Rumble Tumble

22

Bill Early Bird drove an old Ford pickup that looked as if it had been in a meteor shower. It had gray filler plastered all over it, and what wasn’t filler was blue paint and not very good blue paint at that. Every time Bill stepped on the brakes the truck sounded as if it were in pain. The tires were so thin on tread you could almost see the air inside.

We drove through the little town of Echo, Texas, to the outskirts, crossed over a large overpass, went off the highway and down a dirt road and around a curve to where there was no real road, and still we drove. Eventually the overpass loomed above us, and beneath it I could see a fire, and when we parked and got out, I could see the fire came from an old fifty-five gallon drum. The air was cool and the flames leaped and crackled and most of the heat went up and away. There were some cardboard and plywood shacks under the overpass, and there were people to go with them. Four were visible, all Indians, squatting down, passing something between them, and as Bill came up and called out, two others drifted from the hovels and squatted with the others.

“Uncle,” Bill called out to one of the men. “It’s Billy.”

An elderly man, built along the line of five coat hangers with two teeth and lots of gray hair, slurred back Bill’s name.

Bill bent down and hugged the old man and the old man patted him on the back. When Bill stood up, he said, “This is my Uncle Brin.”

Uncle Brin tried to stagger to his feet, but had to sit down. Not on his haunches this time, but on his ass.

“He’s sniffed a little too much,” Bill said. “Don’t think he does this all the time. Just sometimes he gets down, you know.”

From the looks of Uncle Brin, I had an idea that the only time he wasn’t sniffing thinner and paint was when he was drinking liquor or was asleep.

Only one of the other men was elderly, or perhaps he just looked like hell. He had more meat on his bones than Uncle Brin, and his head was shaped oddly in front, a little like a pumpkin. The others were young and tough-looking, but wobbly. What the men out front had been passing between them was a paper sack containing a plastic bag containing paint and thinner. I saw Uncle Brin take the sack and put his face in it, and sniff.

I looked at Bill. He looked nervous, even ashamed.

Uncle Brin said, “Hey, Bill, go get us some smokes and some beer, huh?”

Bill nodded. “I will.”

We walked back to the truck. I said, “It’s nice to meet your relatives, but what’s this got to do with anything?”

“Uncle Brin isn’t a uncle by your standards. I suppose he is a cousin. But we call many male relatives uncle.”

“Still, what’s with him?”

“He’s one of the men I want to use.”

“No disrespect here, Bill, but he’s skin and bones. What you going to use him for? A lock pick?”

“He’s not always messed up.”

Bill started up the truck and we drove off. Bill said, “He knows the other man I need. This other man, he won’t do it for me. He might lose his pilot’s license, but he’ll do it for Uncle Brin. And some money.”

“And Uncle Brin will do it for you for some money?”

“Uncle Brin will do it for me anyway, but he needs the money. This man who flies the plane, he owes Uncle Brin a favor for a favor done for his grandfather.”

“Is it an old favor?”

“Yes, and one he has to continue to pay whenever Uncle Brin asks. He would do it without the money.”

“He’s that close to your uncle.”

“They hate each other. This man, this pilot, he honors my uncle for what he has done, not for who he is or if he likes him.”

We drove to the liquor store. I waited while Bill went inside and bought some cigarettes and beer. We drove back to the underpass and Bill carried the case of beer and the carton of cigarettes and set them down by the blazing fifty-five gallon drum. The men swarmed on the hot beer, opened it, drank it as it foamed. After a few sips, the carton of cigarettes was opened and packs were passed around and Bill produced a lighter and lit up one himself.

Bill turned to me. “I must talk to my uncle in private. We must speak in Kickapoo. Will you let me do that?”

“I suppose.”

“I give my word I’m not trying to cheat you.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, having no real choice. I went back to the truck, leaned against the front of it and watched to see if guns might come out. I also checked a good running route and something to hide behind. There didn’t seem to be any good route, as there wasn’t much vegetation or any real rises in the scenery. The best obstruction seemed to be the truck. I put my hand under my shirt and held the pistol butt and watched the men in the shimmering light of the fifty-five gallon drum.

Bill bent down next to Uncle Brin and they talked. Now and then Uncle Brin looked out at me and puffed his cigarette, each puff sucking his cheeks in, making them look as if they were touching inside his mouth. After a time I saw Uncle Brin nod. Bill hugged him, stood, and walked back to the pickup.

“He will talk to this man tomorrow,” he said.

“You know the man yourself?”

“I do. But I told you, this man will not do it for me.”

“You call him this man. Don’t you know his name?”

“I do. But it doesn’t matter. He will not do it for me if I know his name or not … Uncle Brin needs his money now.”

“All right.” I took the two hundred and fifty out of my wallet and gave it to Bill. He gave it to Uncle Brin and we drove back to the highway.

Bill and I made some plans and he dropped me off at the motel. Inside, Leonard turned off the TV, said, “Do we trust him?”

“I think so,” I said. “Don’t know we got a lot of choice if we didn’t trust him.”

I told everyone what had gone on. Herman said, “Bill and I did some business now and then. He was never on the really bad side, like me.”

“You were doing business,” Red said. “That’s all.”

Herman ignored him. “Bill helped me run some guns and some grass. He helped me haul a few of the Bandito Supremes out of the U.S. and into Mexico. He arranged for an airplane. Some cars. He’s trustworthy.”

“He got paid, though, correct?” Red asked.

“He got paid,” Herman said.

“That I can understand,” Red said. “That makes Bill a professional. That’s what’s important. Professionalism.”

“What kind of world is it where you got to do business with a crook?” Brett said.

“Kind where if you want to get something done illegal, you got to ask a crook,” Leonard said. “Think about it, we’re riding around with a crook and an ex-crook.”

“I guess that makes us crooks,” Brett said.

“I suppose it does,” Leonard said.

“Seems to me,” Red said, “I’ve served my purpose. If my brother is set on helping you, then he must, but I suggest you let me go.”

“I don’t think we want to deal with Big Jim right now,” Leonard said. “We got a lot on our plate.”

“Big Jim may not be all that interested in helping me,” Red said. “In fact, I fear he thinks I was in on all this, and I would not be surprised if Wilber were not fostering that belief.”

“How’s that?” I said.

“Wilber has his good qualities, but loyalty isn’t one of them. He likes money, and if he feels he can discredit me, put himself in the catbird seat, then he will. My guess he’s making me responsible for all that business in Oklahoma City as well. Painting himself as a victim. That’s my take.”

“So if we cut you loose, where would you go?” I asked.

“I’m uncertain, but I would rather face that problem as it came to me than be with people who pistol-whip me, tie me up and humiliate me. I’m surprised I haven’t been asked to perform some circus tricks. Some flips and handstands. Perhaps a cartwheel.”

“Shit, that’s not a bad idea,” Leonard said.

Red gave Leonard a firm look, then slowly dropped his eyes. My guess was he feared Leonard might be serious, and that he would be forced to perform. Red picked up a can of Coke, swigged from it, then eased into sullen silence.

That night was not a good one. Herman was supposedly helping us. We didn’t want to alienate him by tying him to a chair, and we felt it might be bad form to tie Red to one. Leonard and I, by unspoken plan, stayed awake with the shotgun. Herman and Red watched TV most of the night, dozing on the floor from time to time.

Brett slept all night on the bed and snored loudly. Who says it’s a man’s world?