CHAPTER 19
Truman
There were too many people to even stand in our living room, so Ozzie Whitworth quickly got Hunt, Thymus, and Pickett their own three-bedroom trailer nearby. Of course, when we piled into that living room, it was still standing room only.
On our way rustling up the steps, Alessio grabbed my arm. He spoke to me from the corner of his mouth, though no one else was looking at us, too wrapped up in their own proceedings. “Truman. Hunt just offered for us to move to Rough and Ready. Maybe even join their MC.”
I stopped, causing Erin behind me to crash into me. I didn’t move an inch, spellbound in my stillness. “What?”
His Sicilian face was—for once—mellow, at ease. “Yeah. Think about it.”
“Let me by,” growled Erin, gripping a box of Pickett’s belongings.
I said, “I don’t need to think about it. It’s a no brainer.”
I’d never seen his smile that warm. Happy as a big sunflower. “Let’s do it.”
As we crowded into Pickett’s new living room, questions swarmed my brain.
Do we take Erin, Gunning, and Denmark to Rough and Ready?
How could they ever go back to the Establishment Club now they were part of the Undisputed Truth Club?
But they’d never appeared in any videos.
The media and police just knew me, Alessio, and Denmark.
The possibilities swirled around my head, actually making me dizzy.
Now I was as jumpy as a virgin at a prison rodeo.
Gunning had brought beer into Pickett’s trailer, and the man himself now raised one. “Back to my old ways!” Pickett declared. “This is better for me than Tango and Cash!” And he chugged about half the bottle.
“My man!” Denmark proclaimed, having to yell above the others. He rattled what looked like a paperback above his head. “’The story of one of my follies’!” He had to stick his arm past several shoulders to give the book to Pickett. “My man, my favorite poet of all time, Arthur Rimbaud!”
I realized Denmark had stolen that book from my kitchen. It even made me prouder.
“Are you giving this to me?” cried Pickett.
“Of course, my road dog! You’re squaring up, getting out of the life. You’ll need Rimbaud to help you along. Poetry keeps us alive.”
Pickett bawled, “I want you to save some of my other friends at Pine Valley. Like Shelby!”
On tiptoes, Erin inquired, “Isn’t he the guy with the mummy?”
“Yeah,” admitted Pickett, nearly sobbing with joy.
I practically teared up at such a sad/happy moment, like when street dogs get a bath, a new loving home.
Erin shouted, “Will you be taking Pickett to Rough and Ready?”
Hunt hoisted his own beer above people’s heads. “Of course! This marks the end, the kibosh to that fucking cemetery of doom, Pine Valley.”
Thymus roared, “I’ll start my own assisted living!”
After the hubbub of agreement died down, I called out, “Has anyone heard from Jack Hoffman how it went after we left?”
To my surprise, it was Alessio next to me, free hand cupping the back of my neck, who boomed, “Yeah! He texted he’ll be here as soon as he gets free of all the clamoring relatives and fans.”
Erin took Pickett into his new bedroom to get him settled. It would be soothing for him to have her as assistant—a kind and tender healthcare provider instead of the shrews and coldhearted witches of Pine Valley.
Their departure gave Alessio room to lean into me and murmur, “When should we tell Hunt we want to come to Rough and Ready?”
“Well, we should obviously ask the other three first what they want. Erin seems a good companion for Pickett, and Denmark is basically on the run, too.”
“Yeah. Then we can’t just send Gunning back alone to face the music. Dr. Hawk’s doing an OK job at the Establishment Club, no?”
I shrugged. “As far as I know. We’ve had so many burner phones I haven’t heard from him in a couple weeks. But I google the club, and don’t see any negative press.”
Mind-reading must’ve been a skill of Hunt’s, for he shouldered his way past a few men and leaned over—well, he didn’t have to lean to address Alessio. Just me. “Hey. Have you had a chance to pitch our proposal?”
“We have,” we both said, almost in unison.
Alessio took the mic, since he was the one who’d first heard the proposal from Hunt. “Yeah. We’re both all in. We’ve discussed going underground before, you know, changing our hair—”
“Your facial hair?” Hunt gaped.
Alessio beamed crookedly. “Yup. And names of course. I’ve thought about just selling my compositions or opening a music store—do you have one there already?”
I butted in. “It’d be such a giant loss for humanity if he didn’t perform.”
Hunt said, “Nope. But it’s a great idea, since we have so many musicians.”
“Including you,” I mentioned. “But we have yet to talk to the other three. Is it all right if they come along?”
Hunt shrugged. “The more the merrier. And I’m sure they need protection too. They can work at Thymus’s new assisted living. Oh, and dogs. You gotta love dogs.”
I adored Alessio’s magnetic grin. “I used to have a Saint Bernard.”
Hunt’s round eyes lit up. “We all have big dogs! The Prez and his husband have a Bernese Mountain Dog.”
I’d never seen such adoration in Alessio’s eyes. “What’s his name?”
“Korg.”
I now knew another thing about our future. The image in my mind’s eye was all coming together.
Even above the hubbub, slamming footsteps on the front porch boomed out. Everyone shut the fuck up as Jack Hoffman’s silken head breathlessly popped into the doorway, clutching the doorjamb dramatically.
“Mayday, Mayday!” he blared, theatrical even for him. But he was panting. “Bridgewater’s stooges must’ve followed one of you guys here. People told me he’s gathering a clutch of dirtbags to confront you!”
Grabbing Jack’s bicep, Alessio whipped him into the room and slammed the slider shut. “Listen, you know we don’t need no trouble. But if that jagov is going to persist and confront, we have no other option. We’re all armed.”
“Heavily,” added Thymus.
Jack pointed his fingertips to the ceiling. “I know, I know! I don’t need to be accused of encouraging any mayhem. But you’re right. If he insists on pressing the issue—”
The sharp knock at the glass slider made everyone gasp. We really needed a sentry, a lookout. But it was only Ozzie Whitworth, naked as a peeled apple except for his visor and tool apron. His David Crosby white curls whipped in the afternoon desert wind.
“Hey!” he bawled. “Who are all these seekers marching upon our park? Is this some kind of alien uprising?”
The rush of folks to the slider nearly bowled the trailer over. “Where, where?” hissed Jack.
“Well, they’re being held back at the gate, but I guarantee it won’t be for long. They’ve got rifles and handguns, and one guy has a golf club.”
Everyone gasped. Apparently, the golf club was the clincher.
Ozzie proclaimed, “We want to bomb them back to the stone age!”
Jack Hoffman looked to Alessio and me for guidance. Did we have any fucking choice, really? I instantly knew the thoughts behind Alessio’s magnetic eyes. Bomb them back to the stone age.
“I’ll get my seekers,” said Ozzie, as we all strapped on various weapons.
No one spoke now. Alessio was the only one who mumbled, “Shootout at a nudist trailer park.”
By the time we marched toward the arched entrance to the Heavenly Bus Trailer Park, Bridgewater’s army of about twenty thugs had breached the gate.
The various assclowns and shitdongles of the squad seemed to be united on one front—they were all heavily inked and muscled.
They seemed to have been hired from a casting agent for a Duane Johnson action film, determined to display their bare chests and pounds of chain link necklaces.
Their drop-crotch pants slowed their progress, and they stopped about thirty feet in front of our trailer.
Bridgewater had to shove the mindless cretins aside in order to make his grand appearance.
The bald mad scientist made a bold stand, arms crossed angrily, steam practically coming out of his ears.
Next to us, Jack Hoffman filmed everything.
“You tried to fool us,” yelled Bridgewater. “But we figured out you’re the Undisputed Truth Club. You’re not related to our client Mr. Yarborough.”
“Yes we are!” I bellowed back. “We’re all his family. And we’ve come to save him and the other seniors you’re murdering and drugging.”
Behind me, my men clapped. “Right on, right on,” urged Hunt. “Bad, bad!” agreed Denmark.
Bridgewater shouted, “You’re on the run from the law. We could call the cops on you right now and have you all hauled away.”
Alessio stepped up to the plate. “But you won’t! Because you’re guilty of way more crimes than we are. How many old folks have you murdered? Overdosed with illegal drugs, cremated in a communal grave?”
This gave Bridgewater a split-second pause, and that’s when I noticed.
One by one, our fellow nudist park tenants had come forward.
There was the guy with nothing but a florid lei around his neck.
A lady with a giant wooden walking stick.
A couple with matching plaid belts. Many people had wide-brimmed straw hats to keep the cancerous sun off their shoulders.
I unfortunately noticed a couple of guys had pierced cocks or nipples.
One lady wore a blowup ring around her waist, as if about to go swimming.
But other than that, yeah, they were all pretty naked.