by Karl Tutt
Chapter 9
It was about 4:00 and I figured I could catch Bugsy on the phone before the regulars started shuffling in.
“Bugsy, it’s Dee.”
“Oh my God. You don’t never call me unless you want something. What is it this time?”
“You know you love me, Bugsy, and I do need a favor. I want to know when the Ju Ju’s usually come by to pick up the War Tax.”
“Holy shit, Dee, as if I didn’t have enough trouble. Whattaya’ got in mind, a shootout in my humble establishment? Listen good Honey, then you can forget it.”
“Another kid is dead. They cut him up and left him to bleed out in a filthy alley.”
“I’m sorry, Dee, but that’s not my problem.”
I knew Bugsy too well. It was his problem. For all of the tough talk and his questionable past, he had a soft spot. He doted on his grandchildren and God help anyone who tried to hurt them.
“Bugsy, I promise. Ricky and I will sit in the back, never get out of the booth. I just need to see what they look like. We can’t desert these kids and especially Henri, just because we don’t want to be bothered.”
Bugsy knew about Henri. Ricky and I had both talked about him over drinks at the bar. Whenever we did, tough old Bugsy got real squishy and the sweet things about him were on full display no matter how hard he tried to hide them.
“Okay Dee, you got me and I got your word. You need to keep it if you want to be welcomed at Bugsy’s. Around 10:30 tonight.”
“I love you, Sweetie.”
I heard him huffing as he slammed down the phone. Then I dialed Ricky. He had already picked up Henri and had him locked away at his apartment. “I bought him a pizza,” he said, “double cheese and pepperoni. I gave him the remote and he’s in heaven on the sofa. I told him not to open the door for anyone. See you at ten at Bugsy’s.”
I stood before the mirror at about nine. I thought about a hat, thought about my Smith and Wesson, thought about Sterling, but mostly thought about Henri. I wanted him safe, and I damned sure didn’t want anything to happen to Grace. He was okay at Ricky’s, but he couldn’t stay there forever. He had to come out . . . like we all do. When he did, there was a threat. That’s what we had to remove.
I threw on a pair of dowdy black sweatpants and the dirtiest, smelliest sweatshirt I could find. I washed all of the makeup off of my face. I picked up an eyebrow pencil and drew some circles under my eyes. Then I smudged it nicely, scrambled my hair. No brush, just ran my fingers through it. One glance in the mirror and I shuddered. Please allow me call it my new bag lady look. I strapped the loaded .38 to my calf and added a switchblade left by one of the perps in my cop days. He had tried to make it a permanent part of my anatomy, but when Ricky placed the cold barrel of his Glock against the guy’s neck, he had a quick change of heart. Our boy was now playing “drop the soap” with his pals at Raiford, one of Florida’s finest correctional facilities.
I walked into Bugsy’s precisely at ten. He stared at me from behind the bar, “Jesus, Dee. You look like you been shot at and missed and shit at and hit.”
“Oh, Bugsy, you do go on.” I raised my palm in Queen Elizabeth wave and curtsied. He pointed to the back. Ricky was already there. He sat at the back table in a pair of tailored jeans, a Tommy Bahama shirt, and a six-hundred dollar brown bombardier. Hey . . . I know. I was with him at Nordstrom’s when he bought it.
“Damned, Dee. You look like “The Wreck of the Hesperus.”
“Sorry, Ricky, but that poem was about a storm and a shipwreck.”
“Exactly my point,” he said and laughed.
I asked about the kid. He was doing fine. Evelyn had insisted on coming over to watch him and the last he’d seen, they were on the sofa stuffing heaping handfuls of Orville Redenbacher down their throats and sucking up Cherry Coke. Hell, I wished I was with them.
The Ju Ju’s were early. Two guys about the size of buffaloes pranced in like they owned the place. I guess in a way, they did. Behind them was a smaller man, but not much smaller. He was an easy 6”2’ and well over two-hundred. He wore a denim shirt with the sleeves cut out. His arms rippled like a huge black mamba. On one shoulder, I could barely make out a prison tattoo. They do them with ballpoint pens or homemade shivs. Very painful, but very impressive. The right symbol was a savage warning to stay the hell out of the way lest you find yourself permanently disabled, or just plain dead. Gold dripped off his hands and from around his neck.
Bugsy placed three shot glasses of Patron on the bar. Beside them was a white, letter sized envelope. “On the house,” he croaked. Buffalo Number One palmed the paper, squeezed it, and nodded. When the third man stepped into the full light of the bar, I caught his face in the mirror. It looked like a bad joke. The skin was painted in white make-up from forehead to chin. His eyes and mouth were encompassed by circles of black greasepaint. The shiny silk hat was perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Either he had missed Halloween or he was doing a bad impression of Baron Samedi, the legendary voodoo demon. He lifted the shot glass, sniffed the Patron and belted it down. The buffaloes followed suit.
“By your favor, perhaps another, Mr. Bugsy,” he said. Then he turned and rolled his shoulders. The lord of the manor was inspecting his holdings.
Bugsy nodded, “Sure, Bijet.”
The clown placed two sharp elbows on the bar and scanned the landscape like drone fixing on a target. Unfortunately, that target was me. He strutted towards our table. The buffaloes fell in behind him and planted on either side. He offered a courtly bow and tipped his hat like the true gentleman I suspected he wasn’t. I could feel Ricky tensing up.
“Why you is looking so sad, lovely lady?” he said sweetly. I looked down and said nothing.
Buffalo Number One scowled and snorted, “Hey . . . Bijet ask you question, you answer.”
The clown raised the corners of his mouth in a mock smile. I wanted to keep my trap shut . . . actually gave it my very best effort . . . but, hey, that’s why the boys at the station nicknamed me Diabla, the she-devil.
“You joinin’ the circus, big man?” I snorted.
He took a menacing step forward and grinned. “Yes,” he laughed, “maybe I make you part of my act. You so pretty I may want to kiss you.”
Ricky reached inside his coat. I knew the Glock was at his chest. The biggest buffalo beat him to the punch. The shiny barrel of a nine-millimeter was inches from my face.
“You tink twice if you don’ wan’ de lady head to be big mess,” he bleated.
Ricky put both of his hands on the table and said nothing. The grin didn’t hide the glare that Bijet fired at me. I waited. He tilted his head and put his fingers to the brim of the silk.
“Well, is nice to meet you. Perhaps next time you do a little makeup, maybe a clean dress. And de hair . . . dat not really your style.” He turned back to the bar.
“Bugsy, you shud be careful who come in dis place. Bad clientele attract bad luck.”
Bugsy’s hands were invisible below the bar. They might be shaking. I knew he kept a sawed off 12 guage for emergencies, but he wouldn’t use it unless a situation was desperate. His teeth were locked as he smiled at Bijet and the buffaloes.
“Thanks, guys. Come back anytime.”
Bijet gave him a sweep of the hand and a beautifully executed Elizabethan bow. Romeo would have been proud. As soon as they were out of sight, Bugsy came over to our table.
“Damn it, Dee. You promised no trouble. What’s with the circus shit?”
“Honestly, Bugsy. I tried. He came at me. You saw what he looked like. I don’t think the circus would take him.”
“Yeah, very funny. You saw him. Well, laugh it up. I’m tellin’ you the man is dangerous. You see the size of those goons? You catch that remark about bad luck? That ain’t a black cat crossing your path. We’re talkin’ mysterious fires, explosions, maybe even bullets. Honest to God, I wish you’d learn to keep your mouth shut . . . at least in here. I got a busin
ess to run.”
He stormed back behind the bar and started polishing glasses. Ricky left a ten and a twenty on the table and we left. I hoped it would salve Bugsy’s wounds . . . at least a little.