Jim Bob found his hat and put it on and winced. “Owww. Man, he was trying to put me through that door… Thanks for wanting to help, Dane. And fuck you, Ben.”
“I sure hated to see you whip that bastard,” Russel said.
Russel went over and rolled the Mexican on his stomach and got a wallet out of his back pocket and opened it and looked for identification. He read what he found and put the wallet back. He said, “There’s a little sap in his back pocket too. Be glad he didn’t take that t take out.”
“I am,” Jim Bob said. “That identification didn’t say he was called Fred Miller, did it?”
“No, smart ass, it didn’t,” Russel said.
Jim Bob walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. Russel shook out a cigarette and stood with it unlit between his lips, watching the door. No one opened it. Jim Bob knocked. Still no one opened it.
Jim Bob came back and went over to look at where the back of the Nova was pressed against the Bitch. “You look at that? My fucking rear door is totaled.”
“Get the license plate number if you want to fuck with insurance,” Russel said.
“After I kicked his ass?” Jim Bob said. “No thanks. I might have to kick it again, and I’m not sure I can. Shit, look at that.”
He walked over to the Mexican and grabbed the man’s pants leg and pulled it up a little bit, revealing a small holster with a small revolver.
“I’m glad he wasn’t in no O.K. Corral mood,” Jim Bob said.
“Let’s go,” Russel said, “neighbors might have seen us.”
Jim Bob went back and looked at his car. “Damn.” Then he glanced at the Nova. The trunk hood was bent up and knocked open. Jim Bob looked inside. “A movie lover,” he said.
I went over and looked. There was a small box of videotapes. They had little stickers on their spines and the names of movies written on them. Some of the movies were Mexican, some were English and American. One of them read Star Wars. Jim Bob reached that one out of the box, held it up.
“I’ll just call the beating I gave that sumbitch and this here my insurance settlement. Ain’t enough, but it’ll do.”
We got in the car and Jim Bob drove us out of there.
30
We had some hamburgers and fries at a McDonald’s and sat in a back booth and considered things. There was a lot to consider.
“Well, as the little ole lady asked,” Jim Bob said, “what the fuck does it all mean? Who was that big Meskin and what was he doing backing out of Freddy’s garage late afternoon with a trunkload of videotapes, and is he evidence that you can still buy driver’s licenses at Sears?”
“Maybe your detecting is off, and that isn’t Fred Miller’s house,” Russel said.
“That’s his house, and you know it,” Jim Bob said. “I don’t fuck up that bad.”
“It doesn’t seem that mysterious to me,” I said. “Freddy has a friend who’s Mexican, and the guy has run of the house and he was over there for whatever reason and he just happened to have his movie collection in the trunk of his car. Maybe he shares the place with Freddy. Could be a way to meet the bills or something.”
“When you get right down to it,” Jim Bob said, “it don’t matter. What matters is that our friend, Ben, here, ought to just call Freddy up and get it over with.”
“I don’t feel comfortable doing that,” Russel said.
“You’re not going to feel any more comfortable about it tomorrow,” Jim Bob said.
“Maybe not,” Russel said, “but I’ll know when I’m ready.”
“He’ll know,” Jim Bob said. “You get that, Dane? He'll know. Shit.”
We went on back to Jim Bob’s place, and Russel didn’t talk much. For that matter, neither did Jim Bob, and I wasn’t chatty myself. Jim Bob tuned in a country and Western station and sang along with the songs a little, and damned if he wasn’t pretty good.
At Jim Bob’s house, Russel went to take a bath and Jim Bob got us both a beer and I sat on the couch and Jim Bob took a chair next to the television.
“I don’t know about you, pardner,” Jim Bob said, “but I’m so bored I could sing to my dick.”
I was trying to visualize that, and having some trouble, when Jim Bob said, “Hey, let’s watch that damn movie. Star Wars.”
“It’s good,” I said. “But it looks better on the big screen.”
“Get me a big screen and we’ll play it on that,” Jim Bob said. “But in the meantime, I’m gonna play it on that nineteen-inch RCA there. You don’t mind me watching it do you?”
“No. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”
“Good, cause I was gonna watch it anyway.”
Jim Bob had left the video out in the Bitch and he went through the garage and got it. When, he came back he had a dark scowl on his face. “Man, that Nova screwed the Bitch good. I’m gonna call a man I know about getting it fixed tomorrow.”
Jim Bob went over and slipped the cassette into the VCR and turned it and the television on. “I got some popcorn,” he said. “I could fix us some.”
“I could always eat popcorn,” I said.
The video crackled and popped and there were ripples. Jim Bob started to get up to make the popcorn, but he hesitated. “Looks like a bad copy.”
“You'll want to turn it off to make the corn anyway,” I said. “This stuff with the big spaceship at the first is pretty fine.”
But there were no credits and no Stars Wars. There was bad video camera work with a young Mexican girl sitting on a bed with her hands and feet tied.
“What the hell’s this? This ain’t Star Wars is it?”
“No,” I said. “It looks like some sort of cheap porno tape.”
Then the big Mexican Jim Bob had fought stepped into the camera’s eye. He was naked and sexually ready and looked even bigger without his clothes.
“Shit,” Jim Bob said, ” b said, home movies of the Mex and his old lady.”
The Mexican went over to the girl and pushed her back on the bed and undid the binding at her feet and spread her legs and got on top of her. The girl didn’t fight.
She was very complacent. Only her eyes suggested she didn’t like what was happening.
The Mexican didn’t waste any time, and when he finished he stood up by the bed and another man stepped into view. He was naked too. He was a head shorter than the Mexican and not nearly so wide and sporting a little paunch, but he still looked powerful. The camera angle switched then and we got a closer look at his face. He had thinning, blond hair and blue eyes and nice teeth and he was showing all of them. The camera went back to its original side-view angle and the blond man got on the girl and did what the Mexican had done. When he was finished he grabbed the girl by the hair and pulled her to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and she let out a little squeak like a mouse with a brick on its tail. The blond man put out his hand and a hand off camera put a little revolver in it. The girl understood suddenly what was going to happen and she tried to lift her bound hands to her face but the man with the gun was too quick and he shot her in the forehead. Blood leaped out the back of her head and went all over the bed and she fell back in it with her arms out, kicked briefly with one leg like she was jump starting a motorcycle and wet herself. The urine pooled under her and blended with the blood and her left eye rolled up in her head and her right stayed fixed as if it had discovered something unique on the ceiling. The camera went close on her face and the hole in her head was tiny as the width of a dime with a bead of blood pushing out of it. The blond man’s face came into view and he licked the bead away and rolled it around in his mouth as if tasting wine.
Static replaced the picture. Jim Bob reached out and cut the video off. He turned to me and his voice was hoarse. “That was for real. An honest to God snuff film.”
“He’s older, heavier, and losing some hair,” I said “but he still looks like his photograph, and when he took
