Spiral

seemingly endless line of railroad cars. ”Like he think to make cement from them.”
    ”How’s it affecting the band?”
    ”How you think? Man’s switching to a different arrangement every fucking day, trying to polish cowshit so it look like leather.”
    ”His new songs are no good.”
    ”Tunes are mediocre, babe, mediocre at best. It the lyrics that really fuck the duck, though.”
    ”What Tommy O’Dell and Veronica used to help him with.”
    ”Them mostly. But even then, the sound—Spiral’s sound—it yesterday’s bread, babe.”
    ”Stale?”
    ”You had the choice, you buy fresh ”
    ”What’ll happen tonight?”
    ”At the gig? We get the houseman turn the speakers for the audience up so high, they fucking chests be bruised. If it just college kids and drunk enough, they’ll go ‘awesome’ and ‘way cool,’ and we get a nice blurb on the radio about how we play this surprise—call it ‘impromptu’—little concert for them, give a taste of what’s to come on our new CD. But if anybody be there know shit from Shinola and carry a pad and pen, print review gonna make us look like a garage band again, the critic stay long enough to see how bad we really are.”
    ”That why Mitch Eisen wasn’t back there?”
    ”Mitch? Fifty-fifty he won’t even be at the club tonight when we play. Shit, babe, he just promoting us for some bucks. Man’s not exactly a fan of our music.” This time, Biggs struck the top of the steering wheel with the heel of his right hand. ”Didn’t know they allow to run trains this fucking long.”
    I said, ”Let’s make the transition from music to video.” Biggs stiffened, but just kept watching the parade through his windshield.
    ”Buford, I need to know about Kalil’s other videotapes.”
    ”Why,” clearing his throat, ”so you can turn him in to the police, put him away somewhere?”
    I gave it a beat. ”You’ve seen the tapes?”
    Half a glance toward me. ”I seen them. Garbage.”
    ”The tapes?”
    Biggs turned his head more toward me, the muscles on his neck stark against the sagging skin. ”The tapes was garbage, and that’s where I throwed them.”
    ”When?”
    ”Right after that little bitch tease me about how my son got the stutter with his hands like he do with his mouth.”
    I tried to phrase the next question very carefully. ”So, before Veronica was killed?”
    ”Of course before she killed. How she gonna tease me about Kalil, she dead already?”
    ”Tell me what happened?”
    Biggs went back to the train. ”We was at Spi’s crib, just finishing up trying to salvage one of his cowshit songs. I go out on the patio there—by the pool, where you and me sat—for a smoke, and Very sashays on over through those glass doors, sets her tight little ass down across from me.” Biggs had trouble with the rest. ”She say to me, ‘How come Kalil want me to do the strip for him, but not the tease?’ I say to the child, ‘You too young for that shit, both of you. Stay the hell away from my son.’ And Very say, ‘Kalil’s not so young, and I like some variety in my experiences.’ I say, ‘Just stay away from tempting him,’ and she say, ‘He can have me anytime he want, on television.’” Biggs swallowed hard. ”I like to swat that little bitch hard enough to send her into the wall, but I thought about what she say, and later on I ask Kalil what Very mean by ‘television.’ And he bring out these videos he shoot.”
    ”I know this isn’t easy for you, Buford, but it might help me if you could describe—”
    ”I ain’t gonna describe nothing. There was three tapes, and I burned them. But I tell you this. You seen the video Kalil do of Very singing for her grandfather at his party?”
    ”The police screened it for me.”
    ”Yeah, well, you picture the same kind of song and her in the same kind of outfit. Only now it just Kalil in the room, and Very not in her outfit very long.” Biggs blew out a breath. ”The little bitch was right about one thing. Kalil, he so excited, that camera musta been jumping on his shoulder, account of the way Very look on that tape.”
    ”The way she looked?”
    ”Like it was her and not her daddy Spi bouncing around the room from the nose candy.”
    I thought again about the autopsy report. The train’s caboose finally whooshed by, and even the bells and whistles from the crossing gate couldn’t dent the silence I felt sitting next to Buford Biggs before getting out of his car.

    Driving