Page 46 of A Handsome Devil

As more relatives of inmates mobbed Jack Hoffman, we strode directly behind him, no doubt getting into the frame. Who gave a shit anymore? This quest was far more important than robbing some tranq dealer or a sideshow driver.

I grabbed Hunt by the arm. “Cumon. Let’s get this poor guy out of here.”

“I’m with you.”

We made sort of a human chain as I dragged Hunt, who dragged Pickett, who dragged his nephew Truman. Inside, pandemonium had already overtaken the beleaguered receptionist, so it was easy to slip on by unnoticed. Sons and daughters slapped palms on the counter demanding answers. In the hallway to Pickett’s room patients stumbled over a bag that contained, believe it or fucking not, an actual mummy. By now it’d been stomped on so many times the shriveled pieces of charcoal limbs were scattered across the carpet.

“This place is a shitshow,” said Hunt.

Poor Pickett’s room was somehow worse than the mummy. I knew from my own experience that men living on the edge without a partner to help can literally become mired in garbage. It was totally evident no one had come to clean his room in weeks. Half-empty microwave food containers were piled three feet high on the kitchen counter. Who knew what that moldy green stuff was in the microwave? And yes, something that looked like another mummy was propped up on the couch. I later found out it was his car racing uniform from back in the day.

“Good God,” said Hunt. “Let’s just get the important shit and get out of here.”

Thank Sisyphus for Erin. Actually for her, Gunning, and Truman, founder of the Establishment Club, for having learned to keep things neat. Most of Pickett’s wearable clothing and personal bathroom items were already in the Beemer. Hunt, Thymus, and I just peeked underneath trash to see if anything else was salvageable.

I told Thymus, “Take a look at Pickett’s arm.”

“Yes, it’s definitely necrosis from fentanyl when mixed with tranq. I noticed several other patients with necrosis.”

Hunt said, “You could smell some of them.”

Thymus nodded. “A few need amputations, or at least debridement.”

“How the fuck can people let things get this far?” queried Hunt. “You know, Gudrun McGill, Slushy’s daughter, runs a memory care facility in Pure and Easy.” He looked at me. “The Bare Bones MC turf, our brother charter.”

“Not gay,” Thymus pointed out.

I nodded. “Or. My man Truman here as you know ran an addiction recovery facility in San Francisco. Maybe…”

I sort of drifted off, afraid to put a concrete idea on the table. But Hunt must’ve sensed where I was going, because he quickly cut in. “We talked about that. You guys are already gay bikers on the run. You need a place to shelter. Our club offers that. It’s only an hour southwest from here, near Havasu Lake. You don’t need to join up if you don’t want. You’re our friends. We protect our friends.”

My heart actually ached with elation. I think I even put my hand over my chest, as if about to sob with gratification, or quote the Bible. “Wow,” I intoned. “Such a considerate offer.”

Our heartfelt moment was broken with a fresh round of blubbering from the sliding glass door. We cranked our heads to see Pickett, out on his patio, face screwed up over what looked like a CD.

Music in my blood, I was the first to stride—or pick my way through piles of crap—to reach Pickett’s side. Now his shoulders shook soundlessly, hands trembling gripping the CD.

“Look,” said Truman, trying to pry the thing from Pickett’s fingers. “It’s you.”

It sure fucking was. My most popular album, in fact, a Moist Division recording, myself wearing pigtails on the cover, what looked like wet oily asphalt covering my face. Who knew what went through our minds back then?

Placing my hand behind Pickett’s neck, I asked, “Why does this make you sad?”

He gasped in a strangled voice. “We loved this band! We used to go see them at the Greek Theater all the time.”

I smiled widely. “Well, I’m standing right here. I’m a friend of your nephew. I’ll play again soon for you, once we leave here.”

Truman looked anxious. “No. Don’t…”

Truman was right. Pickett looked from the CD to me, now confused. “But…”

I slid the CD from his fingers. “Do you want to come back to our house? We’ve got all your things in our car.”

Erin piped up from the patio gate. “I can ride two up with Hunt.”

Truman’s mouth curled up. “I’m sure you can.”

“Don’t worry,” she said petulantly. “I know he’s gay.”