Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

In my corner: A fat guy called Jimmy the Fix. My kid brother with his toy gun. Marcie and a house full of dead art. Burt the cop, who might answer a few questions if he felt like it and if the Feds weren’t too far up his ass. Not much of an army.

Anything else?

Oh, yeah. I was hungry. I pulled into Wendy’s, ordered a burger value meal, biggie-sized it. I ate it too fast, digested poorly. I was pissed off, my stomach sour.

I went back to the convenience store, went inside for more change. I had calls to make.

Turns out I wasn’tthe only guy in town with a kid brother.

In my hunt for Benny, I’d called a topless cocktail waitress named Ruth he shacked up with sometimes. I woke her up, and she gave me an earful. I told her I was looking for Benny, and she gave me another earful.

“He tore out of here like his ass was on fire,” she said with her cigarette voice. “Went on the road with that brother of his.”

“What’s his name?”

“Shane, I think.”

“On the road where?”

“Gainesville.”

“Why?”

“What are you, a fucking cop?”

“If I have to come over there and smash you in the mouth, you’ll wish I was only a cop.”

“Tough guy. I meet all the charmers.”

“Talk.”

“The Shane kid’s in some kind of band. They play up and down the state.”

“What’s the name of the band?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I heard her fumbling around on the other end, rustling some papers. “They call the band Spanklicious, and they’re playing at the Handlebar Saloon. Benny said he’d call me later, but he probably won’t. He said he’d be back in a couple of days, but I don’t believe that either. That’s all I know, I swear to God. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Sure. Got any messages for Benny when I find him?”

“Tell him to drop dead.”

I said I could deliver that message no problem.

Gainesville was a college town about thirty-five miles north of Ocala, and when I got there, I found another pay phone, dialed Marcie, and left a message that I might be busy for a day or two. Then I grabbed the phonebook and found the number for the saloon.

I got to the Handlebar Saloon about 10 P.M., which is when the kid on the phone said the band really got cranked up. The Handlebar was in a worn-out chunk of downtown near the railroad tracks and some other buildings that reminded me of Dresden war photos after the bombing. The dirt parking lot across from the saloon held an equal split of pickup trucks and motorcycles. There wasn’t any music when I walked in, so either the band was on break or hadn’t started yet.

The Handlebar’s interior looked like it had taken up the bombing motif. The walls were mostly exposed brick with the occasional graffiti-covered patch of yellowing plaster. The wooden tables and chairs were rickety and mismatched. The patrons were a rough, working-class lot, and I maneuvered through them as unobtrusively as possible. I found the bar and waved over a beer. The fiftyish man who brought it had a canned ham for a face, and the sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing a set of serious looking tattoos. A special forces skull on the right arm, a naked girl riding an atom bomb à la Slim Pickens – except with nipple- on the left.

“I’m looking for the band.” I placed a five-dollar bill on the bar for the dollar draft. “Are they on break?”

He nodded past me. “That’s them there.”

I looked. Three middle-aged men mounted what passed for the Saloon’s stage and grabbed guitars. A fourth sat behind the drum set. This didn’t strike me as Shane’s band, and I didn’t see Benny. The bartender brought my change, and I tried again.

“That’s Spanklicious?” I felt like a first-rate jackass saying it.

“That’s The Dan Riley Band,” he told me. “Spanklicious was the early band. Left about an hour ago.”

Shit.

I asked, “Are they playing at the same time tomorrow night?”

“They would’ve, but we fired them.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Buncha damn noise. You want another beer?”

“Sure.”

He refilled my glass and said, “All that jumping around and screaming might be fine for the college kids, but these folks all work for a living. They got enough stress in their lives.”

“Do you know where I might get ahold of them? Maybe what hotel they’re at?”

“Maureen books the bands. She’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

“It’s important,” I said. “Just point me in the right direction.”

“Mister, I’m the only one behind the bar, and people need beer. Try tomorrow.”

I finished my beer and left as the band cranked up a sluggish version of “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

I found the Ramada Inn, got a room.

I kicked off my clothes and flipped on the TV. I needed something mindless to do, so I emptied the guns out of the duffel and began cleaning them. That didn’t take long. I flipped through the channels. Shit. I flipped again. Still shit.

Okay. Back to work.

I called Burt. He answered halfway through the first ring. He was still awake, full of coffee and worry.

“Give me your number there.”

I gave it to him.

“Give me ten minutes.” He hung up.

When he called back, I heard traffic noises in the background.

“It might not be safe to talk on the home phone,” said Burt.

“You know I’m looking for Stan, Burt. Let’s start with that.”

“Look, I have no idea where he is. I’d tell you. Honest.”

“What can you tell me?”

“They got people watching Jeffers around the clock,” said Burt.

“What for?”

“Easy,” said Burt. “The FBI has been putting a case together against Beggar Johnson for three years. Now, they’re in a position to shut him down hard. Jeffers was supposed to be getting some accounting ledgers that exposed Beggar’s whole operation from Miami to Jacksonville. The Federal boys have Jeffers over a barrel. Either he coughs up the ledgers and testifies against Beggar, or they put him away.”

That didn’t make any sense. I was the one supposed to be bringing the books. Jeffers knew that. I got suspicious. I mean more suspicious. I went to the window and scanned the parking lot through a crack in the drapes. A black Ford Tempo about ten spaces down, maybe some people sitting inside. The darkness made it hard to tell for sure. Could be I had a few Feds on my tail. Maybe they thought I’d lead them to the books.

Or maybe it was Lloyd Mercury, Beggar’s big boy, the killer Jeffers seemed so worried about. I tried to recall what he looked like from the one time I’d seen him. It wasn’t difficult. You don’t forget a guy like that. He looked like a cocked gun ready to go off. Hard, mean, and quick to pounce.

I made a mental note to look over my shoulder once in a while.

“How was Jeffers going to get the ledgers?” I asked.

“Don’t know. The FBI doesn’t tell me anything,” said Burt.

That explained it. They were keeping Burt in the dark on some of the details. Maybe they suspected his loyalty. Maybe he just wasn’t important enough to know everything. If I were the Feds, I’d be careful too. I thought about those men with the badges in Toppers. They’d been Feds too. They almost had the books then except for me. I showed up and shot everyone dead.

“Thanks, Burt,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Sorry to tell you this, but the FBI has frozen a bunch of bank accounts, Jeffers’s included.” He cleared his throat apologetically. “Yours too. And I wouldn’t try getting near your safety deposit box.”

That just fucking figured. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“If you and Stan pull this thing out of the fire, just remember who was on your team.”