The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

“Don’t worry Ma, everything is jake.”

  Mava groans, raises her eyebrows, having heard that one before.

  “And leave that Betty alone, ya hear?”

  Both boys nod as Billy places his arm around Arvan’s scrawny shoulders, hugs him, says. “Come on little brother, let’s get a beer.”

  Grinning, Arvan softens, turns with his bro, the other satellite off the future Cox empire orbiting the earth.

  Mava groans, yells. “And be careful, Ranger Keats been pokin’ around.”

  Billy, cool as ever, waves his hand, moves towards the ruckus coming from the bar. Shaking her head back and forth, Mava wonders how, where and when she will have Art murder both jackasses.

  Art could cut the twin morons heads off with his meat cleaver.

  That could work as the devoted mother of the year thinks more on it.

  She ain’t quite clear on that bit of paternal love, not jest yet.

  She’s already got a condo in Houston waitin’ fer and ART and with first degree murder on her mind she closes down for the night and walks out the door.

  The Pony Club 11 Years Earlier

  SOMEONE BELLOWS, deep throated laughter.

  The music, loud, generic Doobie Brothers turned into elevator music, blast’s along the red velvet walls, rouge leather booths of the club. Men, mobsters mostly, layer along the ornate bar, smoking, drinking, laughing, lounging in booths, in what looks like a French Whorehouse gone bad.

  A neon sign, reading The Pony Club pulses, blue, green over the back of the bar. On stage, grinding to the music, several chorus girls, not so young, chasing the Fountain of Youth. They are topless, g-stringed, adorned with feathers, sequins, fake titty jewels.

  The Follies Berge they are not.

  AN obviously gay young man, bleached blond, tight T, even tighter dance tights, wearing ballet slippers pounds his hands in cadence on his thigh, watches in disgust, second tier dancers, stumbling to the music they are trying to assimilate. Terrified eyes, they keep ticking frantically at a ten years younger, forty pound lighter Anthony Uruguay, stuffing his face with pasta at his favorite red booth.

  Tony mouth is full as he screams and food flys everywhere.

  “NO! NO! NO! WHAT THE FUCK. I WANT MORE FUCKING SKIN...SKIN. DO YOU HEAR ME!”

  Words, barely out of his mouth, he lowers a cigar and, then begins a brutal attack on a rack of ribs as two huge men, black leather jackets, sit on either side of him, hand guns on the table. Wiping his face with his jacket sleeve, Tony points with a rib, here and there at the clearly terrified boy.

  “Come on. Come on. Dance, like I saw in Vegas.”

  The effeminate boy walks over to the mercurial Mr. Uruguay, hands on his small hips, waiting for another impossible request or for the scary fat man to execute him.

  Tony slugs down some wine, sprays food everywhere.

  “It ain’t like I saw in Vegas. What’s wrong with these broads? FUCK, somethin’s wrong. You tryin’ to make me unhappy. Is that it?”

  His eyes glaze over like a feeding shark, clear as he stares at the aging hoofers on the stage and, then back at his choreographer.

  The boy, a nervous wreck, runs his hands though the bleach, meekly smiles at the New Jersey thug who is morphing into a quashie George Ballentine before his terrified eyes by the minute. Wringing hands, he wants Broadway, very bad, start at the bottom, he wrings his hands, somehow, make the unreasonable Mr. Uruguay understand and it had taken little time for the kid, to realize he had temporally lost his marbles, taking the job.

  A career move, in the beginning something, anything, he was talented, but it had become a continuous rolling nightmare.

  He first thought Mr. Uruguay was his big break. That quickly faded, as The Producer turned into a frightening revolting ogre. A square peg into a round hole and show biz is a sketchy biz. Wade his boy friend got him the gig. Within this production, when they say break a leg they meant it, literally.

  Fists stitched to his leotards the boy tries, AGAIN and tries to plead his case.

  “Mr. Uruguay Please. Like I have mentioned before, unless we pay top dollar, we won’t get top talent. A lot of these, well, girls are ex strippers. Not exactly the kind of talent we can build our new show around.”

  He nervously smiles and repulsed by his mentors eating habits, he hopes the words will sink, THIS TIME into the thickest skull, literally he has ever seen. He is an artist, an ex dance instructor from Arthur Murray; there is still hope in his Twinkie blue eyes for a career.

  No response, from Mr. Uruguay, the kid, an eye witness to a molar attack on a rack of ribs. The boy almost retching, Tony extending his hand to a monstrous thug sitting next to him, garbles. “Gimme.”

  The failed ex number 3 draft pick of the New York Giants hands him his silenced handgun. The chorographer gulps, fear, leers in his eyes. Tony, the prankster, racks the chamber, waves the automatic at the boy.

  “Caliber of girl. How about this caliber?”

  “PSSSST”.

  A bullet whizzes past the kids head shattering glass on the bar behind him.

  Giggles from Tony, his men, abject terror on Todd the director’s face, he stutters.

  “I...I’m so sorry...I...I We’ll get it right Mr. Uruguay...I promise....Really.”

  Shoulder slumps, his thin, fragile body seem to reduce, to a puddle. Tony hands the gun back to his man, pats the seat next to him.

  “Come here.”

  Big man rises, towers over the shaking kid, Tony grins, says. “Todd, right. Come on, sit.”

  Mr. Todd, wondering where he can get his own handgun, so he can shoot his lover Wade, swallows, moves to the booth, hesitates, thinking he might turn and run screaming from the just horrible Mr. Uruguay. Bad idea, pettily he nudges in, smells Tony reeking of garlic.

  Tony wraps his huge arm on his tiny shoulders, hugs him, offer him a rib.

  “Ya want a rib?”

  Shakes of the head, no, he is terrified to death.

  Relax, yer doin’ a good job. Heck, I ain’t gonna kill ya.” Cuffing him on his trembling chin, Tony hugs him more, giggling as he does,’” At least not yet.” Turns, giggles at his body guard, says, “Right Mickey.”

  Big grin, a barbarian waiting to be unleashed, says. “Right Boss.”

  Todd’s eyes, like one a those mechanical rabbits at the Miami track, one of Tonys favorite haunts, blip, skip, click everywhere.

  Tony has killer on his right and another killer glaring at him. Mr. Todd he feels like a sick little Easter Bunny as he sorta mews. “Thank you Mr. Uruguay, we’ll make it work, I promise.”

  Another cuff on the chin, garlic breath, wet bulbous lips, food on his clothes, chains, chest hairs, looks at Todd’s insipid eyes, shoos him away, says.

  “Now, go make me a show we gonna all be proud of.”

  Barely able to stand, he does, a turn on the ballet slippers, metal in his tiny spine, sashes to the stage and red faced, veins bulging in his neck, SCREAMS...”ANY COW DOESNT’T PERFORM, IS FUCKING FIRED. CLEAR.”

  Mr. Todd, twists around, get a nod of approval from Mr. Show Business.

  Todd hoping his roommate hadn’t trashed his American Tourister luggage, for he was going to need it very soon.

  Music intensifies, outside daylight blasts into the room from the clubs front door opening. Ten years younger, Onetta Marnett enters, tagging along side of her is a gorgeous, thin, stunning blond eighteen year old girl. Door closes, room returns to neon, smoke and shadows, Todd screaming at the girl dancing on the stage, neon sign telling everyone that they have just arrived at The Pony Club.

  Onetta, the flawless blond, leather valise in one hand, lit smoke dangling from the other, Onetta staring at Tony, he staring at the doll next to her, as they move across the room, and stand before him.

 
Fork of potatoes suspended in mid air, eyes gawking at the white treasure the old ex whore has planted along side of her. Black skin tight jeans, cowboy boots, tight red tank, leather jacket, smoke whispering out of a fairy’s nose. She is so fucking white and beautiful Tony is shaken to the core and he can’t even eat. If there was ever love at first site, this was it for the Mobster from New Jersey.

  He was, in one word, a goner.

  Onetta breaths deep and like a witch doctor appeasing some horrible spirit god she knows this girl virgin trick will placate the monster of the volcano.

  “This is Mandal, our newest girl. I wanted your approval, before we hired her.”

  She takes a step back, waits.

  Pushing the few remaining strands of oiled black hair back over his pate, Tony smiles and, then pats the booth right where Mr. Todd was just sitting, says.

  “Very nice Onetta...Come sit dear...Sit with Tony, let’s talk.” What a charming fellow.

  Lifting her cigarette to her full lips, one last inhale, exhale as Tony’s eyes are riveted on pouted smoke, tiny nose, blue clear eyes as the girl then squished the life out of her smoke into an ashtray.

  She smiles, fearless, knowing quite well how that smile works for her with men.

  No hesitation, she moves her super lithe body into the booth, snuggles in tight against his girth, reaches out, no ask, takes his glass of wine and casually sips from it, almost as if they had been a couple forever. Anthony Uruguay, stoned in love, wraps his meaty arm around her, her free hand falls on his hand.

  Looking on, Onetta smiles, as does Tony. “Good Onetta, very good.”

  Tony smells her youth, her body perfume, peeks at her white skin, hair, he is stunned as his clogged heart flutters and he whispers. “Now my dear. Tell me everything.”

  Mandal smiles, Onetta turns, moves into shadows, her duty to The Volcano King now once again completed.

  The Stables

  MANDAL’s EYES are bleached white, her body spasms, she jerks awake from her nightmare dreams of her past. Hyperventilating, she slashes her arms up, cocked 44 hovering before her, both hands shaking, gripping the grip, stark horror slapped in her face.

  Awareness returns as she, un-cocks the 44, back under the pillow it goes.

  Neon, music blaring, people laughing, filters into her room. Eyes focused, she stares down at her puppy on the pillow. Angel stares back, wet nose, eyes gleaming; tail wagging.

  Good, Angel is alright.

  She reaches to the end table, fumbles a smoke out, in her lips, Zippo on fire, inhale, calm girl, exhale; everything is going to be alright. She calms, stands, bends, picks up her puppy, cradles her in her arms, lap, lap, lap, kisses are returned.

  Someone loves her on this earth; she begins to feel human again.

  Placing Angel on the pillow, she hears a horses whinny. Brow crinkles, near the back window, crushing moon illuminating everything, barns, stables two black horse, the desert world. Glances at her watch, 1 AM, somewhere in the shadows another horse whinnies. Curiosity grabs her, back to the bed, 44 under her arm in its shoulder holster, Bomber over that, black leather gloves, to the door and, then out of it.

  Along the wooden porch, seven other empty Motel rooms. Quietly, she makes her way past them, inhales and watches her breath fog. It is cold, breath mingles with the smoke, cigarette butt down to the ground, dead under the heel, body pressed against the wall of the motel, lingering in the dark, watching, comings, goings at the bar.

  Another whinny, revolving keen eyes, radar pinging, a soul near broken she needs something. A feline curiosity over comes her.

  Stepping off the porch, boots on the dirt, she begins to move toward the stables and sees a light glow ebbing from a window of one of the barns.

  INSIDE the shadowed world of a place no one could imagine, someone stands. It is dark, a gloved hand holding reigns of one of the black stallions. Behind him, another horse moves, waiting, watching and impatient.

  The person watches as the white girl, with white hair he spied earlier walks towards him. His heart pounds, his breathing grows labored as he tries to calm, his horses growing more agitated by the moment. From behind, the other horse pushes past him, under the stars, moonlight, it presses against the fence, bobbing his head up and down and watching as the girl grows closer.

  Inside the barn, the man lingers, panic beginning to swell in his heart.

  Mandal, lost again within her uncontrollable mind, displaces caution with no reason. She moves to the edge of the fence. She is being scrutinized by someone, something. He cannot tear his eyes away, watches as the tall girl moves to the excited horse as she slowly extends a hand, massaging the hoof beaters mane while whispering. “Hello, you’re a beauty, aren’t you fellow?”

  The horse nods, snorts in agreement. She smiles, rubbing his snout, scratching his wet nose, which draws a whinny for, her way with him pleases his great horse heart mightily.

  “Sure, you like that, don’t you big boy.”

  Unlatching the gate, she moves close, near the barn entrance, next to the horse which senses she is a friend, a beautiful friend of care. As with most men when her presence is near he seems captivated by her. She wraps her arms around his neck, powerfully hugs him and, then whispers.

  “What a handsome boy you are.”

  More horse nods, she smiles, rubbing his snout, breathing in his horse’s essence. It pleases her greatly, her pain decreases from the gift of the horse’s enormous heart.

  The bond continues, horses are unpredictable, why they do what they do when they do it is a mystery.

  The melodic breathing of the majestic animal has mesmerized the artistic center that is her soul.

  Within this moment her body pressed to his.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  There is no Anthony Uruguay, Bobby Ugo, Dim Dim as well as Mandal, a convoluted prostitute with no redeemable attributes at all.

  There is, just a girl and her horse, a trembling child living within the lies of the world. It is a rare moment of love between her and a powerful creature, which if chose to, could crush her to death if it opted to do so.

  Just meters, in the darkness, in the barn, something moves, draws her attention, perhaps another new friend. Blue eyes, try to focus, she release her hug, leaving a hand on her friends black mane.

  The other hand stretches towards the movement, she whispers. “You have a friend” Come on out, don’t be shy.”

  SUDDENLY, a black leather gloved hand clasps her wrist, she YELPS and, then fear pervades as she yanks, HARD. But, the grip is like a vice as she tugs again. It will not let her go.

  The horse spooks, another whinnies from the dark barn, pulling harder, the hand grips her wrist with more power,

  “Let go.” She pleads, unable to see into the darkness.

  She begins to panic and, then using her body weight, she rips free, stumbles backwards, sprawls on her butt, dirt, dust, under the bomber, she whips out the 44, both hand gripping its walnut grip and hands shaking. Her eyes are stark and are panicked.

  The gate unlatches, swings open, she cocks the hammer, finger squeezing on the trigger and, then a black shape, riding a great black stallion gallops past her.

  It is night, dark, illumination from the moon; the rider is indistinguishable, except for a flowing cape and mid-back long hair trailing behind him with his horse’s tail. She watches, amazed as the horse rider comes to a fence and, then with great ease jumps the fence and thunders into the desert.

  For several moments she watches as the shadow rider and stallion move deep into the desert, and, then disappearing into the darkness. Slowly, her thumb allows the hammer to reset.

  Standing, she dusts herself off, slaps the 44 into the shoulder holster. She stares off into the desert bathed by moon light. She shakes her head, moves to her horse friend, patient
ly waiting, perhaps for a mad dash of his own.

  She whispers, touching his face, huge brown eyes staring at her. “Well my friend, what in the heck was that?”

  Horse head bobs, a snort, as Mandals eyes focus to the barn where a dim light is shining under a door set at the back of the barn. Beyond any reason or thought of her own personal safety, brain tilt, she drops her hands to her side, looks around and, then moves inside the stables.

  How many nine lives she has left, she does not know, nor does she want to know.

  Her nonsensical curious brain is governing over her, nothing new about that. Steps, hand on the 44, she moves to the light under the door, the only sound is of an air conditioner humming.

  It is cold outside, she asks herself why.

  Ever so slowly, she pushes the door open, gasps; it is illuminated by the green light from a computer monitor.

  The room, dirt floor, rare Indian blankets scattered everywhere, makes her gasp for grace and beauty are everywhere. From floor to roof, crude bookshelves, desks, tables, filled with dog eared manuscripts. On the walls, are paintings of Indians, woven rugs, knives, bows as well as a quiver of arrows.

  In totality they take her breath away.

  Eating and drinking gourds bow from woven hemp strings, as well as animal skins of deer, elk tattoo the walls in grace and kindness.

  Staring at the reams of type, she whispers. “My God.”

  She steps, to a table and looks at several blue bound manuscripts await her there. Her fingers reach out and touch the print on the blue cardboard, as she whispers. “SEEDS of DESPAIR.” A novel by Jason Cox.”

  Blond eyebrows raise, forehead crinkles, she lifts the card board cover sheet, begins to read.

  As she does, eyes soften, her mind begins to reel.

  Several moments pass, this is a world of magical dreams, her world as she presses the cover shut, opens others, reads, sways, tears begin to spill down her cheeks. Never has she read such beauty, filled with such elegance, as she reads from THE REALM of DARKNESS.

  She gulps in awe, catches a sob in her throat, whispers. “How beautiful.”