Luis Alberto Urrea - The Water Museum

Joey shuffled along under the weak beach sun burning through the haze. He bobbed his head, rocking that Walkman, trying to understand Doug Kershaw’s Cajun English, trying to see what Philthy Phil enjoyed about this fiddling country jam. His Chuck Taylors slapped on the sidewalk — half mile to the bus stop, catch the 8:00 up Balboa, transfer to the 8:38 number 5 down toward Tecolote Canyon, hop off at the old elementary school, and hoof it a half mile over to the Filgates’.

There’s never been a man alive who lived his life and died fully satisfied.

He glanced around. He was paranoid. He thought he might make it to work as long as that fucking Butchie didn’t come banging after him in his black 1968 Charger: Big Black. Butchie and his Mexicali gangster partner, Salvador. Out for blood.

* * *

He made it to the corner in time to catch the bus. No freaks. No Big Black.

Joey sat in the backseat and listened to Jack Bruce sing about having a ticket to the waterfall. He loved that. Weird lyrics. Dreamy, like. Mysterious. He almost didn’t notice the Charger pulling up behind the bus and cruising in its wake like a black barracuda.

Butchie and Salvador. It was all stupid, really. So lowlife, when you thought about it for a minute. Joey was pretty sure they’d leave Moms out of the ugly. She didn’t have anything to do with it, aside from Butchie popping a boner every time he saw her. But he himself was starting to feel like he was toast.

The troubles had started when the Visigoths ran afoul of the Mongols. The Mongols did not approve of the new club forming and crowding the territory they’d already fought the Hells Angels over. When the war broke out, the Visigoths were doomed — you didn’t take on the Mongols MC unless you were ready for Armageddon. Philthy Phil might have been ready, but guys like Butchie were not. Joey didn’t know if Pops did the shooting, but somebody did. And when Pops was taken in, he’d left hidden weapons in the garage. Including Butchie’s WWII Nazi Luger.

The club disbanded, and the smart members moved to Nevada. But Butchie wanted his gun back. When he came sniffing around, Joey had stupidly lied to him. He didn’t even know why — after all, he had all his dad’s crap. Butchie didn’t know he was lying, though he figured everybody was a crook. He was studying Wyatt’s boy like a textbook, looking for the penetration points. He could swallow the Luger scam if this new play paid off. Though Joey would still probably have to pay, get a li’l discipline for lying to Uncle Butchie.

Butchie’d shown up at the screen door while Moms was at work last night. He was raggedy and yellow-eyed. Two big Rottweilers in tow.

“Jo-Jo,” he said. “You seen a fine example of German military design hereabouts?” He sniffed and giggled.

“What’s that?” Joey said, looking at the beasts standing behind Butchie.

“Aryan dog flesh, Jo-Jo. That’s what that is. Diesel and Death.”

The big dogs slobbered and grinned when Butchie said their names.

“I don’t know nothin’ about no gun,” Joey said.

“Who said anything about a gun?” Butchie cried. He’d been sniffing some joy, for sure. He waggled an accusatory finger at Joey.

“Yo,” said Joey, thinking fast, “what else would it be? Like, a Panzer tank?” He snorted.

Butchie scratched his chin: whiskers went scritch.

“Cool,” he said. “But see you tomorrow? We cool? You cool with that?”

“I guess,” Joey replied.

“Cool!” Butchie enthused. “Come on, children.” He shook the chains and the dogs shuffled after him.

* * *

Joey was stuck. Butchie had been hanging out at the Catamaran, dropping sweet tips and sweet talk on Moms, all to get a handle on the whole Filgate scenario.

The Philosopher had drunkenly spoken of the old man’s antiques and samurai swords and big glass water jug full of change (probably $300 right there) in that house. That locked-up house — had locks on the gate and locks on the garage and about five deadbolts inside, and Butchie and Salvador were going to wait till Joey was inside to unlock Fort Knox for them. Hell, they’d already dreamed up gun collections and aged bourbon in hundred-dollar bottles. All Joey had to do was open the door. Butchie figured Jo-Jo owed him that much.

Butchie lounged around like a dirty shirt hung on a nail, his teeth black at the roots, his tweaked-out eyeballs jumping like Mexican souvenir beans in little bone bowls. He had a waxed-up flattop haircut like some bogus marine.

Pops had dissed Butchie round the clock. Loser. Joey was thinking about this when he got off the bus and hustled to the stop in front of Del Taco. Screw it — he was early. He was going on down to Dunkin’ to see if Sherri was in. Sometimes, though she worked late nights, she hung out in the shop with a tall coffee and some day-olds and shot the shit with the day girls. Ever since her divorce, she had no place else to go.

But what he really liked was that she was the only chick he’d ever met who had read the same books as Philthy Phil. Crazy books — she actually had the same paperback Necronomicon Spellbook that Pops had. And it was cool that she was older. She could tell him all about the secret magic signals in Zeppelin songs. There was nobody around now with secret stuff in songs like that. Well, maybe Tool. But he didn’t understand what Tool were talking about.

Sometimes he’d sit there with her until the morning shift showed up, and he couldn’t tell how he’d stayed all night.

He was hurrying down the sidewalk when he felt the blackness sidle up to him. Damn. He pulled out the earbuds, and there it was: that Hemi engine gurgling through those twin glasspack pipes. That hot rod sound Moms called “rocks in a coffee can.” The long front fender of the Charger slid along beside him. Diesel and Death in the backseat like fat grandmothers.

Salvador rolled down his window.

“Jo-Jooooo,” he taunted. Yo-Yooooo.

“Hey, hotshot,” Butchie shouted from the driver’s seat. “We got a date tonight! Don’t screw it up. Hear me?”

Joey looked at them.

“It’s your dad’s play, Jo-Jo,” Butchie called. “I didn’t think it up. And. Uh. You, like, owe it to us.”

“Yeah,” said Salvador.

He was pointing his finger at Joey.

“Pow pow pow,” he said.

Joey didn’t even get what about that was making them laugh.

“Whoa!” shouted Butchie. He held up a fist. “Knock it!” He and Salvador bumped knuckles.

“Blow it up!” Their hands flew apart, mouths went BWOOSH! “Make it rain!” Their fingers wiggled past their faces. “Hey!” Butchie hollered. “You goin’ down to buy a donut?”

Joey shook his head right away.

“No? You look like a man looking for a donut!”

“How ’bout a churro?” Salvador asked.

This utterly busted up Butchie and he swerved and smacked the wheel.

“Beaner’s the tits, ain’t he, Jo-Jo?” he shrieked.

Joey nodded.

“You’re sweet on that Sylvester Stallone — lookin’ bitch in the donut shop. Am I right?”

Joey shook his head.

Salvador smacked his hand on the side of the Charger.

“I know all. Yeah?” Butchie called. “There are no secrets. So! Tonight, right? To-night!”

Joey shrugged.

“Yes?”

“Okay, okay. Yeah,” Joey said. His face was burning. He was not ashamed. But he was blushing like a mofo, and he felt dizzy. He felt like a tornado was coming down the street and his feet were caught in a huge wad of bubble gum.

“My man!”

“We be outside, güey!” Salvador shouted. “Waiting.”

“Just open that goddamned door,” Butchie said and shifted hard and chirped the tires as he burned away from the curb in massive blue exhalations and fartings as Big Black forced a Prius out of its way.