Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Read Free Book Online Page A

was. My kind of women.
    Bobby sat down on the corner of the bed. He spoke in a soft, even tone. “Look, Angel. Nobody has seen Julie in five days, almost six. I’m worried about her. Her mom is worried about her. Have you heard from her, seen her, know any of her other friends? I need your help.”
    Angel looked up at Bobby, but his pencil continued to draw. “Julie hasn’t been over in a while. I don’t know where she is. I hope she’s okay. Really.”
    “Do you know any of her other friends?” Bobby asked.
    “We’re not friends. Julie would never be my friend.”
    “You’re friends on Facebook.”
    “Facebook isn’t real friends.”
    “She has a drawing of yours on her bedroom wall.”
    That made Angel smile. “Really? She put it on her wall?”
    “Yeah, a stink beetle,” I said, happy to contribute.
    “Pinacate beetle,” Angel corrected.
    “That’s right. I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of that bug’s real name.” I’m sure he was right, but I had never heard the word pinacate in my life.
    “Jimmy, you’re killing me here,” Bobby said, giving me his shut-the-fuck-up look. He turned back to Angel. “Were you in a drawing class together or something? Study buddies?”
    “She used to come over a lot. We talked sometimes. But she never came to see me.”
    Loud motorcycle exhaust shook the walls and drowned us out. The headlights from the bikes flashed over the closed curtain.
    “Julie comes over to see my brother Gabe and his friends. That sounds like them.” Angel set down his pencil and drawing pad. He got up and lifted a corner of the curtain to look out. “You need to go. Come back when it’s just him. You need to run.”

    It won’t come as a surprise. Running wasn’t in Bobby’s playbook. Running was the thing the other guy did. Running and bleeding. Too many John Ford movies had etched their way into his psyche, developing a clear—if skewed—definition of what it was to be a man. I, on the other hand, while an avid fan of classic Hollywood cinema, understood the difference between real life and make-believe. That it wasn’t unmanly to be civilized. To avoid confrontation rather than start it. At least I told myself that when my fight-or-flight instinct screamed flight.
    Or maybe my face still hurt from getting pummeled by Ceja. I still hadn’t passed that tooth, and I wasn’t excited about the thought of it.
    Bobby marched out the front door—and like an asshole, I was right behind him—as the three men got off their motorcycles. Or I should say, boys. Ranging from seventeen to twenty, their faces all had smooth, boyish looks. They tried for something harder, but the softness of youth betrayed them. Mexican or mixed Mexican, each boy sported a stylishly shaved head. I wondered if bald men got angry when they saw kids with obviously full heads of thick hair shaved off on purpose. Like tap dancing in front of a man with no legs.
    They were all ripped in that way that only the young can be. Defined muscles covered in tattoo sleeves, though they would have been more intimidating if one of them had been taller than five seven. Two wore wifebeaters and one—just because—was shirtless. The two with shirts had sleeveless jackets, Los Hermanos patches on the back. They could have been a boy band, if their expressions didn’t telegraph the enormous chips on their shoulders.
    “Should’ve grabbed my Plan Bs back,” Bobby said under his breath. “If this uglies up, the one on the right is yours. You handle that?”
    I wanted to say no and get the fuck out of Dodge. Instead, I nodded.
    “Don’t go back on your heels. Balls of your feet,” Bobby said.
    “I’ve done this before.”
    “I know. I’ve seen you. Thought a few pointers couldn’t hurt.”
    I glanced around the yard for a potential weapon. Hoping for a shovel, garden hoe, or even a decent-sized rock, I found nothing. I mentally prepped myself for some eye-gouging and ball-kicking. Unfortunately, with