King Suckerman

Twenty-One

Jimmy Castle heard the honk of the Firebird. He buttoned the imitation pearl snaps on his favorite shirt and slipped his feet into his wedge-heeled shoes, leaving his room and taking the stairs up to the foyer of the house.

Standing in the foyer, he could see his mother in her bedroom, doing her traction, sitting up straight in the chair with her headgear on and facing the door.

“You leavin’?” she said, without moving her head.

“Yeah, Ma.”

Dewey honked the horn again. Jimmy suddenly remembered where he had stashed his smokes the night before when his father had surprised him by coming downstairs. Jimmy had quickly tossed the cigs between the flour bin and the rice bin in the kitchen before his dad could see.

“You gonna be late?”

“No, Ma.”

Jimmy went into the kitchen, opened the cabinet over the wall oven, stood on his toes, and felt around for his softpack. He pulled the cigarettes out quickly, sending a wooden bin out to the floor with a dull crash.

“What the heck was that, Jimmy?”

“Nothin’! It’s all right!”

Some rice had spilled from the bin. Jimmy began to scoop it back in with his hand when he heard the horn again. Dewey had really landed on it this time. Jimmy left some grains of rice on the linoleum floor and slid the bin back in the cabinet. He slipped the pack of smokes behind his sock and headed toward the front door.

“Have fun, honey,” yelled his mother.

“I will.”

Jimmy looked back once more into the kitchen before opening the door. He saw the white rice on the rust-colored linoleum floor. He hesitated, thinking that he should go back and finish cleaning it up. His mom might come downstairs, slip on it, and reinjure her back. But he didn’t want to piss Dewey off.

He left the house and jogged down the walkway to where the Green Ghost sat idling in the street.

They stopped at Country Boy on Georgia Avenue in Wheaton and picked up a couple cold six-packs of Schlitz. Jimmy used his older brother’s draft card for ID, a formality for the old guy at the register, who had been selling beer to underage kids for years. Out in the Firebird, they tore the rings off three cans and got on their way. As soon as they hit the Beltway, Jerry fired up a joint. They smoked half of it down on the way to 95.

“You got the tickets, Jerry?” said Jimmy.

“Huh?” said Jerry. It was hard to hear Jimmy from the backseat; Dewey had BTO 2 cranked up pretty loud.

“The tickets, man.”

“The tickets?” Jerry faked a freak-out look, and Dewey laughed. Jimmy could tell that Jerry was just jacking him off. They had bought the tickets to the Rick Derringer concert at the Baltimore Civic Center a month back, and even though Jerry was kind of a burnout, he would never have left the tickets at home.

Jerry was lighting a match under the fat number again to give it another good seal. The windows were closed, making the smoke thick inside the car. It was hot, and sweat dripped down Jimmy’s back beneath his long-sleeved shirt. Jimmy leaned forward, put his head between the buckets.

“Who’s openin’ for Derringer, man?” said Jimmy.

“The ticket says ‘a Special Guest,’” said Jerry. “I bet it’s fuckin’ Edgar, man.”

“That would be bad,” said Jimmy, though he always got weird vibes now when he heard Edgar Winter. He had puked really bad one time listening to “Frankenstein” after he and Jerry had smoked a bunch of green on top of a bottle of Strawberry Hill.

“You think Rick Derringer’s a queer?” said Dewey.

“Huh?” said Jerry.

“Check out the cover of All-American Boy. The guy’s wearin’ makeup and shit.”

Traffic on 95 was fairly heavy. Dewey accelerated, used the right lane to pass a green Pinto. He shot back across the middle lane and into the left, flooring the Firebird as he tilted his head back to drink the last of his beer.

“Dude,” said Jerry, smiling, his head moving back and forth to the BTO.

“Hey, slow down, man,” said Jimmy.

“Fuck you, Toothpick,” said Dewey. He tossed the empty Schlitz can over his shoulder to the backseat, reached into the paper bag beside him for another.

Jerry Baluzy relit the joint. He hit it hard and passed it over to Dewey. Dewey took a hit, held on to the weed while a thought came into his head. He hunched down low and got comfortable in his seat.

“King Suckerman was bad,” said Dewey. He had been thinking about the movie all morning and had put the depressing aspect of it out of his mind. “You know, it would be rough as shit to be a pimp.”

“Yeah,” agreed Jerry. “And if I was gonna be one, I’d be King Suckerman. ’Cause King Suckerman had all the bitches. The black bitches and the white bitches. Even had him a Chinese ho, too.”

“Gimme some of that, Dewey,” said Jimmy. He had noticed that the joint was getting pretty small.

Dewey turned his head, smiled at Jerry, held up the roach. His eyes were pink and dilated, and hair had fallen about his face.

“What, you want this, Toothpick? This thing’s about the size of your dick.”

Looking at Jerry, Dewey let his hand slip off the wheel. The Green Ghost went off the road with the gas pedal pinned to the floor. The Firebird crossed the grassy center island and landed in the path of an oncoming tractor-trailer.

Dewey Schmidt screamed like a girl while Jerry Baluzy coughed a spray of blood against the windshield, his heart exploding in his chest. Just before the eighteen-wheeler hit, Jimmy Castle pictured his mother, and rice scattered on a kitchen floor.