“In person?” Spanky smiled and the ringed beard moved around like ten pounds of lint. “Why don't you FedEx it to me, Buell? Everything comes FedEx now- ever use FedEx, Buell?”
“Yeah, sure.” Total lie.
“Got your own FedEx account, do you? We got one. Got a computer, too.” Spanky slapped the register. “Everything's computerized, Buell. Got another computer in back for ordering parts. Got E-mail, too. Know what E-mail is, Buell?”
Motor didn't answer. What an asshole. It dawned on him that Spanky looked… Jewish. Like onea them rabbis with that beard- put a hat on him, send him back to fucking Israel.
“E-mail, Buell. You send messages through the computer, phone calls, doesn't cost. You can get dirty pictures on the computer too, Buell. Amateurs, anals, facials, anything. Or just use your E-mail to write ‘fuck you' to some asshole- anything you want. What I'm saying, Buell, is it's a new world out there, dude's gotta change with the times. Once upon a time a dude could sit on his ass, scrounge himself a scoot, live free. Now you got to have more than gas money.”
Spanky looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. What was the asshole getting at?
“Nowadays you gotta produce something, Buell. Goods and services- like making a scoot or tuning it. I get doctors, lawyers, already have the Mercedes, but they're heavy into the putt. People producing something.”
“Lawyers,” said Motor, “produce more shit than a bear with the runs.”
Spanky didn't laugh. Not even a smile. “Right, Buell. That's why they can pay for their parts and you're trying to give me thirty bucks.”
“Hey, man-”
“Yeah, yeah, you wanna scrounge the parts pile, awright, but this is the last time, man. And first you gotta go over to the Bell and get me some grub.” Spanky scratched the interior of his left nostril. “Three tacos- get me the soft ones and a beef burrito, extra guac, extra sauce. And a cheese enchilada. And a jumbo Coke. You pay for my dinner, maybe I'll let you scrounge. At least you're producing something- no goods, but at least it's a service. It's all about economics, Buell.”
The Taco Bell was three blocks away and Motor's heels hurt with each step, all that weight pounding down, the worn-down boots not helping. His thighs chafed through filthy denim. When he got there, he was sweating from exertion. He ordered Spanky's food, scowling at the beaner kid, who said, “Yes, sir?” and stopped smiling when he saw Motor's face.
He was about to leave when he saw it, on one of the tables.
L.A. newspaper. He didn't read newspapers- who gave a shit. But this one, the picture, made him notice.
Fuck if it didn't look like Sharla's rug rat.
He picked it up. It took him a long time to finish the article, and he had to go over it twice to be sure. He'd always had trouble reading, words not making sense, some letters upside down. His old man called him a retard, look who's talkin', fucking unemployed janitor, dead at forty-five from a fucked-up liver. Mom not much better in the booze-slave department, but at least she didn't bug him. She couldn't read good, either.
Finally, he got through it. Was this for real? Witness to a murder? Hollywood?
He studied the picture some more. Looked exactly like the little rat.
Had to be the rat- he'd split, what, four months ago?
And kids always split to Hollywood. Motor had ended up there himself, Old Brain Fry kicking his ass after he flunked tenth grade for the third time, finally telling himself, Fuck it, I'm gone.
He took the Greyhound that time, too, stealing bucks out of Brain Fry's jeans. Scared when he got there, the place was huge, but walking tall, letting people know he wouldn't take shit.
Full grown, he looked older than his age, had few problems on the streets of Hollywood, where he strong-armed money from smaller kids, mugged old farts, ripped off a Jap bike from the Roosevelt Hotel parking lot, stripped it, sold the parts, got himself an old hybrid H-D Shovelnose from one of the bikers who drank at the Cave.
Best scoot he'd ever owned. Someone had stolen it from right under him.
He bunked in an abandoned building on- where was it?- Argyle. Yeah, Argyle, big empty apartment fulla junkies, place smelled of puke and shit and he never slept good, always looking out in case someone was out to get him. His size helped; so did beatin' the shit out of anyone smaller who crossed his path. And the nigger he knifed for looking at him the wrong way- that got around, he got himself a street rep.
The black leather jacket he bought at a Van Nuys swap meet got him tight with the bikers at the Cave. Onea them sold him fake ID so he could go inside and drink. Gettin' nice and thick with them, thinking he'd be able to join some club, then they just stopped actin' friendly- he never really understood why.
So kids split to Hollywood for sure.
The rat, too? Why not? The little shit was too small to fight for himself, so he was probably whorin' that skinny little bod, catchin' it backdoor, probably had AIDS.
Gone four months. Sharla still cried once in a while and he had to yell at her to shut the fuck up. Cryin' but not doin' a damn thing to find the rat. Pretendin' to give a shit- what a stupid whore. Once she sat up in bed, middle of the night, shoutin' about sick-eydas, sick-eydas, over and over, him shaking her, saying what the hell is a sick-eydas. Her looking at him, saying, Nuthin', cowboy. I had a bad dream.
It was time to move on, get a real chick.
Twenty-five grand; this could be the way.
He was already ahead of the pack: knew Hollywood, knew the rat.
If he had to fill his scoot with blood, he'd get down there.
It was well after dark by the time he made it back to the trailer.
Sharla was in the kitchen, popping a beer. “Hey, cowboy, whereya been?”
Ignoring her, he found a flashlight, went outside, taped the light to his handlebars, and began installing the scrounged parts. The plugs were brand-new; he'd lifted them when Spanky wasn't watching. Latest Rider, too; the Fox of the Month was Jody from El Paso, Texas; those black nipples. She said she liked to putt without any panties on.
He was doin' good when the trailer door opened. Sharla stood there, T-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Hands on hips, onea those kiss-me smiles.
He said, “Go inside, make me somethin' to eat.”
“How 'bout a kiss?”
“Get me somethin' to eat. Move it.”
She gave that hurt little baby look. “What do ya wannna eat?”
“What I want I can't get, so cook me up twoa those TV dinners. Macaroni and cheese, Salisbury steak- go on, move!”
She obeyed. At least one thing the bitch did good.
By 11 P.M., he'd gotten the scoot humming, filled his gut, had three beers.
Twenty-five g's! Like onea them bounty hunters.
Sharla waited for him to finish, then tried to get romantic. He pushed her head into his lap and finished quickly.
Hoovered, zipped, ready to roll!
She was in the bathroom washing her mouth out when he pawed through her purse, found five more bucks in change.
He was at the door when she came after him, said, “Hey.”
He ignored her, checked his pocket for his keys.
“Where ya goin', cowboy?”
“Out.”
“Again?” That tone of voice he hated- like a trannie about to fail.
She took hold of his arm. “C'mon, cowboy, you just got here.”
“And now I'm splittin'.”
“C'mon, I don't wanna be alone.”
“Watch TV.”
“I don't wanna watch TV, I want company. And hey.” Battin' her lashes, puttin' his hand on her tit. “I made you happy, how 'bout me?”