The Mortal Nuts

by Pete Hautman

  “They throw in a topper, maybe.”

  King Nelson’s head was swinging back and forth, trying to follow the negotiation.

  Axel said, “With the topper I’d definitely go thirteen five.”

  Sam crossed his arms. “Pay what you want for the fucker. See if I give a damn. You don’t never listen to me anyways. You know I’m always right.”

  Axel shrugged. There was right, and there was right. He rolled his wide shoulders, then turned a yellow grin on King. “I’ll pay you thirteen five, including the topper. And I’ll need to pick it up tomorrow.”

  King closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose, the way his doctor had recommended. It didn’t help. His cheek was jumping like a bug on a griddle.

  “Why don’t we step inside,” he said. “Get out of this sun, see what we can work out.”

  The figure they arrived at, nearly half an hour later, was $ 13,590. King knew he was going to get reamed by the boss on this one—the truck should have gone for fourteen plus. The difference would come straight out of his commission. He’d have to invent some story. Tell the boss he was matching an offer from one of the other Ford dealers. Or it was for his girlfriend’s father. Something like that. Or maybe he’d just quit, get back into telemarketing vinyl siding. At least in that business he hadn’t had to actually look at his customers. He focused on the sales contract, transcribing numbers and filling in the blanks, doing what he had to do to get the pair on their way.

  Axel had excused himself. King assumed he’d gone out to his truck to get his checkbook, but when he returned he was carrying a Folgers coffee can, the two-pound size.

  “So you happy now?” Sam asked, firing up a Pall Mall.

  Axel nodded. “I think we got a good deal,” he said.

  “Coulda got better.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I think we did good.” Axel pulled out onto Highway 61, brought the old truck slowly up to forty-five. He was looking forward to driving the new one. The salesman had promised to have it ready, complete with topper, first thing in the morning.

  “You’re a goddamn peasant, Ax. I ever tell you that?”

  “Not in twenty minutes, at least.”

  “You really gonna bring that Carmen gal back for the fair?”

  “Sure. She’s worked for me five years now. The fair is my life. I’ve got to have good help. Besides, she hasn’t seen Sophie since Christmas.”

  “Thought those two didn’t get along.”

  “They’ll do okay. You know how it is, mothers and daughters. Like I said, Carmen’s changed, she’s matured. She’ll get along with her mom just fine. She’s not this wild kid anymore.”

  Sam rolled his eyes and expelled a cloud of brown smoke, filling the cab. “I ain’t sayin’ nothing.”

  Chapter 2

  James Dean found Carmen Roman up on the balcony sitting at one of the tiny, bolted-down tables, staring through the railing at the undulating mosh pit below, hundreds of bodies bouncing and writhing to the music. It was only ten-thirty, but the band—four guitars, an electric banjo, and a drummer—had the pit rocking to a punk salsa version of “Proud Mary.” Dean stopped a few yards away, watching Carmen watch the dancers, watching her keep the beat by tapping a red polished nail on the stem of her margarita goblet. Her other hand, hanging over the railing, held a forgotten cigarette, nearly half of it turned to ash. Carmen’s face looked slack and stupid, from which Dean inferred that she had been waiting for him for at least three margaritas. He smiled, running a hand over the top of his shaven head, enjoying the way the fresh stubble massaged his palm.

  Carmen, by contrast, had lots of hair. Long and thick, waves that were not quite curls, black under the club lights but auburn in the sun. Dean had once told her she looked like a shampoo commercial. “I look like a commercial?” she’d said, rolling her chocolate eyes. Tonight she had on a sleeveless top, some kind of thin, shiny black fabric with a lace inset between her breasts. Dean wondered whether she was wearing a bra. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she didn’t. One sticky, humid afternoon he had seen her, at an outdoor concert, remove her bra without taking off her shirt. He still couldn’t figure how she’d done it.

  Dean had never had much luck with women. Perhaps it was because he was a little strange-looking, or perhaps it was because all women were fucking gold-digging bitches. But Carmen Roman was different. Carmen liked him straight out. And tonight Dean was at his best. TVvo thin rings pierced his left eyebrow, hanging down so that he could see the lights glinting from the polished gold. He had on his new riding jacket, the plastic antitheft strip still anchored to the left sleeve, his thin, muscular torso naked beneath the black leather. He stepped up to the table and sat down across from her.

  Carmen did not look at him. “People are animals,” she said, speaking as though they had been sitting together for hours.

  Dean pushed his head forward. “People are what?”

  Carmen laughed as if she had been told a joke. She dragged the frosted goblet toward her mouth and leaned over it, pressing her breasts against the edge of the table, a few strands of her dark hair settling atop the crushed ice. She pursed her full lips around the thin plastic straw, wrinkled her brow, and sucked.

  The mangled edition of “Proud Mary” thumped to an end; the band immediately launched into something that may once have been “Summertime Blues.” Dean hunched his shoulders against the sound. He asked her again, “People are what?”

  Carmen looked up from her drink, the straw still in her mouth.

  “Animals,” she said, letting the straw fall back into the drink. “Axel says people are animals.” Carmen always found James Dean a bit startling to behold. In her head, when she thought about him and he wasn’t around, she saw a black leather jacket, a shaven head, a couple of rings in his brow, and a sort of blank, ordinary face. But each time she actually saw him, it surprised her. Dean’s head was small and normally shaped, but he had somehow got the wrong set of features. His oversize root-beer-colored eyes were the first thing that hit her, then his skin tone, a yellowish sand color. And then—she always had the same thought—where did his nose go? It was there, of course, but you had to look for it. It was almost like a baby’s nose. If people were animals, she thought, James Dean would be a bald monkey. Or a hairless Pekingese.

  He was blinking those doggy eyes at her right now, like he needed a treat. Carmen pushed her hair back over her shoulder. She said, “Axel’s got this thing about animals. I ever tell you he’s got a tattoo of a kangaroo on his arm?” She tipped her head to the side and watched blue smoke curling from the end of her cigarette. The ash had fallen off at some point, probably onto one of the moshers below. Carmen closed one eye and moved the cigarette back and forth, making zees. “He eats ketchup on everything. You ever see a guy put ketchup on a taco? Christ, I can’t believe I’m going back.”

  “So don’t go.”

  “I need the money.” She took a final drag on her cigarette, stabbed it into the ashtray.

  “How much do you make?” he asked.

  “A couple of thousand, maybe.” Her mouth opened in a silent, smoky laugh. “Maybe more.”

  “He’s paying for your school and stuff, right?”

  Carmen frowned. “I’m not doing so good at school. I don’t think I want to be a med tech.” She reached a forefinger into her wrinkled pack of Marlboros and placed the last bent cigarette between her lips. She fumbled with her disposable lighter, turned it right side up, lit her cigarette. “Axel’s gonna have a cow. Christ. What’s he expect from me? It’s not like he’s so perfect. He’s the one that lives in a Motel 6.”

  “Was that true, what you were telling me about him? The other night?”

  “What’s that?”

  “About him keeping all his money in coffee cans. At the Motel 6.”

  Carmen drew back, squinting at him. “I told you that?”

  “You said he keeps it in Folgers cans. You were pretty wasted.”

  Carmen regarded him f
or a moment, watched his nose come in and out of focus. “I think I’m a little wasted right now,” she said. “Speaking of which, did you bring it?”

  Dean reached into his jacket and produced an amber prescription bottle. Carmen’s features twitched into life. She took the bottle, held it to her ear, and shook it.

  “How many?” she asked.

  “About forty,” Dean said. He hadn’t counted, he’d just grabbed the bottle and taken off. Mickey would be pissed, but he’d just have to deal her later. Life is so ironic, he thought. He could walk down the block anytime and come back with weed, crack, dust, you name it, but try to find a few Valium, one of the most commonly prescribed drugs in the country, and he ends up having to steal it from his own sister.

  Carmen said, “Thanks, Dean. You know, it’s really hard to score here in Omaha.”

  “You just have to know the right people,” Dean said.

  Chapter 3

  Sophie Roman watched Axel Speeter order the chicken-fried steak, again, after all she had told him, never mind the cholesterol, the saturated fat, the calories. Axel folded the menu and pushed it away. The waitress, a blue-eyed blond girl with an outstate smile, asked him what dressing he wanted on his salad.

  “Honey,” he said, grinning, “I don’t need no rabbit food. You just bring me that steak and a Co-Cola.”

  The waitress returned his smile and wrote carefully on her pad. She looked at Sophie, who was glaring at Axel. Sophie closed her menu and handed it to the waitress. “I’ll have the spinach salad. And a glass of white zinfandel.”

  The waitress marked her pad, beamed again at Axel, and started toward the kitchen.

  Axel swiveled his head to watch her walk away, then turned back, to find Sophie giving him her pinched, bloodless look.

  “You are so crude,” she hissed. “This is a nice place. You don’t call people ‘Honey’ and call their salad ‘rabbit food.’ You don’t have to go around acting all the time like a dirty old man.”

  Startled, Axel pushed back into the padded red vinyl. What was going on here? First Sam calling him a peasant, then Sophie telling him he was a dirty old man.

  “Don’t you know how to act?” Sophie continued. “Don’t you care what people think about you?”

  “Sophie…” Axel looked puzzled. “What are you talking about? That little girl likes me just fine. Besides, I am what I am.”

  “Calling their salad ‘rabbit food.’ Looking at her that way. Like you got no class. Like some dirty old man. And you should eat your salad anyway, what with your heart and all.”

  “Look, I got to be a dirty old man eating food I like. Tonight I like chicken-fried steak.” Axel grinned.

  Sophie tried to hold on to her frown. God, what a picture he made, she thought. He was wearing his usual uniform: white short-sleeved shirt, black trousers, and black suspenders. His green eyes glittered in his big red face. She tried to keep her face rigid, but Axel wouldn’t stop smiling. He knew he could get her with that smile. Sophie’s cheeks loosened; she gave a short laugh and looked away.

  The waitress delivered their drinks and a bottle of Hunt’s ketchup. Axel winked at her. The waitress smiled back.

  Sophie said, “What did you just do?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You winked at her, didn’t you? Goddamn it, Axel, that’s really low-class.”

  Axel shrugged and sipped his Coke, avoiding Sophie’s eyes. Sometimes she reminded him of her daughter, Carmen, even resembled her a little if you looked past the bleached hair, the layers of makeup, and the harsh lines framing her mouth. It wasn’t something he cared to dwell upon.

  “Have you talked to Carmen?” Sophie asked, as if plucking the thought from his mind.

  “She’s flying in tomorrow. I booked a room for her.”

  “You’d think she’d want to stay with her mother.” Sophie lifted her wineglass by the stem, keeping her little finger well away from the others, and took a long swallow. “It would save money. Pay me the money instead of the Motel 6.” She drank again from her wineglass, beginning with a delicate sip, then tipped the glass all the way, draining it.

  Axel said, “Well, you know Carmen—she needs her space. It was hard enough getting her to stay at the Motel 6. She wanted me to put her up at the Holiday.”

  Sophie shook her head, twisting the stem of the now empty wineglass between her fingers. At least Carmen had some taste; she’d taught her that much. She flagged down a passing waitress, a harried-looking woman carrying four loaded plates on her arms. “Excuse me—do you think I could get another glass of wine?”

  “I’ll get your waitress.”

  “Do you think you could just get me another glass of wine please?”

  How was she supposed to keep track of who was her waitress? She had enough problems keeping track of her daughter. The waitress paused, about to say something, then shrugged and walked off to deliver her orders. Looking across the dining room in the other direction, Axel waved his hand, then pointed down at Sophie’s wineglass. Fifteen seconds later, the young blond waitress appeared with a glass of wine, set it quickly at Sophie’s elbow, and smiled at Axel. Sophie glared at her as she walked away.

  “They’d never make it at the Taco Shop,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “These waitresses. They have an attitude problem.”

  “They have a tough job.”

  “Why do you think Carmen won’t stay with me?”

  “Says your trailer’s too small.”

  “It’s a mobile home, and it’s not so small.”

  “She’s going to be spending twelve days working with you at the fair.”

  “Working for me,” Sophie said. It was an important distinction. This year, Axel had made Sophie the manager of Axel’s Taco Shop. This year she would be in charge.

  “That’s right,” Axel said. “But you still have to spend twelve days working with her.”

  Sophie frowned and sipped at her wine. Axel had a point. TWelve days at the fair was like twelve months in the real world. The fair produced a sensory overload that stretched time to the breaking point. Twelve days serving tacos with Carmen would be more than enough.

  “She’s coming in tomorrow?”

  “I’m picking her up tomorrow. In my new truck.”

  “You got a new truck?”

  “I’m picking it up tomorrow.”

  Sophie nodded. Since Axel seemed to be in a spending mood, buying a new truck and all, this might be as good a time as any to talk condiments. She plucked a sugar packet from the bowl on the table and waggled it under his nose. “You know these little sugar and salt things?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think you could buy them from me instead of Restaurant Supply?”

  Axel’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I mean, if I had a bunch of condiments, would you buy them from me?”

  Axel sighed. He wasn’t sure what this was about, but somehow he knew it was going to cost him money.

  Sophie wanted to go straight home after dinner, and that was okay with Axel. She’d been sniping at him all night. He knew it was out of nervousness. Making her the manager, maybe that had been a mistake. It had seemed like a good idea a few months ago, but now, with Carmen coming back, maybe it wasn’t so good after all. He wasn’t sure how Carmen would take to working under Sophie.

  He dropped Sophie off at her mobile home in Landfall and got a perfunctory kiss on the cheek by way of thanks.

  Axel waited for her to let herself in and turn the light on, then guided the truck out of Landfall.

  At 11:45 P.M., the state fairgrounds were dark and mostly silent. Axel drove in on Dan Patch Avenue, rolled the empty streets. Lights showed in a few of the buildings, and he heard the occasional buzz of a power saw, the pounding of a hammer. Axel turned off his headlights and let his truck chug along at an idle, feeling his way around the familiar grounds. He could almost hear the crowd, smell the smells. He drove up Cooper Street to Machinery Hill, circ
led the silos and pole barns and tractors, then zigzagged down toward the midway. The big rides were already in place, but most of the setup would take place in a frenzied but orderly burst of activity tomorrow, the day before the fair opened. Some fairgoers, mostly the kids, thought of the midway as the heart of the fair, but Axel knew better. The midway was nothing more than a bright pimple on the west end of the fairgrounds, a lure for young people. The true heart of the fair was the livestock. Axel drove past the Swine Barn, the Cattle Barn, and the Horse Barn, each of which covered an entire block. He drove up Judson Avenue, between the Poultry Building and the Coliseum, a building shaped like a gargantuan concrete Quonset hut. These were the edifices around which the fair had erupted. Without the animals, the Minnesota State Fair would be an out-of-control street party, a beast without a soul. For half an hour, Axel slowly idled his truck around the fairgrounds, sometimes seeing what was there, sometimes seeing bits and pieces of the past thirty years. Axel ran food concessions at dozens of county fairs and special events, but none of them even came close to the Minnesota State Fair, the cornerstone of his business and of his life.

  Finally, he stopped his truck on Underwood Street, at the base of the mall. White picnic tables and benches were scattered at random angles over the grassy, football-field- size expanse. Axel let his eyes rest on a small white building. Even in the dark he could read the freshly painted sign:

  AXEL’S TACO SHOP. A smooth, peaceful feeling settled in his gut. Everything would be okay. He and Carmen and Sophie and the rest of the help would settle into a rhythm. His new product, the Bueno Burrito, would be a huge hit.

  This would be a great fair. For the moment, he was as sure of that as he was that the gates would open, that the crowds would come, that people had to eat.

  Chapter 4

  “How come you want me to go?” Dean said. He was lying naked atop the rumpled bedding, watching her step into her panties, white ones printed with little pink bows, feeding his eyes on her smooth thighs, her crisp tan lines, and those incredible tits, each two-tone hemisphere bearing a dark, inviting nipple. Her body could not be better, he thought. At age twenty-one, she had achieved perfection.