Page 5 of Race With The Devil

“It’s a living,” agreed Tuzigoot, a huge, craggy Aztec of a man. He recently had stepped up to running Illuminati Trucking, the construction empire founded by Ford Illuminati, that occupied the other side of the airplane hangar. Ford’s wife Maddy had forced Ford to choose the club over his company. She was one badass old lady.

“And if they were adults,” Tanner continued, “nonstop eating opium, putting their entire families in jeopardy, our mortification would become loathing. This is the most perplexing thing about addiction for nonaddicts. In the long run, there’s a human making a choice to pick up that drink, that needle, that powder. They bleed money, lose their houses, ruin marriages, all to pursue a high. I’ve known a couple guys taken off the heart transplant list when they kept using.

“No one likes an addict, but everyone likes an adorable animal. So you’d be surprised to know that critters bust into nature’s pharmacy too. Humans aren’t unique in how they react to drugs. Eighty waxwing birds crashed into a plate glass window in Southern California drunk on pepper tree berries. Scandinavian waxwings binge on boozy berries and fall into the snow frozen—just like the Russian juicers who are found in thawing snowbanks in the spring.”

“I heard of a horse in England,” said Russ Gollywow, kind of a doofis who sang in an R&B group in his spare time, “who almost drowned in a pool after getting wasted on apples. He didn’t have to apologize to no firemen who pulled him out.”

“Exactly, my man,” said Tanner. “Cattle and horses around here graze in chaparral and become weak or violent, and ranchers know it’s—“

“Locoweed,” said Tuzigoot. “Those sauced cattle are constantly stumbling across my construction sites, down the middle of highways.”

Tanner said, “I’m saying that animals will challenge your assumptions about addiction. I worked with a spaniel once who wouldn’t stay away from his owner’s lake. Turns out he was addicted to licking hallucinogenic toxin from a cane toad’s skin.”

“You had to detox him,” chuckled Knoxie.

“Exactly. Addiction is a brain illness, proven by imaging and genetics. But we still get horrified over that one Uncle Dick who falls out of his chair every Thanksgiving and let the cute animals off the hook. There’s no excuse for anyone to make a drug that’s fifty times the power of heroin, having seen what plain garden variety heroin can do. That’s just unnatural. If you want me to fire this Tutti Morgan, I’ll be your fall guy.” He turned to me. “If you want me to interrogate him over his missing wife, I’m your man.”

Tuzigoot held up his hands. “Better him than me. I’ve got to go find a load of missing K-rail.” And he sauntered off down the echoing hallway.

Roman, Kneecap, Faux Pas, and Sax all bailed with similar work-related excuses. I have to admit, I was glad when Ford and Lytton looked at Tanner, their eyes piercing him. Any excuse would do to spend more time around this tough pilot. After all, we matched.

So to hasten shit up, I said, “I don’t really want to be around when you fire Tutti, but I’d like to grill the fuck out of that dirtbag. She’d never leave Diesel there overnight. She’s had him for eight years since rescuing him from a dogfighting ring in Phoenix.” I stared directly into Tanner’s eyes when I said, “And this guy is a professional dog rescuer. Seems like he could help get to the bottom of where Lavinia went.”

I didn’t blink, not once. I didn’t look away from Tanner. He had smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he looked down on me with amusement. His three-day-old facial hair gave him a rugged cast, and I’d bet he even had dimples if he smiled. Like me, except mine were created by diamond studs.

Never blinking tells everyone how scary you are—serious as sepsis. It worked, because soon Ford and Lytton were falling over themselves to pawn the job off on Tanner and me. Because what did they care about Lavinia’s whereabouts? We needed to figure it out before they fired Tutti, because then no one would be able to talk to him.

“Fine with me,” said Ford. “Except maybe go down to the Bum Steer to meet with the asshole. I don’t want his bad vibes around here.”

“You’re starting to sound like the hippies on the runway,” razzed his twin brother.

“Hey, next time you see them,” said Ford, “tell them to grind up their compost more thoroughly. They’re putting whole rotten banana and mango peels all around the leafy greens, and it’s attracting skunks and raccoons.”

I looked eagerly for Tanner’s confused expressions. Pure and Easy was a one-of-a-kind town, and I was proud of it, for better or worse. Like Ford’s wife Maddy, I came from Cottonwood, and I couldn’t wait to get away from those streets of early sorrow. Bellamy came down from the mesa belonging to a twisted white swami, and Lavinia immigrated from the violent machismo of Sinaloa in Mexico. We were all grateful for the sanctity of our town.

“Hey,” said Tanner, “skunks and raccoons need to eat too.”

“Not my radicchio,” said Ford.