Zook

By Kirk Alex

Some very strange things are taking place at the New Pueblo Funeral Home...
War vet Ray Zook, a PTSD afflicted former grunt, is about to regret that he ever set foot in Tucson, Arizona.
All he wants is to gain the courage to face his inner-demons and somehow explain to the widow of his best friend what really happened to him during their stint in the military. But when Zook is mugged and takes a temporary job working the night-shift at a crematory run by a couple of unsavory employees, those plans get derailed.
After witnessing a series of disturbing incidents—like the shady “after hours” business taking place—that hurl him into an immoral world of grave robbing, coffin swapping, and even disappearing bodies, Zook finds himself caught in the middle of a twisted power-struggle to control ownership of the funeral home.
If Zook hopes to escape this utter mess with his sanity intact, he must rise above his fears and confront the dark deeds before he ends up back in the looney bin . . . for good this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kirk Alex
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9780939122516

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I had just gotten off the bus and the two of them followed me: the dim-witted young chick with the dishwater hair and the beastly two-hundred-pound butch dyke with her: all tats and rings and studs and chains. Lots of black leather. Blue/black crew cut. Demanding money.

For what?

BJ.

The other one was quiet. Just wasn’t there mentally. Didn’t seem like it mattered to her, either. It was the bitch built like a dozer who was after my cash. I dared her to take it, which hadn’t been a wise move at all. She cold-cocked me. By the time she was done I was on the ground, nearly out. She’d flipped me over on my belly and sat on my back. I could hardly breathe, let alone do much of anything else at this point. She’d taken my wallet, extracted the bills, tossed it back at me. Spit in my direction, and they walked off. With close to eighty dollars of my jack. My roll. A good chunk of it. If it hadn’t been for the paper money I’d kept stashed inside my sock I’d have been up the creek. I was, but at least with what remained I’d be able to rent a room, buy something to eat, a newspaper, and look for work.

I had been sound asleep, as comfortable as one can possibly be on a Greyhound bus. Been pulling on a bottle of hooch all the way from Phoenix. The idea was to stay on in Tucson long enough to beef up the roll and continue on to Ft. Worth. The ex had family there and I hoped that’s where she’d ended up. I didn’t have a need to connect with her. It came down to my kid. In her early teens by now. Hadn’t seen her in years. I’d been to LaFayette, Indiana; Bowling Green, Kentucky; Lawrence, Kansas, and dozens of other towns, large and small. I stayed on the move; perpetual motion seemed to keep the demons at bay—at least I had myself convinced of it. I had war-related nightmares I couldn’t shake, and some other things I was trying to live down. Staying on the move seemed to be the answer. Only how in hell do you get away from yourself? I’d been given the boot by more apartment managers and motel desk clerks for kicking the floor and walls in my sleep than I cared to remember.

It was usually some indiscriminate setting, me unarmed, being chased by the enemy in some far-off land. Commies? Mid-East zealots? Your run-of-the-mill America haters? Who knew?

Or maybe I was in denial. Unwilling to face my demons. It took a lot to deal with that shit.

That was where they got on, though: Phoenix. The young one: couldn’t tell how old, didn’t look half bad in tight jeans, pink blouse, although the heavy one with the butch cut made me want to retch. This was one unappealing broad. And wouldn’t you know it, she was the one who dropped her sweaty and mean ass in the seat next to mine. She wanted a hit off my hooch. I told her to piss off. Took the occasional nip from the bottle, pulled the blanket up to about my neck. I had no idea how long I’d be staying in Tucson. Didn’t know a soul in town, not really. It was just a place to drive through, or maybe spend a week in, look around. Been in the ‘Old Pueblo’ before. Worked as a busser at some sports bar some years back, did a bit of panhandling.

What nudged me awake was the two of them switching seats. Now the young one was sitting next to me. Before the fat one gave up her seat, she whispered in my ear: My cousin gives great head.

How much?

Forty bucks.

I told her to get lost.

They switched seats, and before I knew it, ‘cousin’ had her hand under my blanket. Inched it slowly toward my crotch and was rubbing it, just running her fingers gently over it, and I’ll be damned if my groin didn’t begin to stir. All that vino, and there I was: getting wood. She proceeded to unzip my fly. I let her; pretended I was asleep, and let her do what she wanted. I figured if I acted like I was dozing, they wouldn’t be able to claim I owed them money later, her and the beast she was with.

She had it out, stroking, slowly, taking her time. Then she ducked her head under the blanket. I let her. Of course, I let her. It had been a while. No love, no sex. Traveling the country on buses, when the money was there, hitching when it wasn’t.

She had her tongue on it, licking; then she had the shaft inside, all of it. I didn’t have a tremendous whole lot, but it was all right; there were some poor bastards who envied what I did have. You lived with the hand the Dealer laid on you—and this time the Dealer had shown me some kindness, I thought. That head of hers bobbed up and down, not fast, gently, gradually, taking her time. And the fact it was night provided adequate cover. Passengers were zoned out, with the exception of some punk in his teens, across the aisle, watching out of the corner of his eye. Let him. Probably wished he was me, the big shot, getting his nuts off on a Greyhound bus to nowhere.

The licking went on. She played with the head, flicking it thoroughly. This chick had been around, knew her business when it came to licking balls and sucking cock. It had been such a long time, too. Probably did this to get by: sucked off strangers for whatever they could pick up. Who knew? Did it matter? Only I’d had too much wine. Couldn’t make it. It was no good. Wine and sex didn’t mix, not for me.

She lifted her head. I pulled out my wallet. Extracted a tenner for her effort. She did what she could. Not her fault. Before the young hooker had had a chance to even take a good look at it, the beast, her freakish ‘relation,’ stuck her hand in and snapped up the sawbuck. She sniffed it. Looked it over. She was not pleased. Tough, I thought. That was a ten dollar try.

"My name is not Bill Gates and I don’t own Microsoft. Besides, I never got off."

You’re lying. She yanked her ‘cousin’ out of the seat, and lowered that wide posterior next to me.

We agreed on forty.

Like hell we did.

That was a forty dollar BJ. You never had anything that good in your life.

How would you know? Maybe I had better. For a fact. Only my ex-wives wanted nothing to do with me, especially the last one. I had no idea where she was. Ft. Worth was nothing more than a guess, a vague one, like all the other towns I’d been to. She’d taken the kid and disappeared off the face of the earth. Could explain the roaming. If I admitted it to myself. I didn’t need the exes back, only ached to see the kid. A girl. Must have been six years ago I saw her last. I didn’t blame the wife for leaving me. Couldn’t take the screaming in the middle of the night, the kicking at the floor with my feet, the times I was stationed out of the country, or stuck in some bug bin here in the states. I drank to fight the demons. Only made everything worse. They had me on Prozak, then Paxil, at the VA. While I was in the whack ward the wife dropped the bomb: wanted out. I couldn’t stop her, didn’t try. She never mentioned custody, only because she figured she was entitled. She’d given birth to the child and that was that. Frankly, I was in no shape to take care of a kid, couldn’t even take care of myself. I let it go; let them both go. The ex had a man, in fact, had been shagging a neighbor while I was stationed overseas. The way it usually went. I’d had it done to me once before. Kid could be his, biologically. Probably. Don’t matter. I treated her like she was my own. You get emotionally attached. Kids are all right. Always wanted a family. Always did. Things kept going wrong somehow. Something would always happen to turn things upside down.

This was divorce number three. You know what they say: three strikes and you’re out. Three marriages, three divorces. I was defective, a loser. Something was seriously the matter with me. It was the war; it was other things.

I doubt it. She looked at me. Not with that nose and those teeth. My nose was bent, both ways, in bar brawls that I usually started and lost, so were my teeth—born with them that way—the ones still there: black, yellow. Of the uppers in front, I had but one left. In the middle.

I pulled the blanket up, and pretended to go to sleep. Only she wouldn’t let me.

Thirty bucks. You can’t deny that was worth thirty bucks.

You got what it was worth. And that’s the end of it. I never got rocks. You bitches came on to me. Before I knew what was going on, your nympho girlfriend was molesting my privates.

You owe us money.

Fuck off, or I go to the driver.

He’s our friend. That wouldn’t get you anywhere.

‘What does he pay for it?"

That’s a different case. He gets a discount—and has nothing to do with you.

I feel drained for some strange reason and crave rest. And this time I shut my eyes and kept them shut. I could feel them switch seats again. As she got up, I turned my head, and caught her cousin going down on some geezer way in the back. I guessed the freak was on her feet in order to collect payment, and before I knew it, the young bitch was back sitting beside me. It wasn’t long before she had her hand under my blanket again. This time I slapped it away, and she left me alone.

We got off the bus. I had my old backpack; walking down in search of a cheap motel along Drachman. Then I turned down an alley. Big mistake. They’d had friends waiting for them. Indians. Looked like. I was jumped, knocked down. She stood on one side, while one of those drunk Indian friends of hers stood on the other, and they took turns delivering a couple of very effective, if unsteady, kicks to my kidneys. The beast had emptied my wallet, rummaged through the backpack, spat in disgust and left me lying there in the puke and blood.

Welcome to Tucson, Arizona. To be fair, this was no slam against the Old Pueblo, and besides, the bitches had hopped on in Phoenix.

I was up, wiped vomit from my chin. Dug my hand inside my left sock. At least I still had that. Jammed the spare socks and underwear, photo album, toiletries, back in the pack. Checked into a motel, washed my face, showered, then plopped down on the floor and slept the rest of the night and most of the next day when I had to go out and find a bar, or Circle K, to buy a can of Spam and a 6-Pack of Red Dog, a newspaper. At this rate, my money wouldn’t last long and I’d be stuck here indefinitely. Taking a look at the job ads was in order.

Chapter 2

I must have filled out a dozen apps at as many places that week. Flower shop delivery, print shop gofer, dishwasher, at this all you can eat Chinese greasy spoon; even a mortuary looking for someone to watch the place at night and answer the phone. They weren’t hiring, at least they weren’t hiring anyone with my appearance. I still looked like hell after the mugging; all that travel, bad food, or no food. Wears you out and it shows.

I’d done some panhandling here and there over the years. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. You swallowed your pride. I hated it. But if you wanted the occasional sub or burger, 6-Pack of Miller or Red Dog. Besides, it seemed all that was left. Else I’d be stuck here. There was no way. Ft. Worth kept pulling. It was strong. I needed to do something about it. And begging was all that was left.

Some of these guys dressed down, the fakers, pros. Wanted you to think they were destitute. Had no place to go. Folks had no idea some of these beggars had bank accounts, lived in a nice home, owned a nice car. That was the idea: make it look like you got nothing. Make them feel guilty because they have, and you don’t. Can’t even get a low-wage paying, dead-end job you’re so effed up, mentally and every other way.

The thing was the good spots were usually taken, staked out. It was like that in LA, San Francisco, and other cities. Tucson was no different. You tried to move in on one of these spots, and they got their buddies to kick your ass real good, too. Had to keep reminding myself.

There was my monthly disability check I got from Uncle Sam, but me and Granny Cleota both lived off that. She sent wherever I happened to be what was left over after she paid her bills back in Ohio. It was a different amount each time. I never said much about it. Woman was in her 90s, legally blind in one eye and close to it in the other. Her friend Cora, a neighbor lady, would stop by and help out by getting her the groceries she needed, or take her to church on Sunday, the dentist and such. Granny collected social security, but it wasn’t much to speak of. I didn’t mind helping out, doing what I could financially.

The other thing about panhandling in the Old Pueblo, you couldn’t do it in the city, else you went to jail. Only in the county could you get away with it. Cops weren’t tough on it. They might take you in, but you usually got let go an hour later. It wasn’t the cops so much anyway, but the other fools, risk of getting ambushed, or people in cars sometimes throwing stuff at you once the sun went down, college kids and their water balloons, or gang-bangers spraying you with paint or pesticide. I had it happen. Lived through an episode or two when panhandling was the only way to pick up a few bucks. You didn’t want to do this sort of thing after dark.

Me? I didn’t like doing it at night or during the day. Didn’t like begging, period. Still had some pride. Most of it was gone. I was determined to hold on to what little was left.

Chapter 3

I got on the Oracle Blvd bus that took me north. Lots of traffic. Three lanes north-bound, as many south-bound. Reminded me of LA and Phoenix. Not quite as busy as either one, but if they weren’t careful, it was sure headed that way: another rat-race city with way too many aggressive drivers all over the place.

I got off at Ina. One of the busiest intersections, used to be, and looked like it still was. Relieved the median was not occupied. On the north side of the intersection. I bought a bottle of water at the gas station on the north-west corner, and crossed east on Ina. Got to the median, pulled out my cardboard sign, unfolded it, held it up for the motorists to see.

DESERT STORM VET

I was in one of those wars over there, but it wasn’t Desert Storm. Desert Storm was the one people were familiar with, the best known, so I used it. All I had to do now was take the heat for a few hours.

Some gave you change, some gave you food (like an apple or a banana); one middle-age woman in an older tan Toyota yelled she’d be back as she drove past, and a few minutes later she was, on foot, with a couple of Bibles. Crossed the street to where I was, handed me one of the Bibles, and wondered if I would read a passage with her. Who am I to be rude? I couldn’t. People meant well. Only religious types I couldn’t stand were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Now they were obnoxious. In-your-face belligerent. She opened hers and told me the page number, the passage. I read along with her. When we were done, she gave me a five dollar bill, a business card that had the name of her church and address, and to please stop by any time. I thanked the woman, and she walked west on Ina, then south on Oracle, to where she had left her car parked in the Whole Foods parking lot, and that was the last I saw of her.

I could have jammed the Bible inside my backpack, but thought better of it. It’s the best prop there is. I held it in one hand, the sign in the other. Sometimes, while resting, or pausing on the walk up and down the median, I would sit on the ground, my back against the No U Turn sign there, pretending to be deeply immersed in the Good Book. Did it work? Better than I thought it would. People would say things like: The Lord provides. And stick paper money in your hand. I didn’t bother to look or count; it wouldn’t have been seemly. All I knew was that my pockets were developing a nice bulge.

I knew I’d have to go off someplace and count it pretty soon. Made me wonder how much I had been able to pick up. I’d been out a couple of hours, and the heat was getting to me. Water was warm. I needed something cold, preferably a tall Red Dog, but it would not have been right. Some people in cars might suspect you’re a user or boozer, but if they saw you drinking beer, well, that would have stopped them from donating altogether.

So I couldn’t leave. I was determined to stick around for another hour, and then buy a sandwich either over at Einstein Bros. Bagels, or Whole Foods next door. Wouldn’t matter.

That’s when she appeared: this tired black chick. Short and skinny. Frail. Saw her walking east on Ina, north side of the street. Side I was on. Expected her to keep on walking, only she didn’t. She got on the median and stayed there, giving me the hard glare and cursing.

What choo be doin’ here?

Pardon me?

You heard what I said, fool: What choo be doin’ on my spot?

Since when?

You new around here, asshole? This is my spot. I work this spot all the time.

Woman was loaded on drugs, no doubt. Upper front teeth were gone. Like me. Almost. I still had that one left in the middle. I figured her to be a meth addict, or something. I used to use. No choice. Dealing with the pain. When there was no morphine around. Heroin user? Who knew? All I knew was I was making some money that I desperately needed and wasn’t about to leave.

This is county property. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.

You gonna get yo ass kicked, is what you gonna do.

You cause me any trouble we both end up getting taken in. I need money. I have to get to Ft. Worth.

Only thing you have to do is get off my spot. I need my dope. I ain’t lying. Get lost. Now. Or get yo funky ass kicked.

By who? You? You don’t look strong enough to swat a mosquito.

Laugh now, Chump. See who laughs last. And she was gone.

Good riddance, I thought. This was county. I was here first, and had as much right as she did or anyone else did. I needed money to buy a ticket out of town, the way I looked at it.

An hour later and the sun was sapping me. I was thirsty, hungry, and needed to take a leak real bad. I also wanted to take the money out and count it. Figured I had a decent sum. No idea how much, but it had to be a pretty good amount.

I folded my sign, stuffed it and the Bible in my pack, and crossed west on Ina.

Chapter 4

There was that market: Whole Foods place at the south-west corner. Whole Paycheck was more like it. If you saw their prices you’d know why.

I decided to walk over. Go inside, count the cash, wash my face, take a leak. Buy a sandwich and a beer and figure out my next move. Maybe go back out there on the median, or call it a day, take it easy. Depended on how much I had.

Market was busy. Tom Waits from overhead stereo speakers. Something about keeping the Devil way down in the hole. Couldn’t agree more. If only I believed in the Devil, Tom.

Lots of well-to-do shoppers. Whole Foods was upscale. People, professionals, with money shopped for their groceries here. White collar crowd: nurses, doctors, lawyers, flight attendants, jet pilots, politicians, and others. You got the feeling these folks didn’t mind being gouged.

It was nice and air conditioned in there. Always had free food samples, too. Their checkers were women and most of them nice looking, gorgeous. Only nobody gave you the time of day when you had teeth missing and looked as grungy as me. That was how it went. They smelled a bum, sensed a bum, and you were persona non grata, for the most part. ‘Desert Storm’ didn’t mean squat to them.

How did I feel about it? You got used to it.

There was one blond in there, checker, in tight jeans. Tall. Had a ponytail. Looked hot. Narrow waist, and had this great ass. Wide hips, but not fat. Smiling; all the time. Not at me, but her customers, as she worked the cash register. A male co-worker walked past her. Whassup? I heard her say in a real sexy way, flirting. Maybe I’ll buy something here, I thought, just to have her check my items, just to have her smile at me, if she would. Usually they didn’t. Most of them didn’t smile at transients. That’s what I was. Like it or not. Transient. With a capital T.

They had the coffee dispensers on a table on the right, beyond that the huge display case with all sorts of cookies and pastries; beyond that you had the long display food case with fried chicken, and pasta, meat loaf; you name it. Made you crave something good to eat for a change.

I still wanted my Red Dog, or any kind of real good bottle of beer, but a drumstick or two would have been just right; beans, rice, a good salad. Some dessert. Turtle pie maybe. Why not? I didn’t always eat what I should these days. I might do something about that now.

They showed us film and slides on nutrition in Basic and AIT, how to eat right, what to stay away from. When I was younger I paid attention to it; then something happened, and I gave up. Like stopped brushing my teeth, usually. Uppers were shot anyway, except for that one. What was left to save? Lowers were rotting. Should have them pulled.

Doing meth, other drugs, didn’t help, either. Like I said: something happened. Took morphine they put me on at the VA to dull the pain caused by all the shrapnel I still had in me. Had a couple chunks inside my head. Some throughout my body. Way too close to vital organs. They were able to get about eighty-eight to ninety percent of the metal out of me. No way to get to the kernels inside the brain without leaving me a vegetable, or dead. I told them I’d take a raincheck. But you gotta give me something for the pain. Now.

I was hoping to get my life back in order by getting down to Ft. Worth and taking care of it while taking care of the other thing I needed to do.

I saw him walking up from behind, using a cane. Looked familiar, but I couldn’t be sure. Burly. With a beer gut. Indian. Maybe Tohono. Had teardrop tats halfway down both cheeks. I couldn’t exactly place him. Met an Indian looked like him years before on the res. Shared a beer or two. Couldn’t be sure it was him. You can’t just go up to a dude and say: Don’t I know you? That don’t always fly. Some dudes automatically think you’re queer, coming on. You get decked for no reason.

Hell, I let it go. The Indian I was thinking of lived way down there, southwest. On the res. By the San Xavier mission. Had an old lady and three kids. That was like twenty miles from here.

Forget it. I needed to take a leak real bad.

I walked to the right. Center of the aisle had an open cooler loaded down with all types of cheeses, from all over the world. Smelled good. Made you hungry. I figured I had enough cash on me this time to get whatever I felt like getting. On my right, this other display case, full of salami and all sorts of ground beef and such on pans, at the end of which you made a right turn past swinging doors that took you in back of the store, a short hallway where the restrooms were: women and men. Women’s was the first, men’s next to it. Both on left side of the hallway.

There were voices you could hear, but not see who they belonged to: men, women, employees talking, in the back, unloading a truck or something, around the corner, to the left, of the warehouse part of the store, where the cases of food came in on a conveyor and were stacked.

Chapter 5

A college type kid stepped out of the men’s room, and I went in. Locked the door behind me. Needed to drain the weasel real bad, only I needed to take the money out and count it even worse. I dug into my pockets, withdrew the crumpled bills. Twenties, fives, tens, singles; not much change. People out there hardly gave you coins. There was no such thing as ‘spare change.’ No, sir. They had greenbacks, when they gave. You got no complaints from me on that score.

I counted the money, then I counted it again. I had ninety three dollars and sixty five cents for three hours of panhandling. I was in Heaven. The kindness of strangers had gotten me through. People, Tucson people were generous. They didn’t talk about that on the news, on TV. It was always this other: how rotten people were to each other. You heard about the killings throughout the world, and robberies and carjackings, all that. Nothing about the good-hearted nature in folks.

I was on cloud nine. At this rate, I’d have enough jack in no time, and could keep going on to Texas and face the music down there. Deal with what I had to deal with in the Lone Star State.

I jammed the money back in my pocket. Unzipped my fly, and did my business. And there it was: still pissing red. My urine was crimson. Thanks to the mugging from the other day. I didn’t like it, and it was no longer a shock to me. I could wait it out, or else make it down to the VA. I needed to pick up some more morphine to deal with the pain caused by the shrapnel. I didn’t want to go with Aleve from fear of all the damage it did to the liver; Tylenol was no different. And I sure didn’t want to get back on hillbilly heroin, oxy, or crystal meth. Lost enough teeth doing it, that and bar brawls. Had that single tooth left in my upper jaw still, right in the center there. Never mind that it didn’t endear me to too many people, either. I did my best not to smile too much or open my mouth too often. Used to be I’d cover my mouth with my hand when I had to say something or laugh. Got tired of that, too. Should get some dentures made. Been meaning to for years. Hard to do when you’re constantly on the move. Got to stay put in one place for something like that.

Maybe I would go to the VA. Get some eyeglasses, too, while I’m down there. I hated hospitals and only went when I had to. Last time I went they nearly did me in. Had pneumonia. Put me on Doxycycline and the antibiotic almost killed me. Had varicose veins up and down both legs, swollen joints. Ankles were so swollen could hardly fit into my kicks. Forget tying the laces. What’s going on here? And this started to happen about two or three days after I started to take the tetracycline. I tossed the bottle away. Went back down there. Explained the situation. The doc, they always had a different doctor in there, looks at me: You sure no one in your family has varicose veins?

"Man, it’s the Doxycycline." Guy didn’t believe me. Until they did their blood tests, etc. It was conclusive: You’re allergic to it.

Thank you for that. While I’m still above ground, Doc. It’s a good thing I tossed the bottle when I did. Swelling was gone eventually. Varicose veins, too. Had this fear internal organs were damaged. They weren’t. According to them. X-rays backed it up.

Other than that? VA was always there to help. They were good; gave a damn. One of the best VAs is right here in the Old Pueblo. Huge facility. Went on forever. Ajo and Sixth.

Chapter 6

I’m pissing blood. Wanted it to be over so I could get out and buy some tasty grub and my beer. Wondered what kind of dessert I should get. Ice cream or turtle pie. Or Jell-O. They had Jell-O. All types. With fruit. Been months since I had Jell-O. It went down easy. It was good if your teeth were effed up.

Only I had a river in me. I considered going back on the median once I’d eaten, had my beer or two. Why not? I had struck the motherlode. Luck was on my side for a change. When you lived right, Karma now and then took your side.

Then somebody knocked on the door, hard, yanking me out of this beautiful reverie. Doin’ my best. Gimme a second, will you, pal?

The knock came again.

What the hell? Can’t a man relieve himself without being fucked with?

Then I heard the rude son of a bitch jiggle the doorknob. Up, down. With force.

Wait a minute, cocksucker. Can’t you wait a minute?

I guess he couldn’t, because he pushed in, with enough force to force it open. All I had time to do was turn my head, before it came down, that cane. Wham. Hard. Chopped at the right side of my face. I dropped against the wall and the towel dispenser on my left, red piss spattering my trousers. Damn. But it hurt. Then the coldblooded scallawag did it again. Wham. Breaking the only tooth I had in my upper jaw. I went down some more. Helpless.

There was a time when I could have taken this, and more, and fought right back. Lack of a proper diet for years left you weak, way too weak to fight back.

He shut the door behind him. Separated the U-curved part of the cane from the straight part—at the end of which was a six inch blade. I knew what that blade was capable of. I’d seen the Indian spear a res javelina with it from fifty feet away. We’d had roasted wild pig later that evening.

He held the tip of that sharp blade under my chin. He was so close I got a real good look at the tats. Prison-made. Those teardrops ran from somewhere in the middle of his lower lids down both chins. Stood for number of peeps the man iced. I didn't bother to count them. He had enough on there to be taken seriously.

"Paco. Bald Eagle. You know me, brother. It’s Ray. Ray Zook. We shared a few brews together ’bout three or four years back."

Zook? I don’t know no Ray Zook.

Wife’s name is Tallulah. Nicest woman you’d ever want to know. Got three wonderful, well behaved kids. Live in a double-wide on the res. Not far from the mission.

I don’t know you.

"You drive a Caddy. Wife has a government job. Takes down 60K a year. With DES. You been panhandling, off and on, for something like twenty-five years. Make more in four hours than you did all week at the Octopus Car Wash. Got yourself a lounge chair down there at Valencia and Midvale Park. Right on the median. We used to drink beers by the Walmart down there, by the bus stop, ’till rollers chased us off. You don’t remember? You invited me home. Had two cases of Schlitz with you. Bought at Walgreens. You gotta remember. I’m not making this up, brother. I couldn’t."

He lowered the blade. Sheathed it. The cane was clicked back together, in place.

You did a nickel for running weed up from TJ. Turned down their deal to let you out early with probation and did all of it, every bit of your time, brother. Said you beat up child molesters and rapists while you was in. You told me all this, Paco. The old timers asked you to do certain things and you said that’s why you did them. The way it is when you’re in stir. You’re right, too. You didn’t like being in stir. No love. Missed your family. Your kids bein’ raised by their mom, relatives helping when they could. It was a strain on her. Your woman stood by you. Tallulah. She’s a good woman. What I remember. Treated me with every respect. Thank you for the hospitality, Paco.

"Desert Storm?’

Yes. That’s me. Desert Storm.

On your way to Ft. Worth?

Same one.

What’re you doing back here? Said you weren’t coming back this way once you got your business settled down there in Texas.

Never got there, Brother. Chickened out. Lost my nerve. I’m a coward, I guess.

Don’t say that. Maybe he felt sorry for me. That little girl out there needs her dope. She asked you to leave. You wouldn’t. Brought it on yourself.

I dug into my pants. Came up with the cash and held it out. Take it. I didn’t know. I got desperate. Got mugged soon as I hit town. Got off the Hound and got jumped by a big redneck broad and her crew. I was roughed-up. Set up. Still pissing blood. I pointed at the bowl. Practically cleaned me out. I swear it. Applied for work at a bunch of places. They don’t want me. This was my last resort. I’m no good at it, Brother. You got the whole story.

He took the money. Counted it. Looked up.

All you jivers are the same. Talking shit. How long were you over there? What you do to get out?

I saw death. Bodies. Had buddies killed over there. Did two tours. Not by choice. Got enough shrapnel in me to prove it. Pointed to the scar above my left eye. Take morphine for the pain. No, ain’t got none on me now. You know the story.

Yeah.

Mind if I stand up?

Go ahead. I got something to say to you.

I rose. The combat fatigue jacket he had on, the combat fatigue pants, porkpie hat, combat boots. The well-fed face with the prison tats. Not many dudes had tats like that, in or out of the joint.

I reminded him again that he knew me. You work the west side; down around Valencia and Midvale Park. The median there.

His face was a blank slate.

Had a nice little pile of rocks and a U.S. flag sticking out of it.

He wasn’t admitting, or denying.

Last time I was here: two, three years back. I tried to work the median at Irvington and Mission and you and your buddies shoved me off. Hit the road, you said. Said that was Mel’s spot. Melvina. Friend of yours. Tohono. That was you, wasn’t it?

He wouldn’t say.

You got a sign says ’Nam Vet. Never mind you can’t be old enough to have been there. Only he was in the Army about a day, not even a day. More like an hour. It was all coming back. When guys drink they talk. They had you dudes in line, to see the Army doc, your clothes off, to be checked for hemorrhoids. When it came your turn to bend over and spread your cheeks, you reached back with your hand and pulled out a ‘toasted’ marshmallow and stuck it in your mouth. That was the end of your military service. Kicked you out right then.

There was a grin. Not much of one. It vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

Don’t come back. Find another spot, amigo. That lady out there is a friend of a good friend. We look out for one another. You ain’t nothing but an interloper. Know what’s good for you you’ll get lost.

How about a couple of bucks for bus fare? I didn't expect anything. Have a heart. Let him know where the motel was and that I couldn’t walk it.

He pulled a fiver out of the stack, and shoved it in my hand. Looked like maybe he regretted whacking me, because he peeled off another bill and another. Didn’t mater that they were singles. Thrust them at me.

Thanks, Brother.

You’re okay, for a paleface. Didn’t know who you was when I come in . . . or what to expect. It sounded something like the beginning of an apology that never reached its destination. Because he turned, opened the door, and was gone.

Not limping, either. That limp was fake. Part of his act. Didn’t need a cane. Healthy as an ox. Strong, too. Had a belly. Big man, though. Wearing fatigues, like a combat vet. Pretending to be something he wasn’t. And he had my money—that had never been mine to keep.

Instead of getting that good grub I had planned and the good bottle of micro brew, I had to settle for a Happy Meal at Mickey D’s.

Effing karma. Karma had a way of turning on you. Sort of like the honeys I’d been married to.

Chapter 7

I made it back to the motel. Desk clerk had a message for me. I looked at the phone number. Didn’t look familiar. Got permission to use the phone, and dialed.

When can you come in, sir?

I recognized the voice. It was the boney geezer at the funeral home. Last place of all I wanted to get back to me.