Big Stupid (POPCORN) by Victor Gischler Read Free Book Online

finished reading Captain America, he stood up from the table and said, “Let’s go.”
    The neighborhood outside Mama Stupid’s house was the exact opposite of the inside.
    The yards were overgrown, junk cars in driveways, ugly iron bars covering windows and doors. Three out of four houses were peeling paint badly.
    We piled into the Humvee and eased out of the neighborhood.
    Sissy leaned in between us from the backseat. She started singing high pitched as loud as she could. “Scooby Dooby Doo took a poo, and Shaggy thought it was chocolate.”
    You don’t want to hear the rest of that song. Trust me. I endured two more verses, right in my left ear. If I’d had a full tilt bourbon hangover, it would have killed me.
    We pulled into a shabby apartment complex. Window unit air conditioners provided a constant humming racket. The parking lot was a mine field of bottle caps and broken glass.
    “Mama pick you up after work, Sissy,” Big Stupid said.
    “Okay, bye.” She waved at me. “Bye, Mr. Payne.”
    “Bye, Sissy.”
    She hopped out of the Humvee, slammed the door behind her. She knocked at the first apartment. The door creaked open and a woman about a million years old came out, blue wig, glasses with thick lenses.
    She waved a gnarled hand at Big Stupid, then put an arm around Sissy and ushered her inside. The door closed.
    Big Stupid shifted into reverse and we were on our way.
    On our way where I had no idea.
    Big Stupid reached into his shirt pocket and fished out a wad of papers. Handing them to me.
    “What’s this?”
    “Phone numbers.”
    I squinted at the list and paged through Sandy’s notebook. Big Stupid had highlighted in yellow a few of them. “What’s five-oh-four area code?”
    “New Orleans.”
    “You know any of these numbers?”
    “Little Duane.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Fat Otis does business with him,” Big Stupid said. “Little Duane hides stuff.”
    “Why does he do that?”
    “Like if somebody steals something but it has to cool off before they can fence it,” Big Stupid explained.
    “Or if something needs to be missing for a while, so somebody can collect insurance.”
    I scratched my chin. So maybe Little Duane was sitting on top of the armored car money. Can’t just stash four hundred grand in a coffee can. Cops will search your house. Can’t put it in the bank. But then you’ve got to trust Little Duane, right?
    Unless Little Duane didn’t know what he was hiding.
    “You want us to drive down to New Orleans?”
    I thought about that. “Maybe.”
    “Better decide quick. Contraflow starts soon.”
    “What’s that?”
    “All the lanes of the interstates go out of town. Nobody goes in.”
    Aw, shit. That could only mean one thing.
    Big Stupid went ahead and said it out loud. “Hurricane’s coming.”
     
     
EIGHT
     
    We’re turned off Interstate-10 into the French Quarter fifteen minutes ahead of contraflow. Black clouds crowded the sky.
    The Quarter seemed almost like a ghost town, diehards here and there drifting in and out of the bars. Every third place was closed, none of the gaudy souvenir places selling off-color T-shirts or NOLA shot glasses.
    There was an eerie tension in the air like an argument you knew you were going to have with your girlfriend that hadn’t started yet.
    “Take me to Little Duane,” I said.
    “Can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “You’re white.”
    Shit.
    “I can go find him,” Big Stupid said. “Ninth Ward. Set up a meeting if you want to talk.”
    “You sure?”
    “I’m supposed to help you.”
    I gave him my cell number, and he pulled over on Decatur and dropped me off. I watched him drive away then looked around. Nobody in sight. A gust of wind sent a half crushed beer can clattering down the sidewalk.
    The weight of the .38 tucked in my pants at the small of my back should have been some comfort, but it wasn’t. You can’t shoot a hurricane.
    I walked past a bar that was closed, the windows taped up. The next one