SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #35

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #35

BATFISH

MONTANA

Canada was where I was planning on heading for after the disaster on Wonderland and I almost made it. I had jumped in my old Chevy Citation (I didn’t even give Gus two weeks notice) and had driven non stop, fueled by white cross and shitty truck stop coffee.

I didn’t know exactly how long it would take Jon to try to implicate someone to save his ass, so I didn’t want to take any major routes. I tried to stick to secondary roads if at all possible. By the time I rolled into Montana the transmission in my old beater was starting to act up. Slipping like hell and I could smell the fluid burning. I had poured in four quarts of the shit in three hours and things were only getting worse. By the time I rolled into a little town called Hungry Horse the transmission was shaking so bad I could hardly hold on to the wheel.

I rolled into a combination beer joint, grocery store, video rental outlet, gourmet coffee house, and garage.

An old timer came shuffling out of the garage, looking like a cast member out of the movie Deliverance. “What seems to be the problem here,young feller?”

Jesus! “Transmission I suppose. It’s slipping and shaking like hell. And burning transmission fluid as fast as I can pump the crap in.”

“Well, how many miles are on this piece of shit anyway?” Cackling like an old crow.

“Way over a quarter of a million by now.”

He paused to light up a Camel straight. “Quarter of a fucking million?” One eye squinting through the smoke. “My advice to you is junk the piece of shit.”

“Easier said than done. I don’t have the cash to buy another right now.”

“Where the hell you headed for?”

“Canada.”

He peered at the front of the car. “California plates and headed to Canada. Huh!” He walked over and lifted the hood. “Boy you’re right about burning the fluid. That shit stink or what?” Slammed the hood down.

“Well, you won’t make the border today, that’s for sure. I can’t even look at it today. I’m booked solid. Tell you what. We got three cabins right around the corner. I’ll rent you one for the night for half price. Slow time of the year. Then I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”

When I went to crash I didn’t get up for two solid days. Didn’t matter though. The transmission was totally shot and would cost more to fix than the wreck was worth. The mechanic, Chet, who owned the establishment along with his wife, finally woke me up to give me the bad news by pounding on the door.

“Jesus son. I thought you might be dead.”

“Just been on the road a long time. Needed to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

“It didn’t work. Ha ha.”

I stared at him.

“Sorry, you walked right into that one. Anyway. You’re not going any farther in that piece of scrap iron. It’s toast. Unless you consider it a classic and want to waste the money.”

I lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. I knew where I had plenty of cash waiting for me. I just couldn’t take the chance of going or even calling there now.

“You got the law after you?” Chet was sitting across from me on the other bed lighting up another smoke off the butt of the previous one.

“Now why would you ask that?”

“You just got the look.” He sat and stared at me. His face wrinkled up in concentration. “Me and the missus run this place. Her name is Betty. We do OK. But on the weekends I rent these cabins out to some local ladies of the evening and at times things can get a little hairy. Usually I handle things myself, but I am getting up in years and it seems we’re starting to get a lot of white trash coming around. Drugs and all. I could use a little help. What say?”

When I didn’t answer immediately, he came back with “This is a good place to lay low. Ain’t but one cop in a hundred square miles.”

I wound up staying there for almost a year. Chet had an old Airstream trailer that he had taken on a trade in for a pick up truck he had rebuilt and that’s where I lived. It was cramped but cozy. Life was simple and easy. Get up in the morning. Do my roadwork and then work a heavy bag I hung from the rafters in the garage.

Other than that, I worked seven days a week. Tended bar. Threw out rowdy drunks and aggressive johns. Learned how to run the espresso machine. Made a mean latte. Did whatever Chet needed. On Saturday night after we shut the place down, Chet would let me have my pick of one of the girls for the night.

Wasn’t too long before it was the same girl every Saturday night. Her name was Sunshine, but that wasn’t her real name. She was a former member of the Rainbow tribe and had stayed in this area after they had passed through here several years back. I guess she got tired of shitting outside and getting hassled by the local cops for going through people’s garbage.

Sunshine was her Rainbow name. She never had told me her given name. Didn’t matter to me. What I liked about her was that she could really get down and dirty, was fun to be around, and plus she was covered with tattoos. Dragons, cartoon characters, skulls, sea horses, dolphins, you name it. It was like being able to read a comic book after bone dancing.

She was beautiful. Strawberry red hair with this china white body. Emerald green eyes. Covered in freckles.

Sunshine’s parents had been original Deadheads. Following the Grateful Dead around the country. Listening to those long drawn out jams. I hate that shit. But they were also smart enough to have gotten in on the

ground floor of the just starting to flourish concert T-shirt industry. They made a fortune selling them out of their Volkswagen van. They now were retired comfortably in the Northern California area. A town by the name of Weed.

Old deadheads who now had a daughter rebelling against them. Talk about ironic.

We were lying in bed one lazy Sunday morning, watching the only channel that the TV antenna would pick up. The news was on and one of the featured stories was about a once famous porno actor who had just died of cancer or AIDS or a combination of both. He had been a suspect in some murders in Los Angeles but the police could never get him to talk. There were a lot of rumors surrounding the deaths, mainly that it was retaliation for a drug deal gone wrong, but now that’s all it was. Just rumors. The police finally thought that they had the evidence to pin the murders on him but he had foiled them by dying. The once great lover had taken the secret to the grave and now his videos were flying off the shelves.

He was going to wind up being a legend. More popular in death than in life. His wife Annesha had even written a book about him. Well, I’ll be damned. Good for him.

He hadn’t talked. The L. A. cops and a cocaine king weren’t looking for me. Just the government was. It was time to make a break and head for Minnesota for one last visit. I had a good bit of money waiting for me. If my sister hadn’t gotten into those envelopes that is. But more importantly, I wanted to get my hands on those rolls of film, get them developed and figure out how I could use them for leverage. I couldn’t stand the thought of hiding out here in the north woods for another winter. Freezing my ass off.

I had Sunshine drive me down to Kalispell to the Greyhound station. “Why can’t you tell me what’s so fucking important that you have to drop everything and run off to Minnesota? If it’s money you’re worried about, forget it. My parents will give me cash anytime I ask for it.”

Leaning down to kiss her I said “It’s just better that you don’t know. When I get everything straightened out I’ll come back and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“Fuck you.” She spat out. “You’re never coming back. You’re just like every other swinging dick that’s walked through my life. You’re all full of bullshit.” She started up the car and roared out of the parking lot. So much for the mellow Rainbow spirit.

She was right about one thing.

I guess I am full of bullshit.

JUICE

LONG BEACH

Long Beach Naval Hospital became a semi-famous hospital back in the late seventies when President Carter had a drunken brother who needed drying out. Not good public relations to be the Prez and have a brother who would get drunk and piss along side the road. But he was just a good old boy having fun. Good old Billy C.

Jake Morrow wasn’t quite as famous, but he was getting his share of the press these days.

There were several government agencies who were doing their best to try to explain to the media why the man who had just

been recently portrayed in the Navy Times as unjustly accused and railroaded for a murder he did not commit, was found with a compound fractured leg, hanging on for dear life to a bridge piling in Long Beach harbor. Wasn’t he supposed to be in a cell in Leavenworth?

Jake was in the security unit at the hospital with an armed guard at his door. Security precautions were tight for his both his protection and for reasons brought forth by the government. Some one had to figure out just what the hell was going on! His leg was encased in a large cast and was elevated up off the bed.

Jake had no recollection of hitting the water or swimming over to the pilings and hanging on for almost a half an hour. Nor of the Coast Guard rescue crew pulling him into their boat. He remembered cursing Jerry Banks and stepping off the bridge and that was it.

For the first four days, he had passed in and out of consciousness, there was no recollection of even going into surgery to have his badly damaged leg screwed and grafted together. Now he lay in his soft bed, pleasantly stoned on legal drugs. Nurses came in to fluff his pillows and giggle at his stupid jokes, all the while treating him like some sort of celebrity. The guard had come into his room on Friday night to watch the fights with him.

Later that same evening he had talked the cute little corpsman that came into check his blood pressure and temp to give him an excellent hand job with cocoa butter.

Jake was waiting for the world to fall out from underneath him. For some reason he was not allowed access to newspapers, a radio, and was allowed to watch television only if some one was in the room with him. No one talked about what had brought him there. So he figured the worst was about to happen, but there was no need to not enjoy himself until that happened.

First thing Monday morning, in walked a trio of trouble. The guard and Jake had been drinking coffee while goofing on that Kathy Lee bimbo on TV, when the door slammed behind them. The guard’s face had gone lily white, he had shut off the TV, and rushed out the door and back to his station.

Jake's visitors included a stern looking Navy captain from the JAG office who was wearing the worst toupee that Jake had ever seen. He also had one of those little mustaches trimmed down to just the top of the Captain’s lip. Jake wondered why you would even make the effort to have it. He was followed by one of his flunkies. A perverted looking, first class Navy yeoman, with bottle thick glasses and beady little eyes, who resembled the actor Wally Cox. Obviously, he was the stenographer, as he went over into a corner and set up his little steno machine. To Jake, he seemed like a guy you might walk in and catch screwing a blowup doll.

It was the woman though who was definitely in charge. She was dressed in a pants suit, with her hair done up in a bun, and she had the start of a better mustache than the Captain.

Although she had a giant pair of jugs that were straining to bust out her jacket, her appearance screamed out bull dyke. She flipped out her badge and flashed it to Jake as the Captain, without saying a word, took a seat next to the stenographer.

“Mr. Morrow, I’m Nancy Foley, Federal Bureau of Investigations. This is Captain Putnam, Judge Advocate General’s office. And our stenographer, Petty Officer Cox.”

Jake burst out laughing.

She ignored him. “There is no need to waste time by discussing why we are here. I’m sure you are well aware that these incredible circumstances that you have been involved in recently have perked the interests of many parties. We are here to ask some questions of you and to try to get to the bottom of this. Before we start, do you need the presence of an attorney?”

Jake grabbed the monkey bar that was hanging over his bed, pulled himself up, and adjusted a pillow behind his back.

“Not if he’s a military lawyer.”

She smirked. “Mr. Morrow, you received a dishonorable discharge from the military. You can receive no veteran’s benefits, that includes legal representation.”

“I don’t have any money to pay for one.”

“The state of California could appoint you one.”

Jake was silent for a moment.

“What am I being charged with?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Yet! I’m not being charged, yet! You better read me my rights first before you start to ask your questions.”

Another smirk. “Mr. Morrow, are you something of a jailhouse lawyer?”

“Not in the least. But I know when I’m about to get fucked again. Ya see, it’s happened to me more than once.”

Foley turned to the stenographer with a weary sigh.“Read him his rights.”

The second that Cox finished his reading of Jake’s rights, Agent Foley jumped in again.

“Is your name Jacob Thaddeus Morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Were you at one time a member of the United States Navy?”

“Yes.”

“Were you stationed at one time in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii?”

“Yes.” This was getting fucking ridiculous.

“Did you stop the rape of the attempted rape of one Mary Givens in Pearl Harbor Naval housing?”

Jake sat up. “Who?” His voice squeaked.

Foley glanced over at the JAG Captain.

“Mary Givens,” she repeated.

“You know who she is?” whispered Jake.

“Did you murder Ensign Raymond Dunn.”

“No.”

“But you admit that he died because of the beating that he received from you?”

“He was trying to rape the girl. It was an accident. I was just trying to help her.”

Agent Foley reached into her briefcase and pulled out a Navy Times and handed it to Jake. “Please read this highlighted article.”

After Jake was done with the article he threw it onto his night stand. He turned his head away from the agent.

“That fucker knew. He knew the whole goddamn time.”

Foley quietly walked around the bed and stood in front of Jake.

“Who knew the whole time, Jake?”

“Banks. That son of a bitch. I should have broken his neck when I had the chance.”

Foley looked over at the Captain again. “Mr. Morrow, Special Agent Banks is dead. He was killed shortly after you jumped off the Vincent Thomas Bridge in a shootout with members of the San Pedro police department.” She paused, “Was it Jerry Banks who got you out of Leavenworth?”

Jake stared at the wall.

“Did Commander Max Morgan aid in your release from Leavenworth? Was he working with Special Agent Banks?”

Silence.

“What was their reasoning on gaining your release?”

Jake looked up at Agent Foley and smiled.

“I think I need to call an attorney.”