by Andrew Birch
Just then, Jack came in.
“Watch the bar, Justine” he ordered, and the brunette happily exited.
“What about me”, said Taylor, contemplating making a run for her freedom.
“What did he do?” asked Jack, motioning to the man on the floor.
“Huh”, she asked?
“Well”, Jack continued, “I’m presuming you didn’t slug him for nothing. And I would guess you’re not auditioning for the women’s baseball league? So why’d you hit him?”
“Cos she’s a stupid skank that’s going to jail” shouted the guy on the floor.
Jack pulled his handgun then, and pointed it at the head of the man on the floor,
“Was I talking to you, fuck face?” he asked cocking his head on one side, “No. I don’t think I was. So here’s an idea, be a good by and shut the fuck up and let my employee speak.”
Jack turned to Taylor and she told him about the affair with the twenty dollar bill.
He stared at her,
“And you slugged him for that?” he said surprised, “fuck me, remind me never to piss you off”
The guy on the floor started to get up,
“I tell you to move, prick?” snapped Jack at the guy, and he sat back down.
“Now”, continued jack, “here’s the thing, Taylor here was wrong to hit you. What can I say, maybe she’s a little strung out, maybe it’s her time of the month, maybe she’s pissed that we have a republican president, who the fuck knows? She was wrong, and I know, deep down inside she’s sorry.”
She watched Jack with interest as he delivered this speech to the guy. Jack Mason was interesting, she decided.
“Now”, he continued going over to the back of the room retrieving the bat, “with that in mind, I want to ask you what the fuck was going through your mind when you treated one of my female employees in such a way?”
The guy didn’t know what to say. He looked scared as Jack stood over him with the bat.
“I dunno” he stammered. Jack hit him hard on the right knee with the bat, and he screamed.
Taylor jumped,
“What the fuck?” she said quietly, “what are we doing?”
“I’m curious”, he replied turning again to the screaming man, “I really want to know. Was your mother such a fucking whore that she didn’t treat you basic human courtesy to a fellow human being? Taylor here isn’t exactly a prime specimen I know, she doesn’t smile and her clothes are a little old, but that’s stuff we can do something about.”
Jack hit him again, across the side of the body. He collapsed and the bat connected with the guys body again.
“What we can’t do anything about is the mental scars that you’ve caused her by suggesting that she sucks your cock.”
Now Jack whacked him har4d between the legs.
“And so”, said Jack calmly, “while you recover, I want you think about eh mental anguish you’ve caused this poor girl tonight.”
The man curled up on the floor in a ball, sobbing and pleading. Taylor was silent, half excited by the goings on, half amused and half horrified,
Jack whacked him across the mouth now, and Taylor saw a splintering of teeth,
“and if anybody says anything about you got hurt tonight, you tell them you were hit by a truck driven by two immigrants. That should be believable, they drive like shit anyway. If you fuck with me, I’ll fucking kill you.”
The man sat up again, his face awash with blood,
“You understand me, dickhead?” asked jack. The man nodded.
Sometime later Jack and Taylor were sat in the bar, with a bourbon each.
“Are you gonna be one of those women who cause shit for me”, he asked amusedly, “one of those who comes into my life like a fucking whirlwind, smashes everything up and then vanishes?”
“You’re one to talk”, she shot back with the wicked grin on her face, “you smashed that guys fucking skull in”
“I was defending your honour” he said with mock hurt in his voice,
“Well I’m grateful”, she said suddenly serious, “That’s the first time that’s ever happened to me.”
He looked her up and down,
“I’d do it again if |I have to”, he replied, “course, if you can hold off from slugging the customers with the bat, I’ll be real grateful”
“I’ll try”, she said, “what about my parole officer, or the cops?”
“Fuck em”, he said, “if they give you shit, then come see me. I’ll handle them”
She really believed that he would. He was an attractive guy, in a dangerous sort of way. Full of contradictions. That he was a bad guy she was of no doubt, but he was old fashioned, and would defend a woman’s honour with lethal force if necessary. Kind of handy for her to have him close, she realised. Especially if she were to start getting some business of her own going some time.
Chapter 14. Gangsta bitch
A week or so later, she realised that the weeds had grown in the years she’d been gone. As she picked her way through the junk buses at the back of the bus depot, the going was tougher than it had been in the past. Slowly, under cover of darkness, she made her way to the old shed. Technically she was trespassing, but who gave a shit. She’d already hit a guy, served people alcohol after hours and snorted coke in the month she’d been free from jail. Hardly a fucking angel. She liked Jack, she reflected as she wound her way to the rear of the old shed. He was funny, and kind of old fashioned when it came to women, and looking after people in his employ. He was liked and respected by most people she’d met who knew him. The only guy that didn’t seem intimidated was that Carl guy with the glasses. She didn’t know who the fuck he was. He looked dangerous though.
She squeezed between the wall and the back side of the shed, cursing a little that she wasn’t an emaciated fifteen year old anymore, and managed, with some difficulty, to crawl through and into the shed. It was, she realised with some relief, just as she left it. Moving aside one of the floor planks, she brushed away a bit of dirt and pulled out the footlocker. It was untouched. Inside were neat bundles of dollar bills, she estimated there to be about $50 000 or something like that. Her ill-gotten gains form before she went to jail. Then there were the other things. An old dog eared book of poetry by John Keats that Dreamer had given her. Not that she’d read it. Poetry meant shit to her, but the fact that it reminded her of her friend was precious enough. And then the last thing. The locket. It had belonged to Groucho, who had said it belonged to Tinkerbell, his Tinkerbell.
She turned it over in her hands, and contemplated wearing it, but she never had. He’d given it to her a long time ago, somewhat tearfully, but she’d never felt worthy enough to wear it. It was old, and worn, and a little tarnished. It was the only thing she had of his, the only evidence she had that he’d ever existed. With a deep sigh, she replaced it and the poetry book in the footlocker and replaced it.
Things were going ok on the outside. Taylor had a couple of bar scams running, stuff Jack couldn’t find out about, plus a bit of side work running a book. And she’d hooked back up with her old dealer. There wasn’t much left of the old neighbourhood now, save for the apartments behind the car lot where Zimo and his boys hung out. Zimo had known her when she was Lol, as a kid. Back then he was into pimping out his sister’s tail and selling his mom’s prescription meds. Zimo and Lol weren’t exactly close, but he always supplied her when she needed a fix. Which wasn’t often, Taylor wasn’t exactly an addict, she just needed something occasionally to help her think straight. The apartments were ugly, made from tan bricks, and featured garages and flats built over the top, with balconies. A small lounge was downstairs at the side of the garage, and the rest of the rooms were upstairs. Zimo kept the door of his apartment locked and barred, for obvious security reasons. Taylor had known for a long time to enter through the garage. This was odd though, she thought as she walked closer to the house. The garage door was open, as was the front. Fearing cops, she looked around for tell-tale sign
s of cop cars, or any kind of activity, but there was none. It was early morning and all was quiet. The only thing around was a Nissan sedan parked on the corner. Taylor strolled up to the house all nice and casual, maybe she was just taking a walk past. A kind of sexy blonde chick in a leather jacket and torn jeans just happening to walk by. Nothing strange about that, no sir. Nothing suspicious. As she walked by, she caught sight of something on the floor on the lounge. Maybe it was curiosity getting the better of her, maybe it was the inbuilt sense of a business possibility, she took a closer look. Pausing at the door, she strained her ears for signs of life. There were none. Resisting the urge to shout for Zimo, she peered through the door towards the thing that caught her eye. It was a foot. A male foot dressed in a white sports sock. The foot was connected to a body, she drew back as she recognised Zimo, or what had been Zimo. The dealer had been shot to death, and recently too, by the looks of things. The thoughts of Mary Beth came back to her, and the sight of that body on the floor in the prison bathroom. Fighting the urge to run or cry for help, Taylor crept into the apartment. Listening, all was still silence. Zimo was dead. Still, she reflected, he knew the score. Lived by the sword and died by the sword. He knew the world he lived in. She looked around. There, on the floor, was his Silver plated desert eagle handgun. She’d always admired that. As she picked it up, it suddenly occurred to her that the weapon was loaded, and Zimo had been holding it. Taylor froze. Zimo had been shooting at someone. She listened again. That someone might be still in the house. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. Jack had shown her how to fire a gun, the basics, but still. She listened again. Heard something. Footsteps. There were people upstairs. Holy shit. Taylor backed away from the body and gripped the pistol. Crouching down behind the door, she listened. Footsteps. Voices.
“Bitch deserved it”, said a voice.
“Yeah I guess”, said another, “wasn’t in the instructions though. Just the dealer. Make an example.”
“Well we made a fucking example” said the first voice again.
Taylor heard the footsteps coming downstairs. With a cold heart, she realised they had been talking about Alisha, Zimo’s girl. She must be dead too. Then there was no escape for her. They would see her leaving the apartment, and kill her too. Fuck fuck fuck.
She listened for them coming downstairs. Crouched behind the door now. A guy came past the door and came to enter the lounge again.
Bang
Taylor fired, and the guys chest exploded and he dropped before he knew what hit him.
“Lance, what the fuck?” came a voice.
The other guy ran to Lance.
Blam blam blam
Taylor fired off three rounds, and the second guy dropped. Now she froze, her hand shaking where she held the weapon.
Ohmigod
Now she edged closer to the two dead men. They obviously weren’t cops, most likely hoods of some kind. Taylor listened, no cop sirens yet. Of course, this wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where cops normally went, but even so. Here she was, stood over three dead guys, two of who she’d killed herself. That made three, she realised. Course, she reasoned, all three were shmucks, and villains, so they probably got what was coming to them. Gathering her wits, she looked around. Being careful not to touch the bodies in case forensics gave enough of a shit, she saw that the second guy the one that had come to Lances’ aid carried a large black case. Removing it from his grip, she grabbed it and, as calmly as she could, walked away down the street. Eventually, being too keyed up to breathe, she reached Lafayette car park, where the little Jeep she had borrowed from Jack was parked. Still quiet. NO sign of cops anywhere, or any sirens. She got in the jeep, and laid the case out on her knee. It was big, and barely fitted between her body and the dashboard. Shaking, she unzipped it and opened it up. There inside were several large bags of cocaine. All cut, ready for sale.
Fucking bonanza.
Taylor was suddenly excited, and felt a sudden surge of adrenalin flow through her. What the fuck had she done? Obviously, some guys had come to rip of Zimo and steal his stash, then she’d happened along, pumped a couple of slugs into the guys and made off with the stash herself. Fucking get in, gangster, she though, still feeling the adrenalin. After a few minutes watching the streets for signs of cops, she started the jeeps engine and drove away, beginning to think. Zimo was her main dealer, but she knew a few other guys, mainly the harper street families. Course, it wasn’t normal exactly for a little white blonde girl to go driving her jeep into the middle of Harper family territory to sell a case full of coke, but she guessed that it would be better to get rid of this shit quickly. There might be people looking. Besides, she wasn’t exactly a little white blonde girl. No, she thought, she was a baddass gangster bitch with a desert eagle pistol tucked in her leather jacket pocket.
Harper street was run down, and policed almost solely by black guys wearing their purple gang colours on every street corner. Some of them wolf whistled her, most of them just either ignored her or shouted names. All the same, she had one hand on her desert eagle. She drove around to the place where she knew she could get hooked up. There he was. A crowd of people were around him, and ever so casually, money would change hands and a guy would wander off, another guy would saunter down the street. Boldly, she parked the jeep right opposite him,. and got out of the car, sashaying her ass as she walked up to him,
“Hey baby” he said watching her appreciatively, “you buying?”
“No baby, she smiled her cat like smile, “I’m sellin”
“You don’t look much like a dealer to me?” he laughed.
“I’m Zimo’s girl”, she laughed, “he’s layin low for a while, gotta keep his head down, needs a price on something real nice”
He motioned to the case, and she nodded slightly,
“C’mon baby”, he said, let’s go someplace more private, talk business. Tell you truth, I never knew old Zimo employed no white girls do his trade.”
“We go way back”, she said as she followed him round the back of an alley, fingering her desert eagle tightly. She knew this guy a little, but she was in deep now. This could be trouble.
“How long”?
“All the way back to when he was pimpin out his sister?” she replied. This dealer was nothing, just a lackey. He was tall, skinny, and dressed in shorts and a [purple t shirt like all the rest of his buddies on the street. Hi top expensive basketball sneakers completed his look.
“I remember her”, he said knocking on a door, “how is old Tavona?”
~”Last I heard she had five kids, and another in the hatch ready to drop”, she answered.
“That’s a shame”, he shook his head.
A hatch in the door opened,
“Need to see Dawg”, the dealer said.
“Who da bitch”, the voice replied.
“Bitch is good”, dealer replied, “lemme in, motherfucker, I need to pee.”
“All right man, keep your ass on”
The door opened, and was held by a huge black guy with an MP5 shotgun in his hand. These guys were serious. He stopped Taylor with a wave of his hand.
“Gimme the piece”, he said to her, stroking the MP5.
Taylor looked him up and down. She remembered form prison the old adage ‘bigger they are the harder they drop, and handed over the Desert Eagle with a dangerous smile,
“here ya go, sugar”, she said sweetly, “take care of her though. She hasn’t had her fill today.”
The guy looked at the chromed Desert Eagle appreciatively,
“Serious shit for a white bitch”, he murmured.
Taylor was walking away, gripping her case, but she turned her head,
“Yeah baby”, she answered, “but I’m black on the inside”
She didn’t know what the fuck that meant, but it had sounded good in her head. Either way, the huge guy smiled and watched them as they went in to see the one called dawg.
Dawg was a tall guy, dressed in the same athletic gear as all the re
st. He was younger that Taylor had thought he would be, and looked carefully at the stash on the table when Taylor opened the case. Apart from one bag she’d kept for herself, it was all there,
“Zimo sellin in bulk” asked Dawg.
“Heats on, baby, “needs to go”
“That right”, Dawg nodded, sniffing a sample, “ain’t good shit though. What’s he askin?”
“Ten kay”, she said simply, “full case.”
“Bullshit” Dawg answered, I’m offering one.”
“It’s worth way more than that, sweetheart”
“It’s worth what a guy is gonna pay”, he replied, “tell Zimo to try and sell this shit someplace else, see what happens”
“Seven”, said Taylor with a hard tone in her voice.
Dawg sighed,
“Listen”, he said, “I offered one. Now. Cos Zimo is an old friend, and he sent me a pretty piece of tail to sell his shit instead of the usual skank ho, I’m gonna offer you two.”
“I’m parked on a meter baby”, she replied looking at her watch, “if you’re just not gonna be serious, I better get out of here.”
She became aware of bodies behind her. She doubted she would be allowed to leave. This needed to be ended soon,
“I give you five grand”, he answered, “that’s my final offer.”
“You trying to get me shot in the head, sweetheart”, she smiled, “Zimo is gonna ride my ass for a week if I turn up home with half the money gone. He’s gonna think I spent it. Now, if you were to pay me seven and a half, I think I could convince him not to hit me too hard.”
Dawg nodded,
“Fair enough”, he agreed, “we got a deal. But if that piece of shit hits you hard, then you come see Dawg. I ain't never hit no white bitch”
And the deal was done. Taylor walked back to her jeep with a cool seven and a half grand in her pocket. Again the adrenalin hit her. What a fucking rush. This shit was easy. As she drove along, the rock station on the radio playing at full volume, she suddenly realised that she had to open up the bar. It was past morning rush hour, and she hit the traffic hard. Though she knew Jack would cover for her, she didn’t want him to have to. He was sweet in his own way, but she didn’t want to owe him. She walked in late, but not too late. Either way, Jack wasn’t around. He was in the back room with the guy with glasses that Taylor didn’t like. Both guys had been in a foul mood, Justine explained. Something had been going down that had pissed them off. But Taylor didn’t care at that moment. Her own business empire was just beginning. A few credit card jobs with one or two of the bar customers and she would be in business. Taylor, at that moment, didn’t have much of a plan beyond the further acquisition of wealth, but with more money that would come.