Free Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Page A

as quitting smoking.”
    “The withdrawals are a bitch. Now, toss me that ashtray.”

    “Is that the last beer?” I asked, watching Bobby drain his can.
    “We got time to get more?” Bobby looked at his wrist, but without a watch, it gave him no indication of the time.
    “I been thinking,” I said, lighting the filter of my cigarette and causing a small fire. I crushed it in the ashtray and started over with a fresh smoke. I was definitely feeling the booze.
    “Thinking can’t be good,” Bobby said. “It ain’t our strongest suit.”
    “Gabe said Julie was working for some rich dude in La Quinta, right?”
    “Yeah, what Chucho told him.”
    “And La Quinta isn’t that big.”
    “Bigger than you think. Probably the size of Calexico. And it’s got all those golf courses, weird little nooks, crannies, dead-end streets, and some gated areas and shit.”
    “Don’t fuck up my plan.”
    “Sorry.” Bobby belched. “That tasted like shrimp. Weird.”
    “How do you know so much about La Quinta?”
    “Night golfing is free golfing.”
    “Gabe said the dude drove a Humvee. A camouflage-painted Hummer.”
    Bobby stood up quickly, a sway in his stance. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
    “Let me finish. I was going to say that we should drive around La Quinta and look for a camo Hummer.”
    “I know. I did the math. It was pluses and takeaways, not calculus.”
    “Still. When a guy’s planning a plan, it’s polite to let him plan the plan. That’s all I’m saying.”
    “My sincerest apologies. Now stand the fuck up.”
    So at a quarter past hammered, we resumed our investigation. The booze had given us fresh insight and enough stupid to get us off our asses. We could have waited for daylight and sobriety, but that wasn’t our modus. And it was more likely for a person’s car to be parked in front of its owner’s house at midnight than if we waited for the next day.
    Before we headed out, we made a drunk stratagem to stay on the residential streets and not drive over twenty-five miles per hour, because that’s the kind of elaborate preparations you construct when you’re drunk and have a stratagem.
    “Should we bring the guns?” Bobby asked.
    “What guns?”
    “The just-in-case guns I brought.”
    “Show me.”
    Bobby went to the closet and pulled out a long gym bag.
    “When did you put that in there?”
    “When you were getting beer.”
    Then, one at a time, Bobby pulled out four pistols, a rifle, and two shotguns. He spread them out on the bed like he was displaying them for sale. It was an impressive arsenal.
    “Seven guns,” I said. “For two people.”
    “Actually, I didn’t know you were coming. These were intended for my personal use.”
    “Were you going to tie them all together and make a super-gun?”
    “No, one at a time. If the opportunity arose. Although, let’s consider the super-gun idea. I never turn my back on awesome. Seven is stupid, though. But I could definitely do something with two shotguns. And if I had a sword and some duct tape—I should be writing this down.”
    “Let’s leave the guns,” I said. “We’re drunk. They’re guns. I’m not loving the combo.”
    “What if we run into trouble?”
    “If we run into trouble, we’ll drive away at a safe twenty-five miles per hour, as per our stratagem. What kind of trouble can we get in? We’re looking for a car.”
    Bobby shook his head. “It’s like you’ve never hung out with us before. Trouble finds us, bro. We’re shit magnets.”
    “Exactly why the guns stay here. No reason to make big trouble out of standard-sized trouble.”
    “Not even one of the small guns?”
    “It’s not really about the size, Bobby.”
    “Is that what Angie tells you?”
    “Hilarious. Put the big bag of guns back in the closet.”
    “You’re right. We’ll be fine with just my truck gun.”
    “Then I’m driving. And you don’t drive a truck, it’s a car.”
    “Don’t disrespect the Ranchero.”
    Bobby packed