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  GRAY AND PAUL ZAMARA

  Are pleased to announce that

  Zamara Brothers Salvage

  is now

  AAAA Equipment Company

  Serving Duro, Monahans, Odessa, Midland and Surrounding Areas, Providing the Highest Quality Salvaged, Used and Rebuilt Heavy Industrial Machinery for the Transportation, Petroleum and Construction Industries

  45990 West Pecos Highway

  Duro, Texas

  We Have a New Phone Number!

  Ph: Denison-2-2222

  How could he? And Pug, too. The boys had never agreed on anything in their lives, but apparently they could get together long enough to stick it to their father where it hurt.

  It was changing the name that really got to him. Were they ashamed to be Zamaras? The company name change made business sense, of course. In the Yellow Pages, Zamara Brothers Salvage had sat right beside their father’s company, Zamara Equipment. While he had worried initially about confusion, it didn’t seem to affect his business. All his clients knew who he was. It also left an obvious path for a quick and easy merger, if and when the boys ever came to their senses. Zamara & Sons. That had a nice ring to it.

  But AAAA? What the hell was up with that? How did you even say that? Four-A? Mainly, Punchy and Pug had jumped to the front of the alphabet, and in front of their father, in the Yellow Pages. Jesus guessed that when their new ad came out in the phone book, it would be bigger than their father’s, too. And how did they manage to get that 2222 number anyway? Nobody at the phone company had ever offered Jesus a phone number of his own choosing. He didn’t know that was even an option (not that the phone company would do any favors for a pudgy Mexican-American with a permanently sweaty forehead).

  What had he done to deserve such disloyalty? Jesus got up from the desk and stepped outside the mobile home that served as the office. In the yard, three of his employees were busy breaking down a recently arrived wreck, removing and cataloging the engine parts. They now had chains around the engine block itself and were struggling with the hoist to get it out.

  I have made a good living for my family, he thought. Why would my sons not want such a gift?

  Jesus watched his men work for a few minutes, then rolled up his sleeves and pitched in to help.

  – 6 –

  Men Act Like Dogs Sometimes

  Friday was a hot day, and Andy had parked his Volkswagen Beetle in the sun. He worked five days a week at Nan’s Gifts downtown, running the register and helping customers when the shop got busy, which was seldom. Nan’s did most of its business during a few weeks every year around Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Mother’s Day, and the rest of the year they survived off a trickle of well-heeled women and the occasional man who wanted to buy something useless and nice for a wife or lover.

  It was a boring job, but it provided a little extra spending money and gave Andy something to do when he wasn’t practicing music. Nan Novak was completely flexible about letting Andy set his own schedule, especially these times of the year that were dominated by orchestra rehearsals.

  It was just past five o’clock when he left the store. The sun was still bright, and the interior of his car was blazing hot. He started the engine and let it idle while he stood with the door open for a couple of minutes. His father had drilled that into him—with an air-cooled engine, you had to let the car idle for at least two minutes when it hadn’t run in a few hours—and his father, being the mechanic, had also explained the reason: “You got to let the oil pressure rise before you put the engine under load.” That made sense, even if there didn’t seem like there was a whole lot of load involved in an 1100-cc 1967 Volkswagen engine.

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, he rolled down the window, opened the side vent to blow out the hot, stale air, and drove west into a blinding sunset.

  When he puttered up Jupiter Lane and turned into the driveway, Andy saw a strange car in front of the house. It was a long white Oldsmobile 442 convertible, and apparently it had arrived barely ahead of him, because two men still sat in the front seat.

  The long land shark was taking Andy’s usual parking spot; in fact, it was taking two spots. Andy pulled up behind Saskia’s car, which was parked behind Douglas’s. The two men got out as Andy shut off the motor. He recognized one immediately—it was Jerry De Ghetto. He wore his trademark green sport coat, which he probably thought made him look like a golf pro. The other guy was a large young man with a crew cut and a white T-shirt worn tight to reveal bulging gym muscles.

  Oh, good, Andy thought. De Ghetto brought a goon.

  When Andy got to the front door of the house, De Ghetto was standing there with the big guy behind him. De Ghetto smiled at Andy.

  “Hi. I came out to see your good buddy. Is he around?”

  “I imagine so,” said Andy. “Come on in.” What else could he do? He pushed past the two and opened the door, then stood aside to let them in.

  “Douglas!” he called.

  Though the sun hadn’t gone down yet, the living room shades were drawn and the lights were off, leaving it a bit gloomy inside.

  “Hello,” said Douglas, stepping out of the shadows. Or at least, that’s probably the effect he was going for. It was not quite dark enough for drama. He obviously knew De Ghetto was coming, and had set the stage. “You need something, Jerry?”

  “You and I need to have a conversation,” said De Ghetto. “Let’s sit down. How about a little hospitality? You got any beer?”

  “Sure.” Douglas nodded but made no move to either sit down or fetch beers.

  “I’ll get some,” said Andy. He pointed at the goon in the T-shirt. “You need a beer?” He wanted things to start seeming normal. The guy looked at him without expression, then shook his head slightly. “No? Okay, two beers then,” said Andy.

  In the kitchen, he checked to see what they had for beer. In the Jupiter Lane house, they always had something for beer—Douglas drank it like tap water and Reed was no slouch, either. Andy found two bottles of Michelob and seven or eight cans of Coors. Andy figured this was not the right time to shout beer choices from the kitchen, so he grabbed two cans of Coors. After hesitating, he got one for himself. He didn’t particularly like beer, but it was something to do with his hands. He went into the living room and handed a beer to De Ghetto, who looked up and nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Andy offered one to Douglas, who took it without glancing over. Not knowing if he should stay or go, Andy sat in one of the dining chairs outside the circle and waited for somebody else to pop the tab on his beer. De Ghetto did, so Andy did. Finally, Douglas opened his beer and took a long, slow pull. The two men glared at each other.

  Jerry De Ghetto sat back and crossed his legs, revealing over-the-calf black socks.

  “Doug,” said De Ghetto.

  “Jerry,” said Douglas.

  “I don’t particularly like having to drive all the way out here,” said De Ghetto, “but I’m glad I did. I’ve never really seen your place. It’s nice. It’s big. Looks like you have a lot of property.”

  “Acre and a half,” said Douglas.

  “Nice,” said De Ghetto. “Lots of room. Neighbors aren’t very close. I bet nobody comes out here except the mailman.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, since I’m here, why don’t you show me around? I’d love to see how things are going.”

  “I think not,” said Douglas.

  De Ghetto leaned forward. “Doug, you got to move out here because I paid your mom and dad’s back taxes. If it wasn’t for me, you’d have lost this place. I also helped you out with a stake to get your little venture started.”

  “And I’ve been paying you every month, right?” said Douglas. “Is there something else you want from me? Did I miss a payment or something? Unless I forgot how to count, you and me are still square.”

  “Yes, yes, there’s no problem there,” said De Ghetto. “It’s just that I gave you a hot deal with the loan. Ten percent? Lord,
you can’t get that from a bank. I didn’t do that because I’m a nice guy, which I am, by the way. I did it with an understanding that I get a cut of the final profits. I wasn’t going to help, but you leveled with me about your plans, and I admire your honesty.”

  “You’ll get your fucking cut,” said Douglas. “I told you up front. Twenty-five percent of gross sales. That’s going to come out to quite a bit, probably more than you deserve. But I made a deal, and I’ll stick to it.”

  De Ghetto folded his hands and leaned even farther. He was doing his patient-father routine. “The problem is that I have no reason to believe there will even be a final sale. I’ve never seen anything. I have asked you several times to invite me out here, but you never do. You have yet to show me any evidence you’re not just pulling my wanker.”

  “I guess you’ll just have to fucking trust me,” said Douglas. “Now, let me show you where the door is, in case you forgot.”

  De Ghetto stood up. “I’m not here to bother you or get in your way. Please. We will be on our way in just a little bit. But first, I believe I need to take a look around. You want to give me the tour and show me what you’ve got, or should me and Tank here just show ourselves around?”

  Douglas stood up. “I think you’re going to show yourself back to the fucking driveway and get off my fucking property.”

  The muscle man who had been addressed as Tank stood up and spoke for the first time. “The man said he’s gonna look around, asshole.”

  “Oh, really? That’s interesting. Hey Reed! Come out here! We need your opinion!” said Doug, sharply raising his voice.

  Oh shit, thought Andy. Code word! Code word!

  Sure enough, Reed stalked into the room and stopped about two feet from Tank. He wasn’t as big as the crew-cut bruiser, but he looked high-strung and scary with his marine buzz-cut and granny glasses. He was thin and wiry, and visible veins covered his forearms. He had recently cut the sleeves off his denim shirt to reveal his shoulder tattoo, which said “Drunkard By Choice.” A Tiparillo dangled from his lips. At least he wasn’t carrying that damn pistol.

  “You think you’re a tough boy, don’t you?” said Tank.

  “Yep,” said Reed.

  The two men looked each other in the eyes, unblinking.

  “Jerry and his little buddy were just leaving,” said Doug.

  “Sure, tough boy,” said Tank. “Just as soon as Mr. De Ghetto sees what he needs to see.”

  “You’re not seeing nothing, punk,” said Reed. “You’re getting the fuck out of this house.”

  Neither of them moved. Andy stood up, not that he thought he could help, but that he might need to exit in a hurry.

  “Shito karate, black belt,” said Tank. “Get out of my fucking way.”

  “Second Marine, Fourth Recon,” said Reed. “Make me.”

  No moving, no blinking.

  “Second violin, first chair,” said Andy, trying to defuse the situation. It worked, because they all turned and looked at him like he was insane.

  “Hey, hey now, guys!” said De Ghetto, laughing. “Come on! Be cool. We don’t need this tough-boy routine. We’re in business together! Nobody wants to do anything stupid. Doug, all I need is to reassure myself that you actually have a plan, and progress is being made. I’m not trying to give you shit or tell you how to operate. Do you have something going, or don’t you?”

  “Yes we do,” said Doug. “We’re not just blowing smoke here.”

  “Then just let me see what you’ve got. If I agree that it’s good, then we’re on our way,” said De Ghetto. “Is that so fucking hard?”

  “Okay,” said Doug. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Just like that, it was over. The four toughs filed outside to inspect the little plants growing in the greenhouse, and Andy stayed behind. A moment later, Saskia came out of her room, pale. She walked up to Andy and hugged him hard.

  “Oh, Andy, I was scared to death,” she said. “I was this close—this close—to hiding under the bed. I hate these guys sometimes. Even Doug. He pisses me off so much. They just act like dogs, like mean, stupid dogs, ready to tear each other’s throats out. I hate it.”

  Andy kissed the top of her head.

  “I know,” he said. “They just get their balls in a knot, and they don’t know how to back down. They’re not bad people. Even Jerry De Ghetto seems like mostly a decent guy.”

  “Well, I’ve had enough macho bullshit,” said Saskia. “I’m going to go stay at my mom and dad’s house for a while. My dad’s all depressed. He turned fifty yesterday and has to get glasses for the first time in his life.”

  “That’s not so bad. He looks good for a guy his age. Tell him he looks like George Szell.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “An old guy who looks great in glasses. Hey, if you’re leaving, I’m blocking you in.”

  Andy and Saskia walked outside. It was a still summer dusk, and the desert air was turning cool.

  “Oh, Andy, by the way,” said Saskia, “my mom wants to invite you to a party Saturday night.”

  “A party? I don’t know. I have pops that night. It’s our season opener.”

  “It’s a strike party for my mom’s play. They’re having their last performance, so the party won’t start till pretty late, after the last show. The cast and crew will be there, plus a bunch of our theater friends. There’ll be some people you know.”

  “Uh … okay,” said Andy. “I think we’ll be out of there about nine. I’ll try to come by.”

  “Great!” said Saskia. “My mom really likes you. You can meet my whole enormous family. They’re a pretty crazy bunch, but you’ll like them. Bring any of your music friends if you want. We’ll have munchies and a keg.”

  Andy backed up his Volkswagen and let Saskia out, then pulled back in. He wished he could just take off for the night himself, but there was only half an hour till he had to leave for rehearsal, and he needed to wash up and eat something.

  Lately, Andy had been wishing he lived somewhere else, too. Doug gave him a great deal on the room, but he wasn’t sure it was worth the drama or the risk. In theory, he could move back in with his parents if he had to, but their place was ten miles south of town, twice as far from the auditorium as Doug’s house. Plus, he would have to tell people he lived with his parents.

  Andy ate a peanut butter sandwich in his room, drank a glass of milk, and polished his violin. It didn’t especially need polishing, but he was going to stay in his room anyway. He could live without the dynamics of Doug and Jerry and the alpha males.

  He took a small glass bottle out of the violin case and shook a couple of drops of liquid onto a soft cloth—Hill & Sons polish “From the Hidersine Company of Oswestry, England.” Mrs. Kellogg taught him never to use furniture polish on a string instrument. It gums up the surface and deadens the sound. Starting from the center of the back of the violin, he worked the cloth in a widening circle, cleaning and shining the wood. He paid particular attention to the place below the chin rest, discolored from sweat. After a few minutes, the cloth was darkened.

  Andy played a Dodge. His dad had bought it for him from Mrs. Kellogg when he graduated from high school and clearly needed a finer instrument for college. Mrs. Kellogg had purchased twelve Dodge violins from the estate of William Dodge, after the luthier met his untimely end while walking near his home in Colorado (after being struck, ironically, by a Chrysler pickup truck).

  Dodge violins were wonderfully well-made instruments, and there had been only ninety of them in the world. This number was tragically reduced to eighty-six after four of them, still in the crate, were stored in a walk-in shower in the small apartment behind Mrs. Kellogg’s house where she gave lessons. A six-year-old scholar turned the faucet handle on the shower to see if it still worked. It did. The little girl pulled the shower curtain shut and crept away, and the disaster was not discovered until several days later, when the instruments were unsalvageable. Dorothy Kellogg recovered, but it took weeks.
/>   Throughout his college career, Andy endured dumb jokes.

  What do you play?

  A Dodge.

  Really? Straight-six or V-8?

  Ha ha ha.

  The violin had a sweet but surprisingly full tone, perfect for ensemble performance, and Andy cared for it meticulously. He placed a few more drops of Hill & Sons onto a clean part of the cloth and rubbed the palm stains from the neck.

  When Andy emerged from his room to drive to rehearsal, Doug, Reed, Tank, and De Ghetto were sitting around the big table in the living room, like old friends playing cards. There was some sort of paper diagram in front of them.

  “I just want you to seriously think about this,” said De Ghetto. “We could make some real money.”

  “We’re making real money,” said Reed. “I’m telling you, this shit is miles better than the usual. We’re talking knockout killer grass. It’s not even the same plant. It grows short and bushy. You don’t even have to pinch it. It even smells different.”

  “But don’t you want to grow a lot more of it?” said De Ghetto. “You say you have plenty of seeds. We could make four times as much money as you think we’re gonna make.”

  Andy wondered what they were scheming about, but he had to leave.

  As he headed for the door, Doug yelled: “Saskia! Beer call!”

  “She left, Douglas,” said Andy.

  “Where?”

  “Her mom and dad’s house.”

  “Uh … okay.” Douglas turned his attention back to the table.

  Dodge in hand and music bag under his arm, Andy headed for the car. He had to allow a little more time tonight, because rehearsal was being held at the high school instead of the usual venue. Blocker Auditorium had been booked Friday night for the Duro High graduation. Inconvenient for everybody, particularly since it was the final rehearsal before opening night, and particularly inconvenient for Andy, who lived way out west in the sticks.

  But he couldn’t be late. First chair had to set an example.

  – 7 –

  Randy and Billy Respect Tradition