CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Cracker watched the car approach Angel Silva’s garage.
One of them old muscle cars. Camaro. GTO.
Javelin. Who the hell knew? Some motorhead boys back home got all jazzed up about that kind of thing.
Didn’t make much sense to him. Cars got you where you were going, just like a roof kept the rain off your head, food filled your belly, and clothes kept you warm.
All necessary things, except for wearing clothes.
If he had it his way, people would walk around naked when it was hot. It just made common sense.
He crumbled the wrapper of the protein bar he was eating and watched the car park on the curb half a block back.
A man got out and looked up and down the street before locking the door and walking toward Angel’s garage.
Cracker waited until the man was near his truck before he threw the wrapper into the footwell, opened the door on his truck, and stepped out.
“You cut your hair and shave your beard?” he said, stepping toward the man.
The man stopped and squinted. “You talking to me?”
“Just asking a simple question,” said Cracker, closing the distance between them in three long strides. He tilted his head. “Yeah. You’re him. I can tell from the picture of your son. You bear a resemblance. Why’d you get all cleaned up?”
Mickey tried to step back. Cracker grabbed his arm.
“Whoa, whoa. Where you going?” Cracker said. He ducked under Mickey’s punch and slid behind him, slipping a forearm under Mickey’s chin. “You need to relax,” he said, choking him.
Sully, who’d just came out of a coma, had put up a better fight.
This was pathetic. The grunting and shuffling went on for ten seconds at most. Then the old drunk, Mickey Monroe, gave up the ghost. Cracker held the pressure long enough to put him in twilight, then carried him over to his truck and jammed him into the passenger seat.
The old man came out of it pretty quick, but the shuttered GM plant wasn’t that far away.
Old Mickey barely had time to form a coherent thought before they were inside the factory gate.
“Who are you? Where we going?” said Mickey, straightening in his seat.
Cracker parked next to the factory. He cut the engine and nodded at Mickey. “This is your lucky day. Look what I got for you. Right there by your feet.”
The sound Mickey made when he picked up the whiskey bottle was less than enthusiastic.
Mickey’s attempt to open his door was, however, very lively.
Cracker watched Mickey fumble with the lock, pull the handle, and kick the door open.
Cracker didn’t move a muscle. There was no one in earshot of this factory.
The old boozer could get out, run a bit, and burn off some adrenaline, which would probably make him more amenable to a discussion about the whereabouts of his pain-in-the-ass ghost of a son.
He’d drink his booze, whether he wanted to or not, get his tongue all greased up, and spill everything he knew about where his son might be hiding.
But Mickey surprised Cracker. He didn’t run.
What he did do, however, was uncalled for.
That old drunken bum got out, lifted that bottle of whiskey over his head—that brand-new, unopened bottle—and smashed it on the pavement.
“Now why’d you go and do that?” said Cracker. Getting a defiant stare for an answer, Cracker got out, grabbed hold of Mickey, and pushed him up against the truck.
“I can see where your son gets his stupid from,” said Cracker.
He shoved Mickey to the pavement and went back to the truck, feeling around under the passenger seat.
“Do not get off that ground or I will break every goddamn one of your fingers,” he said, grabbing the bottle of vodka.
It made a glugging sound as he got out of the truck and raised it high.
“Well, looky here,” he said. “A backup bottle. How ’bout that?
It’s your lucky day. Now get up and walk toward that door over there.
We’re going inside. You can walk or I can drag you by your ear. Don’t matter none to me.”
Mickey walked into the old GM plant without a complaint.
But he wasn’t nearly as happy about drinking.
For some as yet to be determined reason, he didn’t cotton to it today.
But it wasn’t altogether hard to get him drunk either.
Pinning him flat on his back, Cracker knelt on his arms and held a hand over his nose and mouth.
Eventually, Mickey’s eyes bugged out, and then he began grunting for air.
That’s when he got a chance to drink between his frenzied gasps for air.
It was the only way to get the vodka in him.
It took ten minutes to get the whole bottle in his belly, but in the end, Mickey reached a relaxed state of mind.
Old drunks were highly tolerant of their alcohol.
Problem was, that much booze cut the timeline to talk down to nothing, so Cracker worked fast. He walked around Mickey and toed him with his boot.
“I’ll keep it simple,” he said. “Only want to know if you’ve seen your son, Conor.”
Drenched in vodka, Mickey tried to sit up. Cracker put a heel in his face and pushed him down.
“No sir,” he said. “You stay right where you are. Don’t want you throwing up. That bottle cost me seven dollars and eighty-nine cents. You stay down and you keep it down, or I’ll go to work on you. Now what about Conor? Where is he?”
“Conor?” said Mickey. “I, uh, what?”
Cracker lowered to one knee and jabbed a finger between Mickey’s eyes.
“You best start using your faculties while you still have them,” said Cracker. He gave Mickey a short, hard punch in the forehead and stood. Mickey held his head and rolled back and forth.
“He hasn’t talked to me in years,” yelled Mickey. “I’m a drunk. I’m nothing to him.”
Cracker stepped on Mickey’s shoulder and put his weight down. “I know you’re a nothing. Everybody in town knows that. What I don’t know is where that son of yours might be holed up. Can you provide any insight into that?”
“He, uhhh, shwait a minute. Lesh me tink,” slurred Mickey.
Cracker stomped on his shoulder. Mickey screamed. “You ain’t that drunk yet,” Cracker said. “I better hear something fast, or I will pop one of your eyes out your skull. Now tell me what you know and don’t lie, or it will go bad for you and one of your eyeballs.”
“I swear,” yelled Mickey. “I haven’t talked to him. Last I heard, he had an apartment at Sunset Boulevard. It’s been like seven years since I’ve even seen him.”
Cracker bent over Mickey. He poked a finger under Mickey’s right eye. Mickey tried to push his hand away. Cracker slapped Mickey in the face, and then kneeled, whispering in Mickey’s ear as he ran his finger around Mickey’s eye.
“Touch my hand again and I will surely pop your eye out. Now straighten up, cowboy. I’m just gonna ask a couple more questions, you hear?”
Mickey nodded.
“Does Conor have any friends in town?”
Mickey shook his head.
“Oh, that’s not being honest,” said Cracker, kneeling on Mickey’s chest and jamming his finger under Mickey’s eye.
“None are around anymore,” screamed Mickey. “Jackie Fitzsimmons and Sully Bomba were his only real friends. I heard Fitz—I mean Jackie—disappeared after their last heist. Sully is in the hospital in a coma.”
Cracker took the pressure off his finger and looked down on Mickey.
That eye was a hair away from coming out before the old drunk spouted the truth.
Most likely, Mickey now knew playtime was over.
One more test, however, to make sure. That girl next door to Conor, Julia Terranova—no one in town knew about her.
He ran his finger around Mickey’s red eye, listening to him breathe all shaky, vodka fumes pouring out of him with every breath.
There was one way to determine if the old drunk was telling the truth.
He’d ask him if Conor had a girlfriend. If he said yes, he’d ask her name.
If Mickey knew Conor’s girl was Julia, then the old drunk was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He’d been in touch with Conor. And he’d lose an eye for not fessing up to that. Lying would not be tolerated. Cracker pressed his finger under Mickey’s eyelid, watching his eye bulge.
“Now don’t think too much with this next question,” said Cracker. “I ask, you answer. You try to spin it, your eye’s out, and I’ll step on it for good measure. Get me?”
“Yeah,” whimpered Mickey.
“Does Conor have a girlfriend?”
Mickey hesitated.
Cracker pressed down. “I told you what I’d do if you didn’t answer right off.”
“But I don’t know how to answer that,” yelled Mickey. “He had a girlfriend, but I don’t know if they go out anymore.”
“What’s her name?” said Cracker, pushing harder.
“Sully’s sister!” shrieked Mickey. “Mona!”
“Would he hide at her place?’
“No! Yes! I don’t know. There’s no telling with Mona. She might either screw him or kill him if he showed up—maybe both.”
Cracker clenched his teeth. “You swear you haven’t heard one word from him or anything about where he’s hiding?”
“No. I’d tell you. I don’t owe Conor nothing. He hates me. I’m nothing to him. I’m a waste of life.”
Cracker hissed and slowly backed the pressure off Mickey’s eye. He stood, brushed his pants off, and held out his hand.
“What are you doing?” said Mickey, looking at Cracker’s hand.
“I’m helping you up. What’s it look like?”
Cracker pulled Mickey to his feet. He put an arm around him, holding him steady while he half carried him toward the door.
“Hold your water,” he said, propping Mickey against the door and running back into the factory.
He came back holding the empty bottle of vodka.
He handed it to Mickey. “This is yours,” said Cracker. “I don’t like people that litter.”