Jacumba Connection Read online

  Denice smiled empathetically, moved by Charlie’s rare show of vulnerability. “What now, babe?” she asked casually.

  He shrugged slightly. “Let’s cruise up to the store at Live Oak Springs and get a ten-dollar phone card. How much do we have left?”

  Denice checked the DeVille fortune. “Sixteen-seventy-six. And three dollars in gold tokens. But we need smokes, too.”

  “We got zero without a phone,” he reminded her. “So after cigarettes we’re lookin’ at...complete poverty.” Charlie slapped his knees with both hands, stood up, and offered a hand to his lamb-chop.

  Denice snuffed out her smoke, grabbed his hand and said, “Let’s make like horse shit and hit the trail”.

  They headed toward the exit. Once they went through the revolving doors, they saw it was already dark outside. The night was hot and dry. The lights of the casino cast ominous shadows across the parking lot. It was desolate and windblown. Out in the distance the blazer looked like a ship on a reef with a broken back, standing alone out there forlorn and stranded.

  Much like Charlie and Denice DeVille.

  FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH

  Chapter 6

  In the casino parking lot Charlie opened the door for his wife. Denice stepped behind him to jump into the truck. A figure stepped out of the darkness. At this point all Charlie could see was the business end of a Desert Eagle chamber for a .357 pointed at his forehead. Behind the big ol’ pistol was a rather small wanna-be gangster. Saggy pants. Black hoody. Obviously scared shitless.

  “Give me your money, motherfucker, or I’ll split your skull.”

  His cold black eyes bounced back and forth from Charlie to Denice. Cocky little bastard, was the last thing Charlie thought before going on autopilot.

  As the dirt-bag’s eyes move back to Denice, in literally the blink of an eye, Charlie’s left hand came up palm out, he grabbed the barrel, twisted it counter clockwise as he pushed down and away. The only sound was the snap of bone as the trigger-guard broke the asshole’s index finger.

  Charlie planted his right foot behind him to steady himself. His punch started out low and compressed as it climbed his spine, and then thundered through his right shoulder. It gained momentum down his forearm and virtually exploded through his clenched fist as it crushed the thug’s left orbital socket, ruining the poor jerk’s face an instant before he hit the ground like a sack of smashed moldy melons.

  Denice slid past Charlie, took three quick steps around the prostrate body and kicked the big ass handgun away and out of reach. She turned to face Charlie, who was holding his painful right hand.

  “Oh dear...Oh my...This...This is just terrible,” she stammered in a panicked whisper.

  Charlie looked down at Denice. “Christ Dee, he was gonna kill me.”

  “No, no it’s not that. It’s...Oh god, my panties are soaked. That was...It was...I swear you could take me on the hood of this car right now!”

  Charlie looked from his hand to the hood and back to his hand and in a childish voice whined, “My hand really hurts, Dee.”

  Suddenly two tribal police officers silently drove up to them in a fancy electric golf cart, thus cutting short any options for sudden car hood sex. Both officers got out, one was on his Motorola talking to dispatch. The other with his hand on his holstered nine-millimeter. They took in the scene. It was pretty evident what went down. Denice excitedly explained the five-finger death punch while the officer checked for a pulse and, finding one, said, “Better call EMS, Lloyd. Get an ambulance out here. He’s still breathing.”

  Lloyd shook his head. “Man, that’s some bad medicine right there.”

  Charlie has a big, ugly, gorilla inside of him. He keeps it chained down tight, right behind his give-a-shit switch. He brings it out only in emergencies.

  Don’t. Poke. The gorilla.

  -- -- --

  The twelve-mile trip from Viejas to Live Oak Springs was uphill; the grade, as locals called it. Beyond the main drag there was a winding road that continued up that steep mountain, where hang gliders dared the dirt switchbacks to ride the desert thermals like human falcons.

  As you crested the mountaintop by car, the main road slipped slowly into a small, bowl-shaped valley, with the freeway running east, directly through the center. Kitchen Creek Road was on your right and at the base of the high mountain, on your left as you entered the valley, was the ominous Border Patrol checkpoint.

  Above Kitchen Creek, atop the mountain peaks on the right, were the dirt roads of Anderson Truck Trails – a labyrinth of roads used by dump trucks hauling sand, granite, fieldstone and rock for the cement industry. At night all you could see were the glow of the neon signs, alerting you to the Casino truck stop of the Campo band of Kumeyaay Indians. Better known today as the “Old Highway 8” exit, it’s part of the Butterfield Stagecoach Road, which was used by thousands of settlers to cross the mountains to get to the Pacific Ocean.

  This exit was where Charlie and Denice realized they had less than a quarter tank of fuel left. “Sweet,” Charlie grunted sarcastically, looking at the gauge. “Almost outta gas. Let’s pull in here to the Acorn and do a hot lap around the casino floor. Maybe we can hustle up some gas money.”

  Charlie looked at Denice, as if he had let her down. But then, trying to hide behind false hope he added, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” One of his father’s many pearls of wisdom bestowed upon the three boys Charlie’s parents raised with moral fiber in Southern California – a place traditionally short on morals or fiber.

  As Charlie drove around the parking lot Denice commented, “Place looks kinda empty.”

  “Just our luck,” Charlie replied. He had already written this day off to failure.

  After he parked he came around to open Denice’s door. She stepped out into the crisp mountain air. “Honey, grab my purse please?” She put on her sweater.

  “Why? It’s empty.” But as he picked it up he stood corrected. “Guess not.”

  Denice’s purse was always large, always packed, and always it seemed to Charlie, bottomless. He would ask, “Got any Chapstick?” Denice would then rummage around in her cavernous purse, digging deep, and excavate not one, but two kinds. “Cherry or Mentholyptis,” she would offer. “Or I have some Vaseline.”

  As they made their way through the porte cochere, and passed the entrance doors, the place was hauntingly quiet – only a few patrons, half asleep, sitting at the machines.

  “Gotta pee, handsome.” Denice suddenly announced. “Back in a flash.”

  Charlie loitered at the entrance of the ladies’ room, standing guard in case some perv rushed through the door to check out his wife’s panties around her ankles.

  Standing sentry, waiting around for their women to do whatever it is they do, is a mindless thing men do, Charlie thought. Maybe in our instinctive memory we worry about getting eaten by some wild animal while taking a leak. Plus, it would’ve been hard to run with panties around your ankles. Did they even wear panties back then? Hmmm. Probably not.

  “This place is a graveyard,” Charlie concluded when Denice returned. “Let’s blow this off and get to Live Oak before the store closes.”

  Charlie gently slapped her pretty little backside on the way out of the ladies’ room. As they exited, she rolled her hips with that hooker stroll that women do when they want to be noticed and followed.

  -- -- --

  Live Oak Springs was a quarter-mile down old Highway 8 towards Jacumba. A beautiful little retreat nestled in the midst of lush oak trees, consisting of both short scrub oak and majestic California White Oak. A general store with two old-fashioned gas pumps stood at the entrance. After that, six small A-frame cabins lined up in a row, each complete with its own Jacuzzi and upstairs loft. The hot tub combined with a little Franklin stove was merely a prelude to a wonderfull
y romantic evening.

  Farther up the hillside was the restaurant, run by a lovely couple that kept a hearth fire burning and served excellent home-style meals with a smile.

  Even farther up were mobile homes for visitors that fell under the spell of clean, fresh air, and the secluded nature of this place – due to the fact it was bordered on two sides by the Kumeyaay Indian reservation.

  If you went far enough up the hillside, where the road turns to dirt, and followed it another quarter of a mile you’d find a small, silver, single-axle trailer sitting on a small slice of Indian land, and one crazy Croatian named Valentino.

  Charlie pulled the K-5 into the store parking lot, jumped out looking back through the open door, and said to Denice, “Gimme all your money, honey.”

  She dove deep into the huge chasm she called a purse and extracted fifteen dollars. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “Very funny,” he said, as he stuffed the bills in his jeans.

  Inside the store he confidently laid his money on the counter. “Ten-dollar phone card and a pack of Marlboro lights, please.”

  “That’ll be sixteen-seventy-seven, please,” replied the young man behind the counter.

  Charlie stood there dumbfounded. “You’re shitin’ me, right?”

  The clerk replied equally dumbfounded. “No, sir. With tax it’s...”

  “Hold up slick,” Charlie interrupted. “I’ll be right back.”

  As Charlie approached the truck he made a roll-down-your-window motion to Denice. She complied.

  “I need the sixteen-seventy-seven,” he said to her.

  “What?”

  “Tax.”

  Again she went to the magical purse and started pulling out the top layer, which included camping supplies, toothbrushes, and extra panties, all in search of the bottom of her purse.

  “Jesus, babe, come on,” Charlie pleaded impatiently.

  “Just a minute, it’s in here somewhere.”

  How many freakin’ times have I heard that before, thought Charlie.

  As Denice rummaged toward the bottom of her purse, Charlie listened to her mumble into her open handbag. “What happened to my normal life, huh? This is just...pathetic...” She continued as she pillaged her purse, but Charlie couldn’t quite make out all of her muttering, something about “scrounging around for quarters.” But the one thing Charlie did understand was Pumkin’s body language, which clearly stated, Batten down the hatches, baby, a storm’s a comin’. “I miss my house, my, my stuff...” Denice continued on the verge of tears. “I miss my kids...my babies, dammit!”

  She finally stopped digging and turned her head towards Charlie, who was leaning on the door, looking through the window opening. Her eyes misted over. “What happened to the life I had where my husband didn’t have to hurt people...on purpose? Is this my new normal? Oh Charlie, I think I’m gonna cry!”

  Charlie confirmed, “Too late, Pumkin,” and reached through the window to wipe a tear from her cheek. He brought it to his tongue and thought, a drop of truth serum...salty, and it tastes like failure.

  For the first time in their relationship Big Chuck had nothing, zip. No snappy come back. No words of wisdom. All he had was, “I love you, Pumkin.” And her tears on his lips.

  With a dash of somber resignation in her eyes she handed Charlie some more change. “The sum total of our wealth,” she sniffed. “Except for three tokens.”

  Charlie looked down at the miniscule pile of coins, brought his eyes up to meet Dee’s and said cynically, “Well babe, this is a place we’ve never been before. Just. Bitchin’. Fab-u-lous.” He dismissively turned on his heel and went back into the store, frustrated.

  After a few minutes, Charlie came back out and jumped into the driver’s seat. “Looks like we’re campin’ in the back tonight.” He pointed to the rear of the K-5. With the seat down, there was plenty of room, and Dee always stocked blankets and pillows, just in case a nap was called for, or they were on a road trip.

  -- -- --

  Under a pitch-black sky backlit by the celestial glow of the Milky Way, crickets and katydids competed to fill the night air with song. The stillness mixed with starlight came close to erasing their thoughts of being broke. Charlie parked under a huge old tree, wondering what stories the old man could share. Three hundred years was nothing to a mountain oak.

  Denice prepared the sleeping arrangements while Charlie slid the rear curtains closed, locked the doors, flipped the switch for the RV batteries, and turned on the dome lights.

  When all was secured, they lay together in the cozy blankets, just the two of them against the world. “I love you, Pumkin,” Charlie whispered. “I’m so sorry I...”

  Denice turned, inches from her man’s face. “Don’t even, Charlie,” she commanded. And before he could say anything she quickly added, “Do you remember when we first met? We were both looking for that can’t-go-to-sleep kind of love that keeps you awake at night because you can’t stop thinking about the other person. It wasn’t about endless money.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” answered Charlie. He smiled at the thought. “We had to save up to go to a movie. We ate Ramen noodles three times a week.”

  A little chuckle escaped Denice as she reminisced, “No cable. We watched whatever old movies happened to be on that fuzzy, old RCA.”

  Charlie was right there with her. “Burning popcorn on that piece of shit thrift store popcorn maker,” he continued, as he nuzzled Denice. He was so close to her now he could smell her minty breath.

  She reached up and moved a strand of hair out of Charlie’s face and whispered, “I can still see you running outside in the rain to adjust the antenna. Looking like a wet puppy, smiling when the picture was finally perfect.”

  Charlie was silent, going back in his mind. A bigger smile slowly spread across his stoic face.

  Denice continued to voice her thoughts. “That was struggle, handsome. Shoes for the girls, you working two jobs. Looking back, we were happy. We came through okay. We always find a way.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Her confidence in him gave him hope. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, and finally her lips. “Till the wheels fall off...”

  She smiled and replied quietly, “Till the wheels fall off, handsome.”

  -- -- --

  Dawn broke with rays of pure sunshine through the windshield and into Denice’s eyes. With the sound of Blue Jays skittering in the trees, and the smell of a fire burning in a fireplace somewhere, she greeted the dawn with “Shit, I need a freakin’ tampon.”

  “Huh?” Charlie stirred, trying to show support, even though he was half asleep.

  Denice was once again delving into the maw of her beast-of-a-bag that to Charlie looked like the open mouth of a killer whale.

  “I can’t freakin’ believe I don’t have a freakin’ tampon.” Charlie’s Dee-Dee, his little lammy chop, did not believe in using the F-word. Dropping the F-bomb was taboo, mostly because of raising the girls. They copy everything you say. Every parent learns that the hard way. When at some perfect, quite, awkward moment your little princess says, “Fuck, I dropped my crayon.” Or “Pick up my fucking crayon, please,” to her preschool teacher, that’s always a pleasant parent-teacher conference.

  Charlie smiled and said, “You don’t need to swear, potty mouth.”

  “Shit, shit, shit.” She looked lost, like a little kid who couldn’t find her Barbie lunchbox. “Oh Charlie, I’m sorry. I need a thingy, a pad or...You know...a poon.” Her eyes welled up with premenstrual tears.

  “Don’t you worry, I’m on it, babe. I’m gonna walk into that restaurant, sell that man a service on his equipment, or wash dishes, or whatever. Just let me get my pants on.”

  “Think it will work?” Denise asked desperately.

  “Watch me pull a rabbit out
of a hat,” her man replied without an ounce of worry.

  There was no question that Charlie could turn on the charm when he needed something. Plus, he was a consummate professional when it came to all things mechanical, like restaurant equipment, water heaters, air conditioners, furnaces, motors, or anything that needed to run.

  With all his assets, he knew he practically had Denice’s much-needed tampons in his back pocket.

  He walked into the restaurant, went up to the guy who looked like he was in charge and, extending his hand, announced, “Hi, I’m Charlie DeVille.”

  To get the ball rolling he always opened with a firm handshake.

  “I’m Ron,” replied the man pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

  “My wife and I are stuck like Chuck in your campground.” He went on to tell Ron about all his qualifications, his present dilemma, his desire to pay for the overnight spot and the status of the DeVille fortune. But the big emphasis was on the no-tampon problem.

  Thank God for Ron’s wife, Lily. “Oh dear,” she empathized. “That’s not good.”

  Charlie wheeled and dealed. “Ma’am, I’m not asking for a handout. I’ll work for breakfast and a box of tampons.”

  “Bless your heart, Charlie,” Lily responded.

  “I’ll service your equipment, wash dishes, or burn a biscuit. No, actually I can’t cook, so don’t let me near a griddle.”

  They all shared a laugh.

  The way of a charitable world is when God’s grace befalls the good and the planets line up in perfect order, which seems to be rare indeed, but sometimes it happens. Charlie walked out of the restaurant with the key to cabin #2 (the Honeymoon Suite), accompanied by the promise of a country breakfast and a temporary job. And last but not least, half a box of regular Kotex tampons.

  As Denice saw Charlie approach she rolled down the truck window and looked at her man eagerly.