Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Read Free Book Online Page A

hookers—whatever, all the same. And there you have it. Saturday night entertainment. Six ladies doling out blowjobs in the shadows of the walkway to the shitter. It turns a sandwich into a banquet.”
    “Are you telling me what happened to you, or are we discussing Yolanda?”
    “I’m getting to it. Word is Tomás has moved up. Bigger, better, illegaller. His hand in a lot of galleta potes . That’s ‘cookie jars’ to you.”
    “You and Tomás have some beef?”
    “Don’t think so. Maybe. Probably not. Who knows? I drink a lot.”
    “So?”
    “So. When there’s booze, Mexicans, and hookers, trouble is whistling around the corner. Not some maybe or outside chance, but probably definitely something’s going to happen. On the nights it’s too hot to fuck, it’s never too hot to fight.
    “Maybe some lonely campesino gets drunk enough to fall in love, sees el pocho cabrón getting friendly with his future bride he met a half hour before. Maybe a lettuce knife makes its way out of a boot, then maybe a pool cue gets broken over a head and maybe it’s no longer fun and it’s six against one and the only way you see of getting out alive is to forget about looking stylish and get creative.”
    “That can’t be good.”
    “I accidentally lit Mr. Morales’s pool table on fire.”
    “Accidentally? How does that even happen?”
    Bobby shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I had a bottle of 151 in my hand. Broke it over a guy’s head. He must’ve been smoking, ’cause ‘Flame on!’ The splash of the alcohol soaked into the felt. Fire-face fell onto the alcohol-soaked table. Whoosh. The place filled with smoke. It happened pretty fast.”
    Bobby took a big pull, polishing off bottle number one. “Mr. Morales can’t really blame me. It was self-defense. I sent him money for the table, but he probably took a ton of shit from the law. They never came out to my hut, so I know he didn’t mention my name.”
    “You ever thank Mr. Morales for that?”
    “I was afraid he’d shoot me. He keeps a shotgun behind the bar, you know?”
    “Yeah, he told me to remind you.”
    “No rock salt load either. Morales don’t fuck around.” He nodded seriously, as if he was giving me sage advice.
    We sat drinking our beers. I lit a cigarette and looked at the corrugated tin ceiling above the pool table. Sure enough, a black Rorschach scarred the metal.
    Bobby belched, staring at his empty beer bottle. “So, what I was getting at is, we got to talk to Tomás. Don’t know if he still brings girls, but he’s connected. He’d know where the ladies come from. Mr. Morales don’t know where the girls come from, but he knows where Tomás is, right?”
    I nodded. “Okay, here’s what you do. Go apologize to Mr. Morales, and then make up some story and see if you can find out where Tomás is.”
    “Why me? You go ask him.”
    “He ain’t going to shoot you. Least not with me here. Take the chance to square it. Talk to him. Make it right, and then find out about Tomás while you’re talking.”
    Bobby stared at me, trying to think of a good reason not to. Failing, he stood up.
    “And grab a couple more beers.” I sat back in my chair smiling, sticking my pinkie out as I drained the last of my beer.
    Bobby walked to the bar. I lit a cigarette and watched. Bobby stood at one end, head down, waiting for Mr. Morales. He made no motion to call him over, allowing Mr. Morales to take his time.
    I hadn’t thought about Tomás Morales in years. We had lost touch, but there was a period of five or six years when we were kids that he was like a little brother. His grandfather raised him. But with Mr. Morales running the bar, Tomás mostly played outside. When I wasn’t doing work for Pop, I’d go across the street and hang out with him. Play catch, help him make a ramp for his bike, that kind of thing. I taught him how to play chess and poker, but we stopped playing when he started embarrassing me.
    He hadn’t been your average kid. A