His juvenile face and delinquent demeanor may remind you of the ne’er-do-wells from your hometown, but Just Evans ain’t no kid -- he pushed up 34 daisies this year.
That’s old as the hills for someone in our line of work.
Trust me, he don’t deserve none of your pity. This guy skipped class, dropped out, and stubbornly walked into every curveball Life threw at him. He had plenty of chances to hop aboard the golden bus to success, but the only bus this career dipshit’s ever rode were the kinds with bars over the windows.
The sun was rising over the Rockies when I found him pacing back and forth outside his home in Oldman’s Trailer Park. It’s known by locals as the “Ritz Carlton of White Trash.” A real shit hole, even by New Mexico standards.
Just Evans took a deep hit of Marlboro-blend cancer as my white Range Rover pulled into the Ritz.
He flicked his spent cigarette to the pavement. Tried to look low-key.
I lowered the passenger side window as I came to a stop.
“You’re my guy?” I inquired with a frown, hoping this walking toilet wasn’t my new protégé.
I wasn’t surprised by his less-than-enthusiastic response. At the time, I was a 57 year-old “bad hombre” (a.k.a. an illegal immigrant), but I wasn’t about to steal anyone’s dream job. Trust me, nobody wants my job.
He nodded his chin upwards. “Yeh, I’m Just Evans.”
“Aren’t you a little old to be --”
“I got credentials,” he interrupted as he pulled his wallet out of an oversized jean pocket.
I could feel my frown sinking even lower as he searched for his expired driver’s license.
“Nevermind. Just get in,” I grumbled.
“Hold up. I can prove I’m me.”
“No, I don’t care who you are. I don’t wanna know why they call you ‘Just Evans,’ where you grew up, or if prefer handies to jobbies.”
I added: “Of course, I don’t need to paint a picture of what the Agency’ll do if you’re caught lying, right?”
Just Evans slapped his wallet shut. Shook his head, “No.”
He opened the door, leaned his shaved head inside, and asked: “This a smoke-free zone?”
“Just sit down and put on your seat belt,” I answered flatly.
“Fo sho,” he said, repocketing his wallet.
He climbed inside. Eyes darted to and fro as he strapped in.
“Yo, man, this shit is boogie as fuck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m sayin’ it’s great.”
I shook my head, convinced that I was being punished by the Agency.
“So what should I call you...? Obi-wan?” he asked with a gold-toothed grin.
“Just call me Joe. Not ‘Just Joe.” Just ‘Joe’, got it?”
“Fo sho.”
“Stop talking like a gangbanger. Use your adult words.”
“Aight.”
I shot him a look that could melt ice. Still works to this day, even on my grandkid.
“My bad,” he said in that stupid way try-hards do.
Two minutes in and I could already tell it was going to be a long Monday.
I tuned into an oldies station as my Range Rover vroomed through a pine-walled freeway. It was the long way around, but I was avoiding the Strip like the plague. Ain’t nothing worse than NM drivers, lemme tell you. Especially during tourist season.
Just Evans watched a couple truckers drag a writhing elk off the road.
“Damn, that’s some fat roadkill,” he blurted out, awestruck.
I looked into the rearview mirror, but the truckers and the unlucky elk had already become tiny silhouettes on the sunrise.
I could feel Just Evans staring at me. I tilted my head to meet his gaze.
“You ever tried it?” he inquired.
“The Agency isn’t your new head shop. You better not be carrying --”
“I’m talkin’ about elk. bro” Just Evans clarified. “My ol’ man used to go hunting. He’d mummify the leftovers into jerky. We nibbled on that crap all winter.”
His voice trailed off. Eyes went forward, looking, but not seeing anything. “The smell of it dehydrating in that whatever-machine he used is one’o’my earliest memories.”
I didn’t reply.
Just Evans looked from the radio to me, then back to the radio. He was considering it.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Shoo -- I was told you had a sunny disposition.”
“Whoever told you that is a goddamn comedian.”
Awkward silence filled the all-leather interior.
But Just Evans couldn’t help himself. “Where we headed, anyway?”
“I’m taking you to get fitted into a suit.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like an asshole, that’s why.”
My protégé went stiff, not sure if he should feel offended or excited.
“Did I upset you?” I probed with a smile.
“Nah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeh.”
I glared at him. “Well, you look offended. You gonna ‘bitch out’ on me today?”
He glared back. “Nah, man. I ain’t no punk.”
More silence. More constrained.
“I’m your elder. Know what that means?” I asked out of the blue. “It means you call me ‘sir’ and open doors for me."
I wasn’t hazing him -- I was sizing him up.
"Understood?”
Just Evans shifted in his seat. “Yessir.”
I rolled down the window on his side, letting in a waft of breezy mountain air.
“Yes, you can smoke in my ‘boogie’ ride,” I said, returning my eyes to the road.
He went immobile. After a while he asked: “Is this a test… sir?”
”Just Evans, it’s all one big test.”
Just Evans watched incredulously as I slid a Handicapped placard hanger over the rear-view mirror. His eyes scanned over the words “WISCONSIN” at the bottom.
“You from the Cheese State?” he asked.
“No questions,” I reminded while pointing down the line of shops to a formal clothing store. “See that fancy joint at the end?”
He looked to where I was pointing. “Yessir.”
I handed him a clip stuffed tightly with hundred-dollar bills. “You’re gonna go in there, get fitted, and walk out wearing something professional. Got it?”
He hesitantly took the clip from me, no doubt imagining the party he could throw with that kind of cash.
Just Evans opened the door, rose to get out, but then stopped half-way. “Who’s paying for this?”
I leaned back my seat and started working on a crossword puzzle. “Who do you think?”
He snorted at that.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s just… I dunno? Ironic?”
“How so?”
“I mean, we’re in the collection business and yet here you are givin’ me an advance.”
I put down the crossword puzzle. Said: “You owe the Agency more than you think.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not gunna run off with this scratch.”
“It’d be a shame if you did,” I replied with a sigh. It was like talking to a kindergartner.
RING! RING! My cell phone vibrated along the dashboard.
It was Boo Boo.
I looked from my phone to Just Evans. “Out.”
Just Evans did as ordered. I waited for him to enter the store before taking the call.
“Hey, baby,” I said, smiling beside myself.
“Are you coming or not?” she asked on the other end. Pissed, I could tell.
“I’m on a business call, but I’ll try to make it over there tonight.”
“You said that three birthdays in a row. Quinn’s starting to think you hate him.”
“What can I say, work’s steady.” I changed the cell phone to my other ear. I hear better in that one. “Did he get the card I sent?”
Boo Boo lowered her voice to a whisper:
“I told you: I’m not letting any of your dirty money into our home.”
“So what’d you do with it?”
Her silence was the only answer I needed. “You kept it. Good.”
“I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I’ll tell ya: you quit one of your day jobs so you can spend more time with my grandson.”
“I won’t let the Agency have him.”
“C’mon, day care kids end up being wise guys, anyway.”
“... I need to go.”
“Do I get a kiss?”
BOOP.
I brought the cell phone under my eyes. On the screen it read: “Call Ended.”
I went back to my fucking crossword puzzle.
Half an hour later, Just Evans returned, dressed to the nines.
I was impressed.
“What?” he asked, worried he did something wrong.
“You can take a man out of the trailer park,” I said, while flicking the Virgin Mary tattoo on his neck “but you can’t take the trailer park out of the man.”
Before he could respond, I shifted us into reverse and peeled out of the plaza.
Jimmy Stolis, a ratty man barely functioning in a ratty studio apartment, sat on the edge of his ratty couch. Knee pumped up and down like a jackhammer. Nervous as hell as he gawped up at me and Just Evans like we we’re the Men in Black or something.
“I came back and the door was… what’s the word...?” he jittered.
My bones creaked as I sat on the coffee table in front of Jimmy. “Ajar?”
“Yeah, that’s it!” Jimmy bursted out, the corner of his lip twitching. Definitely meth. “So I find my door ajar, right? Look inside to see the whole place turned upside down. I couldn’t believe it… sonofabitch ran off with my stash. Even took the silverware.”
Just Evans and I shared a look.
“Did he run off with your Savings, too?” I asked, ever the cynic.
Jimmy rubbed his arms. Wouldn’t look me in the eye as he spluttered: “I got $375 in there. Just enough for rent.”
I leaned in closer. Used my hand to force his chin up, so he could look me square in the eyes. “So if we took a ride to the ATM, you’re sure -- death-and-taxes sure -- the ledger will read 3-7-5?”
“I swear… it’s all I got to my name.”
I let go and Jimmy’s head slumped like a doll’s. “What do you think, partner?” I asked Just Evans. “You buyin’ our client’s sob story, or do you think the author’s using artistic license?”
“Joe, I --”
Told you Just Evans was a class act. My eyes shot knives into him. “If my name crosses your tongue again, I’ll hammer a Jesus nail in it.”
Startled, Just Evans backed away.
“Goes for you too, Jimmy,” I warned our client.
“Well, wha’d’ya think?” I repeated to Just Evans. “Truth or dumb?”
My protégé cleared his throat. Answered: “I think he’s straight.”
Jimmy looked at Just Evans as if he’d taken a bullet for him.
“Care to ruminate how you reached that verdict?” I asked.
“I mean… look around you,” Just Evans replied. “Not even tweakers would squat here.”
He amended “No offense” to Jimmy.
“Fair enough, but we’re not running a charity here,” I told Just Evans. “What should we do next?”
Just Evans wasn’t much of a thinker. “We empty his bank account?”
“Wrong,” I corrected him while rising up. “Always keep the juice flowing. We hike up the interest and poor Jimmy here stays in our pocket even longer.”
I turned to the miserable rat on the couch. “You’re no use to anyone if you get evicted and lose your job, ain’t that right?”
Jimmy feverishly nodded YES! YES! YES!.
Just Evans looked more confused than usual. “So, like, we’re just letting him off?”
My face went serious as cancer. “No. The Agency don’t take IOUs”
By now, Jimmy was looking up at me with weeping puppy dog eyes.
“Oh don’t look at me like that. You know our policy.”
Jimmy went into a full-on crying fit as I snapped on a pair of surgical gloves. I tossed a second pair to my protégé, who looked uneasy.
I could relate. My first visit was no doozy, either.
“Whaddya say we do this in the bathroom, Jimmy?” I suggested.
I looked around at the filth that seemed to be growing around us. Said: “Wouldn’t want to get blood on the new drapes.”
And Jimmy began pissing himself.
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