Six Bad Things

around the block to your folks’ place.

– And, dude, there you are, comin’ out the front door. Like, total kismet.

– We lost you when you hopped the fence, but we had seen you take your car to the garage, so we went there.

– And there you are blastin’ away from that cop. Damn! Wicked!

– So we followed.

– And I took care of that deputy dog and here we is. More props.

He sticks out his fist and Rolf props him. He offers his fist to me. I look at it.

In the cabinet with the true crime books, Sid also has some of the most rancid and violent porn I have ever seen, a stack of Soldier of Fortune back issues, the boxed Faces of Death DVD set, and some other shit that makes me suspect central casting called and requested a potential serial killer. He’s waiting, his fist held out for props. I give him props. Now is not the time to get squeamish. I just have to make sure to kill him before he can hurt anyone else. That should be easy. Look at how much more experience I have at it than him.

IT’S ABOUT a hundred and fifty miles through the Mojave to Vegas. Even at the Westphalia’s putt-putt top speed, we should be able to do it in three hours. After that? We go to Tim’s, I pay off Rolf, and he and Sid disappear. I take the rest to Dylan, and he accepts it even though it’s a bit light. I walk into a police station and turn myself in, and my folks stop getting hassled. And I begin what will end up being years and years of trials and appeals and…

But it won’t work out like that. It will never work out like that.

For now I focus on getting a step closer to the money, and keep smoking cigarette after cigarette because they seem to help just slightly with the massive headache I’ve had since Rolf and Sid started talking football.

They’re both San Diego Charger fans and are looking for help this week from my precious Fins. Rolf is still behind the wheel, Sid is in the living space of the van, stripping and stuffing all his clothes into a plastic garbage bag.

– Dude, if they can just beat the Raiders, and we take the Broncos, we clinch the AFC West. That’s all I’m asking for, one win.

As he drives, Rolf is taking hits off a sneak-a-toke that’s camouflaged to look like a stubby cigarette.

– Ain’t gonna happen, dude. And you shouldn’t be thinking like that anyway. It’s so negative. Our destiny is in our own hands: win the last two games and take the West. Don’t be looking for help from other teams, especially not the Fish, and, dude, not without Miles. Without Miles they’re rank.

I keep my eyes closed and pinch the bridge of my nose, which also seems to help a bit with the pain.

– Actually, Sid, he’s right. The Dolphins have a long history of choking in December. Win your own division and let me worry about mine. I mean, after we lose this week, we have to go to New York and get really humiliated by the Jets to finish the season.

– Dude, losing to the Jets sucks.

– Yes, it does.

Sid climbs back up front. He’s changed into bright red hemp jeans tucked into fringed moccasin boots, and a short-sleeved, blue Lycra rash guard.

– Your turn.

– Right.

I climb around him into the back and start taking off my tattered clothes. I’m still in the thermal top and ragged jeans I had on at Wade’s. The clothes I cleaned at Mom and Dad’s got left in the Monte Carlo. Now Sid wants us all to change and bury the stuff we’re wearing so we don’t “leave a chain of physical evidence.” I drop my dirty clothes into the plastic bag.

The bandage the EMT put on my leg is expert and still holding firm. It has a large red stain on it. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat, but it’s a much more manageable pain than the rods of agony that shoot through my concussed head. There’s not much I can do about that right now. The only real treatment for a concussion is rest, and that’s not an option.

I look through Sid’s duffel bag and cabinets for something to wear, but, at five nine and about a buck sixty, Sid is five inches shorter than me and forty pounds lighter.

– None of this is gonna fit.

– It’s all baggy shit, try it on.

I end up decked out in a pair of drawstring pants that just go over my waist, the cuffs dropping to the middle of my calves, and one of those hooded surf tops with the kangaroo pocket in front. There’s no way his shoes are gonna work for me, so I stick with the trail sneakers I put on way back at the bungalow.

I stop, pull my Levis out of the bag, and go through the pockets. Nothing.

– Rolf?

– Dude?

– Do you have my cash and stuff?

– Yeah, sorry, man, kind of went through your pockets while you were out. Look in the zipper pouch on my day pack under the sink.

I open the sink cabinet and take out Rolf’s red, white, and blue day pack. In the pouch I find the cash, the Carlysle ID, and the Christmas card I took from Wade’s kitchen table. I also find the Anaconda and Danny’s pistol. I stuff the card and money in my pocket. I look at the ID. I don’t recall the border guard making any record of my name when I crossed, but with my face all over the TV who knows what he’ll remember. I dump the useless ID in the garbage bag and leave the guns in Rolf’s pack.

– You’re up, Rolf.

He scoots out of the driver’s seat and Sid scoots in under him, a smooth and practiced move. He comes back and I sit on the floor while he strips naked except for the money belt. Up front, Sid slips System of a Down into the stereo and cranks it up.

Rolf dumps his clothes and finds Sid’s black leather pants.

– Haven’t worn a pair of these since I moved to Mexico.

He’s Sid’s height, but a couple pounds heavier. He has to lie on his back, kick his way into the pants, and suck in his stomach to button them.

– Sweet.

He shrugs on a yellow long-sleeved T-shirt with black stripes running down the arms, and gets his feet into a pair of Red Wing work boots.

– Kinda metalish for my taste, but fuck it, we’re incognito, right?

I don’t say anything, just tilt my head toward Sid. Rolph looks over his shoulder toward the front of the van. Sid is singing along to “Chop Suey!” Rolf looks back at me.

– What’s up, dude?

– Where did you get him?

– He’s the kid brother of this chick I used to hook up with in San Diego. Couple years ago he came to Mexico on a surf trip and looked me up. We stayed in touch. I needed a ride and some help here, so I called him.

– You know he’s a psycho.

– Dude. I knew he could get pretty violent. I mean, his pop kicked him and his sister around pretty fuckin’ hard, so that’s like his socialization, right?

I don’t say anything. He licks his lips, nods.

– OK. Yeah, dude, I know. He’s psycho. Why do you think I brought him along?

– What?

– Dude, no way I’m gonna go bustin’ a cap in any more people. I most especially don’t intend to be doin’ it now that I am north of the border. That would be unwise. But there may be killin’ to be done.

– So you brought Sid.

– So I brought Sid. Killin’ time is hard time. And, if we get caught? Hard time is not in my plans. Sid can take that heat.

I don’t say anything to the man in front of me, the man I used to go fishing with in Mexico.

– Dudes!