Friday, October  10 2008

HONOR AMONG THIEVES

by Matthew Walter

            Tom shut off the ignition on his dusty motorcycle. He settled the kickstand into place with his battered steel-toe boot, and stood to face the sign on the front of the bar. He sighed deeply.

            "Goddamn, what a shithole. What possessed Jaron to hole up in a place like this?".

            The Eight-Ball Bar had an old, but functional sign above the door, bearing the name of the establishment in glowing purple letters. Next to the name was a faded representation of the billiard ball which gave the place it's name.  Clearly the Eight-Ball had seen better days, but the many semi-trucks parked outside and the raucous music emanating from within indicated it still had an adequate clientele to keep the electricity on and the beer taps pumping.

            "I hope he's not jumping at his own shadow again. If I came all the way out here to listen to stories about snipers in the ice cream trucks, or the NSA spying on him via e-mail porn messages, I'll choke his tweeker ass. He better not be bullshitting about this being worth my while."

            Tom ran a greasy hand through his coppery mane, a token attempt to make himself presentable after the dusty ride to this nowhere bar outside Benson. He scratched at his long beard, then adjusted the cow skull belt buckle holding up his faded blue jeans.

            "Look out ladies, here I come," he muttered to himself as he walked toward the entrance. The music resolved into an old Waylon Jennings song. Opening the door to the Eight-Ball, Tom was hit full-on by the universal urine/tobacco smoke/beer smell  found in bars the world over.  The Waylon Jennings ballad rendered the conversations at the bar and pool tables unintelligible to Tom's ears.

            His bleary green eyes stung from the cigarette smoke, and he squinted as he scanned the place for Jaron. He sauntered casually up to the wooden bar, and caught the haggard barmaid's attention. "Corona and a double tequila shot, sweetheart", said Tom as he slapped money on the counter.

            He tossed back the shot, winced, and drained half the Corona that came with it. "Ahhhh…there's my boy now. He never could dress to blend in. Heh heh…".

            He spotted Jaron in a shadowy booth near the men's room. The kid had long blonde hair, suspicious blue eyes, and a dark growth of stubble set in a  rat-like face. The A/C made the room a bit chilly, but Jaron's face was beaded with sweat. His tie-dyed Jimi Hendrix t-shirt was so wet it looked as though he'd taken a shower in his clothes.

            Jaron was trying to look relaxed, but the paranoid way he kept looking around the room spoiled his attempts to appear cool. That, and the way he nervously drummed his fingers on the wooden tabletop while his leg twitched uncontrollably below the table.

            Tom wandered slowly over to Jaron's booth. "Hey, kiddo. You look like you smoked a teener of glass before I got here. What's up?".

             "SHHHH!!! Somebody might hear you! Don't you know I'm a wanted man? They have eyes and ears everywhere!!", Jaron exclaimed in a loud stage whisper. He was shuddering and shaking intensely; he had definitely taken some sizable quantity of meth in the recent past.

            "You left a frantic message on my voicemail, bud. Where have you been? Why the hell are you being so sketchy? I didn't ride here all the way from Tucson just to nurse some persecution complex you mighta given yourself. This better not be a waste of my valuable time, Jaron", Tom said this as he eased himself in next to the sweat soaked youngster.

            Jaron's Adams Apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, and drops of sweat hit the table as his head swiveled around to observe the room. "Well, Tom, you're the only one I can trust! You don't have spy-machines in your skull…you're too cagey.  Please tell me they didn't follow you here…if they find me they'll kill me! I got a 10 grand bounty on my ass…man oh man oh man."

            He had a crazed gleam in his eyes as he unleashed this rant at Tom. Tom became certain that Jaron's fear had a basis in reality.

            "Whoa, homeboy, slow down. Breathe…slow…in…and out. Look here," he calmly intoned. He pulled open his old leather coat to reveal a sawed-off shotgun holstered under his arm. "Old Tom ain't gonna let anyone get you, ya hear?"

            Jaron paled for an instant, then took a few deep, slow breaths as he had been instructed. He wiped his brow, and leaned close to Tom. The jukebox had gotten louder, as had the chatter from the direction of the bar. Tom strained his ears so he could hear Jaron clearly.

            "Tom, man. Everyone and their mom is out to cash in the 10 Gs the Mexicans put on my head. I know I can trust you, though. We go way back, right?"

            "Sure thing, bud. Way back. What do you mean about 10 grand on your head? All I've heard about 10 Gs is that shit about…", Tom's voice trailed off as realization dawned on him.

            "About the ephedrine that was jacked from the Sonoran Cartel last week," Jaron concluded before Tom could find the words.

            "Christ, Jaron! That was you who hijacked their ephedrine?! No wonder you're so friggin' paranoid." Tom glanced at the truckers and whores standing at the bar, but no one appeared to have heard his outburst. He turned to look back at Jaron.

            "Dude, I know you know used to cook dope. I got fifty kilos of pure ephedrine stashed. I know you have access to the other ingredients and the equipment to make the stuff. I figure we could split the profits once you turn the ephedrine into meth; it's definitely gonna be way more dough than a paltry $10,000. What do you say? Are you down for this? There's  nobody else I can trust."

            Jaron was visibly excited. The scrawny tweeker had gotten his greasy mitts on enough ephedrine to manufacture close to 150 pounds of pharmaceutical-grade methamphetamine. One pound, wholesale, was worth more than $10,000.

            "Son, where do you got all that "E" stashed?"

            "Why? You wouldn't be considering jacking me, would you? Sorry man, that's the paranoia talking."

            Tom just stared at Jaron like a dog who had taken a crap in a church.

            "Right, Tom. Sorry. You and me go way back. I just don't know who I can trust anymore." Jaron gulped the remains of his Budweiser and lit up a cigarette. Then he pulled a motel room key from his back pocket. "It's all in my room down the road. Room 333 at the Motel 6 in Benson. I need to drain the lizard, then we can go there and get it, okay?" Jaron stood up from the booth and headed toward the toilets.

            "Yeah, bud," Tom grinned reassuringly. "Go piss, Jaron. I'll watch your back."

            "Be right out, partner," said Jaron as he walked through the men's room door."

            Tom pulled out his cellular phone and dialed one of his contacts. "Esteban. Yeah, I found it. And our pirate. Never woulda figured it would be Jaron. Yeah, that Jaron. What a trip, huh? Anyhow, have your boys meet me at the Motel 6 in Benson, Room 333. I will have the key shortly. Shame about the kid. He must not have figured out WHO it was I did my cooking for. Yeah amigo, too bad. See ya there." Tom scratched at his beard while he waited for Jaron to finish his pee.

            Jaron was still zipping up as he walked out of the john. "Well Tom, I guess the old saying was wrong."

            "Which one, partner?"

            "The one that says, 'There is no honor among thieves."

            Yeah, I always hated that saying. Besides the fact that I have never been a thief. C'mon, times a-wastin'."

            Tom and Jaron walked out of the Eight-Ball, just as Johnny Cash started his song about killing a man in Reno.