Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

“I’ll remember.”

The Handlebar was open early the next morning, so the third-shift crowd didn’t have to wait for normal bar hours to get drunk. I was told Maureen wouldn’t be in for an hour, so I retreated to a less dilapidated part of town for coffee. I called Marcie, left her another message. I went back to the Handlebar.

Maureen was a tired, sagging matron who didn’t look like she gave two shits about anything or anybody, least of all me. I asked her questions, and she answered, not out of kindness but because she judged it would be more trouble not to. Smart lady.

“Worst mistake I ever made,” she said. “God damn punk metal bullshit or whatever they call it. I thought maybe we’d attract a younger crowd, you know? Broaden our appeal a little.”

“But the regulars didn’t care for them?”

“The regulars wanted to kick the shit out of them. You know what they did when the crowd started booing? Spit on ’em. On everyone in the audience.”

“So you gave them the boot?”

Her nod started a ripple through the flab sacks on her face. “They wouldn’t have lasted another second, let alone another night.”

“I’m not exactly a fan, but I do need to find them. I thought you might know where they’re staying.”

“I’ll tell you what I told the other guy. Talk to Parker. He tends bar for us, and it was his idea to book the band in the first place. I should’ve fired his scrawny ass too.”

“What other guy?”

“He’s out there now.” Maureen jerked a stubby thumb at the back door. “He came in with the same questions you did, and I told him Parker was in the alley having a smoke.”

“Thanks. I better have a look.” I headed for the back door.

“Mister, I’d take it slow if I were you. This other fella’s about as big as they build ’em.”

“I’ll be careful.”

In the alley, an enormous comic book character was pushing a greasy kid up against a stone wall. He was doing it just right. The kid’s feet dangled about a foot off the ground, and the giant had to keep pushing against his chest with the flat of his meaty hand to keep him up there. The big guy was Lou Morgan.

Holy shit.

“New Guy!”

Lou whipped his head around. “Charlie?”

Lou folded the kid in half and jammed him down deep into one of the big alley trash cans. “You stay put, Parker. I got to talk to this guy.” He gave the can a loud kick for emphasis.

Parker made a cooperative noise, and Lou threw his arms around me in an uncomfortably tight bear hug. “Holy fuck, Charlie, I never thought I’d see you again.”

“Me?” Funny, but I didn’t mind the hug so much. “I thought I heard you die on the phone. How’d you get out in one piece?”

He posed muscle-man style for me. “This is the Lou-man you’re talking about. I fought my way out like a fucking champ, that’s how.”

We traded stories. I told him I was looking for Benny. I told him why.

His face fell, and he shook his head. “Damn. I was hoping to find somebody to tell me what the fuck’s going on. You mean Benny’s working for Beggar?”

“Looks that way,” I said.

“That’s a real bummer,” he said. “I liked that little guy. He was little but mean and tough, you know? I thought he was cool. Kinda gets you mad to think somebody cool like that would sell you out.”

I knew what he meant. I thought about the beers I’d shared with Benny, the times around the Monopoly table in the monkey cage. I started getting hot all up through my face. Sometimes I get so furious about stuff like that my whole body shakes, and I’m doing something harsh without thinking first. My fists tightened, and I started feeling bad for Benny, knowing what I was going to do to him.

Lou threw up his hands. “Then that’s all she wrote, man. Might as well go home.”

“We’ll go home when I say. We find Stan first, and that means we find Benny.”

“You’re not in charge of me anymore, man. O’Malley’s is ashes. The boss has hit the road.”

“You got a choice. You’re either nobody going no place, or you’re one of Stan’s boys, and we’re on the job.”

He put his hands on his hips, exhaled. “Okay, man. You’re the boss. But stop fucking calling me New Guy.”

“Whatever you say, New Guy.”

“The kid in the can’s name is Parker. He’s about to tell us useful things, aren’t you, Parker?”

I stepped around Lou and found Parker in the trash can. “How’s it going?”

“A little cramped.”

“I’m looking for Spanklicious.”

“I know the house,” said Parker. “Just get me out of here, okay? And I’ll tell you where.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Parker. I’m not here to rescue you. You tell me what I want to know.”

“And you’ll get me out of here?”

“Yeah.”

“902 Texar. It’s a one-story white house. My roommate knows the drummer, and we put them up.”

“Are they there now?”

“Maybe. I guess. I don’t know. Get me out of here, dude.”

“Okay,” said Lou. “Let’s go get them. Let’s find Benny.”

I pointed at the trash can. “What about him?”

“We don’t need him.”

“The second he crawls out of that can, he’s going to phone ahead and warn them we’re coming.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He grabbed up the lid of the trash can and clamped it down hard over Parker. The kid’s muffled protests caused Lou to pound on the lid. “Shut up in there. We’ll let you out when we’re done.” He scooped up the can by the handle, his biceps rippling without effort.

“Okay, I got him,” said Lou. “Let’s go.”

Lou Morgan was a big, dumb slab of meat good only for throwing punches and taking them. He wasn’t somebody I’d normally include in my circle of friends, and we’d only given the lug a job because we didn’t want to get our hands dirty throwing deadbeats out of O’Malley’s. A towering waste of space.

God, but I was glad to see him.

I told Lou to leavehis Harley Davidson at the Handlebar, and we took my car. We’d stuffed the trash can into the trunk. The trunk wouldn’t close, but we kept it tied down with an extension cord I’d found in the backseat.

We parked the car in front of Parker’s house and got out. Lou had fetched the trash can out of the trunk and carried it under a huge arm. I decided not to comment. I knocked on the door, but I guess Lou figured four seconds was enough to answer because when nobody let us in, he smashed the door in with one good kick. The wood frame splintered, and the door flew into the living room landing with a heavy whump .

Two naked kids pulled apart from each other and scattered. She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door. He bolted for the kitchen in his socks, clutching jeans and T-shirt in his hands.

“I got him.” Lou dropped the trash can and pounded out of the room after him.

I tried the bedroom door. It was locked but not as solid as the front door. I leaned into it good just once with my shoulder and it gave. I found her crouched on the other side of the bed with a sheet around her. She was big-eyed and scared, screamed a little when I hauled her up by a skinny arm.

I dropped her on the bed, and she said, “Don’t rape me” in a weepy, little kid’s voice.

She was maybe seventeen, slight, pale, short bottle-red hair almost burgundy and a gold ring in the nose. Her breasts were pointy fried eggs with raspberry nipples. “I’m not going to rape you, so take it easy. Shoot you in the head or smack you up some maybe, but not rape.”

That didn’t help much. Her eyes filled with slow tears.

“Aw, shit. Look, calm down, okay?” There was a half-empty bottle of third-rate bourbon on the dresser. I put it in her hands and told her to take a slug.