Chapter 30
“See, I’m surprised is all,” said Faye. “Way you make it sound, you always run around with the kind of people that take extra precautions.”
“I have,” said Quinn. “I do.”
“Then why you go so white just now? It’s all dark and still I can you see going whiter than white.”
“I’m just surprised,” said Quinn.
“Bush. Look now. Look. It’s just a little gun. Make you feel any better, I know I’m just a dumb girl so I looked it up on the Internet, how to set the safety and all so I don’t accidentally shoot myself. Or others.”
Faye laughed and reached over and patted Quinn’s thigh. Her jacket and her pants black and vinyl. Shiny. Not leather. Every move and she creaked, all her soft tissues encased in petroleum-based materials. She looked like something off the cover of a Rick James LP, circa 1981. Superfreak. After the toke session before driving into town, she smelled like his college dorm.
“It’s just insurance. I’m Portland’s observer in all this. If they didn’t want me to protect their interests in a certain manner, I wouldn’t. But they do. So I do.”
She hummed some tune, slid the gun in her purse, finished fishing the pack out, put a cigarette in her mouth, put the pack back in her purse, on top of the gun, and took her lighter out of an inner pocket on her jacket. Still humming as she lit up the cigarette and blew smoke out the passenger side window of Quinn’s car.
The Outpost was closed, but it’d open for the meeting. The owner, Merritt Lowry, being paid $250 for the favor. Another $250 coming his way if he provided cover for the Rucherts, Clay, Quinn, and Faye. Insurance. Another 500 big ones, silently slurped by Ty from his kids’ college fund.
Even with everything going down in Little Creek right now, the extra police presence, it was still quiet. From The Outpost parking lot they could hear the stereo every time a patron entered or exited The Up’n Up Tavern. Other than the occasional dog bark, they were in the midst of a ghost town.
“I hate being early,” she said.
“I thought they were right behind us,” said Quinn.
“They were. Bonnie wanted to change clothes or some shit. More likely they’re trying to come up with some way to work it all even more to their advantage,” said Faye. “They don’t get how dumb they are. When she got the call, Bonnie just coming right on out and telling me Little Miss Beepers wants to make a deal. Like I’m her girlfriend, her employee. I’m supposed to be happy for her and that’s all. Dumb bitch gives me this look when I point out well maybe you ought to call Portland, let them know that ASAP. She says fuck Portland then she starts yelling at me when I start dialing Portland right there and then. Called me a Judas.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Portland’s going to get its money.”
“No. Now. Tonight.”
“Baby, that is tonight. Little Miss Beepers going to show up. Hand over her money. The money. Butcher’s Camp Massage’s money. Portland’s money.”
“But she’s not coming alone?”
“No. She’s got friends. A friend. Someone.”
“Who?”
Faye made a little noise. Almost a laugh.
“What?”
“I almost think I know who, but I’m not sure. One of them a Bug, you know a Bug?”
“Shit. Really?”
“Some other guy, too. And I think I know it’s going to be that little guy that came asking all about her today.”
“I don’t know that guy. But Bug, huh? Figures. She’s desperate enough. But they have the money?”
“Mm hm. Money comes here then that money goes to the bank and through the miracle of 1’s and 0’s goes to Portland.”
Quinn didn’t ask so why are we here? If it’s that simple, why make it so goddamn hard? He was jumpy. Going out to the cabin, twice, finding Bug and that kid, Alec’s stepkid out there, getting into it with Bug all because Quinn couldn’t find his fucking cellphone and thought he’d left it out at the cabin, making one last look around to make sure Hope hadn’t hidden the $4200 someplace obvious. Then it turned out he had his phone all the time. Tossed it over his shoulder into the backseat at some point. You get pissed, you get stupid.
Faye had asked him to ferry her. She didn’t have wheels. The looks Bonnie and Bret gave him when he picked her up out at Butcher’s Camp, definitely a feeling like he’d stepped in it. Faye’s pet now. Portland’s man in Little Creek. Those days of hanging out with Bret and Clay might’ve come to an abrupt end. Truth of it, Quinn all done with Little Creek. Fuck ‘em. Fuck every last one of them. If he was going to take off with anyone – no, actually, there wasn’t anyone. The Little Creek bucket list, empty. The temptation to finger bang his niece oscillated into existence anytime he spotted her sauntering around the house in the current clinging to her young majesty’s torso number, but he didn’t want to deal with the potential fallout, Brandi’s tears, Guy being pissed, cops rolling their eyes even when Quinn tripped out the genealogical chart, proved Guy not even a blood relative so it wasn’t like the stink finger was that big a deal. It would just take that turn for the worse, the cops guilty of banging underage tail out at Butcher’s Camp, so they had to bring the hammer down on someone else, clear their collective conscience, clean the slate.
If Faye was going to Portland, for good, he might hitch up wit her, at least for awhile, but she wanted to stay, force the Ruchert’s retreat, run Butcher’s Camp Massage on her own, then scoop up the swimming pool and hot springs, transform the whole little hub into some name getaway. They’d done it in Idaho. Celebrities owned homes in Sun Valley. Why not Butcher’s Camp? She could change the name if she had to. Brand it Little Creek Massage. Little Creek Hot Springs. She’d have to work hard, she’d have to work even harder to eradicate that taint of ‘whore’ settled on her like scales on a stegosaurus. Stegosaurus could have those scales removed, but the lumps and bumps would remain no matter the number of surgeries to smooth and improve.
Five minutes shy of ten o’clock, Clay’s jeep and then the Ruchert’s SUV pulled in and parked in The Outpost lot. Ty in Pendleton. One of his kids had some baseball tournament his excuse for skipping the meeting. Headlights and engines stopped, Bonnie, Bret, and Clay got out. The door at the top of the ramp opened, Merritt Lowry in there all this time, and Clay clapped his hands, announced, “Let’s do this thing,” like it was a sporting event. Faye laughed, not out loud, tipping her head back, and sighing like she couldn’t believe she’d spent so long enduring these simpletons.
Once the trio made it inside The Outpost, Quinn followed Faye up the ramp. Half the restaurant lit up. The other half, all the booth seating, dark. The handoff going to happen where curtains could be drawn over windows, the tables, the elegant dining section. Where civilized people sat and conducted business. Faye held up just ahead of Quinn. She pointed to the southwest corner of the parking lot, the lights in the city park kitty corner brighter than the parking lot lamppost.
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“He just walked right into the light. Like he’s been waiting in the shadows. Hey. Honey.” Faye luring Merritt out and away from doorman duties. “Who’s the suit?” she asked Merritt.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Hm. Quinn. You want to go and ask, quell my curiosity?”
Back down the ramp. Quell her curiosity. See. She was more than a whore. She was a whore with access to a dictionary. At least she hadn’t called him Bush. Could be the ascent, Portland’s rising star, Quinn caught in her tailwinds, it affected him, too.
The guy didn’t move on Quinn’s approach. Stood and stared.
“Hey,” said Quinn.
“Hello.”
“Help you with something?”
“No. I don’t think so.” He smiled. In daylight, a smile, but with the starkness of t
he lamppost light it edged towards intimidating. “Can I help you with something?”
Vaguely nasal, a lingering cold, allergies that couldn’t be shaken off. Dude sported one big old honker. The nasaliness unavoidable.
“Don’t think so,” said Quinn. He pivoted, chucked his head over the right shoulder, indicating The Outpost, pivoted back. “In case you were wondering, place is closed. Just a private dinner going on right now, tonight.”
“Oh. Nice. I thought it would be. Closed, I mean. I ate here earlier. Saw the sign, the hours. Little town like this, I bet nothing is open too late. Maybe the bar down the street, but…”
“Right.”
“Well, I hope you all have a really good time. I recommend the Ranch Burger. And the fries are better if you dip them in the special sauce. I actually had them bring me some in a little bowl. Ketchup? No. Fries are meant for better things than simply ketchup.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Thanks for the advice.” Quinn cleared his throat. “It’s probably a nice night for a walk. That what you’re doing?”
“Tell you the truth, I’ve walked a lot today. What’s that they say, you know? That saying? My dogs are tired? Barking? Well, I know what that means now. My dogs are definitely barking.” The guy lifted his leg. Waggled his foot. “Woof. Woof-woof.” He put the foot down.
Goddamn, Quinn thinking he might have to forcibly get rid of this goofball. Then imagining Faye, the Ruchert’s and Clay, too, peeking out from behind a curtain just in time to see things go sideways, Quinn get his head handed to him.
Headlights appeared, heading east down Main, a truck, slowing, signaling then pulling into The Outpost parking lot. Bug Collar. He parked to the immediate left of the SUV, killed the beams then killed the engine.
Bug got out, and the passenger side door opened and a man got out and then Hope Logan got out.
The man shut the passenger door. Hope leaned in towards him, Hope about an inch taller than the guy, and said something, probably about how she knew one of the guys standing under the lamppost.
Quinn wondered what promises Bug had made Hope. How long before he came to his senses, realized there were only so many times you could pump that prime teenage puss before having to talk to her, put up with her crazy ass, poisoned the whole deal.
The little guy walked the passenger side then around the truck tailgate. Bug and Hope watched him. He stopped right in front of Quinn, putting Quinn in mind of this one ex-military dad he’d flitted into the wrath of ages ago. Mr. Cupps. Short, skinny, ugly, wound way too tight, but somehow he and his fat-bottomed wife had given life to gorgeous long-legged twins, and it was Quinn’s hope to deflower them both in quick succession, maybe roll off Lila and right on top of Mary. One day, Mr. Cupps, mowing his lawn, spotted Quinn on the sidewalk, hailed him, and Cupps stopped the mower, marched over in his patented hip-locked manner, and leaning in close to 16-year-old Quinn said, “I know you. I was you. If you try to fuck my daughters, I’ll skin you alive.”
Only thing the guy ever said to Quinn. That on top of other circulating rumors - a necklace of gook ears, a jar full of sand nigger eyeballs - Quinn’s orbit of unclaimed vagina forever after excluded the Cupps twins.
“You’re Dobbs?” asked the little guy.
“Yeah. Who’re you?”
“Go inside.”
“Excuse me?”
“Inside.”
“Hey, fuck you. Ok? Fuck. You. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Quinn looked over his shoulder, expecting support from his big nosed new pal. “Jesus. I mean--”
The smile on the big nosed guy wasn’t in support of Quinn.
It was a smile in anticipation of a show. A short, but satisfying entertainment.
Big Nose didn’t even have to say ‘you probably want to go inside’ or ‘don’t you know who this little guy is’. It was the look that put Quinn’s acrimony on ice. All Big Nose was missing was a drink and some popcorn.
Halfway towards The Outpost, Quinn looked back over his shoulder. The little guy not even looking at him, now, deep in conference with Big Nose. Quinn dismissed. Meant as much to either of them as some blemish one finger pad smoosh away from permanent eviction off their dark suits.
Quinn walked past Bug, then along the front bumper of the shitty little Toyota truck. Bit down on the impulse to kick the bumper. He could feel Hope’s eyes follow him, up the steps, then up the ramp, and through the door, held open, Merritt showing a touch of compassion, at least until The Outpost owner said, “You making friends out there?”
Quinn didn’t tell him to go suck a dick. His look must’ve implied as much, Merritt shrugging like hostility wasn’t his aim. People walked into the joint, you had to be chummy from the get-go. Don’t blame the player, Bush, blame the game.
The Lipless Gods Page 32
