Wild Thing: A Novel by Josh Bazell Read Free Book Online

professionals.
    And of course Matt and Dylan then had to go to some
bar
to hang out, where
naturally
a couple of Canada Skanks asked them if they had any cocaine. And Matt said yes because he had somefucking
meth
on him, then made Dylan snort some too so the skanks wouldn’t think it was some kind of date rape drug.
    Which, to be fair, Matt probably
had
to do. Debbie sure as hell wouldn’t accept a suspicious white powder from someone who looked like Matt Wogum—and Debbie
makes
suspicious white powders.
    But
whatever
happened up there in Canada, Debbie now has no one to send to buy more pills. The mashed-up three thousand are the last of it—unless she lets Dylan live, the idea of which makes her feel sick. But what’s the alternative? Deal with the fucking
Sinaloans?
    The thought makes her want to scream and then repeatedly slam her hand in the oven door.
    Debbie
hates
the fucking Sinaloans. Always sending some gold-tooth midget wetback around, all
“Joo is workin for us now, lady.”
Wanting her to sell finished product up from Mexico at one quarter the profit she gets from cooking it on her own.
    So far she’s gotten away with kicking them the fuck out. But if the Sinaloans ever get their shit together and stop killing each other, they could be a goddamn nightmare. They all work in the meat-processing plant in Saint James as cover, so they’re good with knives. Just out of nervousness, Debbie’s had to buy a bunch of new guns for the Boys.
    And now she has to
hope
one of those dwarfy fuckers comes back? And brings product with him, so at least she’ll have something to sell?
    Debbie rips a handful of tinfoil off the roll and caps the beaker of mash with it, puts the whole thing in the fridge. Fuck else is she supposed to do with it?
    Starts the electric toast belt that runs through the top chamberof the oven. Turns on the propane. Thinks to the potential mustard gas,
Oh, you just do me the favor
.
    At least with the mash out of the open air she can smoke. Debbie’s been smoking too much lately, thanks for reminding her, but right now it feels like the only usable air in the room is on the other side of a lit cigarette.
    As she inhales her first puff she puts the bun and the French toast on the belt, and the hamburger in the microwave. Screw that pig, even if the propane’s on. Then punches the door to the back parking lot open.
    The Boys, now arranged on the low back wall and a couple of cars, fall silent. They look sulky and afraid.
    “Soon as the cops are gone, take Dylan Arntz out of here and beat holy hell out of him,” she says. “Matt Wogum I haven’t decided on yet.”
    The older ones, the ones who matter—probably the rest of them too—will know what this means.
    Regarding Dylan, it means he gets one more chance.
    Regarding Matt, it means someone better goddamn start digging a hole.

6
     
    Ford, Minnesota
    Still Thursday, 13 September
     
    Debbie, assuming that
is
her name, puts our plates down. Mine has a burger on it, Violet’s the previously frozen French toast. Otherwise both plates are blank.
    Garnish: the life crutch you never appreciate till it’s gone.
    The burger looks good, though. Or at least the bun’s toasted, which gets you halfway there on its own. “What else for you guys now?” Debbie says.
    Violet says “Can you tell us anything about White Lake?”
    Debbie turns outraged so fast it’s like a split-second werewolf movie.
    “
What?
Motherfucking WHAT?”
    “Uh…” Violet says.
    “WHAT did you just say? You people come in here pretending to be
cops
, and—what
are
you, anyway? Goddamn
reporters?
”
    “No,” Violet says. “We’re scientists.”
    “Sure you goddamn are. And you just
happen
to come in here, asking who I am, asking about the goddamn White Lake Monster—”
    I’m out of my bench seat by then, but I stop. “Did you say—”
    “I didn’t say
shit
. And I sure as hell didn’t say it to you people.”
    “But—”
    “You two just get the hell