Bad to the Bones(6)
Knoxie’s situation had changed now. He no longer had to protect his two children—not now, when they lived in Flagstaff. “I understand, man. And you’re probably expecting me to say no. But actually…” Knoxie paused for dramatic effect. Glancing to the side, he saw that he had Lytton’s full attention. “I’ll think about it.”
Lytton was all over it. “You don’t have the ball and chain anymore,” he said excitedly. “Fact, I saw you pushing up on that Misty twat.”
“Chick,” Knoxie corrected. “Chick. She’s just a chick, now that she doesn’t act.”
“Chick. You’ve been working with the lovely merchandise since you split with Nicole, haven’t you?”
“It’s straight money, Driving Hawk. But I think I might start to see the benefits in throwing my lot in with you outlaws.”
Lytton grinned slyly. He really did look a lot like his half-brother, Ford. “Never a dull moment with us, that’s guaran-f*cking-teed. Whoa, hey, there’s Wild Man.”
The crazy-haired equipment operator had tried to hide his bike in a cavern carved in a sandstone boulder. Knoxie had never seen him this frantic before.
“Bros,” Wild Man intoned with eyes like bowling balls. He talked to Lytton with Knoxie’s engine still idling and he pointed out over the mesa. “The weirdoes ran out there. I didn’t stick around to see whether they fell off the cliff or not, but they’ve got to still be out there. None have come waltzing back around this way, and there’s no other way out.”
“Shit,” growled Lytton. “I should’ve asked for more cages if we want to pump them for intel.”
“We should wine and dine them,” Knoxie agreed.
“Right.” Lytton appeared to come to a decision. “Let’s find a couple of the sanest ones and take them back to the Citadel. Wild Man, follow us. You can take one on your bitch seat.”
Knoxie maneuvered his precious cherry Mustang off the sealed road and onto the sand. It sashayed a bit as he didn’t have four wheel drive but the sand was soft enough, if he didn’t hit any long cactus thorns.
Knoxie’s chest swelled with excitement and pride that he was doing something useful. Starring in porns was an ego boost, for sure. He got plenty of trim just by stumbling downstairs into The Bum Steer and dropping a few hints that he worked at The Triple Exposure. Since Nicole had walked out on him and taken the kids, he’d needed that boost.
But it was already getting old, stale. He saw acting as just that—acting, faking it, putting on a show, an unemotional show devoid of true feelings. The other actors were burned-out carcasses. It was hard for Knoxie to put his finger on what was wrong with these career porn actors, but they were missing something, some sensitivity chip that would have enabled them to see how hollow and paltry their career really was. It was an all right gig for a few months while he got back onto his feet again after the Nicole disaster. But now he had to move on.
“There,” Knoxie said, pointing.
The Jesus-like form of a man accustomed to wandering in the desert appeared in silhouette against the grey slate of sky. Knoxie headed for him. His eyes were caved in, so dark Knoxie couldn’t make out pupils. Had the cult been starving their members? They’d get the dirt on this swami nutjob and put the screws to him. There was no place in the Pure and Easy business world for someone like that. Especially not someone who bussed their undesirables onto a mesa and left them.
He let Lytton take point in questioning the bum. The guy really did look like a transient. His unkempt beard and scraggly hair weren’t just the result of an enthusiasm for the tarot and rebirthing. This guy shook with some serious DTs, and his hands scrabbled for Wild Man’s cigarette.
“It’s the knockout pills,” he kept muttering. He could barely light the cigarette, he was shaking so badly. In October the daytime temperature were in the low sixties, hardly cold. “The knockout pills, man.”
“What knockout pills?” Lytton asked gently. “Those cult guys give you knockout pills?”
After spewing a lungful of smoke over the men, the bum cried, “They give it to us every night with our beer! Two beers a night we were promised, and now I don’t even get that! I mean, look at us. Look at us! Kicked out like the Jews from Visigoth Spain!”
Lytton, Wild Man, and Knoxie shared looks. Was this bum an actual historian?
Lytton probed farther. “Listen man, you can trust us. We’re businessmen from Pure and Easy, downtown. This guy lives over a bar. We don’t like your guru any more than you do. Why don’t you come with us? We’ve got more than two beers a night, and we won’t put any knockout drops in them.”
“What’s your drink of choice, man?” asked Knoxie.
He instantly regretted it. The bum went into a long tirade about the various benefits and bummers of Cisco—“liquid crack”—versus Night Train and Wild Irish Rose wine. “They came out with a new Wild Fruit with ginseng, but I prefer to stick with what’s tried and true. Some people say that White Label smells like rubbing alcohol, but I think it’s got a leathery bouquet…”
Knoxie started looking around for other bums to corral. Lytton had the current bum well in hand, so Knoxie started walking out toward the cliff’s edge. This was a f*ck of a thing, that Swami booting out all the people he had no use for. Knoxie supposed he could relate. His own father had kicked him to the curb for not getting a job—at the age of sixteen. Sixteen, seriously? Weren’t teenagers supposed to finish high school before being told to get a job? The ensuing rage had fueled his determination to work out, train in the martial arts, particularly Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He may never be able to beat the crap out of his father but he wasn’t going to let the bastard get him down, either.