the BOYS
Episode Two
They'd
closed on this municipal union in the desert, those three merry Musketeers of BCM
had... an overnighter, Inyo County, way to the north, almost the Nevada line,
and Matt and Ev were hot to celebrate before
reporting back to the home office in Escondido.
Nevada might've been near, but the nightlife of Reno was far, far away
and Vegas farther still, so, blowing into a timewarp
Old Western town (generic strip of liquor store cum gas stations, drab concrete
block abodes of one-armed bandits and burger joints, a Charlie D's and Budgetel) the previous evening, they'd checked into the
latter before meeting this lardass Nevada High Ranger
and his chattering wife for steaks and drinks on the BCM client account at what
was (probably rightly) advertised as the hippest nitespot
between Carson City and Area 51. Mister
and Mrs. High Ranger didn’t gamble and had an ironclad rule… in bed by ten, up
by five… so they’d pitched, left their prospectii and
bade farewell, then stayed behind. By
midnight, each had lost ten-odd bucks in half an hour at the slots in a weary
linoleum bar (where the ladies wore sweaty, flannel shirts and dipped Skoal),
then brought back a fifth of Scotch and some beer to the room to watch
"Trading Spouses", "Big Brother" and the Pauly Shore/Andy
Dick blockbuster "In the Army Now" on cable while playing cards
(where Walt had dropped thirty-something more bucks). Waking late, hungover, they’d filled their
guts with grease and coffee, closed on the sullen, obligated High Ranger and
hit the road. Since the eighth of
September was another torrid afternoon (easily ninety-seven, ninety-eight
driving through the dusty, dispirited Owens Valley) and Bill Braxton had
circulated memos about salesmen (and even managers) coming into the office
shitfaced after a big close, celebration would have to be limited to a junk
food binge, washed down with a couple of cans of Bud, each. (Serious partying would wait 'til sundown, or
the weekend, even... maybe they'd all hit a Res together, grab a suite and a
couple of squaws, and Walt would make up some whopper to throw Missy off his
case, the way he always did.)
So... their revelry already restricted to a gas and
garbage gobble down the strip that ran parallel to the Interstate... a further,
unpleasant surprise awaited when Walt pulled the Lincoln Town Car up to a Gas n'Go at the corner of two eighty-fifth only to find the
pumps plastered with little yellow stickers proclaiming: "All customers
must pay in advance, inside."
Steamed, he yanked the keys out of the ignition and stormed into the
shack, confronting the mannish, long-nosed girl at the register with the
question: "Do I look like a thief?"
"N...no, sir," she stammered,
"it's com... compuh... c-company policy..."
"That all your customers are
thieves? Is it?"
"Puh...policy," she repeated.
"You're charging four sixty-eight,
two cents more than the Driveaway three blocks south, and you have the fuckin'
nerve to call me a thief? That's my car out there... a Lincoln, two years
old and still worth more than you probably make in a year. So run this by me again... do I look like the
sort that would risk going to jail over a few gallons of gas?"
"No... it's the com... computers...
mister, I can't unlock the pumps without payment in ad... advance. It's company..."
"Well," Walter aimed a
forefinger like a pistol, "you just tell the company, young lady, that I'm
taking my business down the block."
And then, because he needed a cold drink, and badly, he pulled a sixer
from the fridge and lay five bucks and change on the register...
"Thought you were taking your
business away," the cashier rebuked.
Cheeky rug-chewer! "I don't mind paying for beer in
advance," Walt set her straight, "when we get through with a beer,
what's left ain't worth the taking back, not like
gas. If you'd had any sort of education,
you'd understand the difference, but, then, you wouldn't be working at a Gas n'Go anyway, would you?"
Taking the Bud to the Driveaway and
filling up, they'd eaten their way almost back to BCM, starting with tacos...
Walt ordering a soft taco, which Matt
had found screamingly funny, almost as crazy as “Inyo Face”, which he could not
stop repeating... and then, a quarter-mile down the pike, they found some cold,
messy Italian ices whose green and yellow remains still clung to his fingers.
"Burger?"
Walt had suggested, nodding towards the corner where competing franchises
glowered diagonally at each other across the intersection, but Matt had shook his head in Walter's rear view mirror.
"Keep
goin' a bit... somethin' we
oughta check out," he'd said. "Past the Safeway and Costco, then hang
a right on two seventy-first."
"That's
into fuckin' San Cristobal," said Ev, morosely,
from the passenger seat. Everett Crespo
Dodge was ten years older than Walt.
Ready for the gold watch, almost, and thirty years older than Matt.
Ev still wore his gray suit jacket and, in the
air-conditioned Lincoln, his tie remained tightly knotted, but his gray,
washed-out features whispered "cancer". He smelled, too, but that could've been the
smokes - Ev went through four packs on a busy day,
sometimes five, while Walter had disciplined himself down to a half a pack,
never more than one.
(After
an incompetent Governor of California had been recalled, and replaced with the
manly action-movie hero with a hearty sneer for propriety and correct English,
Walter had resumed his old vice of the occasional stogie, which the proprietors
of The Humidor intimated, were genuine, contraband Havanas
but, more probably, originated in the Dominican Republic, or even fuckin' Honduras. Matt smoked only cigars, which was another thing that Walter held against him
besides the talking incessantly and being an all-purpose butthole... something
was just plain wrong about kids,
thirty-something kids, smoking cigars.
But they were Americans, after all, and, to each, his own poison.)
Ev was tall, six-two, like Walt, or three, but must've
weighed a hundred-thirty, forty max and was the only Musketeer who’d deigned to
wear a mask during the plague. Ate like
a teenager, though, like Walt's own Scotty or his two brothers, before him...
flown, now. Feedin'
the cancer, Walt figured, turning right on Northwest Two Seventy-First. Fuckin' name for a street, fuckin' San
Cristobal... it was lower-rent here, transmission chop-shops, strip malls with
payday loan windows and Oriental massage parlors (you could get a half-decent
Lewinski in some of these). Mexican
bars. And...
"There!"
Matt pointed. Past Maple... a lot of the
disnumbered streets in San Cris
had tree names, tho' anything taller than greasewood
that wasn't an irrigated palm stuck out like a middle finger... this same old,
same old strip cutting through to Gerson, distinguished only by a big, freakin' dog head like there used to be on diners when Walt
first came out to California as a refugee from Ohio's cold, bleak winters. Different, though... plumper, and stupidly
nondescript (a bland, twenty-first century pup, whereas the old Doggie had been
shaped like, well, a hot dog himself, a hot-dog doctor with a long,
semi-intelligent snout and discriminating glare).
"Cheapest
dogs south of LA," Matt assured them, removing his glasses to wipe them on
his red, white and blue striped tie.
"For
what?..." Walt snarled, "... rat? Anybody know what's in them things?"
"Who
gives a shit?" Matt replied, "what's in any of those places... tacos,
burgers, pizza?"
"I
could go for pizza..." Ev suggested as Walt
flicked on his right turn signal.
"Guys!"
Matt protested. "They're OK. You can get this, like Big Bucket with six
dogs, fries and other... stuff... for eight ninety eight with a coupon in the
weekly paper, they got this other place out in the desert, by the Res."
"I
know that place," Walt said, glancing towards Ev,
who gave a sort of shrug, so he turned right on Gerson, right again into the
mall, and inched up behind this lady in a yellow Pathfinder full of squalling
brats. "Had a different
head..."
"They
all did," Matt enlightened his colleagues, "sort of poodle, a French
thing. Took 'em away after nine-eleven,
you know..."
"Shoulda flown their plane into San Cris,
them guys!" Walt pointed. The mall was an upside-down L-shaped thing,
the Dog Pound a sort of dot or big blotch out in the middle of the parking
lot. There were some empty storefronts,
a health club and a falafel joint next to the Double Dollar at the crux of the
L. A couple of swarthy men in
shirtsleeves taking smokes in front of the window, partially concealing the oil
portraits of imams and ayatollahs in the window, Arabic writing and all, glared
at the infidels. "How 'bout an
Osama-burger in a pita?"
"Go
fuck yourself," Matt snorted.
"Really... the dogs are just dogs, but they've got all these
special toppings, two kinds of chili and one has those real deal jalapeños...
scorch the roof off your mouth. Chihuahas, but you ask the boy in the box for hot
chihuahuas, it's their code."
The
lady in the Pathfinder was taking a long time ordering, so Walt took out his
smokes, borrowed Ev's ever-present coffin nail for a
light, and watched these kids jumping and crawling around the playground every
fast food dump seemed to have, these days.
The Pathfinder moved on and Walt rode the brakes up to a smaller version
of the dumb, grinning pooch with a menu hanging down from its neck like a keg
of brandy, white writing on black.
"Poun' dog n' fries," Ev said through a wreath of smoke, meaning he'd been to
this, or some other Dog Pound, before.
Probably often, since his wife had run off.
"What's
regular?" he asked, but Ev just blew smoke
rings, so Walt squinted, then said "two Good Dogs, everything but onions,
no special sauce, one Pound Dog, three fries and... you sure, Matt?"
"Dead
sure," the young salesman asserted, holding up two fingers.
"Your
funeral, kid. Two Hot Chihuahuas, two
Cokes..."
"Raspberry
grape Slushie," Matt shouted from the back seat.
The dog
head responded with garble, presumably instructions to follow the Pathfinder
and the Volvo in front of it in making a right turn to the pickup window where
cash would be exchanged for presumable sustenance.
They
waited... and the Lincoln swam with smoke.
"Chili's
toxic, youngman," Walt said over his shoulder,
nose crinkling at the Pathfinder's exhaust.
It smoked as wickedly as Ev. "Montezuma's revenge... s'on the menu to satisfy the greasers and their ACLU
attorneys, white guy like you snarfin' down chili
dogs, gut'll give out before you turn forty."
"As
if I give a shit," Matt said, rolling the window all the way down. "We're pushin'
Ex-Clon', boys, by the time I'm forty they'll have
that process up and patented where you can order up a new stomach over the 'Net
or like... like certain people order Big Buckets!"
"Matt,"
replied Dodge in a gray, patient monotone, "we sell Ex-Clon'
futures to other people. Assholes.
Indians. Pensioners. We
don't bite the maggoty black banana. Now
if Braxton started to dump their tech and oil and aerospace and put more Ex-Clon' in the portfolio, then I might go along with you..."
"Only
a thought," Matt defended himself, "even if it doesn't pan out… you
know what they say: live fast, die broke, leave a good-lookin'
corpse…"
"Says
who?" Dodge smirked. "The
funeral home lobby?"
"The
Hells' Angels. I think…" and Walter
turned around, giving the puffy, bespectacled Matt a glance of ineffable
contempt. The driver of the Volvo at the
window accepted a paper bag and drove off, letting the yellow SUV advance. Behind it, Walter massaged the brake pedal
and crept forward.
"What
I meant to say, Matt, is that Ex-Clon's just a part
of the mix." Dodge glanced over
towards Walt for assurance. "A sort
of cherry, top o'the vanilla fudge, right?"
"Yeah,"
Walt snorted, "cherry on top a scoop a'shit."
"It's
sexy," the old salesman coaxed.
"So sexy the clients pass on the rest of the portfolio bein' boilerplate, mashed potato bland. It's what all these friggin'
small-town managers want… security, yeah, but with just a hint of danger, a
veneer…"
"A
what?" Matt frowned.
"They
still teach English at business college?
No?" Walt shook his head… "what Ev
meant is that we're damn lucky to be sockin' away
company preferred, which goes up twenty percent a year, every year since the Coronavirus…"
"Except
fifteen percent in twenty three," Matt pointed out, "while those
other funds were makin' thirty, forty percent."
"That
was counterprogramming, Bill hedging our exposure in dot coms, which were gonna tank, and getting' us into biotech, which is gonna
soar. Which is why we keep makin' double figures while all those other guys were losin' value, some of 'em…"
"Listen
to us," Dodge piped up.
"That's why Walt and I are millionaires… well, on paper… hey, move
up!"
A Dog
Pound server having passed over several paper bags and a Big Bucket to the
braceleted arms extended from the Pathfinder, Walter edged forward…
"Remind
me, again, why we're in line to eat this shit?" Dodge grunted.
"Matt
says it's cheap. And, cause
you can hold a hotdog in one hand while you're on the phone to a client, or whackin' off... most burgers, you need two hands..."
"Except
Krystals," said Matt.
"True. Tho' chili sauce
sort of defeats the purpose," Walt said, between short, ragged drags on
his Marlboro. "Since we don't have
any more calls, though, it'd only be your funeral, Matt, if one of those hot
Chihuahuas fell off the bun and stained your pants, just as we were reportin' to Braxton..."
Baker brushed
away Walt's smoke. "Up to me, I'd
just say the Black Widow was givin' Bill a Lewinsky
and ran out of throat. Speakin' of… where is the boss, anyway; haven't seen old
Billy-boy since last Thursday…"
"Brown-nosin' bastard," Walt coughed. "I ain't seen
him since Friday…"
"Move
up!" Dodge nagged.
"I
see it. I'm movin' the fuck up. Forget about
the Black Widow, chili shit burns through your clothes, know what'd happen to
your prick?"
"Beg
pardon?"
"Scotty
eats chili dogs, kid'll eat anything. He's a kid.
Take home a bucket of tacos from the Guatemalan place over on Drowell, sauce drips out on this shirt of his, cheap summer
t-shirt from India, Bangladesh for this asshole band, burns little brown holes
in it, like acid. Crap shit,
still…"
"Sounds
like one of them urban legends," Matt scoffed.
Pulling
even with the cashier's window, Walt turned.
"You
callin' my kid a liar?"
"No,
I…"
"Cause
Scotty's a good boy. A little weird,
yeah, but early decision at Brown.
That's in the Ivy League, FYI, not the color of your undergarments if I
took you out behind…"
"Here
we go, again," sighed Everett Crespo Dodge.
"I
was just sayin'… hey!
Hey! You pimple-pussed prick…" Walt swore.
"What?"
Matt recoiled.
Walter's
head swiveled, snapped back. The little
creep in the window was mostly Adam's Apple and scabby zits, he had a nametag
"Jason" and a slack expression behind Coke-bottle glasses. "I ordered two dogs, two chilis and a
Big Dog, three fries, not five Chihuahuas and two fries. Two Cokes and one of those Slutskies or whatever, not the other way around..."
Jason
squinted, reading off his screen like a politician off a teleprompter. "Uhh... your
order... said..." he trailed off.
"Now,
you're callin' me
a fuckin' liar? This place have a fuckin' manager?"
Walt roared. "Get his ass up
here!"
"Look,"
Matt wheedled from the back seat, "I don't want us getting into
trouble..."
"Lose
your nerve, you wannabe Hell's fuckin' Angel?" Walt said, eyes ripping his
pudgy salesman through the rear view mirror.
"Nobody's gettin' in trouble except the
clown college runnin' this roach coach."
"Don't
pay them, we can order burgers down the street and eat on the way in,"
suggested Ev, holding up his Rolex. "We're gonna be late."
There
was a cough at the window, and Walt turned back to the new arrival, a
pencil-thin young man with a high forehead and sour expression behind wide,
orange-tinted aviator glasses. Like the
kid, he wore a Dog Pound paper hat over his thin, frizzy hair, and a nametag:
Barry Cullery, Day Manager.
"This
mental case of yours," Walter pointed, "fucked up my order."
He
honestly expected more bullshit... or dogshit, as the circumstances dictated...
but the pencil-neck pursed his lips, whirled, and shrieked "That's the third time this week. Take off your apron, Jason, and give me your
hat. You're fired!" To the salesmen in the car, he said,
"Sorry, gentlemen, I am truly, truly sorry," but, it seemed, with
more gleefully determined malice than regret as he took back the bucket from
Walter. "We've installed special
registers so that servers don't have to read or do math, just look at pictures,
punch a key, and they still can't get orders right. Kids, these days," Barry wheezed. "Does this look like a Good Dog to
you?" he said, holding up one of the greasy, chili-dripping Chihuahuas.
"I...
uh..." said Jason from behind the apron, pulled over his head. When he had finished removing it, Barry flung
the sausage into the kid's face, snatched the company hat away the way Walt
remembered doing to the misfits in grade school, then poured out the extra
Slushie over his head. While the kid
sniffled, rivulets of crimson slime washing chunks of chili and kraut down his
shirt, Barry stuffed two dogs, a paper pouch of puffs and another Coke into a bag,
and handed it out the window, followed by the rest of their order which had
been sitting under some sort of lamp, drying out...
"On
the house, gentlemen. Sorry for the
inconvenience."
"Yeah,"
Walter said, cracking a weak smile in spite of himself. "Hey... those Slushies, they're really
uh... colorful..."
"We
strive to do our best, sir. Please
return... is your name Martinez?" he snapped at the openly blubbering boy,
Jason, "... do you understand English?
You're fired!" His right
hand darted out and Walter, at first, thought he'd punched the stupid kid, but
he was only imitating Donald Trump from that show before he’d become President
of the United States for the first time.
Walt hadn't seen it, but he'd seen pictures and clips on the news; Trump
called it his "cobra" or "rattler", some kind of
snake. It stopped an inch or two short
of Jason's cheek, and the manager repeated "Fired! Get out of here, freak, before I call ICE in
on you..."
Walter
wrapped his left fist around one of the Good Dogs with the works, no onions,
and waved at the quarrelling couple, then steered one-handed back out onto
271st, taking a sharp left and cutting off some housewife in a rice-burner as Ev and Matt divided the remaining food. Matt held up one of the Hot Chihuahuas that
started to ooze chili, or something, but he caught the dribble with a napkin
and beamed.
"Who
says there's no such thing as a free lunch?"
"Can't
pull that too often," Walter said,
as the Dog Pound receded in his rear-view mirror like some bad dream. "Couldn’t have done so last year when so
few people were willing to take the crap jobs that bosses had to roll with what
they had. But I liked that geeky guy's
managerial style... he could go places.
To bad he's wasted at some toilet job like fast food, he's nearer Hell's
Angels material than you, Matthew."
"Yeah,"
the junior admitted through a mouthful of jalapeños and mystery meat, "but
would the skinny bastard leave a good-lookin'
corpse?"
"Gotcha
there!" Ev chuckled, laughing at him... at him!... Walt scowled. It was the fault of all of those business
reality shows, you didn't even have to learn the ropes anymore, put in the
time. Just copy the manners and attitude
of the ego-besotted bankrupt running the show and fake it. "Heard some of those places are run by
basketball players – colored guys."
Walter
stopped chewing, the Good Dog suddenly metallic in his mouth. If he wasn't a fuckin' gentleman, he'd roll
down the window and spit it out into the little rat-convertible driven by some
fuckin' Hollywood gynecologist or plastic surgeon that had ratted up into the
left lane, six inches from the Town Car.
Fuckin' rats, fuckin' fast-food buttboys,
fuckin' coloreds...
"Jeez!"
was all that he could manage.