V-Wars

Walker halted. He pivoted on his heels and fixed Monster with an ice-cold stare. It was a look that said, Don’t forget who I’m related to. So then it was Monster, Fug, Johnny Rocket, and Thompson in the kitchen. Johnny Rocket handed the tequila bottle to Thompson. As Thompson took a drink, he smelled thick, oily smoke. He didn’t ask what was going on.

“Liquor store’s going up,” Monster said, staring at his placemat. “And a few other buildings, too.”

“We don’t have a whole lot of buildings,” Fug put in.

“They don’t,” Johnny Rocket corrected him. “We’ve got the road, man.”

“We’ve got the Shaft,” Monster said. “And our lab.”

“We can burn them down if we fucking feel like it,” Johnny Rocket insisted.

Fug clenched his jaw as he studied his placemat. “That Stan guy. That vampire. He was practically indestructible.” He tapped the heart on the bear. “Those other ones we killed, it was just one bullet.”

“Two slugs at the most,” Monster put in. The two glanced at each other, then dropped their gazes again.

“So what are you assholes saying?” Johnny Rocket demanded. “That we haven’t been killing vampires? Bobby said …” He trailed off. Thompson could see the wheels turning as he put two and two together; Fug and Monster were doubting their president.

“Hey, that is not cool.” Johnny Rocket said, raising his chin. “Bobby got attacked by suckers. You’ve seen his scars. He knows about vampires.”

“Bodie went down with one bullet,” Fug muttered.

“He didn’t have fangs or any of that shit,” Monster added.

“This is bullshit.” Johnny Rocket paced back and forth in the kitchen. Thompson could see that he was just as rattled as they were. “You two are traitors. If I tell Bobby —”

“If you tell Bobby what?” Bobby asked from behind Thompson. Bobby’s eyes were practically spinning as he swept into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest as he loomed over Fug and Monster. His fingertips pressed against the scars on his bicep.

“Someone talk to me now,” he said. “Hey, you, no-patch.” He glared at Thompson. “What the hell is going on?”

Thompson mentally took a deep, long breath. He had worked so hard for so long to stay out of the spotlight.

“It’s hard when it’s people you know,” Thompson said. “Or thought you knew.”

Bobby locked gazes with him. Thompson remained calm. “Yeah,” Bobby said. “You got that right. You thought you knew.” He sneered at the two O.M.s seated at the table. “This is a war. You know what happens to deserters.”

“The hell, Bobby.” Monster sounded offended. “I’ve ridden with you the longest. But it’s … this town is bad, man … maybe we should find a new one.”

“Fuck that.” Bobby spat on the kitchen floor. “This is my town.”

— 10 —

Your town is burning, you fucking wackjob, Thompson thought, as he drove back to Moncho’s house. The smoke was thicker, but he saw no flames.

He put his bike in Moncho’s garage and was about to go inside when he realized someone was already inside. It could be any one of several hundred people — a mob, a commission on behalf of the townspeople; it could be a vampire. Thompson had a piece of his own now — a .38 like Bobby’s, purchased illegally in the town with Bobby’s post office box. He pulled it from its holster and kicked open his own front door.

Father Patrick rose from Moncho’s couch with his hands in the air. Thompson didn’t put away his weapon. He just waited.

“Please, shut the door,” Father Patrick said, trying to sound calm. Not quite pulling it off.

“It’s probably broken,” Thompson replied.

“I’m sorry,” Father Patrick said. He took a deep breath. “You seem like a reasonable man. The most reasonable O.M., anyway. So I—I came to you.”

“You could have knocked. Or left a note.”

“I really needed to talk to you,” Father Patrick said. Thompson assessed the priest. Shoulders tight. Nervous, afraid. Circles under his eyes — not sleeping. Worried about things.

Thompson put away his weapon and Father Patrick sat back down on the couch. Thompson didn’t so much lock the door as reposition it in the frame. Then he walked into the kitchen and poured himself and Father Patrick two glasses of water. He brought them back to the living room and held one out to Father Patrick.

The man took a sip. “I’d think you’d drink something stronger after the night you’ve had,” he said.

“I didn’t have that night,” Thompson said, but he was an O.M., and what one O.M. did, they all did. That was the code, anyway.

Father Patrick leaned forward with his forearms on his knees, his expression very earnest. He really did look just like a Catholic priest.

“Bobby gets paid to keep illegals from crossing the border,” the priest said. “But I think he’s taking his job way too seriously.”

Thompson thought of the post office runs. Where they government payouts, those deliveries?

“How do you know that?” Thompson asked him. “Not even I know that.”

“Priests hear all kinds of things,” Father Patrick said. He shrugged. “I was in the bathroom at Bodie’s one night. Bobby thought he was alone in there with Walker and they talked it over.” Father Patrick sipped his water. “So apparently, Bobby’s not splitting up the payments.”

“On the other hand, we do okay with our bar and our side business,” Thompson said, meaning their lab. It wasn’t a big secret. Just no one talked about it.

“So … maybe your president is helping himself to too much of your product,” Father Patrick said. “He’s acting strung out.”

Thompson couldn’t argue with him there.

“I’ve been watching Bobby Morrisey for a long time,” Father Patrick said, “and I have a theory. Angela and Manuel’s mother, Emilia Mendoza, was a curandera. Well, that’s how she started out. She got into the shamanic business, brewed up a lot of heavy-duty drug cocktails to send people on ‘spirit walks.’ She fed her clients a lot of peyote, mushrooms, things like that. She kept her supplies in a sandalwood box from the Holy Land. She told me all about it during confession.”

He took another sip of water. “She told me where she kept it. After she died, I went to the Mendoza house. The box was there, but it was empty.”

“So you think Bobby’s tripping on mescaline?”

Father Patrick shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t know that he is.”

Thompson spun his mental wheel. “Why would Angela Mendoza slip Bobby loco weed?”

Father Patrick made water rings on Moncho’s wooden table. “Revenge?”

“He’s her protector.”

“Walker is her protector,” Father Patrick corrected him.

“But that still doesn’t jibe. Bobby sane is scary enough. Bobby off his nut is terrifying. As we are seeing. She’s a Mendoza, and he’s seeing vampires everywhere.”

“Maybe she didn’t realize this would happen,” Father Patrick said. “She’s just a kid.”

Thompson thought a moment. “Or maybe Walker did realize this would happen.”

Thompson had the man’s attention. “He wants to get rid of Bobby?” Father Patrick asked.

“He might. He doesn’t like what’s happened to the O.M.s. Maybe he wants it to get so bad the other soldiers will have to get rid of Bobby for him.”

“Walker could just leave,” Father Patrick argued.

“Bobby’s laid down the law and he owns a rocket launcher. Besides, Walker’s an operator. I think he’s been trying to lure me to his side of the force.” He smiled wryly to himself for having the arrogance to assume that he, Thompson, had been on the verge of flipping Walker. “Do you know what happened to Poison tonight?”

Father Patrick nodded, his eyes clouding over. “I’m not sure anyone knows who shot him in the back. But he’s dead.”

“How many bullets?” Thompson asked; then, at the man’s confusion, he drained his water and set down the glass. “Where’s the body?”

“In the church. I’m going to bury him myself.” Father Patrick drew a little cross in the air. “As in, with my own shovel.”

“I’ll help you,” Thompson said.

— 11 —

Thompson hadn’t realized that Catholic churches kept a few coffins on hand — at least, the Catholic church in Sonrisa did — and they packed Poison into a simple wooden box and laid him in the ground by the light of the moon. Father Patrick conducted a beautiful funeral without once glancing at the missal he asked Thompson to hold for him. Then the two parted ways, agreeing to compare notes in a couple days.

After he left the churchyard, Thompson drove up and down the streets of the town. There weren’t that many buildings on fire. The Shaft was fine.

Someone took a shot at him, and he went home.

In the morning, he found a dead rat on his front porch. It could have died there, or maybe it was a calling card.

He showed up at Bobby’s around ten a.m. He knocked on the turquoise door with all the crosses and Manuel opened it. The boy’s eyes were enormous, and he was blinking rapidly, as if he were trying to speak to Thompson in code. Maybe he was saying, Get me the fuck out of here.

Manuel led him into the kitchen. Only Little Sister and Bobby were there. Little Sister was picking apart a six-pack of cinnamon rolls and putting them on paper plates. Then she carried two of the plates and plopped one in front of Bobby, who was seated, and one in front of an empty seat.

“Manuel, come eat,” she said. She sounded nervous. The fragrant scent of coffee wafted through the room.

Bobby gestured for Thompson to take a seat. Bobby was covered in sweat and his hands were trembling. He looked like he was OD’ing.