Chapter 19
“What the hell am I going to do with myself,” I asked Homer. He looked up at me curiously, his face turned at an angle. What seemed like a smile crossed his snout from ear to ear.
“What are you smiling at, dummy? Can’t you tell I’m this close to a long-term living arrangement at the nearest county jail?” He just kept staring at me like I was making sense.
“When I get back to Santa Monica there’s gonna be blood on the streets. Take my word for it, Homer.” I was talking out loud to a dog, but I felt better for it. You’ve got to tell your troubles to someone.
“That woman almost got me twenty years in some desert hell. Or worse, that SWAT team could have killed me back there. They don’t give a damn who they take down. It’s target practice to them.” I took a deep breath. “The courts, the establishment, they’ll protect the lawmen, but not me. I’m nobody in this world, Homer.” I looked around, checking to see if anyone was watching. “It looks like she wanted her ex in jail pretty badly, trying to set him up like that. Or maybe she wanted to put me away. But why, Homer?” He looked back like I had a good point. “It’s not over yet. We’ve got to get out of this burg tonight, pooch.” I was appreciating his wide-eyed interest. “Wait till it gets dark. We’ll hop in the car and be back in L.A. for the breakfast special at Norm’s. I’ll have the pancakes and eggs and you can have all the bacon you want, my friend. It’s on me.”
“Got a smoke you could spare?” The voice came from directly above and behind, scaring the hell out of me. It belonged to a homeless man of medium height, dirty, disheveled, and unshaven; he looked and smelled like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in months.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke.” I tried to be nice.
“I talk to my dog sometimes, too,” he went on. “They understand what we say to them. My dog knows what I’m gonna say even before I say it.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s right.. Say, you from out of town?”
“Yeah. I’m waiting for the Greyhound bus to take me home.”
“The bus station’s downtown. You’re in the wrong damn place.” He chuckled drunkenly. “And don’t get cute with me, pal. I’m just trying to be friendly.”
I decided to cool it with this guy. “Sorry about that. I’m just waiting for a friend. I told him I’d meet him here. That’s why I got my bag with me.”
“Jeez, this is some damn place to wait for a friend. What are you, some faggot? Hiding in a back alley so you can get it up the wazoo?” He let out a big hoarse laugh, which turned into a coughing fit before subsiding a few moments later.
“Look, buddy, I just want to sit here with my dog for a while, that’s all. I’m meeting a friend and that’s all you gotta know. I’m not putting you on.”
“Hell you aren’t. You’re full o’ shit. I don’t believe a word you’re tellin’ me. But heck, why should you give a crap what I say?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Chuck. Nice to meet ya.”
“Nice to meet you too, Chuck. I’m Bob,” I shook his hand cautiously, which brought a growl from Homer’s throat. “Don’t worry, he won’t bite.” I could have bitten off my tongue for giving the bum that information.
“What’s his name?”
“Homer.”
“Homer? I like that name. I had a dog once, named him Triple.” He broke into a hoarse laugh again. Seems this bum once had stand-up aspirations.
“That’s pretty funny, Chuck,” I mumbled.
“Pretty dog you got there, Bob. I must say.” Homer was glaring at him and growling under his breath, but not enough to move this bum along. “You out of cash or something?”
“Yeah, I am, and I’ve got some things on my mind too. Look, Chuck, I’m not in the mood to talk much right now.” His eyes sank into a hurtful gaze. “Nothing personal. You can sit down if you want.” I moved over to make room for him on the concrete ledge. I thought I was losing a couple of screws.
“That’s mighty nice of you,” he replied, as he made himself comfortable next to me. “I could tell right off you’re not from around these parts. But I’ll tell you, Flagstaff’s a mighty good place to raise a family. Good people in this town, Bob. I’ve been here all my life. Not too many niggers ‘round here like ya have in L.A., though we got our share of wetbacks and injuns. Would you like a swig of my liquor, Bob?” He got up and slipped a bottle out of his pants pocket. It stunk of cheap whiskey. He quickly took a swig, then offered it to me.
“No thanks, Chuck. I’m not feeling too well.”
“Go on, it’ll make you feel better.”
“I don’t think so, really.”
“I’m no jungle bunny. You won’t get some disease,” he cracked.
“Well-”
“I insist. Go on and take a swig. You’ll feel a lot better.” He’d been holding it up to my face throughout this whole give-and-take.
“All right.” I couldn’t resist him anymore. I took the bottle and held it up above my opened mouth, trying hard not to touch it with my lips. The whiskey flew out the container and down my throat and had me gagging for a minute or two, coughing and spitting to ease the sting of alcohol. He stood up and laughed his head off, then got quiet and sat down next to me again.
“Police been busy tonight, Bob. I think they busted some poor bastard down the road a bit. Probably some damn wetback, always causing trouble ‘round here. Where ya from, did ya say?”
The moon was beginning to rise in the east, and the desert sky was getting darker by the minute. But not dark enough to get back on the road. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to relax, and figured a bit of conversation might do the trick.
“I’m from L.A., Chuck. I was just visiting some people I know in Sedona and I’m about to head back. Nice town, Flagstaff. Were you born here?” I wasn’t even listening to myself.
“I told ya I was born in Flagstaff. You’re not listening to me, Bob.” He took another swig from his bottle. “I know some people in Sedona, good people.” He was quite drunk by now. “Take another drink, Bob. Go on, you need it.”
I did the same damn thing again, then coughed and spit and cleared my throat once more. But I was getting into a genuine hobo moment, which helped to get my mind neatly off my troubles.
We sat there sharing that bottle for another fifteen minutes or so, and I was getting quite soused. We had a hearty discussion over the merits of whiskey vs. wine, he thought whiskey was better. He abruptly changed the subject when I expounded on the qualities of Merlot.
“You know, Bob, this country’s going to shit...real shit. Right down the drain.” He’d taken on quite a serious tone.
“I suppose so. There are a lot of things wrong with the country,” I broke in. “It’s all about who you know.” I was pretty talkative and wanted to share some of my own philosophy with this bum. “You’ve got to have serious money the way things work in this land. If you don’t have connections, Chuck, you’ve got to start at the bottom and you pretty much stay there, end of story. Take me for instance. I’m barely surviving these days. I’m so desperate I’m taking on jobs that can get me killed or incarcerated just to pay for food and rent. I don’t really mind, though. I kinda like the excitement, except I’m going in circles. Can’t get out of the barrel. I’m drowning, Chuck. I’ll be making my bed each night out here in this alley with you if things don’t start looking up.” I let out a nervous laugh, but he stayed dead serious. “You see, Chuck, you either got your hands on the controls, or the powers that be will grind you to dust.” I was probably getting ahead myself with this bum, but I kept going anyway. “Without money, you see, you end up holding the shit end of the stick. Kill or be killed, it’s the law of the jungle. Without money you’re nothing, a loser. You won’t get anywhere in this damned world.” I was beginning to regret our conversation quite a bit.
“Hey, Bob, I’m gonna tell ya something urgent now.” His tone turned solemn. “This country is falling apart. Yes sir, we got enemies all around. It’s a racial war we’re heading for. You see, my friend, we’ve got these mongrels comin’ in from all over the planet spoiling up the country. They get together with the niggers and we’re a minority in our own country, Bob.” I wondered if he was ranting off of some pamphlet he had memorized. “There’s gonna be a war, I tell ya, Bob. White man’s fading fast. Yes, he is, real fast. Jews control the country. You know that, Bob? They’re runnin’ the show. Yessir, we gotta take back this country. Its war, I tell ya, us against the niggers, gooks, Mex, what have you. White man’s gotta rise up an’ fight. Things are real bad, my friend.” His words faded out as he took another long swig from his bottle. I looked him over, head to toe. Not quite the Aryan specimen, I thought.
I had the feeling he was gonna stick that Jew thing in there; some freakin’ antenna I have told me that. But after the sting of his words went away, I realized who I was dealing with, so I let it go.
“I’ll tell you what, Chuck. My buddy will be here any minute but before he gets here I’ll spot you twenty dollars. I want you to get yourself a nice steak and potato dinner right away. Okay, chum?” I took out my wallet and flipped out a twenty-dollar bill. I was feeling mighty generous. “Tell you what. Here’s another ten-spot. Get yourself a bottle of whiskey or whatever you like to drink, it’s on me.” I put the money in his hand. A strange, gracious mood was overtaking me and I was feeling helpless in front of it.
“Bob, I can’t thank you enough for this. Why don’t we go have that steak together?
“I really can’t, Chuck. I don’t have time now. But you take good care of yourself.”
“Well, I don’t know how to thank ya for this, Bob.”
“It’s my treat. Enjoy it.”
“You think about what I told ya now, Bob. This country’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket.”
“I’ll do that,” I replied.
He got up and tucked the money into the back pocket of his filthy, faded, torn jeans, got up and turned to go, much to my relief. But he turned around abruptly, and I could see the small switchblade knife in his right hand. His face was flat and expressionless, but his intentions crystal clear. I stood up real fast.
“Give me the rest of your money, Bob,” he demanded.
“Wait a minute, Chuck. I just gave you some cash, won’t that hold you for a while? What’s this all about?”
“Give me what you got in your wallet, chump. Just hand it over, or I’ll cut a hole right through you.”
“Hey, Chuck, it’s only money. You can have it.” I tugged at my wallet, but my hand was shaking so hard I couldn’t get it out of my pocket. I had to think it through, telling my fingers what to do like I was operating a crane. I finally got the damn thing out. He grabbed it and started walking away real fast.
I watched him weave his drunken course a short way down the alley, but I didn’t want him getting away so easily. He was a Nazi and a low-down thief to boot, turning on a dime after I showed him a good deal of generosity. I couldn’t really blame the guy, though. Being at the bottom takes its toll. Nevertheless, I worked hard for that money.
I picked up my gym bag and started running after him. He turned to face me with that dirty switchblade flashing in his hand. I stopped a few yards short, pulled out the handgun from my bag, and aimed it straight at him. I didn’t want to kill him; I just wanted to send a message from one aggrieved party to another.
“Give me back my money, Chuck. I don’t want to have to use this.”
“You’re too chicken, Bob.”
“Don’t push your luck. Just throw the wallet down, and start running away real fast.”
“You’re a big city fella, Bob, I can tell. Nothing wrong with that, except you’d never shot a man before. Now you take a walk to the other side of this alley before I stick you good and hard.” He started for me, and there was no doubt what he had in mind.
My inner voice told me to listen to his advice, but I couldn’t put that gun back in the bag for all the money in the world. It was stuck to my palm with too much frustration and disgust, like some kind of invisible Velcro.
I got off a round, hitting him somewhere below the waist. He fell and rolled to the side, curling up into a fetal position while he groaned in pain and cursed me to no end. I ran over and went for his back pocket, pulled out my wallet, and pointed the gun in his face. He was shaking like a leaf. I smiled and let him know who was boss before running back for Homer, who wisely stayed put. If I needed proof I was a piece of work, this was it.
I cursed myself and my stupidity, but none of that brought back the K-mart bullet I’d put in his groin. He was lying there screaming in pain. I stood around staring at him, and even felt some pity, before an adrenaline rush took hold and had me moving fast. I grabbed my bag and Homer’s leash and got the hell out of there.