Free The Nirvana Blues by John Nichols Page B

of uncut crystals, chop it up, and proceed to unload it as per plan A.”
    â€œVery funny. You guys are hilarious.”
    â€œHey, listen, don’t worry,” Tribby said. “Nothing is going to happen. Who in their right mind would want to wait up for the two thirty-five bus anyway?”
    Joe knew for certain now that he was doomed. They didn’t care—after all, their lives and their boodle weren’t on the line. No, only himself, Joe Miniver, had been selected for the Gangland Slayee Hall of Fame. Ahhh, he was only a mere speck, anyway, a tiny insignificant antlike blip on the asshole of humanity. Ten thousand human beings starved to death in India every day—anonymously. Twenty years from now what would any of this matter? Who would give a damn? Who would even remember?
    Joe Miniver? Didn’t he play second base for the New York Mets during the recession of 1989?
    Naw, you’re thinking of the guy that was a tailgunner on the B-52 that dropped the hydrogen bomb on Teheran.
    Actually, fellas, Joe Miniver used to be a stand-up comedian from Keokuk, Iowa.
    Meek and miserable, Joe said, “Well, just in case anything actually works out tonight, let’s go over the plans for tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat’s to go over?” Ralph tongued an earlobe. “You hit the airport at twelve noon with the stuff, the rest of us appear likewise. We fly off, cut the shit, stash it in three packages, land, and split. Five days later we reunite rich as ducks copulating in mud pie. What could be easier?”
    â€œSure.” Tribby flicked ashes onto the floor. “What’s tomorrow—Sunday? We should all be back in town by Wednesday rolling in bucks. You buy your land, I make a call to my broker, E. F. Hutton—”
    Ephraim Bonatelli veered in front of their table, caught and steadied himself, then climbed on a chair and raised his Hanuman T-shirt, exposing an enormous little potbelly, on which he had painted flabby, passion-pink female lips. “Blabbleabbleglabbledabble,” he sang in a rapidly disintegrating voice, “said the ape to the gorilla.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Gypsy Girl wanted to know.
    â€œA local dwarf,” Ralph explained wearily.
    â€œBeat it, Ephraim.” Tribby glowered. “We’re not in the mood.”
    â€œBlabbleabbleglabbledabble, said the apey to the gorilla!” Ephraim lost his balance but was kept from crashing to the floor by a dozen hands that reached out to catch him.
    Gypsy Girl said, “I like him. He’s cute. ”
    Joe asked Tribby, “Are you scared?”
    â€œYou mean in general? Or specifically about our little adventure here?”
    â€œThe latter.”
    â€œNo.” His masked head shook slowly. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œQuién sabe? It’s an adventure.”
    Ephraim Bonatelli said, “You’re all creeps.” He thumped his hairy little fists against his potbelly. “I eat scumbags like you for breakfast!”
    â€œWill somebody order the dwarf to evaporate?” Ralph started pouting. “I find him very irritating.”
    â€œOh no,” Gypsy Girl cried. “Don’t let him go. He’s adorable.”
    â€œScram, Ephraim.” Tribby stuck another cigarette through the hole in his gorilla mask and lit it. “Make like a breeze and blow.”
    â€œHey wait a minute.” Joe was embarrassed by their crudeness. “That’s no way to address a fellow human being, no matter how obnoxious. He has feelings, too.”
    â€œYeah, I got feelings too,” Ephraim croaked hoarsely. “So go fuck y’selves, scumbags.”
    â€œHe’s getting on my nerves.” Ralph turned to Rimpoche. “Go sic ’im, boy. Tear ’im apart.” Rimpoche’s ears perked tentatively, even as he cowered at the sound of his master’s voice. He gave Ralph a confused equivocal look of