maintenance on the rides. He had already finished adjusting Mrs. Piggly Wiggly’s Tunnel of Fun, and rewired Dr. Frog’s Lily Pond Party, which still gave off sparks, lights flickering. The rides were falling apart, reeking of spilled cola and orange drinks, and dangerously loud, the insulation worn away—to compensate, the management turned up the happy-music sound track to the maximum. Pinto heard “I Am a Friendly Fuzzy Bunny” in his nightmares, woke up wanting to kill the asshole who wrote that song.
“How did you know I was here?” asked Pinto. “I only got this job a couple days ago.”
“Your girlfriend told us,” said Arturo, his full lips barely moving.
“You talked to Lily?”
Arturo shrugged. “It was unavoidable.”
Pinto let that one slide. “She’s not supposed to answer the door when I’m not home.”
“I think we forgot to knock,” said Arturo.
“This is a pretty picture. . . .” It was the first thing Vlad had said since they slipped inside, his voice soft and lightly inflected. He pointed at Harvey Hare spray-painted on the ceiling, a bright blue Harvey with a cowboy hat and chaps, a carrot in his holster. “Pinto, do you know the artist who painted it?”
“Ah . . . no, man.”
Arturo patted the pockets of his jacket, found a carob power-protein bar. He sat there listening to Vlad sing along to the piped-in music. Vlad liked to sing with the commercials and kids’ songs on Radio Disney. They sometimes sat in their car for hours, Vlad singing while Arturo squeezed the hand-grip exerciser he kept under the front seat, right next to the Red Devil–brand lye. It had to be Red Devil. Not just because it was the best—lye was lye, after all—but because Arturo had started out with Red Devil a long time ago, and it had never let him down.
Vlad finished the last verse of “I Am a Friendly Fuzzy Bunny.” He had a good voice, too, high and clear. “How wonderful to work in such a beautiful place,” he said to Pinto.
“Yeah? Then you must think having brain cancer is wonderful.” Pinto spit on the floor. “Like the bumper sticker says, ‘I’d rather be tweaking.’ ” Think it, do it—he pulled a power hitter out of his jeans, gave it a twist, grinding the flaked methedrine inside, then slipped the plastic torpedo into his right nostril. First the right, then the left. He felt the top of his head lift, the chill running down his brain stem. He glared at Arturo. “You and Vlad didn’t have to bother coming around this morning. It’s fucking insulting.”
“Is it?”
Pinto hated when Arturo used that tone. A Yuppie beaner and the man from Transylvania giving him shit, hassling Lily . . . He pushed back his hair, hit both nostrils again, heart racing. “Look . . . Arturo, I fronted some weight to this guy runs a landscaping business. Guy’s got all kinds of clients on his route who like a taste, and don’t mind paying top dollar for curb delivery. Mr. Greenthumb is supposed to come by my place tonight and pay me. I was going to call you this afternoon, tell you not to worry about your money.”
“We’re not worried.” Arturo finished the protein bar, then swallowed three B 12 capsules and a fat blocker, washed them all down with a couple swallows of bottled water. He took his pulse, then pulled a PDA from his jacket, entered in the data.
Arturo took thirty-eight vitamin and mineral supplements daily, monitored his bowel movements, and worked out every morning. Only five-eight, he weighed a brick-solid 201 pounds, about the same weight as Vlad, who was at least six-three and never exercised. Sometimes Vlad accompanied him to the gym, watching as Arturo went through his bench-press routine, not saying a word; then, when Arturo would max out around 410 pounds, Vlad would lie down and, without even a warm-up, crank out fifteen or twenty reps. It was unreal. Vlad wasn’t on the juice, either; Arturo had never seen him take drugs of any kind.
Arturo’s PDA beeped,
“How did you know I was here?” asked Pinto. “I only got this job a couple days ago.”
“Your girlfriend told us,” said Arturo, his full lips barely moving.
“You talked to Lily?”
Arturo shrugged. “It was unavoidable.”
Pinto let that one slide. “She’s not supposed to answer the door when I’m not home.”
“I think we forgot to knock,” said Arturo.
“This is a pretty picture. . . .” It was the first thing Vlad had said since they slipped inside, his voice soft and lightly inflected. He pointed at Harvey Hare spray-painted on the ceiling, a bright blue Harvey with a cowboy hat and chaps, a carrot in his holster. “Pinto, do you know the artist who painted it?”
“Ah . . . no, man.”
Arturo patted the pockets of his jacket, found a carob power-protein bar. He sat there listening to Vlad sing along to the piped-in music. Vlad liked to sing with the commercials and kids’ songs on Radio Disney. They sometimes sat in their car for hours, Vlad singing while Arturo squeezed the hand-grip exerciser he kept under the front seat, right next to the Red Devil–brand lye. It had to be Red Devil. Not just because it was the best—lye was lye, after all—but because Arturo had started out with Red Devil a long time ago, and it had never let him down.
Vlad finished the last verse of “I Am a Friendly Fuzzy Bunny.” He had a good voice, too, high and clear. “How wonderful to work in such a beautiful place,” he said to Pinto.
“Yeah? Then you must think having brain cancer is wonderful.” Pinto spit on the floor. “Like the bumper sticker says, ‘I’d rather be tweaking.’ ” Think it, do it—he pulled a power hitter out of his jeans, gave it a twist, grinding the flaked methedrine inside, then slipped the plastic torpedo into his right nostril. First the right, then the left. He felt the top of his head lift, the chill running down his brain stem. He glared at Arturo. “You and Vlad didn’t have to bother coming around this morning. It’s fucking insulting.”
“Is it?”
Pinto hated when Arturo used that tone. A Yuppie beaner and the man from Transylvania giving him shit, hassling Lily . . . He pushed back his hair, hit both nostrils again, heart racing. “Look . . . Arturo, I fronted some weight to this guy runs a landscaping business. Guy’s got all kinds of clients on his route who like a taste, and don’t mind paying top dollar for curb delivery. Mr. Greenthumb is supposed to come by my place tonight and pay me. I was going to call you this afternoon, tell you not to worry about your money.”
“We’re not worried.” Arturo finished the protein bar, then swallowed three B 12 capsules and a fat blocker, washed them all down with a couple swallows of bottled water. He took his pulse, then pulled a PDA from his jacket, entered in the data.
Arturo took thirty-eight vitamin and mineral supplements daily, monitored his bowel movements, and worked out every morning. Only five-eight, he weighed a brick-solid 201 pounds, about the same weight as Vlad, who was at least six-three and never exercised. Sometimes Vlad accompanied him to the gym, watching as Arturo went through his bench-press routine, not saying a word; then, when Arturo would max out around 410 pounds, Vlad would lie down and, without even a warm-up, crank out fifteen or twenty reps. It was unreal. Vlad wasn’t on the juice, either; Arturo had never seen him take drugs of any kind.
Arturo’s PDA beeped,
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