Vernon God Little (9 page)

'Doctor, this don't seem right,' I say. What a fuckhole, I swear. I should jam a table-leg through his fucken eye, make him grunt like a tied hog. Jean-Claude would do it. James Bond would do it with a fucken cocktail in his hand. Me, I just squeak like a brownie. He takes no fucken notice anyway. A cool finger invades me as the music explodes to a climax. I grunt like a tied hog.

'Al-righty, one for Jesus. Just relax, this next procedure won't hurt a bit - in fact, don't be embarrassed if you experience arousal.' He grabs a pair of steel salad tongs, adjusts his goggles, and lowers his face to my ass.

'I don't fucken think so,' I quiver, spinning upright. Cobwebs of spit fly from my mouth.

Goosens recoils, forearms held up like a surgeon.

He slowly reaches for the towel on the bed, and wipes his middle finger. Huge gingery eyes stare through the goggles. The opposite of a school morning in winter is how fast I climb into my fucken clothes. I don't button my shirt, I don't tie my laces. I don't fucken look back.

'Think carefully, Vernon,' says Goosens. 'Think very carefully before jeopardizing your bail application.' He stops to sigh a moment, and shake his head. 'Remember there are only two kinds of people in your position: glorious, powerful boys, and prisoners.'

Music whips twisters behind me as I scramble out through the waiting room. Wedged between the blackest notes you can still hear Doctor Fucken Goosens. 'Okay - alrighty …'

I sit under a personal cloud in back of the jail van, like a sphinx, a sphinxter, to the beat of that rude orchestra music by Goosestep Holster. It does nothing to erase memories of the shrink, and his fucken ass-banditry. I try not to think what his report will say. I just watch the scenery pass by my window. Dead products dot the roadside on the way back to town: an abandoned shopping cart, a sofa skeleton. Under a tree sits a busted TV, empty of wacky antics. Pumpjacks poke dirty fingers into the landscape, but we drive past all of it, including the sky and the distance, ignorant of the fence wire that twangs a straight line to Mexico.

Mexico. Another coupon tacked onto the pile I'll redeem when I get some power in my fucken life. Look around this life and all you see is folks' coupons tacked everywhere, what they'll do if, what they'll do when. Warm anticipation for shit that ain't even going to happen.

'Kid,' says one of the guards, 'you ain't haulin your stalk back there, are ya?' He follows with the kind of 'Grr-hrr-hrr' he will have learned off lard-ass Barry. I swear these guys must share that one joke around, ole Barry must give fucken smut classes after work or something. Snatches of their talk filter back to me.

'Uh-huh, Vaine Gurie petitioned the county for a SWAT team.'

'Over the sheriff's head?'

'Uh-huh. Barry upgraded their in-surance same fuckin day.'

'He told you that?'

'Tuck says.'

'Tuck What's-his-name, at the morgue? What's he know about Barry's in-surance?'

'Tuck sells goddam in-surance. Dropped Amway to sell fuckin in-surance.'

'No shit.'

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge. Look at the way things are. I'm no fucken genius or anything, but these spazzos are in charge of my every twitch. What I'm starting to think is maybe only the dumb are safe in this world, the ones who roam with the herd, without thinking about every little thing. But see me? I have to think about every little fucken thing.

*

As I sit, then lay, then pace, then sit again in my cell, waiting for my next court appearance, time, being an agent of Fate, slows way the fuck down. Thursday eats Wednesday, and Jesus' last breath drags ten days into the past, towing Nuckles's silence behind it, as if he was never even there, like the truth was my shadow alone. To stretch things even further, Mom calls to say Lally has been contracted to shoot another report from Martirio. It's typical of where things are at with Fate, slowing time down all over the place, calling the weirdest fucken people Cindy. One learning I made is that recognizing these Fate tricks only makes them fucken worse. Even as I pass on to you these amazing life insights, I curse you with making them fucken worse. Because once you know about them, you fucken wait for them to happen.

The day of my court appearance is hot and soupy. I sense dogs across town, chilling under window-mounted air-conditioners, letting any ole cat pass by, and cats letting any ole rat pass by, and rats - probably too fucken lathered to even want to pass by. I'm the only one passing by, in fact, on my way to the classroom. I mean, courtroom.

'All-a rise.'

Court froths with sighs and the stench of hot clothes this Friday. Everybody stares at me. 'Oh Lord,' as Pam would say. Pam might come by later, but Mom can't make it. Faces disfigured with memories of black blood and gray skin dot the crowd. Kin of the fallen. Mr Lechuga stares death-rays at me, and he ain't even Max's real daddy. Lorna Speltz's mom is here, like a damp kind of turtle. I get waves of sadness, not for me but for them, all mangled and devastated. I'd give anything for them to be vastated again.

Vaine is gone, her table is occupied by a shiny man wearing black and white. Judge Gurie catches his attention. 'Mr Gregson, I take it you're appearing for the State?'

'One hundred percent correct, ma'am - all the way to the district court.' Perky fucker.

The judge picks Goosens's file off her desk and waves it at the prosecutor. 'I have a report on the defendant's state of mind.'

'We vigorously oppose bail, your honor.'

'On what grounds?' asks the judge.

The prosecutor fights a smile. 'In common parlay - the kid's stole more damn chain than he can swim with. We're afraid he'll go down with it, and we'll never see him again!' A chuckle runs through the court. It stops at the judge, who scowls at Goosens's file, then turns to Abdini. 'Any further submissions in respect of this application?'

Abdini stops fussing at his table and looks up. 'Is family boy, have many interest …'

'I know all that,' the judge flaps her hand, 'I mean anything new, like the - digestive condition mentioned in this report, for instance.'

'A-ha, the toilet …' says Abdini, mostly to himself.

'If your honor pleases,' says Gregson, 'we'd object to the court doing the defense's homework for them.'

'Very well. They clearly haven't been instructed, so I'll leave the clues at that.'

'Also, ma'am, we'd like to enter a statement from the witness, Marion Nuckles,' says Gregson.

The judge's eyebrows become airborne. Breathing dies in the room. 'I was told no statement could be taken until March next year!'

'It's a transcript of digital media taken at the crime scene, Judge. A reporter from CNN sourced it for us, in the public interest.' Motherfucker Lally flashes to mind. Makes you wonder which poor suck he's fucking over right now.

'Well that's very public-spirited of them. Is the defendant's alibi supported by the witness?' asks the judge.

'Not our brief, your honor. Our statement concerns the possible whereabouts of another firearm

- I'm sure we all agree, that casts a serious light on the prisoner's bail application.'

Judge Gurie puts on her glasses, reaching for the document. She scans it, frowning, then lays it down and peers at the prosecutor. 'Counsel, the actual murder weapon was found at the outset. Are you saying you can link a second gun to these crimes?'

'Very possibly, ma'am.'

'Do you have that gun?'

'Not as such, but officers are investigating.'

The judge sighs. 'Well, it's obvious neither of you has seen the psychiatric report. In the absence of hard evidence, I'll be ruling on the basis of this assessment.'

An itchy silence falls over the room, measured in tens of thousands of years. The crowd divides its attention between me and the bench, all the while juggling the decent, downtown skills that let them soak it up without looking like they're at a traffic accident and fucken enjoying it. They juggle those skills with their eyebrows.

Judge Gurie sits still for a moment, then surveys the court. It freezes. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I think it's fair to say we've had enough. We're fed up - outraged! - at these continual damned breaches of our rightful peace.' Applause erupts; some asshole even whoops like a TV audience. You wait for the chant, 'Gu-rie! Gu-rie! Gu-rie!'

The judge pauses to straighten her collar. 'My decision today takes into account the feelings of the victims' families, as well as those of the wider community. I also acknowledge that, despite the defendant's stable, if not very affluent background, he is a standing candidate to stand trial as an accessory to these crimes.' The typist looks over at my corral, probably to boost the polish on her own dumb kids. None of them in jail today, no sirree. 'Vernon Gregory Little,' says the judge, 'in light of the disorder identified in this report, and taking into account submissions by both counsels - I am releasing you …'

'My babies, my poor dead babies,' squeals a lady at the back. Outrage spews through the room.

'Silence! Let me finish,' says the judge. 'Vernon Little, I am releasing you into the care of Dr Oliver Goosens, starting Monday, on an outpatient basis. Failure to comply with the doctor's schedule of treatment, in any way whatsoever, will result in your further detention. Do you understand?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

She stretches over the bench and lowers her voice. 'One more thing - if I were defending, I'd seriously consider expanding on this, ehm - bowel thing.'

'Thank you, ma'am.'

I'll be damned. I burrow through the mess of onlookers and float out of the courthouse into the sun, just like that. Reporters buzz around me like flies at a shit-roast. I'm full of feelings, but not the ones I dreamed of. Instead of true joy, I feel waves; the kind that make you look forward to the smell of laundry on a rainy Saturday, the type of drippy hormones that trick you into saying I Love You.

Security they fucken call it. Watch out for that shit. Those waves erode your goddam bravery. I even get a wave of gratitude for the judge - go fucken figure. I mean, Judge Gurie's been good to me, but -

expand on the bowel thing? - I don't fucken think so.

'How do we find your turds?' they'd ask. 'Why,' I'd say, 'my logs are over there, in the den behind the bushes - right there, next to the goddam gun y'all are looking for.' To be honest, the gun ain't such a big deal. The fingerprints on the gun are my fucken problem. Thinking about it brings a whole new set of waves. I decide to ignore them, for my own safety. You just can't afford waves when you have to be in Mexico by daybreak.

The Mercury sits with two doors open, dripping ants all over Gurie Street. Mrs Binney, the florist, almost has to stop her brand-new Cadillac to get past. Mrs Binney doesn't wave today. She pretends not to see me. Instead she watches Abdini decoy some reporters on the steps, and floats right by with a fresh mess of tributes for the Lechugas' front porch.

'We happy we allow home to continue our young life,' says Abdini, like he's me, or we're fucken brothers or something. 'And we cantinue inbestigation into whappen that terryball day …'

I got me some learnings in court, I have to say. The way everybody acts, court is like watching TV-trailers; a shade of this movie, a bite of that show. The one where the kid gets cancer, and everybody speaks haltingly. The one where the rookie cop decides whether to be a bag-man for bribes, or to blow his crusty partner's cover. I personally wouldn't recommend playing that one, though; everybody ends up being on the take, like even the mayor. And don't fucken ask what show I got stuck with. 'America's Dumbest Assholes' or something. 'Ally McBowel.'

The Mercury bitches under Pam's sandals. That's because she uses both pedals at once. 'No point having a brake pedal if your foot's a mile away on the other side of the car,' she'll tell you if you ever bring it up. I only brought it up once. 'Might as well throw the darned pedal out the door.' Camera people scatter as we lunge up Gurie Street. I see the TV pictures in my mind, the shot of my ole mutton head looking back from the Mercury.

'But, what kind of meals did you get?' asks Pam.

'Regular stuff.'

'But like, what? Like, pork 'n' beans? Did you get dessert?'

'Not really.'

'Oh Lord.'

She spins the car into the Barn drive-thru. One good thing about Pam's TV-movie; you know how the thing's going to end. That's the kind of life I want, the life we were fucken promised. A fuzzy ole show with some flashes of panty and a happy ending. One of those shows where the kid's baseball coach takes him camping, and teaches him self-respect, you've seen that show, with electric piano notes tinkling in the background, soft as ovaries hitting oatmeal. When you hear that piano it means somebody's hugging, or a woman is crumpling her lips with overwhelming joy, down by a lake. Boy, the life I could have with the right music behind me. Instead I watch Liberty Drive screen through the window, with Galveston playing in back. We pass the place where Max Lechuga sucked his last breath.

He said some words, but you couldn't hear them. Heat comes to my eye, so I spark up a distraction.

'Ma home?' I ask.

'Waiting on the fridge delivery,' says Pam.

'You're kidding.'

'Humor her, she's going through a lot. No harm in just waiting.'

'That'll be one long wait.'

Pam just sighs. 'You'll be sixteen in a few days. We won't let anything spoil your birthday.'

I cushion myself in this familiar ole cream; family, with all its flavors of smell. I've only been gone a week, but my ole routines seem like a past life. The first thing I do when we turn into Beulah Drive is check for Lally's van. I try to see past a knot of reporters in the road, but then the Seldome Motel's new minibus pulls up by the Lechugas' teddy farm. Strangers lean out, take pictures, bow their heads, then the van pulls away toward the mantis market. Lally's space under the willow is empty.

'Take these fries to your ma,' says Pam through a mouthful of drumstick.

'Not coming in?'

'I have pinball right now.' Playing pinball is healthy, according to Pam.