Immediately recognizing her Christian breaks into a trot, bounding down the hallway and up to the bike propped up by a kickstand with a helmet sitting on the elevated tail of the leather seat matching the red and white color of the fiberglass side fairings. Reaching the bike Christian stops in front of the weeping young woman and places a gentle hand on her back, rubbing in a reassuring matter while he leans in to ask,
“Cat, what’s wrong honey”?
“I.., I don’t want to talk about it”, she stammers in between broken sobs. “All you’ll do is say I told you so”.
His brow tightly groomed brow furrows as the others arrive and file in behind him, looking on with concern. Putting two and two together he realizes that his fears have come to fruition as Cat has apparently purchased a car despite his efforts to get her to exercise patience. While a part of him, the vindicated villain of his younger years wants to do as she suggests, it is overruled by his veteran mind and he merely sighs and rubs the back of her neck in a reassuring manner.
“Cat, sweety, none of that matters now”, he softly explains. “The only thing I want to do now is help you”. Placing his hand on her head he strokes her long, silken blonde tresses; his hands working their way to her cheeks which he then cradles tenderly, and turns her head allowing their eyes to meet. “Tell me what happened kitty cat”, he says in a soothing, fatherly tone while reaching out with his thumbs to wipe the corners of her eyes. “Let us help you, please”.
“I went to buy a car”, she confesses. “I was going to surprise you and drive it to Tucson for High Stakes but..,” her voice trails off, her train of thought derailed by another emotional tide rushing in. “It.., broke down on.., on the freeway..,” she continues, shakily steering her thoughts back into the proper lane. “I was stuck there.., for almost an hour until a policeman gave me a ride off of it and I caught a cab here”.
“Who sold it to you?” Christian demands, his tone abruptly switching from tender and caring to aggressive and angry. “Cat, tell me who sold you that car”, he says sternly, holding her chin in his grasp to ensure unbroken eye contact. “Oh you’re going to give me a name young lady, who sold it to you?”
“With a pair of fresh tracks streaming down her face she blinks rapidly, forcing out another set of tears and replies, “His.., his name is Fernando; some old fat guy”.
“So let me get this straight”, Gene interjects behind Christian, drawing his and Cat’s attention. “This guy sells you a car which breaks down and leaves you stranded mere minutes later, is that right”?
Cat nods quietly.
“How much did he charge you”? Christians asks, his rage subsiding just as abruptly.
“I gave him ten thousand dollars down and he financed the rest for 36 months at 250 a month”.
“Jesus, that’s $19,000 bucks”, Cassie observes, having quickly done the match in her head.
“Guaranteed to the curb”, Christian adds mockingly, using an old euphemism to describe the so-called warranties at used car dealerships. “Well, fat boy Fernando is going to deal with me now”.
“All of us”, Gene corrects him and turns to his daughter. “Cassie, bring the dually around front please, and make sure the chain is in the back”.
Cassie nods in acceptance and quickly darts back down the hallway towards her father’s office. Retrieving the keys she circles back around, her sneakered feet thudding against the carpeting as she bounds past them and through the front door.
“What’s the name of the place?” Scott asks.
“Reliable used cars.., err.., imports, it’s a small lot in North Las Vegas”.
“Hah!” Christian snorts. “That’s the textbook definition of oxymoron”.
Hearing the throaty, lumpy idle of a diesel engine as his daughter arrives with his truck, Gene gestures the group towards the door, which he holds open, allowing everyone, including Genie, who follows Cat closely. Stepping into the sunlight he motions them to get into the truck as Cassie exits from the driver’s seat, releasing it to him and which he takes in silence, buckling himself in and adjusting the rearview mirror while waiting for everyone to buckle themselves in. Finally, with the group fully strapped in; he shifts the steering column mounted transmission lever into drive mode and glances to Cat seated in the back seat between Cassie and Scott with Genie seated protectively in her lap.
“Where is your car?” he asks.
“It’s in the northbound lane of the 15”, she answers, “in the left breakdown lane between Sahara and Spring Mountain”.
“Alright”, he directs a quick glance to the dash mounted digital clock which reads 1:18 PM while guiding the white with tan under tones Ford F 350 dually onto the street towards the highway. “We’ll probably catch the tail end of the lunch hour rush so we’ll need to be careful”.
“I’m surprised the freeway service patrol didn’t help out”, Scott observes, looking out of the window watching the sidewalk and people rushing by. “That’s what they’re there for isn’t it?”
“Oh please”, Christian scoffs. “Those clowns are as useless as tits on a bull. They only do it to rape people in a jam”.
“Yeah”, Cat chimes in agreement. “They did stop by but wanted to charge me $400 to call a tow truck plus another $100 per mile. I told them I couldn’t afford it and the bastards left me high and dry in the middle of the freeway. I was starting to walk back, looking for a break in traffic to run across to the other side when a police officer spotted me and gave me a ride to where I could call a cab”.
“Fuckers should all be shot”, Christian mutters between clenched teeth. “Step on it Geno, I can’t wait to get my hands around this fat bastard’s neck”.
The driver obliges, throttling down on the gas promoting a roar from the beefy 7.3 liter industrial diesel engine as the fuel is compressed and detonated in the firing chambers. The scenery quickly changes from manicured lawns and lush, rolling greenery to fractured asphalt lined with dilapidated brick and mortars lining the roadside as the king cab truck is guided through the streets and around slower moving traffic towards the interstate 95 north bound on-ramp. The brown leather appointed cabin is quiet as they stop at a traffic light. With his hands on the padded brown steering wheel Gene looks on as a group of teenaged stragglers meander across the intersection, mildly surprised that the scruffy looking youngsters are actually obeying the law by waiting for the light to change. To his left in the passenger seat however, Christian fidgets anxiously, his steely eyes shooting bullets into each of them as they pause and break into a lively cackle; convinced that the light will change while the group ‘jerks each other off’ in the crosswalk and forcing a delay. He tries to settle into his seat, picturing the anticipated meeting with the scum lord used car salesman and wrapping his digits around the shyster’s corpulent neck. Alas, he is unable to reign in his anxiety, a condition he has suffered from since childhood. Although he has managed to bring it under control for the most part with the help of prescribed medication he nonetheless finds himself at times being forced to deal with the beast within. Shaking his head with a frustrated groan, he pictures himself jumping from the truck and moving the kids along in his own way but instead turns to the driver with his face warped into a scowl of annoyance,
“For chrissakes Geno, run them over, let’s go”!
Understanding his friend’s frame of mind, and aware of his struggles with anxiety Gene simply ignores the hastily formulated suggestion and continues to watch the lights. The group finally resumes their trek across the street with the light turning to a timely green once they set foot on the opposing sidewalk allowing them to get back into motion and roar up the ramp and onto the highway. They quickly accelerate up to and past the freeway speed limit of 65 mph, weaving in and out of lanes, passing by the slower moving vehicles and quickly merging into traffic. The group settles into an idle chit chat ranging a variety of topics from killing with impunity to proper disposal techniques of human bodies until Cat pipes up with a question,
“With everything going on all of a sudden, how am I going to get to Tucson”? She asks.
“Why, are you in a hurry to get your hands on Seleana?” Christian replies.
“Surprisingly enough, she is the one member of that clan who I don’t really have a problem with. I would much rather have Kate Steele, Brittany Williams and Crystal Hilton than Seleana Zdunich, but no; to answer your question, I don’t want to take the bus any more”.
“I don’t blame you for that”, he replies with a shaking of his head, his wavy hair bouncing along his chiseled shoulder blades. “Don’t worry Cat, you’ll ride with me. I’ll even let you drive part of the way; it’ll be fun terrorizing the streets with my co-pilot again”.
“Thank you, but I have to ask you something..,”
“What is it”?
“You’re the co-owner of SCW and the head booker, so why didn’t you just overrule Kate’s bull shite match and give her to me like you originally planned”?
He shrugs. It is a fair question and he could have easily fulfilled it, but as the co-owner of a federation in which several of his friends compete he has learned that fair has to extend to all sides, not just those he favors. He sighs and runs his hand through his thick mane.
“You’re right”, he agrees. “I could easily replace Kate’s opponent with you and I damned near did but the trouble is that I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here, a catch 22. If I show any signs of favoritism I run the risk of alienating others in addition to setting a very dangerous precedent. They could easily cry bias on my part and drive potential new talent away and also run the risk of seeing us sued out of existence. You have no idea how close I came to putting you in there against Steele. Crystal Hilton pissed me off to no end and I wanted to screw her over but.., I have to play fair sadly”.
“But not entirely”, Gene quips from behind the wheel”. “Given that you booked Cat against Crystal’s would be wife. You’re a real devil, Mr. Underwood, you know Cat is a killer between those ropes”.
“Ok, Ok, I confess”! He laughs. “I was hoping at the time I booked it that Cat would rip Seleana’s arm off and beat Hilton with it”.
“I’ll do it for you”, Cat offers. “You’re always helping me”.
“No, that’s not necessary kitty cat. I’ve had time to cool off a bit and to be honest, Seleana is probably the least deserving of your wrath of the whole bunch but don’t worry, I’ll get the rest of them for you, just have a little patience”.
“Treat it as a sort of a qualifier match”, Gene advises, looking at his protégé through the mirror, “With Kate Steele and the Hilton clan being the reward for winning”.
“It’s a bit of a tough spot for me”, she deadpans. “I don’t really want to hurt Seleana in all honesty, but at the same time I want to retire Steele, Hilton and Williams, you know”?
“Just remember, Seleana knows what’s at stake here”, the veteran manager and businessman advises. “She’s well aware of everything that went down between her fiancé, you and Christian, as well as your relationship with him and that you believe Crystal moved to block you from Kate. She is probably certain that Christian sent you against her as his hit man so to speak and she is going to fight like a badger on behalf of her partner, like your father would for your mother. What I’m saying is don’t go in there expecting to shake hands and have a friendly match. It’s going to be a nasty, gritty affair, I promise you, so be ready for the worst”.
“He’s right”, Christian nods in agreement. “He has more experience than any of us so be sure to listen. His words carry a lot of weight”.
“Yeah, about 270 pounds worth”, he quips.
“Or..,” Scott interrupts flexing his bicep. “You can listen to me and take words with 285 pounds of weight behind them”.
“I dunno uncle pump”, Cassie joins in feeling his baseball sized bicep. “It feels like you’ve been slacking lately”.
“Hey! That’s not funny!”
Regardless the group shares a laugh at the ‘Big Pump’s expense while the dually is guided in and out of lanes, weaving between slower moving vehicles until an opening presents itself allowing him to throttle down. The big truck picks up speed while its passengers turn their respective gazes upon the roadside and traffic around them as Cat keeps her eyes peeled for her car. She spots a faint, burgundy silhouette up ahead and taps the driver on the shoulder advising him,
“That’s it up ahead, in the left breakdown lane”.
With a nod Gene slows the truck down as the vehicle comes into view as Cat notices the rear end bottomed out nearly scraping the pavement. “Did my car get a flat too”? She asks as the dually pulls off to the left side in front of the car and shifts into reverse, slowly backing up to it. Looking on Christian recognizes the vehicle as a 1998 Lincoln Mark VIII, sporting an oxidized burgundy coat with chrome aftermarket wheels and tinted windows. He shakes his head,
“No”, he replies. “Ford luxury cars use an air ride suspension system. Basically it has tough rubber air bags in place of the shocks. The bags are prone to leaking in older cars like yours which drops the rear end”.
With the truck coming to a stop all four doors near simultaneously open allowing for the occupants to depart. All eyes are trained on the idle Lincoln sitting with its engine off in the breakdown lane while Gene reaches into the bed of the truck and retrieves a double hook steel chain. He fastens one end around the tow hitch of his dually as Christian, Scott, Cassie, Genie and Cat all gather around the bittersweet lemon. Christian opens the driver’s side door and reaches under the dash board to pull the hood latch which releases with a clunk and then walks back around to the front to open the hood to inspect the engine bay. He sighs upon releasing the hood, expecting it to stay up only to have it fall back down. Fortunately he is able to catch it and gestures for Cassie to hold it up while he takes a closer look. His attention starts with the fluids, noting the blackened brake fluid and water like viscosity. Shaking his head he twists open the radiator cap to check the coolant level as Gene lies on the asphalt, reaching under the car and securing the chain to the center most rigid point of the frame he can find. Rising up be brushes himself off as Christian replaces the radiator cap and turns to the air cleaner. Unlatching four aluminum clasps which secure the top portion of the black plastic air cleaner assembly he pops off the bulbous top and removes a well blackened rectangular air filter. He laughs, running his finger along the edges as they emerge with oil stained tips.
“Oil in the air cleaner”, he sighs. “Water in the brake fluid, cracked hoses and belts, corrosion on the battery cables and God knows what else. Gee, let’s see what’s behind curtain number two”.
“A leaking rear main seal, frayed bushings, loose idler arm assembly and about 200 pounds of grime”, Gene answers while walking to the rear of the vehicle. “Cat, toss me the keys”.
She quietly obliges, throwing him the jingling set of keys which he catches and turns to the trunk. He inserts the main key into the latch and twists it open with a metallic click while up front Christian pulls the dip stick, checking the oil and noting tiny wood colored granules mixed in with the matte black lubricant.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”! The words ring out in unison as both men find themselves surprised and lean over gazing at each other along the driver’s side of the car with a smirk.
“What do you have”? Gene asks.
“Sawdust in the oil”, he mutters. “You know what that means.., “He pauses allowing Gene a moment to catch on and for both men to exclaim in tandem once more, “A broken rod”! “What about you Geno”?
“It’s the damnedest thing, these assholes hotwired a small, electric air pump to keep the suspension up”.
“You’re shitting me”?
“I wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd”.
Christian trots to the rear of the car and peers into the trunk to a small, blue and white portable air compressor used to reflate flat tires in case of emergency. Only this one has a thin wire spliced into the power cord which runs along the edge of the trunk and disappears through a small hole drilled into the sheet metal. He drops to the ground and reacquires his target which is zip tied to various points of the sub frame leading from the rear of the car to the starter engine. Shaking his head in disbelief he dusts himself off and clamors back to his feet.
“I’ll be damned, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen that”.
Cat, Scott and Cassie take turns exchanging bewildered glares, unsure exactly what the two men’s ‘car speak’ translates into while Genie casually cleans her face with her paw settled under Cat’s feet. They listen in abject confusion as the pair throw around terms like ‘spit shine’ while going through the interior and brake booster bell crank pivot, spongey pedal, and branded title while combing through the engine bay to catalytic converter, u joint, and differential while peering underneath. Finally, with Cat and the gang thoroughly bewildered the would-be mechanics get back up with Christian closing the hood and Gene shutting the trunk lid. He hands the keys to his daughter and announces in an authoritarian aura,
“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do..,”
“You mean aside from me tearing out his intestine and hanging him from the Stratosphere tower”, Christian interrupts his tone rumbling as an underlying rage threatens to break loose.
“Yeah, besides your scheduled death match.., we’re going to flat tow it back to where you got it from,” he continues while looking directly at Cat. “Cassie will drive your car while I tow it with my truck. We’re going to get it off the freeway as quickly as possible since traffic is still a bit heavy, but that means we’ll have to accelerate like a bat out of hell..,”
“Excuse me..,” Cat interjects. “But why can’t I drive? I mean it is my car after all”.
“Do you know how to flat tow with a chain”? Gene demands pointedly. The question prompts Cat into shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “Then Cassie drives because she does know how to flat tow. Now, once we get there, Christian, Scott and I will do all of the talking”. He turns to his flaming haired offspring and rambles on, “Cassie, you will keep her occupied while we handle the asshole, play a rousing game of scrabble or something, I don’t care but we do the talking, got it”? Cassie nods in acceptance and gestures Cat and her furry feline guardian into the passenger seat while she takes the wheel and her father, Christian and Scott file into the dually. Gene rolls the window down and sticks his head out shouting to Cassie and Cat once secured inside. Cassie turns the ignition switch into the ‘on’ position and activates the hazard lights. She waits patiently while the hotwired air compressor in the trunk draws juice from the battery and slowly pumps air into the suspension and finally flashing him a thumb up. “Alright, here we go”!
The big white, 4 x 4 dually slowly creeps forward as the chain follows, rattling on the ground until the slack is taken up and confirmed by a light tug on the rag tag Lincoln. “Hold on to your ass”, Cassie says with a grin as a break in traffic presents them with an opportunity. With a bellowing roar the truck ravenously launches forward ingesting the pavement as if it were a buffet, jerking the vermilion vehicle in behind it. Gripping the steering wheel firmly Cassie holds the car steady, tapping on the brakes every so often to ensure that the chain remains taut. Cat clutches onto the edge of her seat, her eyes wide with apprehension upon noticing how closely behind the big Ford they are.
“How long is that chain”? She asks.
“It’s a 20 foot chain”, Cassie pans, sensing her passenger’s anxiety. “But about two feet of it are taken up in securing it to both cars so there’s about 18 feet of space between us, or about one car length”.
“We’re doing 80 miles per hour”, she exclaims, glancing at the analog speedometer which registers even with the engine off.
“That’s part of the reason why the chain is so tight”.
“What’s the other reason”?
“If I let the chain slack and then it suddenly cinches up again it could flip us over. So yeah, I have to concentrate here”.
“Yes, please concentrate. I’ll keep my bloody mouth shut”.
Watching the truck ahead and glancing periodically through the rear and side mirrors Cassie steers the car, which lacks its usual power assist by virtue of the engine being off, into the next lane over to the right, following the truck to which they are linked. A silver Nissan Versa tries to beat them into the lane with a decidedly dangerous three space lane change but is cut off and forced into a brake check with his brakes squealing madly and the ripping sound of tires shredding against the pavement followed by the acrid smell of burnt rubber and the accompanying white smoke along with the angry pilot’s blaring horn. With the windows being down and the cabin filled with the noise of the rampaging Nissan and other traffic the two women are surprised to hear Scott’s booming voice resounding over all of it and daring the jerk to follow them to the next light which draws a healthy chuckle from the pair.
“Uncle Pump”, the redhead snickers as the Nissan roars past them, the driver unwilling to accept the wrestler’s challenge. Her focus returns to the road and the truck to which they are linked as her father extends an arm from the window, holding it down as a signal to her that they are preparing to slow down and exit the freeway. ”We’re getting off the highway Cat”, she says to her passenger hoping to ease her anxiety.
“Thank God”, she says breathing a sigh of relief. “Nothing against your driving, I’m sure you do fine work, but this scares the hell out of me”.
“Yeah, it can be pretty nerve wracking on the freeway”, she agrees. “But on the streets it’s easy as pie. Well, except for turning”.
“What about turning”?
“No power steering”, she answers, tapping the brakes to keep the chain tight as they begin to slow down on the off ramp and approach a red light. “And that means I get a workout even if I don’t want it, not to mention a lot more braking, and with no power brakes I also get an extra leg workout, but that’s easier than steering a 3500 pound car”.
Sure enough as the car is pulled off of the interstate and onto Sahara Avenue she can readily see the tension in Cassie’s arms as she twists the wheel directing the dilapidated lemon to follow suit and once again as they veer off and onto a less populated side street with the redhead grunting under the strain but holding the car perfectly steady nonetheless. Cat retreats into her thoughts leaving her friend and co-manager to worry about the car; looking out from the passenger side window, watching people milling about the sidewalk on the 85 degree day - in November! A flock of pigeons take wing, startled by a siren nearby while a work crew is stationed behind a row of pylon cones, busily digging up the street. She found it funny that every time she came across a road work crew she could never actually see anything tangible from them. Instead it was the same sight time and again, a vacated back hoe sitting idle in front of a gaping chasm in what appears to be a perfectly good road with a group of neon orange vested, white hard hats standing around doing nothing. She shakes her head concluding that it is no surprise the streets are seemingly always run down; nobody does anything except take breaks in the sun.
“The union life”, Cassie mutters passing them by sharing Cat’s sentiment.
The scenery changes as they enter the township of North las Vegas which, despite the designation is an entirely different city with its own government and police force apart from the more famous Las Vegas. They travel down Las Vegas Boulevard past the Silver Nugget Casino to the right and a Smith’s grocery store to the left and further along past the newly built North Las Vegas city hall, a ten story building designed to house the various municipal agencies under the same roof in a central location. Further down, just past the intersection with Civic Center drive they pass by the also newly built North Las Vegas justice center which serves as a primary base for the city’s legal operations including the police department. They make a soft right onto Carey Avenue which takes them past rows of older houses, built in the 70’s and 80’s. The local fire department station stands next door to a boys club which is well shaded by a group of trees which still green foliage. Finally, after a few more non-descript blocks of travel they stop at a four way intersection before making a right onto Belmont. Recognizing the neighborhood with its rows of duplexes Cat fidgets in her seat and announces nervously,
“We’re almost there, just a few more blocks on the right, just in front of the light up ahead”.
In short order they approach the light which serves to regulate traffic between Belmont and Lake Mead Boulevard and the truck slows to an eventual stop just ahead of the Belmont entrance to Reliable Used Cars as Cassie, sensing an opportunity pumps the brakes bringing the Lincoln to a full stop effectively blocking the entrance. A heavy set Hispanic man of roughly 35 clad in oil stained dark blue cover all’s approaches them, his thick mustache bristling before a fiery gaze behind brown lenses as he shouts at them something unintelligible before being quickly intercepted by Christian who angrily shoves the wrench wielding man back.
“Get that fat ass Fernando out here right now”! He demands.
Despite clutching what could serve as an effective weapon the man, wearing a stitched on name badge which bears the name of ‘Miguel’ thinks twice upon noticing two additional occupants in the truck as well as the two women in the car behind it and retreats inside of the building ostensibly following orders. Meanwhile Gene glances at Scott with a wicked grin,
“Scotty, help me grab the car”.
“Why”?
“We’re going to flip the bastard over”, he answers after removing the chain and tossing it into the back and then gesturing for Scott to take up position alongside him. Together the two hulking powerhouses squat down, reaching under the car and gripping it along the edge of the frame. “Ready..? One.., two.., three”! On queue the men grunt and strain, their limbs tensing and legs quivering under the 3600 pounds of weight but slowly they manage to lift the side off of the ground. Loud grunts echo through the lot as they lift it higher and higher, drawing looks of surprise from potential clients milling about the small 60 by 60 foot lot. Fernando emerges from inside of the office with Miguel in tow and cries out but is intercepted by Christian who corners him against a red Nissan Titan pickup and allowing Gene and Scott to finish the job. With one final heave the car lands on its side and is given another pushes which sends the teetering transport onto its roof accentuated by the crumbling sound of metal scraping against the black top.
“Hey!” Fernando cries, “What the hell are you doing”?
“No, fucktard”, Christian sneers, leaning against the rotund racketeer, “The question is what are you going to do”?
“I don’t understand”.
“You sold that scrap heap to my friend”, he seethes, pointing the overturned Mark VIII. “Now you’re going to make things right or I will do something very wrong to you”.
Fernando squirms in Christian’s grasp as he is joined by Scott, Gene, Cassie and Cat along with Genie who walks in behind and sinks her claws into his fleshy legs and drawing a high pitched squeal as she rakes them across the back of his calf. Shimmying into the conversation Cat taps Christian on the shoulder,
“What can I do to help?” She asks.
“Nothing”, he says curtly. “Go back to the truck and sit down; this asshole is my problem now”.
Grabbing her friend by the arm Cassie leads her back to the truck which they lean against to watch the events as they unfold while Scott spies the pair of shocked shoppers perusing the selection and makes a bee line for them. With a beefy thumb jutted towards the sidewalk he growls,
“You might want to buy a car somewhere else, because this place ain’t gonna be open much longer”.
Heeding the advice of the mammoth the couple, a young man and woman quickly navigate through the parked cars and back to the sidewalk, not bothering to look back as they leave the dealership in their wake.
“Hey,” Fernando exclaims. “You’re running off my customers”!
“I’m about to run my foot up your ass”. He points to Cat who is leaning against the big F-350 looking on. “You’re going to refund her money and tear up that contract you made her sign”.
“I .., I can’t do that”, he stammers, squirming in Christian’s surprisingly powerful grasp. Noticing a small gathering on the sidewalk watching the commotion Fernando, in between heaping breaths attempts to regain his composure and hopefully score some points with the potential customer base looking on. “Your friend signed the contract so that car is hers, and it was sold ‘as is’ and all sales are final. Now you’re going to leave and take that bucket with you or I’m calling the police”.
Cat gasps, “Oh no, that’s serious”.
“It’s nothing”, Cassie replies as her thin lips crease into a knowing smirk. “One of dad’s closest friends is a judge, judge Brenner, they have lunch twice a month. Not to mention he donates to the police union every year, they won’t touch him”. She bobs her head back towards Christian who grips the fat man tightly by the collar, turning it into a sort of noose and drags the gasping man over to the upside down car. “Besides, Uncle Christian will probably kill him before they even arrive”. She snorts and folds her arms propping her foot up against the sidewall of a rear tire. “Don’t worry about it Cat, these guys are like Allstate.., you’re in good hands”.
“Go ahead and call the police fat boy”, he sneers pressing the dealer’s sweat stained torso against the car and pushing his face into a grimy oil deposit blanketing the under carriage. “And while you’re at it, make sure you tell them how you sold this kid a car with a thrown rod, water in the brake cylinder, a bad air suspension system with a portable pump hotwired to the starter, an air filter with more oil than Exxon, shot bushings, a leaking rear main seal and oh, while you’re at it how about you tell them how you charged this kid $20,000 for a car that doesn’t even blue book for a thousand”. He pauses to reach into his right hip pocket and retrieve his cell phone. “You want to call the police, here, use my phone”.
Scott and Gene stand a step back looking on in silent amazement as Christian manhandles the dirty dealer, reading him the riot act with several onlookers beginning to cheer him on. They shout out signs of support for Christian to the dismay of Fernando and the suddenly demure mechanic Miguel. Scott shakes his head glancing over to Gene with a twisted grin,
“Man, it’s been years since I’ve seen Chrissy like this. Hell, I didn’t think he even had it in him”.
“I’m half tempted to grab a pair of pom poms and cheer him on my damned self”.
“How many other cars like this do you have on this lot? You get your boy Miguel to spit polish them and try to push them onto young kids like Cat who don’t know any better. Well I got news for you asshole, you can’t polish a turd!” Allowing the now profusely sweating Fernando back to his feet, Christian maintains his grip and accentuates his point with a swift kick on his ample posterior which draws a rousing chorus of cheers from the swelling crowd of onlookers. “You’re like a bottom feeding, scum sucking leech, preying on the misfortune of others, taking advantage of people in a bad situation and making it worse just so you can make an extra dollar. “You’re what’s wrong with this damned country”! He cries, offering up another boot to the bottom. “How about I give you a kick for every dollar you’ve swindled out of people like Cat porky?”
Sweaty and teary eyed the man looks up at Christian, his jowls bouncing in sync with the movement of his head as he pitifully tries to warn him off, “I’m going to sue you”, he whimpers, “for assault and bodily harm”.
Unexpectedly the SCW co-owner rears his head and cackles obnoxiously. “Oh that’s funny” he cries. “Go ahead and sue me shit head, and watch as I file a class action counter suit on behalf of my friend and every other person you’ve ripped off over the years for fraud and willful misrepresentation in addition to conspiracy to commit fraud, violating the clean air act with those fake smog tickets and for being an all-around piece of garbage. So sue me, please, I’m fucking begging you”.
Having lowered the tail gate to her father’s truck Cassie and Cat sit on the edge watching the proceedings with a degree of amusement, at least for the redhead who knew beforehand what to expect. Cat in contrast, still appears to be concerned for her friends as well as a proper resolution. Cassie sighs and wraps her arm around Cat’s shoulder, a subtle message for her not to worry.
“God I could go for some popcorn right about now”.
“I saw one of those Mexican food carts around the corner”, Cat offers. “I’m sure they have something”.
“Oh yeah”, the redhead scoffs. “Flies mostly, but even if it’s clean I never get popcorn from them”.
“Why not”?
“They sell that spicy Mexican popcorn and that stuff will burn your little white taste buds to a crisp. Don’t mess with it that stuff is not meant for gringa consumption”.
Sensing a challenge Cat drops from the lowered tail gate and onto her feet. “I’ll have you know that I can eat anything”, she says picking up the gauntlet. “Do you want me to prove it to you”?
“If you were my brother I would insist that you prove it to me”, Cassie answers with a warped grin. “But being that you are not I will instead try to warn you away from it. Don’t eat it Cat, trust me”.
“Psh, nobody tells me what to do, not even me”.
Defiantly Cat strides off along the sidewalk, past the brick fascia of Hahn’s military surplus next door where an olive drab world war two era jeep stands guard flanked by a pair of deactivated howitzers. As she rounds the corner Cassie cries out suggesting that she also buy some milk which her mother had taught her to be the most effective method for toning down the fire of spicy food, but her words fall on deaf ears as Cat approaches the small, aluminum push cart with an umbrella strapped to a broom stick affixed to the side. The man, a small framed older man sporting a five o’clock shadow along with a thick, bushy mustache regards her coolly as she approaches, reaching to adjust his blue and white button down shirt, tucking it into a snug fitting pair of blue jeans.
“What can I get for you”? He asks in a gruff, Spanish accent.
“Spicy Mexican popcorn,” she replies.
“Are you sure lady? That stuff is pretty hot”.
“I’m quite sure, spicy Mexican popcorn, please”.
With a grunt the man nods and reaches into the cart removing a clear plastic bag filled with popcorn, yellowish with flecks of red and orange. Pausing thoughtfully, clacking the heels of his leather cowboy boots together he reaches into the compartment again, this time emerging with a pint of milk.
“Maybe you should drink some milk with it”, he suggests. “It helps”.
“No, thanks”, she replies handing him a crumpled five dollar bill. Taking the change in hand she turns about and walks back towards the truck leaving the man shaking his head and muttering under his breath in Spanish.
“Aye loca chica blanca”.
Arriving back on the scene, parting through the ever burgeoning crowd of curious onlookers Cat reclaims her seat beside Cassie with the popcorn in hand. Unfastening the red twist tie she opens the bag and takes in the zesty aroma of chili and lime before teasing her friend passing the open bag under her nose. Cassie brushes it aside and instead asks,
“Did you get any milk”?
“Real women don’t drink milk”, she replies reaching into the bag for a handful and bringing to her mouth as the redhead rolls her eyes.
“You sound like my brother, and much like Fernando over there, it’s your funeral”.
Shoving the sweaty, panting walrus back with a forceful finger to the chest, Christian continues to tear into him much to the delight of the crowd, some of whom have taken to filming the incident on their cell phones. The man backs up as the wrestler turned businessman shoves him again, leaving him to rub the tender area with his fleshy paws while his ears take the brunt of the assault.
“And furthermore you wasteful wanton cesspool of caloric criminality these kids work hard for their money.., too damned hard to be able to afford flushing their life savings down the drain so you can stuff another taco into those gelatinous jowls”. Another pointed finger drives the man back another step. He attempts to circle to his left and avoid any further finger pokes of doom but Christian follows suit, his tongue lashing out at him as would a cat of nine tails. “She bled, sweated and cried for that money she gave to you pilfering pork fed pouch of opossum piss. The least you could do is to try and do right by her and sell her a car that works, not something that barely survived a demolition derby and looks like a poster child for junkyard wars”! His face red and eyes glassy Fernando holds his palms up attempting to plead with his captor, but the co-owner and head booker of SCW only seems to be warming up. “A huckster like you tried to do the same thing to my father years ago and do you know what happened? He took the car to a crusher and a bat to the con man’s head. How does that sound, do you want me to take a bat to your head, or how about a blow torch to your dick, assuming anyone can find that needle in the haystack of blubber. No, I have a better idea..,” he pauses to accentuate his ongoing displeasure with another finger poke, forceful enough to leave a bruise and knock the simpering manatee back two more steps. “How about I go through your yelp reviews, round up everybody you’ve conned over the years and file a class action lawsuit on their behalf”? The last suggestion draws a raucous round of applause from the gathering assembled on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the over turned Lincoln. “I’ll bet there are plenty of people who would like to bend you over and prick you with a syphilitic dick”.
Cassie looks on in stunned silence, as do Gene and Scott while the crowd, enthusiastically behind Christian soaks in the comeuppance of the crooked crown price of corpulence. Cat meanwhile, with her mouth full of the spicy popcorn seems oblivious to the proceedings as her face quickly turns to a beet red and her eyes begin to water with the mucous draining freely from her nostrils. She breathes through her mouth, gasping for additional air and wipes her nose on an old rag lying in the bed of the truck behind her beside the chain.
“Hotthhh.., too hotthhh…,”
Unable to speak intelligibly Cat fans her open maw with her hands, desperately trying to guide any air she can get into the fiery magma chamber, but the relatively cool autumn air is not enough, even when coupled with a waterfall of saliva pouring into her mouth and nearly turning it into a lagoon. She turns her face away from Cassie, who glances curiously at her, not wanting to concede that she was right about the popcorn but the heat continues to build and she begins sweating profusely. Wiping a swath of perspiration from her forehead with her shirt, and her eyes tearing up the red faced rabble rouser suddenly bolts from the truck, her legs a blur as they propel her across the street and back into the casino where she had had breakfast a few hours ago and leaving Cassie snickering and shaking her head.
“Ok, Ok!” Fernando cries, giving in to Christian’s demands. “I’ll refund her money and tear up the contract. Just, please.., no more”.
“I have the receipt and her copy of the contract in my hands”, he warns as his hazel lenses burn into him, following the hysterical shyster into the office. With the hungry hornswoggle retreating into the undergrowth of underhanded dealing Christian turns to his companions with a wry smirk. “Should I charge him interest”? He asks.
“Gene replies by shaking his head, “Nah, just go through with the class action suit. Use my lawyer, he’s on retainer”.
“It’s a deal”, he laughs.
Fernando waddles out of the office ham fisting an envelope, presumably with the cash given him earlier and a rolled up contract, which he shakily hands over. Taking the envelope Christian dutifully counts out the money, which is in hundreds, rubber banded together in stacks of a thousand and then grabs the contract which he unrolls and pleases it side by side with Cat’s copy for comparison. Gazing over the numbers and the signatures to ensure that everything is in order he nods and hands the paper back to him, his voice lowering into a gravely tone of admonition,
“Alright fatty, you know what to do”.
Still nervous and with his mechanic Miguel looking on Fernando tears the contract in half, and then into quarters and hands the shredded document back over to Christian allowing him to set it on the grown and lite it afire with the butane cigarette lighter kept for emergency pranks. Turning back to his friends he tucks the envelope into his pocket and regards the cheering bystanders with a warm smile and handing out a handful of business cards.
“Not only are you witnesses”, he tells them. “But if you’re a customer or former customer of this asshole, contact me in a couple of weeks to join the class action suit”.
“Wait a minute”, the red faced racketeer blusters and gestures to the upturned car. “Aren’t you going to take the car”?
“You bought it back”, Christian sneers. “It’s your problem now. Maybe Miguel can give it a spit shine”.
Looking over to the truck where Cassie sits on the tail gate next to Genie his brow furrows seeing no sign of Cat. “Where’d she go”? He asks. “Alright Cassie, spit it out, what did you do to Cat”?
“I didn’t do anything”! She exclaims, thrusting her palms out. “She did it on her own accord, I swear”.
“Where did she go”? He sighs and shakes his head in frustration.
Cassie juts a thumb towards the Bighorn casino across the street. “She’s getting a gallon of milk”, the red head giggles.
“Of course”, he says with a sigh breaking into a trot and crossing the street. “After everything I go through to get her out of trouble she goes and gets into more. This is becoming a full time job”.
Opening the tinted double doors his face is blasted with a heavy waft of cold air courtesy of the air conditioning system. The small establishment is subdued with the lights dimmed allowing for the pulsating machines to generate the majority of it accompanied by the all too familiar chirps and whistles of players hard at work keeping the state of Nevada’s tax coffers well fed. He passes by what he supposes is meant to be a stage, although the small wooden platform barely stands a foot above the green, red and white carpeted floor and can’t be any more than a hundred square feet, if that he guesses. Looking ahead, past another short row of machines he notices televisions lining the bar, all of them tuned to a sporting event of some kind and at the bar itself he recognizes Cat, leaning against the brown leather padded counter top. She appears to be arguing with the bartender, a slightly older platinum blond woman sporting long, straight tresses which cascade just beyond her shoulders. To Cat’s left two Hispanic men are seated and sipping on coronas while listening to some sappy mariachi song sung in lyrics he couldn’t understand while casually watching Cat and the bartender from the corners of their eyes. He stops short, the prankster in him wanting to listen in for a moment, hoping for some juicy bit of gossip to hold over her head.
“Milp..,” she says, rapidly licking her lips.
“The bartender leans forward, her expression is a quizzical one. “What”?
“Milp”!
“I don’t understand”.
Frustrated and desperate to soothe her burning palette Cat snatches a burgundy pen and a napkin and begins to scribble her message which she quickly hands to the bartender who reads it aloud,
“You want Milk? Honey in case you haven’t noticed this is a bar”.
Growling, Cat snatches the napkin and scratches an addition to her message.
“Then give it to me in a skull mug or beer bottles just give me some milk”!
Laughing heartily the bartender drops the napkin on the counter and turns to the reach in cooler behind her, removing a jug of milk which she begins to pour into a glass, skull carved mug while the two men share a chuckle muttering under their breath something about gringos delicate taste buds. Christian, now leaning against a slant top keno machine directly behind her watches in mirth and shakes his head as Cat grips the skull mug tightly with both hands and ravenously downs it. With a lip smacking sigh Cat sets the mug down gesturing for a refill. She takes the clear plastic bag of spicy Mexican popcorn and hands it to the men beside her, ditching it in favor of the fresh glass of milk which, like the first, she downs with alacrity. With the mug empty she pays the bartender, after pausing to fan her mouth one more time she heaves a sigh of relief and glances at the two men shoveling the popcorn gratefully into their eager mouths.
“Be careful”, she advises. “That stuff will kill you”.
“Hah hah”, the man next to her laughs in response. “It’s not even that spicy”.
Cat says nothing and instead gestures for a third glass of milk while staring through wide incredulous orbs. Christian steps forward as Cat takes the milk, and drinks, more slowly this time as her flaming maw has lessened to a mere inferno. She regards him with a bright eyed expression, noting the smile on his face.
“Did you get?” she asks hopefully. “How did it go”?
“Of course I got it”, he scoffs. “I told you I would handle it and I did”.
He hands her the plain white envelope stuffed with cash bringing a delighted grin to her face. Peeking inside she squeals happily and leaps onto her boss, wrapping her arms and legs around him in a four limbed bear hug while enthusiastically kissing him on the cheek and forehead bringing a smile to his face.
“Thank you, thank you thank you”! She cries while hugging him tightly. “Oh my God, thank you so much”!
“It was my pleasure kitty cat”, he laughs. “Just.., next time bring me along, ok”?
“I owe you so much I promise! I’ll do anything you want”.
“Well.., what I truly want is not really suitable for someone with your wiring, nor is it suitable for a public place like this so let’s just beat the hell out of Seleana Zdunich and we'll call it good, alright"?
“You got it”, she drops down and says happily while offering one final peck on the cheek before they turn to the exit. “I’ll bury her in the biggest pile of litter you’ve ever seen”!
