Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

“Let me talk,” I told Lou.

I rolled down the widow as the deputy came up to my side.

“I.D.”

I gave him the fake. He glanced at it a second then handed it back.

“What’re you doing out this way?”

“My daughter,” I said. “She took off with some bad kids out here. My old lady will have my ass if I don’t get her back.”

He nodded like he’d heard that one before. “A lot of people’s kids are in there. You’ll have to call the station later tonight after we’ve processed them all. Can’t let you through now.”

“She supposed to be with some kids in a big blue van with stars and moons on it. The band, I think. Spanklicious or some crazy thing. I’m really worried.”

He sighed. “Hold on.”

He checked with one of the other deputies and returned shaking his head. “We got a lot of cars, motorcycles, trucks. You name it. Nobody’s listed a van like that. Listen, buddy, I know you’re worried, but we got like eighty kids in cuffs out here, and the dogs are sniffing for dope now.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

As I backed out he called after me. “Call the station in the morning.”

We drove back to the bait shack and parked. It was closed, so I took a leak in the woods around back, then let Lou drive for a while. I didn’t know what to do.

“The cops probably busted the place before the band got there,” said Lou.

“Maybe.”

“You know what I think, man? I’ll tell you what I think,” said Lou. “I think that’s the end of their little mini concert tour. Right?”

“Right.”

“So they’ll probably head back for Orlando. Right?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know where to go next or what to do. And I didn’t have very much faith in Lou’s detective skills. “Let’s get something to eat. We’ll think about it.”

This whole trip was starting to feel like a wild goose chase. I missed Marcie. I worried about Ma and Danny. What was going on back in Orlando while I was tromping around in the woods?

Back in civilization, Lou spotted a pizza joint in a strip mall. He pulled in, passed a Christian bookstore, a barber, and slammed on the brakes in front of an all-night Laundromat.

“Shit.” My arms flew up to keep my forehead from smacking into the dashboard. “What the hell’d you do that for?”

“Look, man. There! Right over there.” He pointed, and I followed his finger with my eyes. At the end of a line of cars between the Laundromat and the pizza place sat a big blue Chevy van with a shitty airbrush painting of a night sky with a crescent moon.

Lou made like he was getting out of the car. “Let’s get ’em.”

I pulled him back in. “Get who, moron? All we see is a van.” I looked around but didn’t see Benny. “Okay. Back up into that space.” I jerked a thumb behind us. “We’ll wait.”

We watched for twenty minutes, people going in and out of the restaurant and the laundry, but no one going to the van. Then three kids came out of the pizza place. The fat one thought he was growing a beard, and the blond chick with short hair was cute in a dirty, gutter sort of way.

The third had to be Shane. I’d heard a description, but I didn’t need it. He was tall and cocky, good looking in that uncombed way kids are now. His black hair was pulled back in a tight, wet ponytail. His earrings looked like fishing lures. Leather jacket. Yeah. One of those. Young tough.

They took a package wrapped in brown paper from the back of the van. They looked at their watches, spoke a few words, and Shane tucked the package under his arm, gave his pals the thumbs up. They retreated to the pizza place. He went toward the Laundromat.

“Now can we get him?”

“Hold on,” I said. “What’s he doing?”

“Washing his undies? What’s it matter?”

He went into the Laundromat and took a seat between two lines of washers. It was easy to keep tabs on him. The laundry was well lit, one of those big, floor-to-ceiling windows in front. We watched awhile. Shane just sat there. The other customers filled washers, tended dryers, folded clothes. Shane lit a cigarette.

“Look,” said Lou, “let me go in there and drag the little bastard out. I’ll ring his bell until he tells us where Benny is.”

“Let me try just asking him first. I’m fairly persuasive. You stay here. Come rescue me if I get in trouble?”

“How will I know that?”

“You’ll know.”

I thought about putting on my shoulder holsters but decided I could handle Shane easy enough without the automatics. I climbed out of the Suburban and gave Lou one last firm look over my shoulder. I needed him to stay put, not cause another scene. If we needed a scene, I’d damn well cause the thing myself.

I entered the Laundromat, stood with hands in pockets, looked the place over. A shriveled lady with white hair sat with her knitting and watched the clothes tumble around in a dryer. A guy in a New Orleans Saints jersey sat under his comb-over, reading the newspaper. A few more patrons scattered around the place. Dirty laundry got clean. Wet laundry got dry. In the middle of it all sat a little piece of shit called Shane, smoking a cigarette like he was doing it a favor, waiting for an opportunity to cause the world some pain.

I sat next to him.

He looked at me. I looked back.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Ain’t nothing up, Shane. Just thought I’d pay you a visit. You look like a real prick. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Hey, fuck you, man. I don’t need this shit.” He patted the package in the seat next to him. “If you want to do business, then let’s do business. I’m not here to get jerked around.”

“I see.” I gave my brain a second to digest what he’d said. “Whatcha got there? Some junk? Spanklicious not selling any albums I bet, so you’re pushing a little smack.”

“Fucking shut up, man.” His eyes pinballed around the room, landed back on me again. “Keep your voice down. This is a private transaction.”

“I’m not who you think I am, Shane, and I’m not here to buy your dope. I’m here to find Benny-”

“I don’t know no Benny.”

“- and I’m here to drop on you like a bag of bowling balls if you don’t start coughing up some God damn answers.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the guy that’s been chasing your ridiculous band all over Central Florida. You don’t really have any fans, do you? The band’s a cover so you can ride around delivering junk.”

“Fuck you, asshole. We sold sixteen CDs last week, and I’m all done talking to your sorry ass.” He opened his leather jacket and showed me the butt of a pistol sticking out of his waistband. “Now get the hell out of here.”

My hand darted into his jacket as he was finishing his tough talk, and I grabbed the pistol, pulled it out. I twirled it in my hand as his eyes widened until I was holding it by the barrel. I lifted it high and brought the butt down on his knee with everything I had. The kneecap shifted with a fleshy thuck .

Shane fell forward, his hands going to the knee. His cry sounded like an animal. “Ohmyfuckinggod! Ow shit, oh, Christ whatthefuck.” He rocked back and forth, his eyes filling with tears. “Oh please, oh please, God.”

I stood, got a handful of his jacket in my fist, and pulled him to his feet. He hopped on one leg. “Kid, that’s just the beginning. You and me are going to have a long, painful talk.”

The Laundromat leapt into action around me. Shuffling. The unhappy click and whirl of thumbs on revolver hammers. Bullets sliding into chambers.

“Freeze, motherfucker! Police. Drop the gun right fucking now.” It was the guy in the Saints jersey. “Right now! Do it. Drop the gun.”