Rumble Tumble

Brett opened her purse, peeled out two hundred and fifty dollars and gave it to me. I put it in my wallet. I took one of the handguns and put it in the holster I had clipped under my shirt. I said to Bill, “Can we find your friends now?”

Bill nodded.

“We’ll keep your weapons here,” Leonard said to Bill. “A word of warning. Hap there. He’s one of those intellectuals, and he likes poor folks and puppy dogs, niggers, injuns, kikes and rednecks, white trash and midgets. He probably even cares you’re a poor little Kickapoo done lost your culture. But you fuck with him, he will stomp your ass into next Sunday.”

Bill looked at me. “That true, Hap?”

“Most likely,” I said. “But just so you won’t think I’m a complete humanitarian, I don’t have any kind of thing for cats.”

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.”