s*x, Death, & Honey

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The lady, Rita, was old beyond her years, fifty going on seventy, her face leathery and wrinkled, riddled with moles and skin tags. She had a respectable set of mutton-chop sideburns, cigarette-stained false teeth, and the phlegmy, bullfrog voice of a longtime smoker.

Her neighbor, Cameron Finke, was an inconsiderate fuckwad, the useless second-generation spawn of a local fat cat. He had a rock band and about a dozen little groupies. They would start tuning up at around nine every evening, and continue to tune up until inebriation or s****l exhaustion shut them down. They were experienced partiers, and blessed with the stamina of the young, so these party/jam sessions usually lasted until the early hours of the morning. Sometimes the band progressed past the tuning up and ventured into the playing of actual songs, a lot of eighties and nineties heavy metal mostly, but to call these songs covers would be an insult to cover bands around the world. They were more like parodies.

Finke held these nightly sessions in a renovated shop accessible by a narrow alley that passed between his square of property and the parking lot of the adjacent mini-mall. My one quick glance through the shop’s open bay door the previous evening revealed a drum kit and various instruments on pedestals, a mini-bar and fridge, and a row of thrift shop sofas.

I knew enough about the guy to be wary of him; a minor drug bust across the state line in Idaho, rumors about a little moonlighting in the meth trade. Your basic West Valley street trash, but with a little more ‘f**k you’ money than most.

My name is Butch Quick, and I have been called many things, including an inconsiderate fuckwad. I am the mostly useless nephew of another local rich guy. Like Finke, I’m on the payroll of my wealthy relative. Unlike Finke, I don’t have a garage band. My Uncle’s business interests include Higheagle Classic Cars, Eagle Eye Bail Bonds, and Boomtown, a drinking establishment that passed for a nightclub only because of its lack of competition. Boomtown was the only place in town that hadn’t given in to the new country music trend. It has live music every night, mostly unknown local bands, but every now and then he scored some real talent. Quiet Riot, John Fogerty, and Joan Jett have played there.

Depending on Uncle Higheagle’s current needs I am a repo man, bouncer, bounty hunter, or parts runner. I have no preference; mostly it all pays the same.

Finke manages real estate for his grandpa; a few run down duplex apartments, half a dozen lots between his house and Elm Street, and the mini-mall next to it. The mini-mall boasted a thrift store, a liquor store, the local DMV office, and a large empty space that used to house The Great Wall, an all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet.

Rita claimed to have lost half of her cats after The Great Wall opened. Having eaten there once myself, I had some sympathy for her claim.

The reason for my interest in Cameron Finke, a 1968 Mustang convertible, was not currently at the property, and having nothing else to do I sat down for a beverage and a smoke with the chatty Rita. She was willing to talk, not because she particularly liked me, but because she sensed a way to screw over the neighbor from hell. She was also several beverages into the day and in a very sharing mood.

“. . . and I just know they’re smoking dope over there.” She made a sound in her throat that I think was supposed to convey disgust. What the sound did convey was a great wad of snot, which she spat to the side of the small glass top lawn table we shared. “I can smell it across the street!”

She shook her fist at the innocuous little house across the street from us and made the phlegmy sound again.

The house was small, white, with a well-maintained square of grass in front and a row of neatly trimmed shrubs along the alley. From the outside the shop looked as average as the house, no sign of the redneck discotech housed inside. Between the two buildings was a slightly larger square of lawn than that up front, fenced, with a Beware of Dog sign.

It was an unassuming place; you almost expected to see a little old lady weeding her garden on the other side of the backyard fence, or a hunched old fella puttering outside the shop.

At the moment there was only Finke’s Rottweiler stalking the fence line.

“. . . called the cops and the big dumb-shits stopped here with their lights flashing . . .”

“Is he usually gone all day?” She had arrived back where our conversation had started a half-hour earlier. I decided if I was going to get down to the s**t that mattered I’d have to be more aggressive. I was still aching a bit from the night before, not at my most sociable.

She looked incensed, and I thought here’s a woman used to having her say all the way to the end. After a few seconds she seemed to decide to let it slide.

“Not always.” She shrugged, made her deep throat sound, sipped her beverage. She lit a cigarette, slipped into a morose silence, gave me a reproachful look, clearly meant to imply her displeasure at being interrupted.

The silent treatment, I thought, and couldn’t help a smile. “Thanks,” I said, pushing up from her proffered lawn chair before she decided to forgive me. “I’ve gotta run.”

She rose across from me, fumbling her drink back onto the glass-top table, nearly spilling it. “But you didn’t tell me what’s he’s in trouble for.”

“Nothing big,” I said, and felt bad as her excitement ebbed. Truth is I kinda liked the old lady. I sympathized with her too. I’ve had my share of shithead neighbors.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “It’s still going to sting him plenty.”

I could feel her eyes on me as I walked away, crossing the street in hurried strides to avoid the city’s rambunctious traffic. To West Paradise Valley drivers, pedestrian right-of-way was more a suggestion than a rule. If they caught you outside a marked crosswalk you were fair game. My old Ventura, more balls than style but it got me from A to B, was parked in front of the liquor store. I pulled in facing away from the picture window displays, Four Loco, cheap wine, Jack Daniels, but got an eyeful on my way back. Four years on this side of my last drink, and stopping at my car instead of continuing on toward the flashing neon lights and hedonistic lure of the place was almost easy.

Inside the Ventura and facing safely away from temptation, I started the motor, cranked up the AC, turned the radio on, then up. The Doors . . . L.A. Woman. Nice.

I lit a cigarette, cracked my window enough to let the smoke blow out, watched Finke’s house.

The Rottweiler continued its lonely and aggressive patrol, nearly shitting itself in its excitement to get at a passing kid.

Fifteen minutes passed. Finke stayed gone.

Time to head home.

Rita waved, then mimicked firing a gun toward Finke’s house and winked as I drove by. I winked and waved back.

Often when I’m interviewing people they assume I’m a collector for the Tribal Casino tracking down unpaid markers or hunting for cheats and crooks. I’ve never seen fit to correct them. It gives me an air of intimidation and adds a bit of spice to their day. The tribal part I get, I don’t live on the reservation but as far as most people are concerned an Indian is an Indian. I’ve stepped foot in the casino exactly once . . . the gift shop, to buy a souvenir hat. I wear it when I’m interviewing people like Rita. It helps encourage the wrong assumption. The Tribal Casino doesn’t actually employ collectors. No one gets in deep enough with them to warrant it. It’s small-time, pay as you play. This is Washington State, not Vegas.

So far the only thing I’d learned about Finke’s schedule was that he didn’t have one. Sometimes he spent the entire day out of his house, sometimes he barely ventured outside it. When he did leave, it might be for hours, or only minutes. Sometimes he was alone, but most often not. His entourage was dynamic, changing almost day to day with only a few exceptions, the tattoo guy, who played guitar for his crappy little garage band, and the body builder, the guy who grunted and barked out lyrics. The position of bassist was as dynamic as the rest of his entourage, the current one a kid who lived in one of Cameron’s properties. Rita said the kid usually left early.

Finke was a drummer.

The only time I could absolutely count on him being home was during the nightly party, which seemed to be impervious to angry neighbors and visits from the police, and in the early hours of the morning while he slept off the nightly party. Since I didn’t expect Finke to be overjoyed about me taking back his big horsepower toy—they hardly ever were—I decided to wait until the post-party crash to cancel his contract with Uncle Higheagle. The getup in his shop was encouraging. He probably kept the Mustang parked outside, which meant it was mine for the taking.

Whatever debts Cameron Finke had incurred or laws he might have broken were not my concern. The only thing that mattered to me was the contract he’d broken with my uncle and the red Mustang he’d stopped paying for. One way or another that car was coming back with me.

A standard midnight grab, then home free.

Yeah, that’s what I thought.