12.2
Tommy’s attitude changed abruptly and he walked back around the front of his car to the driver’s side, the door of which still stood open.
“Aw, get away from me with that shit.”
Rupert stood there a little perplexed, slid the ticket back into his cross-body bag, then followed Tommy and stood in front of the driver’s seat where Tommy had re-slumped.
“Um, you didn’t even hear the pitch.”
“I don’t need to. You’re a shyster.”
That’s definitely racist, Rupert thought without thinking.
“I don’t understand.”
“You work for that crazy bitch selling them damn tickets to, what is it? Crack World.”
“Planet. Crack Planet. It’s a whole . . . planet . . . ”
“Rip off,” Tommy said, disgusted and peeling his banana before taking a bite.
“Well, I know it seems too good to be true, but . . . ” Rupert thought for a minute and looked to the rear of the Cutlass, half its brown smoke disappearing into the bush. It occurred to him now that the bush was dead, because he parked here all the time specifically for this reason. This guy was a nutter, and he wasn’t too bright. But he wasn’t a complete idiot.
“You’re right,” Rupert conceded. “I only took the gig because I’m new in town and I had to do something. I’m looking to get out of it as soon as I can.” He was impressed at how well that came out of his stinking, lying mouth.
Tommy looked up at him. “Yeah?” He took another bite, peeling the banana down a little further.
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Tommy paused, chewing the mush. “I didn’t think you were an asshole.”
“Thanks.”
“What kind of work you looking for? What’s your specialty?”
“I’m an entropo—” Rupert stopped. “Well, I’m pretty good with sales.”
Tommy looked at Rupert a little longer, scanning his face for traces of bullshit. Rupert sweat, but for once, it was the sun beating down on him.
“Come into my office,” Tommy said and started to move the few items scattered around his passenger seat. He held the next bite of banana between his teeth, peel dangling.
“Oh, no,” Rupert said, smelling the air fresheners, feeling his throat spasm and something once edible threaten to eject at the thought of what it would be like shut up in there. “It’s way too hot. I’m not used to this heat. I’m from DC.”
Tommy chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I get that.”
Rupert squatted down next to the car, his knees cracking, then he brought one knee down onto the asphalt to take the pressure off.
Tommy leaned toward him a little, and Rupert leaned back enough to keep the same distance.
“You might not realize this,” Tommy confided, “but, I’ve got a little business of my own, and well, sales . . . to be honest, it’s a little hard to get the word out when, you know . . . ”
“You can’t leave your car.”
“Excatly.”
“Excatly?”
“Exactly.”
Rupert looked at Tommy for a moment and then ignored the glitch.
“It’d have to be a step up from what you’re pushing now,” Tommy said.
“Meth,” Rupert said.
“How’d you . . . ?”
Rupert pointed to the Cutlass’s trunk and smiled.
“Damn, is it that obvious?”
It absolutely was, but Rupert respected the effort.
“No, it’s actually rather well hidden . . . out here, in the open.”
Tommy smiled, finished his banana, and pushed the peel into a leather car trash sack full of brown, dried banana peels. “You’re good at sales?”
“So far.”
“Well, let me tell you about my idea,” Tommy started, both hands animated now that he was banana-free. “I got this idea. Meth is meth, right? They make that holiday shit that turns it green with the Drainü. They make the blue shit, but, man, it all smells like ass.”
Rupert could see where this was going. “Bananas.”
Tommy grinned. From this angle below, Rupert now noticed Tommy missed a couple of top teeth: one central incisor on the right and the first bicuspid on the left. The rest weren’t exactly prize-worthy.
“Man, you’re sharp!”
Rupert shrugged.
“Not just bananas, though, obviously . . . I gotta start with bananas.” Tommy put his thumbs up and leaned back into the car, a little like The Fonz. “But I’m thinking bigger than that. Lots of smells. Apples. Pine trees. Caramel. Eucalytptus . . . ”
“Eucalyptus?” Rupert was still as impressed as one could be with this guy.
Tommy nodded like he knew it was damned impressive.
“Tommy,” Rupert said, serious now. “This could revolutionize the way meth is produced, marketed, and sold.”
Tommy clapped his hands and let out a whoop, from which Rupert cringed. His knees ached, so standing, grimacing a little, he stretched.
“Well, if you need someone to help you get the word and the stuff out, this sounds like a product I could get behind. Get creative with.”
Tommy got out of the car and grabbed Rupert’s hand to shake again. “I like the way you talk. You know, you don’t talk like you’re colored.”
Everything Rupert had found half-respectable about Tommy, in a context-dependent kind of way, dissipated and he almost—almost—turned around and walked away. But he was about to land a gig selling meth, not tickets to a fictional planet made of free crack. And selling meth was another step closer to making it, thus closer to finding the D.E.A.T.H. program. And perhaps, if he played his cards right and laid it on thick, this toothless asshole would teach him how to cook.
Rupert laughed, Tommy still shaking his hand. “Haaa, yeah. Haha. You know, sometimes I slip right into my peoples’ language. You know, it’s innate, that jive.”
“Whoa,” Tommy stepped back, laughing. “Innate? Jive? Damn. What is that, that eebonics?”
“Yep,” Rupert said, smiling. “Yes, it is.” Jesus Christ. This guy was a complete idiot after all. For now, Rupert felt a little better about the racism. Tommy’s idiocy, in this particular circumstance, made it a little more palatable, but stupidity was a funny, complicated thing. Is it willful, or does it come down to literal mental capacity and ability? Where on the idiot fault/some-fault/no-fault spectrum did Tommy fall? And it gradually dawned on Rupert that he was more comfortable around this level of moron. “Maybe if I teach you some Ebonics, you can teach me something.”
Tommy grinned his gapped, banana-y grin and nodded. “Yeah, man, that sounds good, Rupe.”
“Alright, I gotta get going,” Rupert said. “You here often?”
“Yeah, either here or at the Bean Ringer on Bahia Vista. They got the same kind of bushes.”
Rupert had to laugh.
“Right. I’ll iron some things out and I’mma find you.”
“Alright, my man.”
Christ.
Rupert trotted back over to Jesus, who was asleep with the radio now blasting Stryper’s “Honestly.” Rupert was honestly upset that he recognized it.
As Rupert opened the door, Jesus woke up, rubbed his eyes and turned down the radio.
“What the hell station are you listening to?” Rupert asked, sliding his awkward frame into the passenger seat, narrowly missing cracking the side of his head. “Goddamn, these cars are huge, but still, the low headroom.”
“I was listening to the news,” Jesus said around a half-stifled yawn.
“That wasn’t the news.”
“WWUT, the nation’s only 24-7 hair metal/news radio station, continually rotating sweet ass power ballads and political updates and commentary.”
Rupert said nothing for a moment, then: “Okay.”
“Clinton’s getting the nomination.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Not being funny,” Jesus assured Rupert.
“Today’s the seventh—we’ve got until the convention. Superdelegates can change their—”
Jesus laughed for an uncomfortably long time. “Sure they can.”
“They will.”
“Sure they will.” Jesus ran a finger under the left lens of his sunglasses, wiping away one hysterical tear.
“Fuck.”
“Also,” Jesus continued. “Did you know Muhhammad Ali died a few days ago?”
“I did not,” Rupert answered. “I had his album, The Adventures of Ali and his Gang vs. Mr. Tooth Decay.”
“What?”
“When I was a kid. 1976.” Rupert smiled big. “Never had a cavity. Saw him box Mr. Tooth Decay on Dental Hygiene for Children Day in 1980.”
“In real life?”
“Yep.” Rupert knew these facts bought him a certain amount of weird pop cultural social cred, and he would capitalize on it as much as possible, because his account was usually empty.
“Wait? How?”
“Chuck Wepner played Mr. Tooth Decay.”
Jesus nodded, but asked: “Who’s Chuck Wepner?”
Rupert was aghast. “Who’s . . . man, Chuck Wepner . . . former pro heavyweight boxer. Fought Ali in a 1975 title fight—fell short of a full fifteen rounds by fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds. That fight inspired the Rocky screenplay. Rocky III was influenced by Wepner’s 1976 fight with Andre the Giant.”
“No shit. Andre the Giant fought Mr. Tooth Decay?”
“He did.”
“Who won?”
“Andre tossed him over the top rope.
“Tooth Decay lost?”
“Always.” Rupert felt pretty pleased with himself and flashed a reasonably white smile.
“Did you know that Rocky II is slang for crack cocaine?”
Silence.
“No cavities, huh?” Jesus redirected.
“Not a one,” Rupert said. “Thanks to Muhammad Ali.” He buckled his seatbelt, preparing to hit the road.
“What were you doing over there?” Jesus slipped into the conversation, effortlessly.
Damn. “Making some business connections.”
“With Tommy Bananas?”
“You know that guy?
“Everyone knows Bananas. And they don’t call him bananas just because he’s got that creepy thing with bananas.”
“Hey, it reminds him of his deceased father.”
“His father lives across town with a black magic woman named Alejandra and her forty fucking cat familiars.”
“Hmm.”
“Whatever the deal, Fulva won’t be thrilled.”
“Well, Fulva doesn’t have to know,” Rupert said.
“I won’t say anything, but, it’s a small world, you know what I mean?” Jesus started the car.
“I’ll be careful.”
“You better. I’m telling you.”
Rupert wasn’t sure how much of a viable threat Fulva really was. Or Bill. Or Osceola. Whatever the case, he thought he could keep this under wraps. He only had to do it as long as it took to learn to cook and see if there’s any D.E.A.T.H. program information to be had.
As Jesus pulled them out of The Gorge (Fine Men’s Clothing)’s parking lot, Rupert watched two shirtless men in the next plaza fight. One of them had a hammer, but only one arm. That could not end well.
Sock it to me...