this to Fred — “couple things about the lesbians always puzzle me, maybe you could sort out. But we ain’t tradin’ labor for labor. Gettin’ poked ain’t suppose to be work and well…” I never seen hooties so perfect in my life. “Maybe someday we’ll cross paths and if it don’t feel like buying bulk hamburger I’ll entertain the conversation.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yep.”
“We said we’d blow you. Both of us.”
Skinny Hips come back, got a Coors in both hands. The banquet beer.
“O-M-G!” she says. “Look at those boots!”
Lift the leg, push out the toe.
“Wow. They look super expensive.”
“Nah. I thought so too. They’s China-made fake snake.”
She smiles and twinkles and I thought these trousers had more play up front.
“Let’s go outside a minute. I want you to see inside the truck before you agree to help. You know... To see how big the job is. Especially if you’re going to refuse payment.”
“Don’t need to see inside.”
“Just look, so you know how much time you’ll need. You don’t want to be surprised or anything.”
“You ain’t but two girls. I be all right. Help you out and move along.”
Skinny Tatas says, “Well, I actually wanted to show you something sexy. You know,
what you’ll be missing out on. Just a quick nibble.”
“And I said I don’t want relations like that, for pay.”
“You dumbass.”
“What?”
“I’m hitting on you.”
Her eyes slink down like a cat stalked up on a bird. She reach for my timber and I don’t got time to stop her.
Heh.
“Oh.” Her smile gets wide.
My swaller’s dry. “A nibble, you say?”
“Just a quick nibble.”
Chapter Fourteen
Got the juice on my arms.
Could be anyone. I’m in a bar. Could be that fella throwin’ darts hit the board sideways.
“You look distracted,” says Skinny Hips. “That isn’t good.”
Skinny Tatas takes my hand off the table and peels loose the pointer finger. I watch her carry that finger to her mouth and stick it in. Slips the tongue out underneath and tickles the ball of my thumb.
“Can’t see as how a nibble’d be wrong — long as I didn’t deserve it.”
She goes at my finder like a baby goat after an elbow and the fellers’ eyes follow.
Hear boots on grit. Look right.
Abraham Church nod.
I nod back with my eyeballs, as the rest of me’s engaged.
He repeat his nod and it look more like a suggestion.
I nod again, maybe a little less accommodatin’ with my index finger about to procreate.
“Need a word,” Church say.
“Shit.”
“One more. C’mon.”
I peel off from Skinny Tatas. “Wait,” says I, content she knows my heart.
Abraham holds the door and I go in the restroom first. Got my elbow a little high so I can yank Glock and shoot if need be. But the restroom’s empty — the shitters got no doors — and I pull up at the rightmost pisser out of three.
Church skips the middle and choose the left, one more confirmation he got his act together.
“Those girls,” Church say.
“Yup.”
He coughs. Swallows a couple times. Clears his throat.
“Afore you hacked that lung in two you wanted words.”
I tap and tuck.
He zips and turns half away.
“Both of those girls… well, their reputations… Let’s just say they’re known entities. Wear something, all I’m saying.”
Dip the head. Ole Abe lookin’ out for Baer. Figured he thought with them girls being sweet on me, maybe I’d give an introduction. But in truth he’s worried for my venereal health and though it go agin my grain, I’m —
The Men I Sent Forward (Baer Creighton Book 6) Page 9
