by Blackie Noir
“Yeah, that’s you alright, ‘Mr. Don’t Give A Fuck.’ Me, comes to certain things, I give a fuck. Big time.”
“I ever find something, something worth giving a fuck about, I’ll let you know.”
“Family. I care about family.”
Rolly said, “Me, I got all the time in the world, but you? You’re leaving in a few weeks.”
“What? What you sayin?”
Rolly stopped walking, said, “Saying, you got a point to make, make it.”
“That dude, one that got taken down by the woman-cop on TV the other night?”
Rolly stared, said nothing. Cuchillo said, “He was my brother.”
“When you gonna tell me something I don’t know?”
“You tellin me you knew that? Bullshit. Fuck would you know?”
“Dude’s name was in the paper, next morning. Medina. Chuey Medina.”
“There’s lots of Medina’s, don’t make us related.”
“Shit. That night, I thought you were gonna have a stroke watching that bust go down. When that big dipshit went in to his trash-talking act? I thought you were gonna shank him on the fucking spot. I gotta say, I admired your restraint.”
Cuchillo grinned, “I’m learning. Just cause you take care of business, don’t mean you gotta go down for it.”
“Wish I’da learned that twelve years ago.”
“Let me ask you, the shit that motherfucker was layin down, what do you think about it?”
“I don’t, - - - think about it.”
“C’mon, I ain’t gonna get pissed. Really, you don’t think gettin your ass kicked by a bitch is humiliating?”
“You want to get pissed? Be my fucking guest, I look worried to you? Now, don’t let the low mentality of these assholes in here mess up your head. You got potential, use it. Think. Me, I don’t give a fuck that cop was a woman. Shit, bitch had more balls than half of the macho motherfuckers in here, walking around pounding their chests. Your brother? He’s a cop-killer, that counts for big points in my book. Hell, his piece hadn’t of jammed he would’ve had another notch on it. Your brother, he done what he was supposed to do. Just wasn’t his night, but, ain’t no shame there. Now, ‘Dickless Tracy’? Bitch was doing what she was supposed to do, she just had the luck that night.”
Cuchillo sneered, “Let me tell you something. That night, that bitch used up every once of luck she had. My baby brother is in a coma, cause of that skank. Her streak is over, she ain’t gonna last out the month.”
“Meaning?”
Holding out his hand, Cuchillo said, “Your ears only?”
Clasping the hand, Rolly said, “You got to ask?”
“Mark my words, bro. I ain’t out of here a week and that cop is history. I’m gonna carve that cunt from asshole to appetite.”
With that statement, the seeds of Rolly’s dilemma were sown.
Now, with only a week till Cuchillo’s release, Chuey Medina was no longer in a coma. He was dead.
Cuchillo was stoic on receiving the news, pragmatic in his outlook, “What the hell, he’s better off. Shit, was me, I’d rather croak than be a fuckin cauliflower the rest of my life.”
Whatever passion he’d retained was now channeled toward the plotting of his revenge. Uncharacteristically expansive, he began sharing details of his bizarrely plotted vengeance with Rolly. It was then that Rolly’s dilemma had surfaced.
A stone-lifetaker himself, Rolly was far from squeamish. But, Cuchillo’s eerie plan, a twisted montage of: kidnapping, rape, torture, and finally murder, had given him pause. Rolly wasn’t a snitch. Never was, never would be, but he’d decided to drop a dime on Cuchillo.
The dude Rolly would be calling wasn’t a cop, furthest thing from it.
Twenty years: Seger had said it best; “where’d they go? Twenty years, I don’t know.” Two men, powerful, young, part of two dozen. Twin wheels chomping up the blacktop; jammin, faces in the wind, hair trailing free. Fuckin rollin, brother. Brotherhood, broads, booze; battles too. Some bonds remain unbroken, stand the test of time, withstand the separation wrought by concrete and steel.
Rolly Brigand didn’t give a fuck that some cunt-cop faced torture and death at the hands of Cuchillo Medina. But, he knew someone who would. Rolly had made his decision, he would call his old bro this week. He owed the “Iceman” that much.
Chapter Twenty Two
Photogenic as he was, Todd Citron’s electrifying physical presence could never be totally captured by the camera. On the screen he was enchanting, face to face; positively overwhelming. No doubt whatsoever, Todd Citron was the handsomest man Nadine had ever met.
Unfortunately, he was also a colossal boor.
Nadine had opened her door to find him standing there; arms stretched out in a sort of ‘ta-da’ pose, million dollar smile blazing, he said, “Uh-huh. In, the, flesh!”
She should have shut the door in his face. Hours later she wished she had.
Wished she had turned in the street, walked back up her drive, the moment she’d seen his ride. Orange Hummer. Bright pumpkin orange Hummer. Whatever wasn’t orange was chrome. Approaching the Hummer, Citron did sort-of a triple-jump, springing up into the driver’s seat. Looking down at her, laughing, he said, “Hey, do all my own stunts, you know that?” She said nothing, stared up at him.
Cranking the Hummer, he said, “There’s a stirrup for your foot, and a couple of hand-holds on the passenger side. You shouldn’t have any trouble climbing up.” So much for chivalry.
Distraught, Nadine had almost cancelled after receiving the news of Chuey Medina’s demise. Stating the obvious, further withdrawal would only lead to a deeper depression, Carol had been instrumental in getting her to stick to the original plan. By the time she’d settled her ass in the Hummer’s seat, Nadine had already damned Carol to hell’s lowest level.
Five minutes into the twenty minute ride to Bill’s place, Citron had flashed that mega-watt smile at her for what must have been the thousandth time. The guy used it like a whip. This time she didn’t see Citron’s smile, she saw the smile of Chuey Medina. The beautiful smile the handsome carjacker had sent her way, along with three slugs from his pistol. She had to turn away as the tears began their slow slither down her cheeks.
Oblivious, Citron continued his monologue. The movies, the co-stars, the affairs with co-stars, the wives, the divorces, the mansions, the yachts, the jets, the parties. Finally, Nadine found herself smiling. Whatever she was, killer; self defense or not, at least she was real. A construction of substance. Flesh and blood, skin and bone, but with a spirit that was unique, and hers alone.
Nadine figured she had two ways to go: she could tell Citron to stop this, bling-encrusted, jeep on steroids, get out and catch a cab home, or, she could see this thing through. Attend the barbeque as planned, her narcissist date in tow. Don’t get pissed, play it for laughs. Shit, her family could handle it, they all were blessed with the ability to laugh, and with his non-stop delivery, Mr. “Me. Me. Me.” wouldn’t disappoint.
In the few hours he’d spent at the barbeque, Citron proved himself to be an equal opportunity alienator, managing to piss off all four members of Nadine’s family, as well as her guest, Johnny Vance.
He’d started with Carol. Minute she’d answered the door. Cool, slender and sexy, in a bikini-top and sarong, Carol started to speak, but Citron beat her to it. Leading the way with a blaze of tooth enamel, he said, “Woah! Wait, don’t tell me. I’ve seen you in something, recently. Let me think.”
Carol, smiled, hugged Nadine, “Hi honey. Everybody’s here, we’re all out back, by the pool.”
“Hi. Carol, this is Todd. Todd, Carol.”
Citron said, “Hey, girl. I know I’ve seen you, but, I give up. What movie was it.”
Carol grinned, said, “Sorry, wasn’t me, I don’t do movies.”
Citron frowned, “Damn, I was so sure. Hey, a commercial?”
Ever quick, Carol picks up Nadine’s covert wink. Laughing, Carol said, “Nope,
no movies, no commercials, nothing.”
Undeterred, Citron said, “Model?”
“No. I’m a working girl.”
Citron looked at Nadine, said, “She’s a hooker?”
Carol said, “If you have a question about me, ask me.”
Citron grinned, “Sure, doll. You a hooker?”
“Uh-uh. A real world working girl, as in waitress. I work at Hooters.”
Focusing on Carol’s B-cup breasts, Citron said, “Pardon my saying so, sweet thing, but you appear to be a bit under qualified for the job.”
Deadpan, Carol said, “Oh, that’s because right now I’m only a trainee. Soon as I save up enough for my implants, I’ll be a full-fledged Hooter girl. I’m gonna go all the way, double-D. What do you think?”
Citron gave her the smile, full wattage, said, “I think that’s great. Real smart. What we in the business call, a shrewd investment.”
Carol winked at Nadine, turned to Citron, said, “Right, kind of like having all your teeth capped. Then it doesn’t matter if your smile is insincere, because your teeth are phony too.”
Nadine laughed, “Never thought of it like that, but there is a thread of logic there.”
“Hey, I’m smart. Did I ever tell you I got all the questions on my Hooters application right the very first time around? C’mon, let’s get out back where the people are.”
Turning, swinging slender hips, Carol led them through the house, out to the pool.
Hanging back, Citron whispered to Nadine, “Hey, who the hell is she? She a relative?”
“Sister-in-law.”
“Then it’s not genetic, lucky you. Not bad looking, but, she’s awfully slow-witted.”
Nadine grinned, “Not as slow as some.”
Citron didn’t have to say a word to alienate Bill. First thing Citron did on being introduced was to feint with his head and shoulders, then fake a short combination. Bill stood stock still, stared at him. Citron’s bit seemed to be the signature move for every celebrity dipshit meeting a pro boxer. The clichéd move had always irked Bill, but over the years he’d learned to ignore it. Ignoring Citron’s patter proved to be a greater challenge.
Putting a hand on Bill’s shoulder, Citron said, “Saw your second fight with Maxon. I gotta ask ya, bro, what was up with that? You knocked him down three times. Three different times! He was ready to go, each fucking time. You let him get away. Why?”
“I let him go? You know, I never realized that. I thought it had something to do with the way the guy fought his way out of it. He’s a great fighter, when he came back with those surges, it was all I could do to keep him from knocking me out.”
Citron grinned, winked, said, “Hey, that’s what you want to tell yourself, go right ahead. Truth is you dogged it. If you had sucked it up, let it all hang out, went after him, you’d be the champ. Champion of the world, instead of a perennial contender. Remember champions get the belts, the trophies, contenders don’t need trophy cases.”
Bill smiled, “Maybe that’s why I never bothered to build one. Maybe I just set my sights too low. I’m thinking you are one hell of a motivator, wish you had been in my corner that night, you might have changed the course of the fight.”
“Might of? Would of. Positive. Always think positive, eliminate the negative. No mights, or maybes. Believe to achieve. Got me where I am today, that and a shitload of talent. I’m at the top of my profession, wouldn’t accept anything less.”
Carol broke in, “Excuse me, but Bill is at the top of his profession.”
“Not quite, sweet thing. If he were, he’d have a couple of championship belts on the mantle.”
Carol grinned, “Really? Todd, just how many Oscars adorn your mantle these days?”
Citron frowned, said nothing. Carol went on, “Golden Globes?”
“Those things don’t carry any real weight inside the industry.” Citron said, “Glorified popularity contests is what they are. All political, that’s what you outsiders don’t understand.”
Smiling Carol said, “Oh, I understand, Todd. Perfectly.”
Taking Carol’s arm, Bill formed a gun with his fingers, aimed at Citron, said, “Pow!”
Carol said, “We’re going to bring out the food, start cooking soon. Beer and wine in the fridge by the cabana. Vassily and Detective Vancetti are somewhere in the middle of that cloud of cigarette smoke on the other end of the pool. Roy’s in the garage, messing with the Viper. Todd, I’ll be back to take your order soon, ‘Super-Star’.” Turning, her laughter floated over her shoulder as she and Bill walked away..
Perplexed, Citron said, “Your sister-in-law, I don’t get it. I don’t get her. She’s got a bit of an attitude, or else she just doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t be silly, what’s not to like?” Nadine said, “Carol’s just being Carol. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Hey, who’s this ‘Detective Vancetti’?”
“He’s my partner.”
“He’s not here because he has an interest in me, is he?”
Nadine laughed, “Why would he have an interest in you?”
“I don’t know. But, my last wife made some pretty nasty allegations during the divorce, maybe this Vancetti dude believes them.”
“You haven’t murdered her recently, have you?”
“What? What are you saying? Of course not.”
“Then you have nothing to fear from Vancetti, Todd. Lighten up. The man’s a homicide detective.”
“Right. I don’t know why, but in social situations, cops make me feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m a cop.”
“Yeah, but that’s different,” Citron said, flashing the million-dollar leer, “You’re a chick.”
Nadine found herself wishing she had her Maglite.
Chapter Twenty Three
Mutually and increasingly ostracized by their tobacco habit, members of the same generation, Vassily and Johnny Vance had developed an instant rapport. Two blue-collar guys, kicking back on a Sunday afternoon, free to smoke, drink, and bullshit about the good old days.
Vance liked this place. House was big, but not ostentatious. Rustic. Lots of shade trees, the largest of which he and his new companion were making good use of. The pool was nice, brilliant aquamarine, surrounded by red clay tiles, a jewel in the afternoon sun, but for him this chaise lounge in the shade was one step closer to heaven.
He liked the lord of the manor as well. A surprise there. Vance had seen “Bad Bill” ply his trade. Vicious motherfucker, in the ring. Vance hadn’t known what to expect. He’d been pleasantly surprised. Bill Kozok’s handshake had been soft, his voice even softer. Quick to smile, courteous, sincere in his hospitality. A gentleman. Rare enough for the man’s generation, rarer yet for a pro-athlete.
And the wife? Miracle of miracles, Vance had finally met a lawyer he liked. Good-looker though she was, the embers of her beauty were intensified, gently fanned, by the spring breeze of her warmth, grace, and charm.
Vance had recognized something of his own estranged son, Pat, in Vassily’s youngest, Roy. It was the shyness. He had spotted it immediately. An introvert, books had afforded Pat refuge from all but the most necessary social contact. In Roy’s case, machines provided solace. Still, the kid had been friendly enough, even displaying a sense of humor in an exchange of banter with Vassily.
Vassily himself, couple of years younger than Vance. Retired, a dockworker, over twenty years doing maintenance on the high cranes that unloaded container-ships. Good pay, shitload of benefits, including a generous retirement package. Talk that yuppie, bottom-line oriented, anti-union shit in front of Vassily, and you were courting a broken jaw. Undereducated, the man had done well by his brood, and consequently was reaping the daily benefits of their love. Vance had chosen the goddamned ‘job’ over his family. His choice; albeit a stupid one. Now he was stuck with it. Tonight he would be returning to his reward, an empty apartment.
Looking at Vassily, he said, “So, retire
ment, how’s that treating you?”
“Treating me just fine.”
“You don’t miss your work?”
Vassily grinned, “You’re joking, right?”
“Well, in my case, work? It’s all I’ve got. Pull the pin, I’d go nuts.”
“Me, I was going nuts before I quit.”
“Job was that bad?”
“No, job was fine, I never had a problem with it. It was me. I lost my wife, June. Fuckin aneurysm, bam! One day, June and me, we’re planning, laughing, living, loving, next it’s three-AM. I’m staring at the walls, poleaxed. Same thing, night after night.”
Vassily worked on his beer, took a hit on his cigarette, “I was going apeshit. Nadine and the boys, they tried to help, but they were almost as shell-shocked as I was. Finally I went back to work, thought being occupied might help.”
“And?”
“I’m working one of the big container cranes, inspecting hydraulics, hoses, shit like that. Hundred feet up, worked up there over twenty years, never a problem. That day, I remembered something my June once said, ‘Baby, I think when we pass on it must be like flying, our soul just spreads these big beautiful wings and we fly. Fly on to peace and love ever-after.’ I thought about it; next thing I know, I’d unhooked my safety-belt, I’m over the guard-rail, hanging on with one hand. I’m looking up, down, all around, and I knew, knew she was right.”
“Jesus.”
Vassily laughed, “Just what the kid said.”
“Kid?”
“Yeah. I’d just made up my mind to do it. You know, take the fuckin leap. I forgot, I got this new guy up there with me. A kid, I’m supposed to be showing him the ropes. Shit, I almost showed him something that day, for real. Anyway, he goes, ‘Jesus.’ I look at him, he’s got tears streaming down his cheeks, says, ‘Jesus, please don’t do that. You’re scaring the shit out of me. You jump you’ll be killing me too.’ I was back in control, asked him how’s that gonna kill him too? Kid said, ‘I see you go, it’s gonna freak me so bad I’ll never be able to make the climb back down. Fall to my death, I will.’