Bad Chili cap-4 Page 13

  “Charles Arthur. Bill Cunningham.”

  “Whoa,” Leonard said. “Charles Arthur. You know who that is, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “King Arthur, the chili king. King Arthur Chili, like it said on the pad in the Jiffy bag.”

  “I know who King Arthur is,” I said. “I just didn’t know him as Charles Arthur.”

  “The pad in the Jiffy bag, then the name coming up at Antone’s, that’s certainly coincidental.”

  “There’s lots of those pads,” I said. “They give them out free all over town. Raul cut Arthur’s hair, probably picked up a notebook while he was there. King Arthur could have given it to him.”

  “With coded numbers written on it?”

  “You got a point there,” I said. “But Raul could have brought the book home and Horse Dick could have written down the coded numbers for some reason. It could have been something he was working on. That makes more sense to me, actually.”

  “Maybe,” Leonard said. “And still, Raul could have picked it up while cutting Arthur’s hair. Sneaked it.”

  “I have to ask the same question. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t we drive out to the plant, see if we can find King Arthur?”

  “Big shot like him,” I said. “I bet he’s never there.”

  “Yeah, but we got to start somewhere,” Leonard said. “Or how else we gonna get in our annoyance quota.”

  KING ARTHUR CHILI ENTERPRISES, as the sign over the huge gate read, was way out in the country and set on about twenty-five acres. It was a cluster of big buildings that stank. One side of the acreage was a meat-processing plant, the other side housed the place where the chili peppers were ground and the chili was whipped up and shoved into and sealed in cans. The whole place smelled of hot pepper and drying blood.

  There was a rendering plant out back of it all, and twice a week at night the stink of it was absolutely awesome. It was where the tougher meat, the hides and horns, and the occasional old horse were processed into soap, fertilizer, and other odds and ends. Or at least I think they still made soap out of old horses. Maybe not.

  Joint used to pump out dead cow and horse stink in the form of greasy black smoke all the time, until city ordinances got tight and King had to start letting loose with his garbage smoke late at night, twice a week.

  It was such a stout stink that sometimes, the wind was blowing just right, it would travel out as far as where I lived, slip in through the windows and gouge my nose until I came awake. On the side of town where Leonard lived, twice a week it would damn near slay you.

  The lot was loaded with cars, but we found an empty space with some big shot’s name written on the curb. We parked in that slot like it was ours and we were proud to be there.

  The secretary was thin, young, silver-blond, and so goddamn cheery I wanted to strangle her. We told her we would like to see King Arthur, and she told us he was out. We asked to see someone in charge, and after twenty minutes in the guest chairs, the skimming of several stimulating magazines on the chili business, a nice-looking man about fifty with shiny gray hair came out. He was dressed in a plum-purple leisure suit with a white belt and white shoes. The leisure suit looked brand-new, and this baffled me. They had quit making those horrors years ago. It pointed to the scary proposition that this guy liked those fuckers so much he had them special-made. In my eyes he was already guilty of something, if nothing more than being a public eyesore.

  He came over, shook our hands, told us his name was G. H. Bissinggame, and we told him ours. He asked us what he could do for us. I told him about Raul, how he used to cut King Arthur’s hair, told him about Raul’s murder, said we were curious about his death.

  Leonard said, “We’re kind of poking around, nothing official. We wanted to know if King Arthur could tell us anything about Raul might help us figure out who killed him.”

  Bissinggame furrowed his brow. “Why would Mr. Arthur know such a thing? Isn’t this a matter for the police?”

  “We’re not saying he knows anything directly,” I said. “We’d just like to talk to him. Something Raul might have said, anything might give us a lead.”

  “Why would he say anything to Mr. Arthur?” Bissinggame said. “Mr. Arthur was a customer, not the boy’s therapist.”

  “Then you knew Raul?” Leonard asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how did you know he was young?” Leonard said. “You called him a boy.”

  “Whoa, here,” Bissinggame said. “You’re being a little nasty. You’re trying to tie me into something, way you talk. You’re not the law. You don’t have the right to do that, and I’m sure there’s no need for Mr. Arthur to talk to you.”

  “I just asked if you knew him,” Leonard said.

  “No, you didn’t,” Bissinggame said.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Leonard, here, he and Raul were very close. He’s a little touchy.”

  “I apologize,” Leonard said, but with his tone of voice he might as well have gone on and called Bissinggame an asshole.

  “Could you do this?” I asked. “Could we write down our names, phone numbers, and could you ask Mr. Arthur to call? We’re trying to help out the family, sort of piece things together for them. You know, last bits of information about their son.”

  “You said you were trying to find leads to the murder,” Bissinggame said.

  “That too,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you now,” Bissinggame said. “Mr. Arthur, he doesn’t return calls. That’s why he has a secretary, and this Raul, I recognize who he is because Mr. Arthur often conducted business while getting his hair cut here at the plant. But I didn’t really know the boy. Mr. Arthur said very little to him, as I recall.”

  “Let me ask this,” Leonard said. “What if Raul had a King Arthur Chili pad, and inside the pad there were some letters written down that coincided with phone numbers, and say these phone numbers connected with video stores, and say me and Hap had the pad and a couple videos, would that interest Mr. Arthur?”

  Bissinggame looked at Leonard as if he had just swung in on a vine. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Leonard said.

  “You need a lesson in manners,” Bissinggame said to Leonard.

  “You gonna give it to me?” Leonard said. “A man wearing a fuckin’ purple leisure suit is the one needs manners. Don’t you know shit like that offends everyone?”

  “Come on, Leonard,” I said.

  “I’m going to call security, you don’t leave right now,” Bissinggame said. “Our security people, they aren’t a bunch of fat cops. They don’t mess around.”

  “Come on, Leonard,” I said.

  “Security?” Leonard said. “Now I’m scared. What kind of leisure suits they wear? Lime green? Peach? You had on one of them peach kind, I’d have to hit you.”

  “We’re going,” I said.

  “Best do,” Bissinggame said. “Helen,” he yelled to the secretary. “Call security.”

  Helen picked up the phone. I took Leonard’s elbow and led him out of there. As we went down the corridor toward the exit, I said, “Shit, Leonard. I can’t take you anywhere. Next time, you stay your ass in the car.”

  “I bet that dick’s got on spotted boxer shorts,” Leonard said. “Man, them leisure suits, they’re a crime against humanity.”

  “Well, you’re right about that.”

  “Guy like that, way he defends his boss, I bet he’s got naked pictures of ole Chili King doing the ass end of a dead beef. Pins that to his mirror while he whacks off with his dick poking out of that leisure suit. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I got you.”

  “Fucker would give a snake a blow job, it wore a leisure suit.”

  “Give it a rest, Leonard.”

  “Cocksucker,” Leonard said. “Hope he gets a bowl of bad chili. Probably likes it that way, strained through his goddamn shit-stained underwear.”

  “Careful. You start talking bad about chili, Te
xas is sure to be next. And you know well as I do that’s not good.”

  “You’re right,” Leonard said. “I stepped over the line.”

  We had just gone out the door when a white car with KING ARTHUR CHILI written on the side of it parked in the middle of the lot and two guys in green uniforms with badges and no guns came over and stood in front of us. One of them was about the size of a moose, and the other may well have been a moose without antlers.

  “We got a call you two were causing trouble,” said the real moose. He was chewing on an unlit cigar as casually as a cow chewing cud. The other guy, the one the size of a moose, had an expression about as illuminating as a potted plant, but lacking the warmth. He could have been thinking about mayhem and murder, lunch break and a cigarette, sex or a gerbil up his ass. That face gave nothing away.

  “How you know it’s us?” Leonard said.

  Moose grinned. “They said a white guy and a black guy.”

  “Yeah,” Leonard said. “How do you know you ain’t got the wrong black and white guy?”

  Not A Moose said, “Because they said the nigger had a smart mouth. You’re a nigger. You got a smart mouth.”

  “Now you’ve done it,” I said.

  “What?” Moose said.

  “I said now you’ve done it.”

  “What the fuck’s that mean?” Moose said.

  “It means,” Leonard said, “I’m in the mood to snap your dick off and shove it in your ear. Who you think you’re connin’? You ain’t even real law. Guys like you, we wipe our asses on you.”

  “Daily,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Leonard said. “Daily.”

  “Sometimes twice a day,” I said.

  “That too,” Leonard said.

  “Yeah,” Moose said, and his hand went to his back pocket and came back wearing a pair of brass knuckles.

  Leonard said “Asswipe!,” stomped the guard’s foot, grabbed the hand with the knucks on it, swung under the guy’s arm, then with a palm on the fucker’s elbow snapped him to the cement, bouncing his head off of it, smashing his cigar into his face.

  Not A Moose rushed forward then, about to grab Leonard. I kicked him in the leg, just above the ankle, stuck my thumb in his eye. He let out a yell and sat down in the parking lot, both hands over his face.

  “I’m blind! I’m blind!” he yelled.

  “Are not,” I said.

  “I can’t see!”

  “Take your hands off your face, you ignorant motherfucker,” I said.

  As Not A Moose experimented with his vision, I turned to watch Leonard. Leonard peeled the brass knucks off Moose’s hand and tossed them on top of the chili building, said, “Fetch that, dick cheese.”

  Dick Cheese, also known as Moose, came up on one knee and stayed there. He wouldn’t even look at us. He let the mashed cigar fall from his lips as if he were shedding a tooth.

  Leonard said, “Y’all through?”

  Dick Cheese nodded.

  “Good,” Leonard said. “You guys need you another line of work. You’re not even mediocre at this one. My preference is neither of you get up till we’re gone. Hear me? That’s just a preference. You get to choose for yourself. That’s what makes this country great. Free choice. But you get up, me and Hap, we’re gonna shake out the jams. Know what I mean?”

  We walked past Not A Moose, who was sitting on the ground nursing his watery eye. I said, “I’d put ice on it, I was you, otherwise it’ll get puffy all around. I’m sorry.”

  “You skinned the shit out of my ankle too,” Not A Moose said.

  “Ice might be good for that too,” I said.

  We strolled over to the truck and drove off.

  17

  A few days went by and no answers fell out of the sky on us. Raul was still dead. I hadn’t won the lottery. The two security guards didn’t show up with new brass knucks. Bissinggame didn’t send us a fashion catalogue containing custom-made leisure suits in ugly colors.

  There were events, however. Leonard had finally gotten the tick off his balls. Used a match, as I had suggested. It worked. ’Course, as he feared, he managed to burn his nuts, so I was on his shit list for a couple days. The tick ended up in the commode, a burial at sea.

  Somewhere during all this we put the notebook and the videos back in the Jiffy bag, placed them in a metal box, hid them out at Leonard’s old house inside a torn-out section in the back of his living room couch.

  I got my last rabies shot from my surly doctor, found out the squirrel head had come back positive from Austin. That part made me feel kind of weird for a day or two.

  Oh, yeah, and the guy in a yellow Pontiac wearing a cowboy hat was glanced by Leonard and myself on several occasions, following us when we were together a couple of times, following me once on my own, and following Leonard a few times. It was, of course, the yellow Pontiac I had seen outside of Leonard’s house the day I went in and found it tossed. So much for paranoia. Sometimes they are out to get you. They’d do better sneaking up on you, though, if they didn’t drive yellow Pontiacs. A Yorkshire hog in a three-piece suit and a derby with a red turkey feather in it would have been less conspicuous.

  We didn’t let on we knew he was following us. We wanted him to make a move, but he never did. Kept his distance, wasn’t always there, but just when you thought he was gone for sure, he’d show up again, like a pee stain in your shorts.

  The only really good thing about those few days was Brett. We spent a lot of time together, getting to know each other, solidifying our relationship, allowing our souls to meld into one, and, of course, fucking like two anacondas during mating season.

  So, life wasn’t all bad on my end, but Leonard, well, he was like a pot of water on the stove. You never knew when he’d boil. Little things like that lousy tick and a burn on his balls set him off. And all those videos that had gone missing, his John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies were in the batch. He really took that hard. And the fact his J. C. Penney’s suit had been mistreated and had a stain of some kind on it didn’t set well with him either. Just grumpy, is what he was. It was getting so I wanted to find Raul’s killer just so I wouldn’t have to hear Leonard bitch.

  One day, because we hadn’t figured out our next move, which with us was common, Leonard and I went miniature-golfing. Spring had choked off pretty much for good, it seemed. It was late April and unseasonably hot, like two rats in caps and sweaters fucking in a wool sock under a sun lamp.

  The sand at the little golf course was turning pure white from the heat, was as thin as bleached flour, and the gravel that was mixed with it crunched wearily under our hot, heavy feet. No trees. Kids screaming and shoving. And the windmill on the tenth hole didn’t work; wouldn’t turn, so you had to kind of boost your ball over the boards on the side, shoot from the foul area, knock it back in. Done that way, it was hard to figure your points. I wanted to just pass up the hole altogether, but Leonard wouldn’t hear of it.

  “A man starts, a man finishes, no matter what,” he said.

  “Yeah, right, boss.”

  We batted the ball around for a while, and by the time we finished I had won and Leonard was in an even more foul mood.

  “I used to be good at this,” Leonard said. “You know me and Raul played a lot?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Yeah. I always beat him. I can’t believe you beat me.”

  “Look, you want the truth, Leonard, I boosted the ball with my foot on the windmill hole. Okay. It gave me the one-point difference.”

  “What I figured… You’re not just sayin’ that?”

  “Nope. I boosted it.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to-”

  “Leonard. I said, I boosted it.”

  “I thought I saw you do that out of the corner of my eye.”

  “Let’s don’t get too carried away.”

  “Then you didn’t really?”

  “I did, but I was very clever about it. You didn’t see me.”

  “Good,” Leo
nard said, “loser buys lunch.”

  There was a little restaurant in front of the miniature-golf course, and we went in there to eat. It was supposed to be a health-food place, so most of the food tasted like yesterday’s dog shit reheated and hammered, but they made a pretty good meat loaf. We had that. We sat near the window.

  The yellow Pontiac, which had followed us from home, was sitting across the street in the Kroger parking lot. It was a good spot. The traffic on North Street was heavy, and it would be hard for us to get over there before he spotted us, cranked up, and left.

  “You think he thinks we don’t see him?” Leonard said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Leonard ate a bite of his meat loaf, said, “Remember how this meat loaf used to just pass muster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It tastes like it was rolled in someone’s dirty socks now.”

  “Oh, good. I can’t wait… Who do you think the guy in the Pontiac is working for?”

  “King Arthur,” Leonard said.

  “You didn’t exactly take time to think about that answer.”

  “No. You asked me what I thought, and I told you.”

  “You got to remember, I saw Mr. Pontiac before we ever went out to the chili empire.”

  “That’s because he had my house staked out. He was waiting to see who came in. You happened to be there.”

  “But he quit following me. He just showed up again recently.”

  “Right after we went out to the Chili King’s place of business. Seems obvious to me.”

  “Why did he stop following me in between?”

  “Maybe he lost you and didn’t find you again. Until lately. Hell, you gave Bissinggame your address and mine.”

  I nodded. “That works pretty good. I like it. I doubt it’s true, but we’ll go with it. I hate unsolved stuff.”

  “Me too,” Leonard said. “Want to go over and knock on his door?”

  “We’d never make it. He’d be gone before we got halfway across the street.”

  “You think he’s takin’ notes, snappin’ pictures?”