Joe Lansdale - Captains Outrageous

I knew their intent. I had seen it many times. Thugs come in all colors and sizes, but they all walk just alike. I figured a phone booth that worked, located in a dark place, this time of night, was a great spot for them to pull off a mugging.

By the time Jim Bob finished talking and came out of the booth, they were about ten feet away. He reached in his coat and pulled out one of the nine millimeters, said something in Spanish while he waved it around.

The three thugs bolted away into the darkness.

“You have such a way with words,” I said.

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth,” Jim Bob said.

“How’d it go?”

“They’re expecting us.”

“Jim Bob.”

“Yeah.”

“Ileana. You didn’t really hurt her, did you?”

“I think that sap shot hurt pretty good.”

“I mean beyond that.”

“No… You planning on dating her?”

“I merely meant I don’t want to see her hurt. I feel scummy. She’s an innocent bystander.”

“In a manner, but in another, she knows who Juan Miguel is. She knows what kinds of things he does. She profits from this, Hap. Don’t get too fuckin’ sentimental just because she’s a looker. She got in bed with this mangy, flea-bitten dog, and she’s got his fleas on her now. That’s the long and the short of it.”

We drove along the beach toward the great house that belonged to Juan Miguel. It was full of light up on the rise, stood there like a gem growing out of the ground.

We came around on its back side, stopped at a wide metal gate. There was a box you talked into, and Jim Bob did that. The gate opened. Jim Bob took the nine millimeter out from under his coat and pushed it under the car seat.

“They’re gonna search us anyway, take it away,” he said. “You got anything?”

“A wallet.”

“Put it under the seat. That’s what I’m doing.”

I did that. He said, “Anything else?”

“Nothing that isn’t attached.”

“Let’s hope they let us keep that stuff,” Jim Bob said.

We drove through the gate, down the drive, up to the house. Juan Miguel’s home was even more awesome close up, like something I thought the movies made up. Three stories high, lots of glass, the rest of it pink stone with a red tile roof and a front porch big enough to build a tennis court on. The porch was made of stone too, but snow white, as if it were bleached daily and polished. The house and porch gleamed fairy-tale-like in the soft glow of the night lights that poked out of the shrubs and palm trees, but the tall tinted windows deadened the light like cataracts.

Surrounded by low-cut shrubbery was a well-lit pool. It was to the right of the house, the color of a sapphire, the shape of a kidney. A diving board perched above it like an extended tongue. It was a big pool, and I knew from my telescopic eavesdropping it was smaller than the one at the rear of the house, which had through the looking glass appeared big enough and deep enough to provide Shamu the Killer Whale with a vacation home.

“Damn sure beats a double-wide, don’t it?” Jim Bob said.

“I once knew a fella fastened two double-wides together,” I said. “That was pretty nice.”

Jim Bob chuckled.

The door opened and two guys in tan suits came out on the stone porch. From where we sat, they looked like two fleas standing on canvas, about to go through their act. They were the two guys we had beat and tied up at the hotel in Mexico City.

As we got out of the car, Jim Bob said, “At least there are two people here who know us.”

“They are sweet,” I said, “but my guess is neither of them will be bringing pot luck lunches to Mensa’s next Christmas party.”

The air was stuffed with the smell of fresh-mowed grass and recently manicured shrubs. There was a touch of chlorine from the pool. If it had been daylight I’m sure a butterfly and bluebird would have lit on my shoulder.

The two came down the great steps carefully, as if they were afraid their pants might rip. It seemed to take them forever to cross the green, clipped lawn, make their way over to meet us. First thing they did was clobber the both of us. I took an uppercut in the belly and went down. I wanted to fight back, but didn’t. I took another clip to the side of the head, was yanked up and kicked in the ass. I made a note to remember that kick in the ass. Not to mention the fact I had a headache about the size of Alaska.

A moment later we were searched and four pesos I had in my front pocket were taken and Jim Bob lost a pocketknife out of the deal. We should have put those under the seat.

Next Jim Bob and I were hustled in front of them, toward the pool. Jim Bob had lost his hat in the beating, and it had been stepped on before he recovered it. As he walked along he was at work straightening it.

“They took it personal,” he said.

“Looks like.”

“I didn’t take the beating personal myself,” Jim Bob said. “But stepping on my hat was just mean, and I won’t forget it.”

“You’re like Leonard about his hats,” I said.

“I’ve never seen him in a hat.”

“They get stepped on.”

We went through a gap in the wall of shrubbery, between palm trees with lights on them, out to the side pool, which was bordered by copper-colored tile and on the far side there were plenty of bushes and trees and a fountain in the shape of an angel with wings spread wide. There was plenty of light on the sapphire pool and someone was in it, swimming. We were taken to a glass table, pushed down into white plastic chairs, spoken to in Spanish.

“They want us to stay,” Jim Bob said.

“I figured that much. Goddamn, my gut hurts. That fucker has quite a punch.”

“My guy hit like a sissy,” Jim Bob said.

“You’re lucky,” I said. “He hit any harder than he did, you’d look like E.T. on that side of your face.”

The person in the pool was obviously Juan Miguel. He swam a couple more laps just for show, then climbed out. He was butt-naked. One of the buffaloes gave him a long white towel and he went to drying himself.

He came over, flipping his dick and balls with the end of the towel. I didn’t know if he were merely drying himself, or if it was some kind of greeting.

Up close I could see Juan Miguel was older than he had appeared through the telescope. He was in good shape, with a slightly protruding belly, but solid muscle tone. He had all his own hair and certainly dyed it. He was probably about five ten, one ninety and proud of himself.

“Que pasa,” Juan Miguel said, and he smiled so big the light bouncing off his teeth nearly put my eyes out.

“How’s it hanging?” Jim Bob said.

Juan Miguel thought about that, then slowly he laughed. “How is it hanging. That is good. How is it hanging. As you can see, my man, it hangs quite well.”

“Yeah. It almost looks like a real dick.”

Juan Miguel said something in Spanish. One of the buffaloes stepped forward, slapped Jim Bob so hard he was knocked out of the chair and the chair went spinning. He lost his hat again. It rolled backward all the way to the shrubbery.

Juan Miguel looked at me. “Do you have a comment, sir?”

“I’m cool,” I said.

Jim Bob got up, straightened his chair, recovered his hat, sat back down. “Where do you get these guys? A girls school?”

Juan Miguel made a movement with his mouth that wasn’t quite a frown or a smile, but was certainly unpleasant. I thought Jim Bob was due for another slapping, or worse, but Juan Miguel took a breath, looked down at his package and continued drying it as if he were polishing a precious stone.

“Do you find nudity unpleasant?” Juan Miguel asked us.

“Yours, yes,” Jim Bob said. “But your woman, hey, I think she looks pretty good.”