Blacktop Wasteland(80)
Skeet sipped from his flask. “Long time, no see. If you looking for Jimmy, you out of luck. He got picked up. Doing two years in Coldwater for possession with intent,” Skeet said.
“Nah, I’m not looking for Jimmy,” he said.
A short wide man with a Dixie flag baseball cap and a face like a gravel road ambled over to the door. He was holding a red plastic cup full of liquor. Beauregard took in the scene. The first trailer served as a bar and lounge. A raven-haired beauty named Sam was standing behind a bar made from an old sheet of plywood and some milk crates. Near the bar were five or six ragged beanbag chairs. A few people were splayed across them like dolls. The rest of the denizens were sitting around two different plastic patio tables. A long-haired hipster in khaki shorts and sandals was chatting up Sam near the bar. No one was really paying attention to the naked girl dancing on the stage made from an old high school cafeteria table. A neon Coors sign hung on the wall behind her. It gave her skin a devilish red glow. The rest of the lights were turned down just low enough so that you could still find your crystal meth if you dropped it. A pungent scent filled the air. It was a witch’s brew of weed, whiskey and body odor.
“Sam running things now?”
“Might could say that. I mean she is his sister.”
“How’s that working out?”
Skeet shrugged. “Alright. Most people just go on like Jimmy still here.”
“Uh huh. Look, Skeet, where Ronnie and Reggie at? I saw Reggie’s car outside.”
Skeet’s watery brown eyes flicked left to right. He hesitated before answering. “Well, Ronnie left a while ago. Reggie in the back,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“What you want, boy?” the man in the Dixie hat said. His words came out sideways.
“Nothing,” Beauregard said. He moved past the man. Dixie Cap reached out and grabbed his arm. Beauregard looked at the hand on his arm then at the hand’s owner.
“Can’t we have one place without you poking your head in it? Goddamn, y’all done took over the White House,” Dixie Cap said.
“If you don’t get your hand off me, I’m gonna feed it to you,” Beauregard said.
“Bobby, get on now,” Skeet said. He hopped off the stool and removed Bobby’s hand from Beauregard’s arm. Bobby mumbled something, but Beauregard ignored him. He threaded through the first trailer until he came to the intersection of the T.
Left, or right? Beauregard decided it didn’t matter. He had to be in one of the rooms back here. Jimmy Spruill rented rooms at the top of the T an hour at a time. Just in case you wanted to get high in private with your soul mate for the night. Back here Wonderland gave up any pretense of civility. The four trailers attached end-to-end were a smoked-filled Tartarus awash in dying embers and used needles. No one looked up from the belts they were tying off to acknowledge him as he passed. The layout of the bedrooms changed as you moved from one trailer to the next. Sometimes they were on your right, then they were on the left. None of them had doors. Instead they sported beaded curtains or sheets draped over a compression shower rod. When Beauregard peeped in, he wasn’t admonished. A few times he even received an invitation to join the festivities.
Reggie was in the last room in the last trailer. His pale white ass was pistoning up and down on top of the big girl that had been at his trailer a few weeks ago. His pants were bunched around his ankles. The woman opened her eyes and stared at Beauregard over Reggie’s shoulder.
“Baby,” she squeaked.
“So … close,” Reggie panted.
“Baby, somebody here!” she squealed. Reggie froze in midstroke. Beauregard stepped in the room and grabbed Reggie by the hair. He pulled him off the big girl and slammed him face first into the wall. When he pulled his head back blood was pouring out Reggie’s nose and chin. He slammed his face into the wall again. It left a bloody Jackson Pollock painting on the wall.
“Hey, Reggie, pull up your pants, we gotta talk,” Beauregard said.
Reggie pulled up his pants as Beauregard held a wad of his hair. After he had covered his narrow ass Beauregard dragged him out of the room. The large woman was struggling to get out of the bed. Her prodigious breasts spilled across her belly like an avalanche.
“You let him go!” she screamed. Beauregard ignored her and dragged Reggie down the hallway. Reggie tried to claw at the walls, but he could find no purchase. Ann finally got up and tossed on a T-shirt. She waddled after Beauregard and Reggie as fast as she could. When Beauregard reached the front lounge area, Skeet hopped off his bar stool.
“Yo Bug, what the hell?” he asked. Bobby jumped up from his beanbag and launched himself at Beauregard and Ronnie. Beauregard figured he’d been spoiling for a fight ever since he’d seen a brown face walk through the door. As Bobby hurtled toward them, Beauregard pulled the .45 out of his waist. He flipped it so that he was holding it by the barrel and slammed the butt into Bobby’s mouth and jaw. His Dixie flag baseball cap flew off as his head snapped back. Beauregard herded Reggie to the side as Bobby fell into one of the patio tables. Drinks went flying as the table collapsed under his weight. Beauregard wheeled around with the .45. He panned across the room with the business end.
“Get him!” Ann screamed.
“I’m taking him out of here. Anybody got a problem with that, say something,” Beauregard asked. No one spoke. Beauregard backed out the door with Reggie, shirtless and crying, in tow.