From Webber's five bucks, they made almost six hundred that night. Not a fist left that bar not beat deep, tattooed blue and red and eyeliner-green with the makeup from Flint's face. Some guys, they'd hit him until that hand got tired, then get back in line to use their other.
That wailing Titanic song, it almost fucking killed Flint. That and the guys wearing big honking finger rings.
After that, we had a rule about no rings. That, and we'd check to see you weren't palming a roll of dimes or a lead fishing weight to make your fist do more damage.
Of all the folks, the women are the worst. Some of them ain't happy 'less they see teeth fly out the other side of your mouth.
Women, the drunker they get, the more they love, love, love to slug a drag queen. Knowing it's a man. Especially if he's dressed and looking better than they are. Slapping was fine, too, but no scratching.
Right quick, that market opened up. Webber and Flint, they started skipping dinner. Drinking lite beer. Any new town, you'd catch one of them standing sideways to a mirror, looking at his stomach, his shoulders pulled back and his butt stuck out.
Every town, you'd swear they each had another damn suitcase. This suitcase for dressy dresses, evening dresses. Then garment bags so's they wouldn't wrinkle as much. Bags for shoes and wig boxes. A big new makeup case for each of them.
It got so their getups were cutting into the bottom line. But say a word about it and Flint would tell you, “You got to spend it to make it.”
That's not even adding up what they spent for music. Hit or miss, they found most people want to slug you if you play the following record albums:
Color Me Barbra
Stoney End
The Way We Were
Thighs and Whispers
Broken Blossoms
Or Beaches. Really, especially Beaches.
You could put Mahatma Gandhi into a convent, cut off his nuts, shoot him full of Demerol, and he'd still take a shot at your face if you played him that “Wind Beneath Your Wings” song. Least-wise, that was Webber's experience.
None of this is what the military trained them for. But, coming home, you don't find any want ads for munitions experts, targeting specialists, missions point-men. Coming home, they didn't find much of any kind of job. Nothing that paid near what Flint was getting, his legs peeking through the slit down the side of a green satin evening gown, his toes webbed with nylon stockings and poking out the front of gold sandals. Flint stopped just long enough between songs and slugs to put more foundation over his bruises, his cigarette ringed with red from his lips. His lipstick and blood.
County fairs were good business, but motorcycle runs came a close second. Rodeos were good, too. So were boat shows. Or the parking lots outside those big gun-and-knife conventions. No, they never had to look too far for a good-paying crowd.
Driving back to the motel one night, after Webber and Flint had left most of their makeup smeared on the blacktop outside the Western States Guns and Ammo Expo, Webber pulls the rearview mirror around to where he's riding shotgun in the front seat. Webber rolls his face around to see it from the mirror at every angle, and he says, “I can't be up to this much longer.”
Webber, he looks fine. Besides, how he looks don't matter. The song matters more. The wig and lipstick.
“I was never what you'd call pretty,” Webber says, “but least-ways I always kept myself looking . . . nice.”
Flint's driving, looking at the chipped red paint on his fingernails holding the steering wheel. Nibbling down a torn nail with his chipped teeth, Flint says, “I was thinking about using a stage name.” Still looking at his fingernails, he says, “What do you all think of the name Pepper Bacon?”
About by now, Flint's girl, she was off in flight school.
That's just as well. Things was sliding down hill.
For instance, just before they got set up and ready, in the parking lot outside the Mountain States Gem and Mineral Show, Webber looks at Flint and says, “Your goddamn boobs are too big . . .”
Flint's wearing a halter kind of long dress, with straps that tie behind his neck to keep the front up. And, yeah, his boobs look big, but Flint says it's the new dress.
And Webber says, “No, it ain't. Your boobs been growing for the past four states.”
“All your carping,” Flint says, “it's just cuz they're bigger than yours.”
And Webber says, real quiet out the corner of his lipstick mouth, he says, “Former Staff Sergeant Flint Stedman, you're turning into a sloppy goddamn cow . . .”
Then it's sequins and wig hair flying every which way. That night, they raked in a total of zero cash. Nobody wants to slug a mess like that, already all scratched up and bleeding. Eyes all bloodshot and mascara all smeared from crying.
Looking back, that little cat fight damn near scuttled their mission.
The reason this country can't win a war is because we're all the time fighting each other instead of the enemy. Same as in the Congress not letting the military do their job. Nothing ever getting settled that way. Webber and Flint, they ain't bad people, just typical of what we're trying to rise above. Their whole mission is to settle this terrorism situation. Settle it for good. And doing that takes money. To keep Flint's girl in school. To get their hands on a jet. Get the drugs they'll need to knock out the regular lease-company pilot. That all takes solid cash money.
The truth be told, Flint's tits were getting a little on the scary side.
Flying here, reclining on
