by Jane Brooke
With the information delivered to Bobby Ugo, the teams began to converge in a tighter net. Making Bobby happy, the Paulie’s settled into a cafe, asked each other what the fuck was chitlins, smoked a lot, pined away for New Jersey, and the Pony Club, which they missed a lot.
A COUPLE of hours later, Bobby pulls up, sees the two Paulie’s through the cafe window, makes some cell calls, checking on the rest of the troops. Deciding to keeps the teams spread out, probing, and figuring that his other team would not be there until later, he rents some motel rooms. He then decides to get a good night sleep, thus starting out fresh in the morning.
After making sure Dim Dim was fed, his sheets tucked under his boulder chin, Bobby walks outside, lights up a smoke, stares up at the full Moon.
He was happy, for the whore might as well be leaving boat flares behind her. He’s concerned though, for now he is positive she is moving towards California, or some place West. LA, in his mind is a teeming shit hole and once there, how would he ever find her?
“Buzz, buzz, buzz.”
His cell vibrates in his jacket pocket, he pulls it out, “Click.”
“Okay, nothing on the call yet, huh? Tell Tony we got some play on her...Yeah...Tennessee...Yeah...She’s heading West...Tomorrow...What?...He’s prepped his jet...Why he wanna do that...Yeah...” He groans...
“He WHAT, misses her...Tell boss we’ll get her soon...Yeah...Yeah...Tomorrow.”
“Click.”
He snaps the cell dead, groans, shakes his head back and forth, as he grumbles. “We’re coming for you bitch.”
Agitated, his temper is rising, for now Tony wants to fly out of Newark, in his Gulfstream IV, so his tub ass can be there as soon as they snatch her.
Bobby is not happy, with anything, for his Boss seems to be falling apart right before his eyes. Which, in their business, any sign of weakness is fatal. Nodding his head, a little more of his new plan strings along his brain, his plan is making more sense by the moment.
Feeling a little better, he stares off at the full moon.
To his surprise he actually thinks it beautiful.
When it comes to Lunar activity even mass murders have souls.
Miss Sneaky
STARING AT the same moon, lurking in the night, Mandal watches the comings, goings of various members of the Cox circus. Hungry, she decided the bar is a bad idea, not wanting to bump with Sue again as she wonders where she can get something to eat.
Staring at the magic place in the junk yard, where everyone keeps disappearing and reappearing like sorcerers, her curiosity starts to itch her brain. Wondering about others things, Mava’s money, car, thugs, grift with Billy, Arvan, stealing Arvans truck, of course her magnet draw her back to the poet in the barn, her stomach growls.
“SLAM.”
The bar door smacks shut. Billy walks to the garage, fronts Arvan who’s sitting in his idling pick up truck. Billy grins, pulls back his T shirt, exposing to Arvan a heavy magnum, looks like a 45 to Mandals eyes.
“What are you boys up to now?” Mandal giggles.
Standing there, suddenly Mandal hears a roar, as a 57 Dodge, Candy Apple Red Dodge pick-up truck, lowered to the ground rumbles up to the garage. Two monster men, usual MO’s, beards, tats, long hair, dirt denim; heavy boots amble out, gang hug Billy.
They both have solid hand guns stuck in their belts.
They all began to chat.
After some chat, every body enters their trucks, throw up dust and, then crash out to the road, heavy engines roaring as they blast down the highway.
“Wonder, what that’s all about?” She mumbles.
“Okay, lets see what’s over their in that yard. Maybe some Doritos” She giggles, as really she knows a hard core fact.
Where there is some money, maybe there is a lot more.
It never hurts to have as much as you can steal, when you’re a gal on a career move.
She peeks at the stables, nope, no poet, rain check on that. She peeks at the cafe, nope, closed. Everything is dark, spooky and quiet.
Perfect.
Aampires like darkness and do their thing best within the shadow world of night.
Off the porch, she sneaks around the bar, past and behind the garages and, then in an arc she moves towards the secret place in the Elephant grave yard of steel corpses.
She pats her 44 in the shoulder holster.
She is convinced something is sunk someplace deep into the ground.
Private Detective, Betty with two T’s is on the prowl.
Cochise
TEXAS highways are always dark and desolate as Billy, the boys bang through the night, seventy-five miles per hour. Both trucks, running bad, (Good) is smooth, lots a horsepower, testosterone smoking behind the rear wheels, thanks to Arvans genius with a ratchet.
Garth, Tommy, the lead scouts, pave the way, a couple of hundred yards ahead, red tail lights a beacon, which Billy’s eyes never leave. CB, crackles, Billy grabs it.
“Click”.
“Garth, we cool?”
Lead truck, Garth fondling a 16 gauge shotgun, Mossberg on his lap. Tommy drives, Garth snaps the button.
“We’re Jake, Billy. We a go.”
“Ten four, partner.” Billy says, as his cow poke boot rests on the grey metal case at his feet.
He looks at Arvan, asks.
“Twelve barrels this time, twelve last, a grand a piece. That’s how much?”
Arvan rubs his jaw, eyes light up, he ain’t so good at math, says. “Eighteen grand. Why we payin’ so much? We gettin’ ripped off. Why ain’t we just buyin’ it direct?”
His stab at mathematics was a good and valiant one.
Frustrated, edgy, needing little reason to vent some wrath, to relieve his stress, Billy pops.
He pushes his 38 into Arvan’s gums, draws blood, grabs the steering wheel, same time he slams his boot onto the throttle. In a beat, Arvans eyes go from B B’s to quarters. Their moving a hundred miles an hour as Billy gets in his face and snarls.
“What I tell ya afore, dum, dum. Can’t have no police askin’ why the Cox’s is buyin’ so much acetone.”
Arvan winces from the gun snout in his teeth, eyes jerking at the speedometer, readin’ One-0-ten. Billy veers dangerously into the other lane. The cab lights up as an eighteen wheeler is now pressing down on them from in front of them.
Semi grows closer, Arvan freaking, Billy having a good time, lowers the 38, say’s. “GOT IT?”
Arvan, eye balls lit, he screams. “YEAH.”
He grabs the steering wheel, swerves wildly back to his own lane as the eighteen wheeler smashes past them, shaking the truck with its powerful draft of wind as it did.
Shaken, Arvan touches the blood on his gums, snarls. “Why ya always got ta be like that?” His hand comes to rest on a 357 stuck under his leather belt.
Feelin’ better from his jokin’ around, Billy peeks at Arvans Smith & Wesson.
“Yer touchin’ yer piece a little early, ain’t ya bro?”
Though Arvan is a little rusty concernin’ math, he knowed this ain’t the time to get in his brothers face as his hand slithers from the butt of the handgun.
Time, place for everything. Killin’ Billy at the moment is the wrong time, he knowed that; soon though, Barbie Doll Betty real soon.
Reaching over, Billy laughs, give his bros pony tail a hug, says. “Thought so.”
CB crackles. “We’re goin’ in Billy.”
“Click.”
“Okay Garth. We’re followin’ in right behind ya.”
Two hundred yards rip up, following red tail lights, lots of dust. Arvan hangs a left, rumbles down a dirt road, desert landscape, narrow canyon walls glowing opaque off of his head lights.
As if motoring on the surf
ace of the moon, white dust, head lights eerily illuminate in front of them.
Moments later, plumes of dust, they sidle up next to Garth, Tommy, go to parking lights and, then simply sit and wait.
Five minutes pass. Then, two sets of headlights swing from around a depression of an Arroyo, come up a low hill, fifty meters away, the two vehicles park, leave their headlights on, illuminating the entire area around them.
Parked in front of Billy, his crew, is a flat bed truck, forklift hinged behind it. Next to the flat bed, is Speedo’s black Ford Ranger pick-up truck. On the flatbeds slat are twelve fifty gallon drums of acetone.
Getting out of the truck, the Ford, Speedo stands, four of his hard, brown crew of mex-cans standing next to him. The men are fully armed, pistols in belts, shot guns, knives in sheaths.
After a moment, a well dressed Indian, strides up, stands like a totem next to the short, stout Speedo Gonzales. Wearing polyester golf clothes, neither men would make Mr. Blackwell’s Best Dressed List, yet their %100 blend of colors makes them seem almost retro-chic in style.
From the pick-up, Billy is calm, casually watches everything before him.
He turns his head, sees Garth and Tommy leaning against the front of their truck, cut barrel shotguns in their hands. With all the fire power across the head lights, Billy and his crew seem a little out gunned.
Billy doesn’t seem to mind, is very cool.
As it normally is with the Cox clan, nothing is really as it seems.
Everybody has their own agenda, different plans, Betty, murder; a double wide in Houston, scheming, dreaming, electrical ideas splitting in the jerry rigged static wiring in their brains.
Out the door, Billy, slat gray case in his mitt, Arvan follows, moseys up to Garth and Tommy, loiters around, every body copasetic, just biding their time.
Ticks of eyes, Garth, Arvan, Cochise, Billy, okay.
Billy takes a cigarette, pops it between his lips, Bic in hand, make’s no move to light it. All the time, he simply stares at Speedo, his crew, like he’s glad ta see them.
Calmly, Billy motions for his crew to follow him. The tension is thick, tedious, wired and weird, except for Billy, who is calm.
Some men were born for great moments in time.
Metal attaché in hand, he walks up to Speedo, looks down at the brown Mex-Can plug. Billy glances at the stone face Injun, peers into Speedos brown eyes looking back at him from under the rim of his white Stetson.
Billy looks Speedo up and down, still an unlit cigarette between his lips, both crews facing off. Billy nods his head, says to Speedo.
“Speedo man. Yer lookin’ good brother. Nice threads.”
Unlit smoke bobbing as he talks. Billy cheats a look at the flat bed, Acetone barrels cinched with canvass straps, awaiting delivery.
Speedo, looking past Billy’s broad shoulders, eyes Garth, Tommy, Arvan, says in a thick accent. “You have somtheeng for me, Senor?”
Quick glances at the grey case in Billy’s hand. Billy gets his drift, slaps the case on the hood of the Black F-110 Ranger, hits the snaps, open’s it.
Speedo, seemingly nervous, grins at the stacks of money, three wrapped kilos of meth, as his gold teeth pick up glints from the head lights. Billy glances at Bear feather, snickers. “Cochise.”
Clearly annoyed with Billy, facial ticks click along his brown skin, clenched teeth.
“Name not Cochise.”
Billy chuckles, says between the unlit Marlboro between his lips, Bic in his hand.
“What the fuck ever.”
“We good, Speedo?”
Pudgy, brown fingers ruffle the stacks of hundred dollar bills. He lifts a kilo, weighs it in his calloused hand, nods his head and, then lays it back into the case.
“Sometheeng more, Senor.”
Crinkling his brow, not clear a his Mex-cans meaning, Speedo clicks his head at the barrels. Billy does a quick count, looks back at Speedo.
“Twenty grand, 3 keys, seem right ta me.”
“Theengs change. Thirty grand.”
He holds up a kilo of ICE, grins through those gold teeth.
“One more a deese.”
Billy’s crew tenses, Speedos crew reacts, hands fondling guns, Arvans hand nestled on the walnut butt of his 357 Magnum.
Nobody knows exactly how Billy will react to anything, he smiles. Taking the smoke out of his lips, he stares at it for a moment, seems kinda happy, puts it between his lips, revolving the Bic between his fingertips.
“That’s kinda stiff, Speedo. Don’t remember agreein’ ta those terms.”
More gold grins from Speedo, more fingers pressing against hair triggers.
“Overhead, Senor.” He grin’s even boarder, seethes, “Now, geeet me my fucking money...Senor.”
It is one of those moments seen in so many B movie westerns.
One breath, one tear drop, one trip wire mistake, it all goes down in a firestorm of a fucking blood bath.
Every fucking one of the sociopaths knows it.
Billy smiles, Billy fiddles with his unlit cigarette, seems to be thinking it over. It is one of those Kodak Moments of just before the holocaust that he has always thrived within arrives.
Casually, Billy says. “Sure Speedo, no problema, Arvan.” He turn’s, smiles at his bro, “Geet my amigo here some more cash.”
Sorta shocked, Arvan catches a playful wink from Billy.
Arvan stoically nods, turns and begins to move towards his truck. Clearly out gunned, seemingly beaten by the cleaver Mex-Can descendant of Mayan Kings, Billy looks at Speedo, lifts his Bic to his cigarette tip, hesitates
“Hey Speedo, bidness is bidness.”
Speedos crew seems to relax, proud of their boss, as Speedo gloats. He finally knows he’s won one for the Mex-Cans, as he grins.
Time freezes, as Billy thumb slices down the Bic’s igniter.
In slow motion the flame flumes from the Bics snout, illuminating Billy’s iced blue eyes.
He smiles, inhales and, then exhales smoke into Speedos face, as he whispers. “Ya fucked up, amigo.”
Speedo squints his eyes, as Billy grin widens.
EVERY THING SLOWS way down....THEN....
“PSSSSST, PSSSSST, PSSSSST, PSSSSST, and more PSSSST’S fill the arroyo with silenced riffle reports.
Blood, bullets, men’s torsos shattered, bucking, skin, flesh, screams, heads coming apart, blood splatter, chunks of organs erupting out of bullet holes. Speedos four men are ripped apart by magic bullets whizzing through the night from some arroyo bluff behind Speedos ex crew.
Dead, before they know it, the men vibrate on the ground in the last troughs of life.
Garth, Tommy, Arvan now back from his fake errand, draw down shotguns, hand guns on Speedo. The shocked Indian gawks, who now knows that once again, he’s been butt fucked by the white man.
Billy nods at Garth, Tommy; they nod back. They take shotguns and, then move to the men sprawled in dirt and blood.
Like in In Line Skating they pump blasts, one by one into the peons, vaporizing the men’s four heads.
Smoke, the smell of cordite, mixes with Billy’s grin. He smiles at Speedo, shares one with his Injun friend, who really does now look like a Cigar Store Indian he is so paralyzed in fear.
Billy pulls his 38 out, casually turns, grins at the Indian; they exchange eye balls, no smiles from Cochise, more smiles from Billy, as he all casual and like lift his 38 and, then fires off a shot. Fire erupts out of the barrel as the hollow point slams into Crandal Bear feathers right shoulder, violently spinning him, and then slamming him ten feet back to the ground.
From the ridge of the bowl, two of Billy’s biker crew, big men, scramble down the dusty ridge, modern, 306 Remington sniper rifles, scopes, silencers pinched to the rifles lips
. They quickly move to Billy and once there they stand and grin.
With most of the good killin’ done and with a terrified Speedo watching, the men high five with Garth, Tommy as Speedo leers at Arvan, who is grinnin’.
Reluctantly he looks at Billy who is smiling as Billy says to his two snipers. “Roy, Earl, ya done good, real good.”
The men grin, step back with Tommy, Garth as Arvan can hardly wait to see what Billy is going to do next.
Billy, the sadist in him kicks up real good.
He moves to Crandal Bear Feather withering on the blood soaked dirt on his back. He bends, grinds his boot heel into his bloody wound, the Indian groans. Billy gets in his face low, smiles and, then says all cordial and such. “I guess they was right, uh, Cochise...The only good injun is a dead Injun.”
Billy’s crew laughs, nudges each other, loving their leaders rye sense of humor.
The Indian, eyes defiant, hatred spewing from his black eyes, denial pasted to his bloody seeping lips leers at Billy with pure venom.
He now knows that he is just one more Indian, in a long line of Indians that is dead from the hands of one more fucking white man.
He snarls. “Fuck you.”
Billy respecting his bravado, raises his eyebrows, says. “Absolutely.”
Billy, reaches to his belt, takes his 357, punches into the Indians mouth anddraws back the hammer.
“Click.”
“No Cochise...fuck you.”
The gun bucks, flames shoot into the Indians mouth, the back of his head comes off; he is dead.
Billy rises, turns to an already dead Speedo who just don’t knowed it yet. He moves close, leans in, presses his gun barrel into the Mex-Cans ample gut, whispers.
“What ya nuts, ya fuckin’ grease ball? Tryin’ to rip Billy Cox off.”
“And Arvan Cox. “
Arvan chips in from the peanut gallery.
A wild gun buck, a blast as flames, smoke detonates out of the tip of the Magnum. Speedo screams, his clothes catch on fire, smoke, blood, a scream as he is jerked back as he screams again, rips on his back to the dirt.