American Skin

A day later, Dade went to La Quinta, checked out, he’d tops... spent half an hour there. The manager looked at the dollar bills and Dade went,

“Got a problem, buddy?”

Let just a little edge slide into his tone.

The man, from Baja, sighed, said,

“We, how you say, anticipate credit card?”

Dade liked the dude, the way his hands shook as he handled the crumpled bills, with obvious distaste, Dade went on the offensive, not feeling it but just for practice, growled,

“What, you have a lot of American Express in Wetback-ville or where ever the fuck you crawled out of, huh, that it, you implying there’s something with my cash money, with the currency of these here UNITED STATES...?”

Roared the latter, spittle flying out to land on the guy’s collar, the guy eyeing it but hadn’t the balls to wipe it, he’d

given one brief look into Dade’s eyes and that was plenty, said,

“No, ees fine. I get you receipt.”

Dade fired up a Lucky, his usual Kools had run out, no smoking decals were all over the lobby, Dade said,

“What you can get me, amigo, is a reduction. I never even slept in the goddamn room.”

The manager split the bundle in two, moved one wedge to Dade. Picking up the cash, Dade said,

“You could pass for white, fellah, I tell you, bro, I run into you at any of the watering holes, I’ll let you buy me a brewski, how does that work for you, that grease your wheels?”

The manager thought if he ever saw Dade again, he’d head for the hills. He said,

“Buena suerte.”

“Yeah, like, whatever.”

Back at the villa, he heard Tammy with “Apartment Number Nine”... he loved that tune. He was feeling something totally alien, he was feeling admiration, for Sherry. It was not a concept he had much trade with, his norm, if such a term could be applied to a stone killer, was gratification and aggression. What he wanted, he wanted now and if heads got bent in the process, then all the better.

Sherry brought him to a low dive, the kind of place that catered to the outcast, spit on the floor, blood on the counter, a happening joint.

Plus, it had a jukebox, oh Lordy, cranking out, Hank Williams, AC/DC, Kid Rock, White Stripes, Vegas, and yes, Herself, Tammy.

What they call... an eclectic mix.

Sherry was explaining to him the formula for Long Island Tea, that type of rap, where logic never darkened the flow, he listened then sneered,

“Fucking yuppie shit.”

She was looking across the bar, a bunch of renegades mixing it with some Mexicans, you could tell one of the parties was on Crystal, the body language shouted blood. She turned to Dade, asked,

“You ever hook up before?”

For the thousandth time, he’d reply as he near always did to her with the tiresome,

“What?”

Like some broken down parrot who’d squawk the one word and squander it mercilessly. She was on Easy Times, the bottle on the table, that kind of place and it was sliding down smooth, she said,

“You ever buddy up, like, have a partner?”

He felt he was a level up, a bottle of Makers near his Zippo, nice as a Democrat and he laughed,

“What, I’ve got one now?”

The what word still in currency.

She let it cruise, waited.

Dade had never shared, never was long enough with anyone to tell them details. But Sherry had him turned inside out and to his amazement, he began,

“Time ago, a woman, Karen with two kids, separated from Glen, her old man, I was with her for like...”

Jeez, how long, he couldn’t recall. The woman had been hurting and he slid in there, Mr. Nice Guy, all laid-back concern, no push, chilled, and she’d bought it. Hadn’t moved into her home but real close. Took Ben, the kid, for ball practice, came to really connect with the boy, started to believe it was his kid, the battered mitt, he imagined it had been in the family for generations. The girl, though, now okay, some problems there. She never took to him. He’d given her a CD of Tammy and the cunt went,

“She’s like, old.”

Let that go, treated the mom like fucking royalty. He’d been having the time of his life, buying fully into the whole scenario. One day, in the park, the picnic, the whole nine, gingham table cloth, Tupperware, fried chicken, apple pie (home baked).

A woman passing going,

“Nice to see a family.”

Then to hell and gone.

Ol’ Glen came back, the prick. Got himself on some goddamn 12 Step program and Dade... Dade was like yesterday. So he’d hung around, hung around a lot, made some, okay, threats.

He was kiddin’, c’mon, as if he’d hurt his own kin? What they do?

Took off is what.

Upped and ran. In the old SUV.

Dade had come ambling towards their front door, nice and mellow, no biggie. The Walther held real loose in his right hand and so okay, maybe he’d let off a round, nothing major, not like he had a MAC machine gun in his arms and was spraying willy-nilly like some pissed-off postal stiff.

He was just, what do you call it, getting their attention, I mean goddamn it, they weren’t taking his calls, so like, what’s a guy to do?

Write them a letter.

Yeah, right, that would work.

Wiped his brow.

And what they do, were they willing to come out or better yet, invite him in, have a few brews, maybe not Glen, a soda for that alky, and talk the misunderstanding over. Thrash it out as his dad used to say and he giggled, remembering how his ol’ dad thrashed as he put him under the water for the last time.

No, the mad bastards, they jumped in the vehicle and took off. No see you soon buddy or water the lawn for us. Nope, just upped and lit out. He roared after them,

“NOTHING WORKS ON IT, THE BELT’S FRAYED, THE LOCK’S FUCKED.”

And well, he guessed they didn’t hear him. But hey, guess what?

He caught them.

Sweat was pouring down his body, getting in his eyes, Sherry squeezed his leg, said,

“Okay baby, it’s okay, they fucked you good.”

And he near upturned the table, snarled,

“No, I fucked them good.”

Too loud.

The roughnecks looked over, she continued to massage him and he reined it in. She moved, wiped blood from his mouth, he’d near bitten through his tongue, she got another splash of drinks, and he pulled way back. She studied him, said,

“You remind me of someone, an actor?”

He waited, waited for Jimmy Woods and got,

“Chris Walken, I saw him in Bloomingdale’s one time, buying socks.”

He let it go, enough heat for one occasion. After midnight they got out of there, could hear Willie on the jukebox.

“There were seven Spanish angels.”

Dade was having a high old time, laughing, giggling... a good old boy, whooping it up, his gal in tow, said,

“Hon, I gotta take a piss.”

An alleyway beside the bar, he stumbled into it, singing with the outlaw, a shit-eating grin on his face, trying to find his fly, bursting fit to blow, got his zip down, his hand against the wall and as he let loose, sighed,

“Ah...”

Few things to equal that relief and got a blow to his shoulder.

Hurt.

His collar grabbed, pulled round and a broken bottle against his neck, a wild-eyed cowboy, long hair to his shoulders, denim jacket, going,

“Gimme your money, motherfucker.”

Late twenties, a scar on his left cheek, a stench of garlic, booze on his breath, Dade whined,

“Don’t hurt me, mistah.”

Got a nice whimper in there, the guy getting off on it, going,

“I’ll cut you, fucker, open you like a bitch, see if I don’t.”

Dade let his voice rise,

“Please, mistah, I got maybe four hundred bucks in my jeans, take it all, and welcome, lemme get it for you.”

And the dumb fuck moved back. Dade had to work at not smiling, the guy went,

“And you can blow me, you’d like that bitch, huh, you do me good, maybe I won’t cut you.”

Began to reach to his groin, Dade had a flash of the joint, when they knocked his teeth out, saw a white shimmer before his eyes, then his knee came up, the guy doubled over, going,

“Aw, man.”

Sherry was there, her face lit, asking,

“He was going to rob you?”

Like she couldn’t believe it, she picked up the broken bottle, her face flush with excitement, said,

“Think he’s got some balls on him, think I should take them off him?”

Dade thought so.

She did.

Took a time.