"Yeah? Fer who?"
"Just a... a place across the street."
Balls looked across the street. He saw a liquor store, a thrift shop with a CLOSED sign, an ice-cream parlor with a CLOSED SIGN, another place whose sign read simply RELAX AT JUNES, and a shoe store with a CLOSED sign.
"Laundry, you say?" Balls questioned, confused. "Where ‘cross the street needs laundry done?"
Dicky shuffled his feet. "Aw, just a place, but the pay ain't bad—five bucks'n hour under the table."
Balls raised a brow. "Righteous," but then he squinted across the street again. "So's... where do you work?"
"The place that says Relax At Junes," Dicky finally admitted, trying not to blush. "Ain't nothin' I brag about much. See, it's really a massage parlor. Ya pay twenty bucks fer a massage, then if ya tip the gal another twenty, she jerks ya off."
Balls shook his head. "Hail, a buck's a buck, I guess, but... " Balls squinted at the laundry bags. "Dicky, I still don't git the laundry part. Laundry? From a jack shack?"
Dicky opened one of the plastic bags, and out wafted a rich, stifling yet readily familiar scent that was turning into a stench.
"Ho-boy!" Balls exclaimed. He stepped back, fanning his hand before his face.
The bag was stuffed to bursting with white wash cloths. Dicky continued, "See, after the fella blows his load, the gal wipes it up with one'a these rags... "
Balls scratched his head, befuddled. "Hail, Dicky, I'se smelt cum before, shore, but I'll be damned if I don't smell some shit in there too."
Dicky smirked. "Yeah, well, see, Balls, if ya tip the gal an extra twenty, she'll stick her finger up yer ass whiles she's jerkin' ya."
"Yer shittin' me," Balls replied. "Them gals workin' there... they ever lay any of that finger-action on you?"
"Fuck no!" Dicky assured his pal. "I don't want nothin' goin' up my asshole! I ain't no queer," and with that, Dicky stuffed the rags back down into the bag—with a bare hand—then twirled the bag closed again.
"Dicky, you just put'cher hand in a bag chock full'a cum-rags," Balls pointed out.
"Aw, shee-it, I ain't grossed out by touchin' 'em none. My Uncle Wally always said a little nut never hurt no one."
Balls reflected on the information. "Why would yer uncle tell ya that?"
Dicky faltered. "Oh, uh, no reason. Just somethin' he said once," he quickly excused.
Now Balls chuckled a bit. "So that's yer job, huh? Warshin' cum-rags from a jack shack?"
"Well, uh... yeah... "
Balls slapped Dicky on the back again. "Great job, Dicky-Boy!"
"Shee-it." Embarrassment drew tight lines in Dicky's corpulent face. "I knows it's a dumb-ass job, Balls, but, see, it's only temporary. You remember Randy Turcot?"
Balls sat down on a bench and struck a Thinker pose. "I know I'se heard the name—oh, yeah! That lowdown scumbag used to drive that shiny black El Camino ‘round'n was always pickin' up the few decent-lookin' chicks in town. Anytime I'd git somethin' goin' with a splittail, he'd come along in that hot rod of his and next thing I knowed, the girl's ass was in the seat next to him. Always hated that cracker. He'n his brother used ta jack deer on my Daddy's land, and I'se swear one time he sugared one'a our tractors. I hadda mind ta kill him, I did... "
Dicky snickered. "Well, some player beat'cha to it 'cos about a year ago he went ta Pulaski to buy dope'n the dealer pig-stuck him in some alley and took his green. Bled out right then'n there."
Balls' eyes beamed, and he hooted. "Well ain't that just grand! Dicky, that's the best news I heard in years!"
Dicky nodded, continuing, "And that shiny black El Camino of his? I bought it off his daddy 'bout six months ago, and been fixin' it up somethin' fierce."
Balls looked astonished. "Shee-it, Dicky, that was the fastest car in the county's what I always heard."
"You heard right, but, see, it throwed a rod ‘fore Turcot got shivved and that fucked the engine'n trannie all up. I done rebuilt the engine with what I make at the jack shack, but the trannie's blowed. Gotta get a new one and, see, I cain't just use any ole trannie, it gots ta be a M-22 Rock Crusher, and that's twelve hunnert bucks. But once I got the bread, I'll be droppin' that trannie in myself'n then I'll be drivin' the fastest car in the county, and that's when I kin git me a real job."
"What the fuck's a fast car got to do with a real job?"
Dicky sat down on the bench, whispering giddily. "Runnin' ‘shine, man. Runnin' ‘shine. Snot McKully'n Clyde Nale got more stills in these parts than anyone, and they'se always hirin' fellas with fast cars to run the hooch ‘cross the state line to all them dry counties in Kentucky. They won't hire ya if ya ain't got the wheels, though, 'cos, see, you gotta have a rod that'll outrun the ATF boys and the state pursuit cars. But with my 427 ‘Mino and a Rock Crusher? I'll blow the doors off anything on the road."
Balls nodded, eating a few more chicken nuggets. "I don't doubt it would, Dicky."
"And McKully's runners make a hunnert cash a day and that's only drivin' one run."
Balls was thinking again... "And with a partner helpin' ya out you could make two runs a day, and split it with yer partner... "
Dicky's expression soured. He could smell shit just as well as anyone. "Just 'cos we growed up together'n all that don't mean nothin'. You want me to cut you into my deal? You gots ta bring something to the table, brother."
Balls put his arm around Dicky. "Way I see it, Dicky-Boy, is you need somethin'—a $1200 transmission—and I need somethin'—a job fer a month—"
"Why just a month?"
"I tolt ya," Balls reasserted. "In about a month, I got this score—a big score—but I don't wanna eat garbage till then."
Dicky hemmed and hawed. "Well, dang, Balls, I don't want to see ya starve but I ain't gonna be able to run no moonshine fer six, eight months at least. Workin' this job?" Dicky pointed to the bloated plastic bags. "That's how long it'll take me to git up them twelve hunnert bucks."
Balls had a very characteristic grin: like a weasel's face morphed into the face of guy who sells "Rolexes" from the inside of a raincoat. "Just you listen, friend. I'se walkin' back to my Daddy's place now but you be sure ta meet me at the Crossroads at midnight tonight, ya hear?"
Dicky looked confused. Had Balls given up working him for a cut of his future moonshine-running job? "The Crossroads? What fer?"
"Fer a coupla beers"—Balls winked—"and fer you ta pick up the twelve hunnert bucks I'm gonna give you ta git that new trannie," and then Balls' boot heels snapped down the pavement as he headed for the side road out of town. He was tossing chicken nuggets from the Wendy's bag into the air and catching them in his mouth as he proceeded.
Well ain't that some shit? Dicky thought. Then he sighed and dragged the big plastic bags into the laundry...