Rumble Tumble

“I’d like to. The urge would be there. But I guess not. Not just for that. But he doesn’t need to know that.”

“I guess I did. Does that make you feel bad toward me?”

“Nah,” Brett said, rolling up close. “Sometimes I can be so mean I scare myself. And I got to tell you, he got me crooked enough, I could punch his ticket.”

I took her in my arms. She kissed my ear. I turned and kissed her lips, our tongues explored. A moment later we were making love, and for a while I wasn’t all that concerned about Red and his bloody head, his circus past, or even his torturous time in front of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

16

Next morning we were tooling down Highway 87 on our way into Lubbock, traveling some of the bleakest ugliest goddamn terrain this side of the moon. It’s the kind of landscape you think you’ll fall off of. Every time we passed a scrubby tree—more of a bush really—I wanted to jump out of the car, hold on to the tree for dear life, lest I be sucked away into some sort of Lovecraftian cosmic vacuum.

Red, who Leonard had just quizzed for directions, was sitting in the back seat next to me eating his Hostess Twinkie breakfast. He said, with white filling on his lips, “I never claimed I knew exactly where The Farm was. I worked other locations when I was with the Bandito Supremes.”

“This gets richer by the mile,” I said.

Leonard said, “I suggest we kill him and just ask randomly at houses along the way where The Farm is. I think we got just as good a chance finding the place doing that as fuckin’ around with this ding-a-ling.”

“I think the three of you feel I ought to help you if I did know,” said Red, “and I got to ask. Why should I?”

“Because we will kill you if you don’t,” Leonard said.

Red licked his fingers. “Well, that is some kind of incentive, I admit.”

“We’re gonna drive to the Mexican border,” Leonard said, “and then, if you can’t tell us where The Farm is, I’m going to shoot you. First in one foot, then the other. Then your hands and shoulders. I’m going to make it painful, squatty.”

“There you go with the short slurs,” Red said. “How would you like it if I called you a nigger, a jungle bunny, or a coon?”

“I wouldn’t like it you called me honey, or even to a four-course dinner,” Leonard said. “I just don’t care for your sorry little ass.”

“There’s that little stuff again,” Red said. He took off his hat and put it on the seat between us and shook his head sadly. The wad of bloody toilet paper was still stuck to the top of his head. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, sadly, as if we were co-conspirators.

“Red,” I said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Really. But you got to cooperate. I’m not going to try and stop anyone from doing what they got to do to find this place. We want to find Tillie, and we mean to do just that, even if we have to try and read heavenly signs and directions in your steaming guts.”

“Well,” Red said, “I suppose if I don’t do something to help myself I’ll continue to spend my nights in chairs and eating Twinkies for breakfast.”

“Absolutely,” Brett said.

Red nodded. “Well, we need to see my brother.”

“Your brother?” I said.

“Yep,” Red said. “Herman. He knows where The Farm is.”

“You said you knew,” Leonard said.

“Sometimes I lie a little,” Red said.

“What’s with your brother?” I asked.

“He used to be a Bandito Supreme.”

“If he used to be a Bandito Supreme,” I said, “he may not cotton to telling us where they hole up. He might also con us a little, get us dead. You might con us a little yourself, Red. You just said you lied.”

“I might lie now and then,” Red said, “but I’m not lying right now. Herman is not only no longer with the Bandito Supremes, he’s a preacher.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Leonard said, “lest this story turn out to be as laborious as the Book of Mormon without the good parts, but how did your brother Herman go from being a Bandito Supreme to being a preacher?”

“I’m not sure that’s such a big jump, from Nazi to preacher,” Brett said.

“Very funny, lady,” Red said. “You’re one of those who has no respect for anything. Not even religion.”

“Pardon me,” Brett said, “I didn’t know we were keeping you from prayer meetings.”

“I don’t claim to be a churchgoer, though I ought to be,” Red said. “But I believe in the church, and I respect my brother for what he’s doing. Witnessing to the lost souls of West Texas.”

“I got a feeling anyone lives out here is lost,” Brett said.

“It is ugly, isn’t it?” Red said.

“I don’t know why I’m persisting,” Leonard said. “But I want to know about this brother of yours, long as it doesn’t somehow lead back to that goddamn steak ranchero.”

“Herman, unlike myself, is normal-sized. Well, that isn’t entirely accurate. He’s large. Six four, weighs about two-forty, and can bench-press almost four hundred. Quite a bit of weight, I assure you, but as I explained last night, considering my size and weight and the fact I can bench-press two hundred pounds, he’s not as strong as me, least not in a relative sense.”