The Ballad of Billy Badass, page 8
Blue stands over Checci. Kicks wounded leg.
“Payback’s a motherfucker, ain’t it.” Blue grins.
“Take him to the safe,” Billy tells him. Delano nudges Blue. Both drag Checci to safe.
Checci whines in pain. They hold him up next to safe. Checci dials. Misses. Dials again. Tries handle. Won’t open.
“Take a breath, try again. Slow this time,” Billy says.
Checci dials again. Tries handle. It turns.
“Don’t open it. We’ll do that,” Billy says. Turns to Delano. “Hideaway gun.”
Delano nods, lets Checci fall. Steps to safe. Opens. Tosses thirty-eight Special. Nods to Billy. Then looks into safe.
“Oh, mother.” Delano whispers. Blue giggles. Catalina comes over to look.
Delano and Blue pull boxes out. Shoe boxes. Full of greenbacks. Ten shoe boxes. Catalina laughs out loud.
“Oh man. Fuck me.” Blue reverent. Discovers shrink wrapped package. “Look what we got. There’s snow in California.”
“Coke?” Delano asks.
“It ain’t baby powder.”
“Leave it.” Billy orders.
“No way, Jose.” Blue astounded at the idea. Tosses drugs into money bag. What to do? Shoot Blue? Billy looks to Catalina. She shrugs. Billy unhappy.
“That’s it,” Delano says. Safe empty.
Billy turns to Checci. Aims.
“NO!” Catalina moves fast. Knocks Billy’s gun hand. Bullet pocks wall. Everyone freezes. Catalina angry. “You made a deal with him,” she accuses.
“I lied,” he admits. He looks at Checci, Lainey. Checci fading. Lainey the same. Given up. Billy considers.
“Okay. Knock ‘em out.”
Catalina walks over. Hesitates above Checci.
“Do it.” Billy orders. “Or I kill ‘em. Both of them.”
She swings machine gun. Clocks Checci in head. He goes down. Still conscious. Catalina has to hit him again. And again. And again.
Delano clubs Lainey. Back of the head. Very efficient. One solid blow. She’s out.
Everyone heads for the door. Blue laughs. Sounds like his sister.
Another hot day. Catalina in panties and t-shirt. Panties from Frederick’s of Hollywood. Shopping spree after Checci. Billy in jeans only. Lounge on sofa. After sex. She licks his nipple.
“Salty.” She grins.
“Where are they?”
“They’ll be back.” She picks up crochet needle. Metallic green. Crocheting a spirit catcher for Billy. Fingers dance. Thread chain grows. Billy likes to watch.
“Been a long time.”
“They’ll be back,” she insists. “They sell the drugs, and we all go to the Res. You’ll like New Mexico. Weather is fiiine. You got money you can live gooood.”
“They’re not back by sunset…I’m gone,” he tells her, meaning it. Does like the drug bit. Doesn’t like it at all. Out of his control. Out of his expertise.
“Don’t sweat it.” She rises. “Want something to drink?” Heads to kitchen.
“Ice water.”
“We should do this thing again. There’s lots of rich bad guys out there. And what can they do? Go to the cops?”
“Never again.” Billy is adamant. “Blue was high.”
“But he got it done.” Fridge door opened. Rattle of ice cubes. “He needs a little something to smooth out the bumps. He actually does better with…”
The front door explodes. Flies in. Lands on floor. Crash.
“POLICE!!” Cops bust in. Helmets and body armor. Machine guns and shotguns.
Billy looks to Catalina. She in kitchen doorway. Two glasses in hand.
Cop trips in doorway. Another cop falls over him. Shotgun booms.
Catalina does backward flip. Skids across floor.
Crash. Back door. Shouts. Billy deaf.
Billy crawls to Catalina. Cop kicks Billy. He sprawls. Cop cuffs Catalina. Her arms limp. Click click.
“Catalina.” Billy calls to her. No answer.
Billy cuffed. Behind back. Rights read. Cops take off helmets. Billy stares at cop with shotgun. Red hair. Looking guilty. Hispanic cop comes over, pats Red on shoulder. Holds up CAR-15. Lays it next to Catalina.
“She went for her gun.” He nudges Red. Red nods.
Someone yells for ambulance. Another cop comes from bedroom. Carries two shoeboxes.
“Money’s here.”
Yes it is. Two hundred sixty-four thousand dollars. Counted last night. Laughing. Big fun.
Cops shout orders. Confusion. Laughter. All noise to Billy. Muted noise. Still deaf. He bleeds. Speckled buckshot wounds. Arm. Shoulder. Puts head on floor. Looks for Catalina’s eyes.
“Catalina?” He implores. “Can you hear me?”
Cops roll her on her back. Her ribs just raw meat. One side of face dotted. Small bleeding holes. Opens her eyes.
“Billy…?” She whispers. Surprised. Then pain registers. “OH, I hurt like hell.”
“They called for an ambulance.”
She fades for a second. Tears in Billy’s eyes.
“Billy don’t go looking for payback.”
“Sure.”
“I know you. Promise.”
“You got it.”
She shudders. Gasps. Grits teeth. Low whine.
“AW, fuck it.” She grunts. “Find ‘em and waste their asses.” She tries to laugh. Shudders again. Bites her lip.
“Who the fuck shot me?” she demands. “I wanna see his fucking face.” Cops look at each other. Questioning. Red bends over her.
“Just take it easy ma’am. Doc’s on the way.”
She jerks forward. Spits on him. Big gob of blood, phlegm. Onto cop’s chest. She falls back panting. Billy smiles.
“A pure mind fuck,” she says. And dies.
Billy pounds his forehead into the floor. More cops crowd room. Some yelling. Tossing bed. Tearing into closets. Dresser drawers dumped. Fridge emptied.
Billy starts thinking. Sees paperclip on floor. In front of face. Stretches. Eats it. And some dust bunny. Pockets clip in cheek.
Shoulder on fire. Cops flip Billy onto back. Paramedic examines Billy. “Nothing threatening,” is the verdict. Looks at Catalina. “No hope here.” Billy agrees. No hope there. Sees crochet needle. On floor. Near sofa.
“Can I sit him up?” Medic asks. Cop gives the okay. Paramedic helps Billy up.
Billy squirms. Like in pain. Maneuvering toward crochet needle. Sits on it.
Paramedic wipes away Billy’s blood. Billy rears away. Like in pain. Grabs needle. Paramedic cleans, bandages shoulder. Billy withes a bit. Slides needle down butt crack.
“A doctor will have to remove this buckshot.”
Shoulder throbs. Also neck. Billy blocks the pain. Stares at Catalina. Dead Catalina. Who dimed them? Who? Why? Why doesn’t matter. Who does.
Billy put in squad car. Back seat. Rear windows half down. Hot as a blast furnace. No one cares. Not even Billy. Sits for hours. More cops come. Detectives. Cops grilling cops.
Billy waits. Planning.
Finally cops sit in front. Red and a Hispanic. Catalina’s killer drives. They bullshit. Like Billy’s not there.
“We drop numbnuts here off at the hospital wing, we go somewheres and get our story straight.” Hispanic the boss. “You don’t talk to no one ‘til we get the story straight. Not even your fucking mother.”
“Got it.” Red nods. Nods too long.
Billy grabs needle from butt crack. Slides arms down past butt. Under ass. Behind knees. It hurts. Muscles strain. Something pulls in wounded shoulder. Pushes past pain. Gets cuffed hands to ankles. Takes a breath. Pushes arms. Lifts feet. Clears cuffs. Hands in front now.
Cops not paying attention. Concerned about own fate.
“Lawyer up. Union will give you one. Tell him same story. You know the drill. You interrogated enough perps. Just the straight story. Don’t elaborate. She went for the gun. You shot. Her fault. You ID’d yourself. Warned her. Like ‘Don’t’ some such shit. I yelled ‘Gun!’ and you shot. Everybody’s got your back.”
Billy slides needle under butt cheek. Spits paperclip into hand. Bent over so cops don’t see. If watching. Not.
Billy knows cuffs. Bends wire. Inserts into cuff keyhole. Twists bent wire to eleven o’clock. If keyhole notch is six o’clock. Presses against internal ratchet. Click. Cuff loosens. Another click. More leeway.
Clicks too loud? Checks on cops. Nothing. Too much road noise with windows open. Cops talking like he isn’t there. That’s okay with Billy. That’s great with Billy.
“Same story. Over and over. Every lawyer, and there will be a shitload of ‘em. Every IA asshole. Your mom, your priest on your fucking deathbed when you’re ninety-two fucking years old. Same fucking story. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Cop car on Hollywood Freeway. Heavy traffic. Headed into city. Downtown. Can see towers in sea of smog.
Cuffs are off. Billy grabs needle. Not a needle. Crochet hook. Catalina corrected him. Catalina…
“Tell it like your favorite fucking joke. Same way every time. No elaboration. No bullshit. Don’t go making new shit up just ‘cause you’re bored with it. You vary by a fucking word and the lawyers jump on that shit and beat you to death with it. Understand me?”
Billy leans forward. Left hand slides out window gap. Driver’s window open too. No AC. Drives hook into Red’s left ear. Punches through eardrum. Driver screams. Reaches for hook. Billy pounds needle with palm. Another three inches into Red’s skull. More screams. Red grabs hook. Yanks. Hook snags on something. Red howls.
Hispanic draws pistol. Aims at Billy. Red loses control of car. Shrieks in pain. Hispanic fires. Car swerves. Window between seats shatters. Back windshield explodes. Billy deafened.
Hispanic aims again.
Car hits concrete median. Climbs wall. Up. Over. Flips. Car spins upside down. Another car hits. Skid across concrete. Metal screeches. Billy tumbles in back seat. Billy bounces. Car stops.
Billy smells gas. Steam billows. Engine still running. Revs. Billy crawls out back window. Glass embedded into arms, hands.
Walks to passenger side. Hispanic cop upside down. Hangs by seatbelt. Dazed. Still holds pistol. Billy takes. Redhead cop unconscious.
Traffic snarled. Half dozen crashes. Horns yelp. Billy hops median. Opposing traffic slowed. Rubberneckers. Billy steps in front of Mercedes. Waves gun.
“Out! Now!” Woman stops car. Climbs out. Weeping. Hands up. Billy slides behind wheel.
Drives away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Downtown Los Angeles. Pershing Square. Tiny park. Habitat for winos, druggies and the insane. Raining. Across the street, Million Dollar Theater. Once a grand palace. Now showing low rent Mexican movies. Down the block, farmer’s market. Indoor butcher stalls. Fruits and vegetable stands. Fresh fish. Narrow paths between the stalls. A maze.
Billy waits in a car. Watching. Stare unswerving. Rubs scars on shoulder. Buckshot bumps on neck. Speckled tattoo. Removed what he could with tweezers. Still hurts. The hurt helps him focus.
Eyes fixed on Checci. Shopping. New bodyguard carries bag. An apple here, an avocado there. At each stop vendor slips envelope into bag.
Checci limps. Wields cane. Ornate stick, silver handle.
Finishes rounds. Bodyguard pauses on sidewalk. Heavy rain. Bodyguard sprints across street. Into parking garage. Checci doesn’t want to get wet. First mistake in two months.
Checci under awning. Alone.
Flood control basin. In the valley. Full of silt, refuse. Hardened mud, uprooted trees, brush. Assorted heavy equipment scattered about. Bulldozer, backhoe, woodchipper.
Rain stopped. Fog hangs over ground. Softens everything.
Billy parks. Checci spent night in trunk. Billy carries Checci’s cane. Opens trunk. Checci blinks. Licks dry lips. Billy hauls him out. Dumps onto mud. Checci cuffed behind back. Needed paper clip. Billy laughs.
Billy pulls sword from cane. Pokes him.
“Who set me up?” Billy asks. Talks soft.
“You think I’m scared of that?” Checci spits. Dry mouthed. Not much moisture. “You think I don’t know you’re gonna kill me?”
“There’s always hope,” Billy whispers.
Billy drives a plotting stake into the mud. Five-pound sledge hammer. Found in Cat’s toolbox. Clangs like a bell.
Uncuffs Checci. Cuffs hands in front. Checci doesn’t fight it. Resigned. The hammer helps.
Hooks Checci’s hands over stake. Grabs his ankles. Pulls straight. Sits on Checci’s knees. Foot long screwdriver. Aimed at Achilles’ heel. Pounds. Screwdriver punches through silk sock, flesh. Checci’s good foot.
Checci screams.
Other foot kicks. Billy holds with knees. Screwdriver poised over second ankle. Pounds. Pierces. Both ankles skewered. Pounds screwdriver into hard mud. Deep.
Checci pinned to ground.
“Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou,” Checci chants. He glares at Billy.
“Tell me,” Billy demands. Whispers it into Checci’s ear. Checci clamps jaw shut. Tough guy.
“You’re gonna die,” Billy tells him. “I can make you beg me to kill you.”
“This ain’t nothin’,” Checci says.
“No, it isn’t,” Billy says.
Billy walks to the bulldozer. Climbs into the Cat’s seat. Starts the engine.
Scouted the basin weeks before. Closed on weekends. Only chain-link fence to climb. Cut lock today. To drive through. Heavy machinery not locked. No need for keys. Wire easily available under dash. Hot-wired in no time. Practiced driving big Cat. No steering wheel. Control for right track, another for left. Stop one to turn, gun the other. Got the hang of it. Wasn’t going to drive far. Always parked where he found it.
Checci stares up at him. Vague figure in the fog. Checci afraid now. Shouting. Billy can’t hear over Cat’s roar. Checci yells. Mouth moves. Neck muscles strain. Curses or pleas? Billy doesn’t care.
Engages treads. A little power. Cat creeps forward. Clanking steel tracks. Inches forward.
Toward Checci’s pinned feet.
Checci struggles. Futile. Stretched taut. Watches in terror. Eyes fixated. On left track. Rolling toward screwdriver. Poised over it. Then down. Over feet.
Billy hears Checci’s scream over engine noise. Stops Cat. Lets engine idle. Steps down. Walks up to Checci.
Front of track nudges Checci’s crotch. Below that legs are just chopped meat. Blood pooling.
Checci gasping for breath. Sucking air. Billy leans over.
“Sorry. Wanted to get only to the knees for the first step. Not enough practice time, I guess. I wonder how much this thing weighs. Suppose after a certain poundage it don’t really matter. But you would know better than me.”
Checci looking out of it. Billy slaps him. Hard.
“Focus. I think the next step is gonna really hurt. Crushing the pelvis. Turning your dick and balls to hamburger. But I think we’ll wait a while, let this really sink in…”
“Kill me,” Checci gasps.
“Tell me.”
Checci smiles. “The brother.”
Billy surprised. Confused. Then not. Checci ‘s grin widens. “The Indian. Your whore’s brother.”
Billy hardens. Anger flares.
“He came to me,” Checci says. Feeling in control.
Billy slaps him. “Bullshit.”
“Okay. So I found him. Trying to sell my own shit. Put the word out. Knew they’d hit the street with it. Fucking amateurs.”
A spasm of pain makes Checci strain. “It was the brother.”
“Which one?” Billy asks. Anger cooling.
“Fuck if I know.”
“Which one!?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I…I couldn’t tell the difference. Holy Mary, Mother of God…”
Billy raises the five-pound sledge. Checci fixes eyes on the steel head.
Billy brings it down. Checci’s head caves.
Billy walks away. Into the fog.
Albuquerque. After six months. Searching. Two months in Santa Fe. South of Jicarilla Apache Reservation. Two months in Las Cruces. Outside Mescalaro Apache Reservation. Didn’t know what kind of Apache the brothers were. More than one kind of Apache? Didn’t know. Couldn’t stake out reservation. White boy was the alien there. Small towns outside reservations just as bad. Strangers eyed with suspicion. Los Cruces and Santa Fe big enough. White man not noticed.
Cities were better. Easier to score drugs. Blue will show. Addicts have no choice.
Sets up easel in Santa Fe. Grew hair long. Hippie artist among hippie artists. Peasant shirt and beads. Knee length moccasins. Yellow aviator shades. Rusty VW van bought in Nevada.
Dug up money cache. Every robbery, every state hid bulk of take at state line. Tape measure and Tupperware container. State line sign. “Welcome to…”. Or “Thanks for visiting…”. One hundred feet from most western or southern post of sign. Two feet down. Dug at night. Army entrenching tool. Bills stuffed into Glad freezer bags.
After L.A. escape dug up California. Nevada stash. After offing Checci retrieved Oregon-California North cache. Plenty of money. More out there. Enough to hunt.
Passed time in Santa Fe. Watercolors. Enjoyed painting. Made him see. But eyes always on street, pueblos. Ever searching. Waiting for brothers to come off reservation.
Day after day. No sigh. Nights cruising the streets. Nothing.
Los Cruces. Billy, new shades, ponytail now. Hand woven serape, smells of goat. Lays out blanket on sidewalk. Sells books. Paperbacks. Brautigan, Vonnegut, McPhee, Barthleme. Bought off hippie near college. Blanket and all. Moves about town. Watches drug sales. Patrols at night. Shelters. Liquor stores.
Works University area. Nothing. Old Messila courthouse. Tourist trap. Billy the Kid sentenced to hang here. Escaped. Watches San Albino church. Waiting for repentant brother maybe. To light candle for sister. Never happens.
Thinking brothers not around here. Maybe not even Apache. Just Indian wolf talk.
Tries Albuquerque. Adobe square. More New Mexico tourist flypaper. Old mission square. Quaint. Silver workers in windows. Indian women display silver and turquoise on blankets. Shops with rubber tomahawks. Kachina dolls. Japanese tourists burn Kodak, clickety, clickety, click.
