Vineland Read Free

the drivers of hurtling eighteen-wheelers, some of whom thought it was radio malfunction, others unquiet ghosts.
    Here came Van Meter now, around the corner of the Cuke, wearing his trademark face, Wounded Righteousness. “Are you ready? We’ll be losin’ the light, fog’s gonna come in any minute, what were you doin’ all the hell the way up to the Log Jam?”
    â€œNo, Van Meter—why is everybody here instead?”
    They went in the back way, Van Meter furrowing and unfurrowing his forehead. “Guess I can tell you now you’re here, is there’s this old buddy of yours, just showed up?”
    Zoyd went sweaty and had one of those gotta-shit throbs of fear. Was it ESP, was he only reacting to something in his friend’s voice? Somehow he knew who it would be. Here when he needed all his concentration for getting through another window, instead he had to worry about this visitor from out of the olden days. Sure enough, it turned out to be Zoyd’s longtime pursuer, DEA field agent Hector Zuñiga, back once again, the erratic federal comet who brought, each visit in to Zoyd’s orbit, new forms of bad luck and baleful influence. This time, though, it had been a while, long enough that Zoyd had begun to hope the man might’ve found other meat and be gone for good. Dream on, Zoyd. Hector stood over by the toilets pretending to play a Zaxxon machine, but in reality waiting to be reintroduced, this honor apparently falling to the manager of the Cuke, Ralph Wayvone, Jr., a remittance man from San Francisco, where his father was a figure of some substance, having grown successful in business areas where transactions are overwhelmingly in the form of cash. Today Ralph Jr. was all dolled up in a Cerruti suit, white shirt with cuff links, touch-them-you-die double-soled shoes from someplace offshore, the works. Like everybody else around here, he looked unusually anxious.
    â€œSay Ralph, lighten up, it’s me’s gotta do all the work.”
    â€œAhhh . . . my sister’s wedding next weekend, the band just canceled, I’m the social coordinator, supposed to find a replacement, right? You know of anybody?”
    â€œYeah, maybe . . . you better not fuck up this one Ralph, you know what’ll happen.”
    â€œAlways kidding, huh. Here, let me show you the window you’ll be using. Can I have them get you a drink or anything? Oh by the way Zoyd, here’s an old friend of yours, come all this way to wish you luck.”
    â€œUh-huh.” He and Hector exchanged the briefest of thumbgrips.
    â€œLove your outfit, Wheeler.”
    Zoyd reached, bomb-squad careful, to pat Hector’s stomach. “Look like you been ‘moving the mustache’ there a little, old amigo.”
    â€œBigger, not softer,
ése.
And speaking of lunch, how about tomorrow at Vineland Lanes?”
    â€œCan’t do it, tryin’ to make the rent and I’m already late.”
    â€œIt’s im-por-tan’,” Hector making a little melody out of it. “Think of it this way. If I can prove to you, that I’m as bad of a desperado as I ever was, will you allow me to spring for your lunch?”
    â€œAs bad as . . .” As what? Why did Zoyd keep going, time after time, for these oily Hectorial setups? The best it had ever turned out for him was uncomfortable. “Hector, we’re too old for this.”
    â€œAfter all the smiles, and all the tears—”
    â€œAll right, stop, it’s a deal—you be bad, I come to lunch, but please, I have to jump through this window right now? is it OK, can I have just a few seconds—”
    Production staff murmured into walkie-talkies, technicians could be seen through the fateful window, waving light meters and checking sound levels outside as Zoyd, breathing steady, silently repeated a mantra that Van Meter, claiming it’d cost him $100, had toward the end of