Chapter 3 The Sugar Shack

Transcription

1 Chapter 3 The Sugar Shack We now sit in the back of a car cruising smoothly through the cool night air down the Nevada freeway, this very narrow strip of progress paved through this very ancient and dangerous desert. The fingers of the driver s free hand run nimbly up and down the dashboard, as if it were a baby grand. A cigarette hangs precipitously from the corner of his mouth as he howls out the open window, howling along with Warren Zevon, who howls along with his Werewolves of London. The cool night responds to his euphoria, flicking sparks from the end of his cigarette to trail behind the blue 86 Pontiac, as he pushes the engine, propelling himself faster down the freeway. The young man in the driver s seat can be no more than twenty-five, and long, black bangs pull back from his brow as he hangs his head from the window. He is attractive, with a slender face and amiable dark eyes; he has not shaved in a week and could probably sell cigarettes on a billboard in a cowboy outfit, were he sober enough. But the heroin in his veins has now taken hold, as he howls again with the song. I should mention, before we proceed any further, that the several gallons of stolen chemicals secured tight to one another, beneath the old blanket in the massive trunk, do not belong to him. However, the cocaine in the glove box, the hash under the driver seat, and the twelvepack sitting just beside us in the back, do, in fact, constitute his few worldly possessions. We have yet to see him start to swerve the vehicle, and hope to be free of our imprudent chauffeur entirely before he does. Yet we are here to witness an event, and so we shall brave the Nevada freeway with this very foolish young man for just a short while longer.

2 This young man, the subject of our silent observation, has enjoyed alcohol, grass, cocaine, and an assortment of hallucinogens prodigiously for the past ten years or so, but, at this very moment, he is developing a rather high opinion of heroin. He is still pushing ninety as the desert races past us, and has no idea at the moment that his life, and even his understanding of this world as he has known it, will soon be shattered forever. But, right now, with the wind in his hair, the new queen in his veins, and Warren riding shotgun, Freddy Bannister is feelin alright. Freddy has big plans for Vegas before the morning sun begins her rotation above, but he has business to attend in Reno before he can participate in the pleasures awaiting him later this evening. So, about fifteen miles before reaching that biggest little city, Freddy begins to crane his neck forward and peer intently through the windshield. He turns down the radio, as we all do when there is an upcoming exit we don t feel completely confident about. He peers with his head nearly against the windshield, and then sees what he has been looking for, ahead on the side of the road. Freddy brings the car to a slow roll and runs it off the right side, using the high beams to confirm his suspicion. A dirt road ran off the side of the highway, marked by nothing more than a series of wooden posts and some wire fencing, running along both sides of the path. Bout time, Freddy mutters to himself, flicking his cigarette out the window as he turns in. He was relatively unsure how long this high would last him, still relatively new to this drug, and he wanted to hit the big lights before it wore off and he had to shoot again. Should we take this opportunity, as the vehicle crawls further down the darkened trail, to inspect the many one-gallon containers jostling under the blanket in the corner of the trunk, we should find them entirely unlabeled. But, should our curiosity compel us further, we might learn that each container is filled with methylamine, a chemical coveted by

3 methamphetamine enthusiasts, dutifully manning Bunsen burners in remote, abandoned chicken farms from coast to coast. The Pontiac continues down the road until, moments later, we see a light flashing upon the East Ridge. It flashes twice, then once, then twice again. At this, our custodian cuts the lights and idles to a stop, with the engine still running. He lights another cigarette, and we somehow get the impression that Freddy has never done anything like this before. But there is a nine millimeter handgun resting under Freddy s front passenger seat, beneath the bag of hash, and he stuffs it in his back waistband, under his shirt, just as two flashlights approach the side of his vehicle. Kill the engine, comes a gruff command from behind the glare in our eyes. You got it, and Freddy quickly complies with the order. The two gentlemen then lower their flashlights, revealing themselves to us, and our young driver. The first is a large gentleman in overalls, wearing a mesh ball cap over a bald, swollen head. A massive wad of tobacco resides tucked squarely into his cheek. He appears a little older than the second gentleman, who is a thin, pale, sickly-looking fellow. Freddy pops the trunk, and the stolen chemicals are removed carefully, as neither of the escorts are sure just how volatile they might prove to be. Leaving the vehicle, they walk Freddy to an old razor-wire fence and open a wood-framed gate, which sets us all upon a trail beaten through the tangled shrubbery leading north into the desert. Freddy carries a gallon container in each hand, while the tweaker carries the other two. The older, tobaccoed gentleman carries a fully automated rifle, with the muzzle pointed down, but always tilted slightly towards their visitor, who clearly is not sober. They walked in silence for some time with the single flashlight held by the rifleman, lighting a path only a few feet in advance of the desert trail. The liquid in the

4 containers sloshes about as we walk the uneven path further into the desert. You boys been stuck out here long? Freddy asked in a pleasant tone, hoping to engage one of them in conversation. Shut up and keep walkin, Slick, replied the skinny man, casting him a scowl. Yeah, sure, no problem, not chatty? That s cool. Just seems like a miserable place to have to spend your days off? Freddy tried once more, but the slender fellow extended him a consecutive glare. Within another quarter-mile, they came to the edge of a hill and looked down into a small valley in the desert, only a few acres across. The path descended to a series of small buildings running together, all connected, as if they had been built separately, at different times, and in different places, then excavated from their foundations to be brought out into the middle of nowhere. Doors had been cut into their sides, so each small building could be accessed from the one next to it, like train cars all in a row, mostly made of tin plating, with metal shingled rooftops. There were five buildings in all, and the one in the middle had smoke pouring up into the cool night air through a thin, tin chimney. Freddy s gaze followed the chimney-smoke, wisping up towards a starry splendor which city boys never see. Wow! Will you look at that! Freddy was now staring up, far more impressed by the night sky. You don t see that in the city! Yo! the skinny man snapped at him again. What did we say about the chit-chat? I don t know you. Just keep the gums together for another minute, and then you can get as chatty as you want. Okay, okay, Freddy repeated, No need to get so damn riled Then he grimaced as he caught himself again. Freddy didn t cuss, or, at least, he wasn t supposed to. Now, you may ask yourself why such a

5 young man would have no qualms transporting illegal, stolen chemicals, shooting heroin, and working for one of the largest drug lords in North America, while, at the same time, earnestly avoiding foul language. However, the answer is not so terribly simple, and will require a brief inspection of this young man s past. And, so, let me explain as they continue to walk quietly past the sage brushes lining their path. Freddy s dad took off when he was only eleven, and to this day Freddy doesn t know, or even much care, where he ran off to. Freddy didn t care much for his old man: his drinking, his drugging, and his womanizing. But like most young men who don t care much for their old men, he got right down to business becoming just like him. Freddy s momma saw his father pretty clear in Freddy, and she wept over him desperately. This occurred most often over at St. Jude s, down on Milwaukee Street; she had lit enough candles to burn down Chicago three times over, and put out each fire again with her tears for Freddy. One day, just before his angel of a mother passed into her reward, which, based upon what we now know of her family, must have been substantial indeed, Freddy was called to her bedside. Freddy, she said, looking up at him through the tears she cried, please don t you cuss no more, son. Why, momma? he had irritably replied. I ain t hurtin nobody by it. More tears. Swear to me, Freddy! It reflects so badly on me, like I failed you, and I won t be here to light no more candles for your soul when I m gone! Oh Lordy, Freddy, I see a light! She embellished just slightly, but if you knew the women in the Bannister family, a certain amount of embellishment was not entirely out of character.

6 Oh, Lord, Freddy, I see the light! Promise me, son, promise your dying mother! And, after a sigh perhaps longer than we might have allowed our own mothers, proving his resistance to the last, Freddy relented. He gave his word that he d cuss no more till they put him in the ground, and he came to join her and Caroline. The mention of his deceased sister seemed to aid Mrs. Bannister, in her excessive final moments, and she made him swear also on the grave of his dear sister, who had died when Freddy was no more than seven. Caroline had been two years younger than Freddy, and had been the light and comfort of a childhood now long since departed. She had been the only innocence his life had ever known, and the peace they shared together in those days would haunt him until the day he would die, which is, I am sorry to tell you, rapidly approaching. Perhaps, having sworn to his mother alone, Freddy would be dropping obscenities under his breath, even as we walk down this hill, but, because his vow had been touched by his angelic Caroline, whom he had watched get pushed to heaven by that large Buick one rainy afternoon, Freddy had become inclined to cuss under only the most absolutely necessary of occasions. I should like to tell you more of this poor lost soul, his virtues and vices, but they shall all become evident shortly, and we have arrived at last at our destination. We are at the door to the meth lab affectionately referred to as the Sugar Shack now, and we can taste the sweet smell of addiction cooking within.

7 Copyright 2015 by Timothy Raymond Kazmarek All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.