by G L Rockey
Carl jabbed the air with his right hand, “I suppose the next bullshit you'll be giving me is that Dent bets on NFL games.”
“Likes to play the ponies too.” She inhaled deeply. “Trouble is he don't know a pony's dick from a telephone pole.”
“Listen you bitch, you got the wrong address. I know Dent, he fucks around a little but he's no gambler.”
“Wrong, dear.”
“You are so full of shit I can't believe it.”
“Listen to this stinker.” She crossed her legs allowing the slit in her dress to open wide.
Carl looked at her legs. “You got bony legs.”
Smiling, “I like Dent, Carl, but there are some very nasty people who would like to see his head in a gunny sack.”
“Yeah, send 'em to me.”
“Carl, my impetuous one, don't be no asshole, I'm taking serious. Dent is in deep do do, honey pie.”
“You sure we're talking about Dent Ruffin?”
“Sure as you gets hard at closing time.”
Carl leaned back, “I don't believe it, never.”
“Believe it dear. Mr. Jet-setter Dent has been living high on the hog and now the little piglets is coming home to roost.” She smiled.
“Last time I heard, pigs don't roost, but you should know.”
“Listen to this stinker.” She adjusted her breasts, blinked her half inch eyelashes, and stood, “How 'bout a fresher upper.”
Drinks freshened, Carl somewhat calmed, Tommi said, “What I'm saying Carl, I don't give a shit what Dent does with his clients' money. What they don't know won't hurt them. But darling, some nasty people do care what Dent owes them.”
“This doesn't make any sense, Dent's got money coming out his kazooka.”
“Wrong dear. Dent don't have enough cash to wipe his kazooka. It's all smoke and mirrors … yachts, Cayman condos, jet planes, ladies du jour, gambling, he's robbing Peter to pay Paul.”
“I don't think I want to hear any more of this.” He started to stand.
Tommi snapped her fingers.
Peter appeared.
Carl said to Peter, “Come on prick, let's rock and roll.”
Tommi held up her hand, “Carl, don't be no knight, no knights, especially dead knights.”
Carl took a step toward Peter but before he could blink he was on his back looking up at a smiling Peter.
Tommi said, “Carl dear, are you all right?”
Carl got to his knees then stood.
Tommi said, “Sit Sir Carl.” She motioned to Peter, “Get Sir Carl another drink.”
Carl sat.
After serving Carl a fresh drink, Carl ruffled but cooled, Peter was dismissed and Tommi said, “Carl, we've come up with a way to save Dent much distress.” She lit a fresh cigarette and puffed it. “We want you to talk to him.”
“You claim to be his beard, why don't you talk to him.”
She laughed huskily, “I did honey, I did, but he told me to eat it. Makes me sad. Bad boy is in denial, and between me and you, I think he's sniffing a little white stuff, too.”
“This is unadulterated bullshit.” Carl set his drink on the coffee table, “I'm getting out of here.”
“I think there is something you should see before you leave.”
Carl stood, “You have nothing I want to see.”
“Oh I think I do, my handsome prince.” She snapped her fingers and Peter appeared. She nodded to Peter, the lights dimmed, and she pressed a button. Video played on the motion picture screen:
Dent enters Tommi's office. Tommi greets him. “Hi there ol Denty pie, what are we doing today?” They sit on the sofa. Dent sits next to Tommi, hands her an envelope. She opens it. Counts cash, says. “My my, we're bold tonight.” He gives her several bets to make. She makes notes. He stands, “I could use a drink.” She says, “surely.” They exit the office and the tape ends.
Lights up, Tommi waved Peter away.
In catatonic silence, Carl stared at the blank screen. Tommi lit a fresh cigarette. Carl wiped his face with the palm of his right hand and shuddered like he had fumbled on the one yard line, “Shit.”
Tommi: “I'd say.”
“Did Dent see that video?”
She nodded, yes.
“Shit.”
After a sinking-in pause, Tommi said, “Carl, you need to talk to Dent. He's in la la land and the beasty fellows want his head on a platter.” She smiled, “They really do play for keeps. Talk to him, have him make something happen in the Super Bowl. You know, a judgment call, make that San Francisco six point spread happen.”
Carl shot up. “I'm outta here.”
“Sit down!”
He started for the elevator.
Tommi pressed another button and the triple X rated video of Carl, Mindy, and Pearl began to play on the screen.
Carl stopped. The fireplace fire crackled. The candles flickered.
After threats and counter threats, an accommodation with Tommi was arrived at—both video tapes would be turned over to Carl for cooperation from Dent. If any copies showed up, Ms. Tommi would wish she had never been born. Immediately after leaving Tommi, Carl called Dent and invited him to lunch.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, January 21 turned up another gray day with light snow flurries.
Just after 11:30 A.M., Carl drove to Martin Lang & Ruffin and pulled to the curb beside the entrance. Dent exited the lobby and got into Carl's BMW. Stoically silent, Carl pulled away.
After a block, Dent said, “What a matter big buddy?”
More stoic, Carl made his way to the inter-belt, shot up an entrance ramp and, zipping in and out of traffic, headed west on I-94 toward Ann Arbor.
Dent said, “Rachelle shut you off or what?”
More stoic. Miles zipped by. Carl said nothing. A large green overhead sign indicated Ann Arbor, 33 miles.
Dent sucked on a Dunhill cigarette, “Where we going for lunch, Carl, Ann Arbor?”
“Great news you going to be officiating the Super Bowl.”
“Hey, yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Hey, is that what you're pissed about, hey, I haven't seen you, just found out.”
“When are you leaving for New Orleans?”
“Thursday, meetings, what about you, you going?”
“I'm staying in Detroit, doing a special noon to six Playing for Keeps show, leading into game coverage.”
“Wish you could be there, we'd hit a few joints.”
“Donna going with you?”
“Hah, she's history.”
“Too bad, what's with your divorce?”
“Hah, now Penny wants ten grand a month, the house, all the furniture, everything.”
“Dent, how well you know Tommi Gilmour?”
Surprised, “About same as you, why?”
Carl smacked the steering wheel, “Don't goddamn bullshit me, Dent!”
“Hey, my man, what's your problem?”
Carl hit the steering wheel again. “Cut the shit, Dent!”
“Hey, man, settle down.”
“Know what a beard is?”
Silence.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Whiskers on your chin.”
“Ha ha.”
Silence.
“Tommi says she's your beard.”
Dent squinted, looked out the side window, turned to Carl, “What in the … what are you talking about?”
“Makes bets for you.”
“And the moon is made of blue cheese.”
“Does she?”
He exchanged a glance with Carl. “I can't believe you would even … NO!”
“Not what she says.”
“You believe that slimy piece of shit over me?”
“Says you owe some nasty people big money.”
“She's delusional … crazy.”
“She said she talked to you.”
“About what?”
“The Super Bowl
.”
“Are you on something, partner?”
“Are you?”
“She's lying, she's a born again liar.”
“Why would she lie to me?”
“How should I know? Why are you hanging around with her anyway, putting another notch on your dick?”
“Cut the bull shit, Dent.”
“What are you turning into my friend, some TV detective?” Dent hit Carl on the arm with a pal-o-mine tap.
Carl turned off at the next exit.
“Where are we going now?”
“Back to Detroit, the High Five, Tommi's waiting for us. She has you on video tape, placing bets, I saw it, she said she showed you the tape.”
“Let me out of this car.”
Carl turned a sharp left and sped onto the entrance ramp back toward
Detroit. “Go ahead, jump, might be easier. I hear those guys start by cutting your balls off, stuffing them in your mouth.”
After several miles, in silence, Dent said, “I told them to fuck off … now they send you. What are they paying you?”
“Fuck you Dent. I'm trying to keep your ass alive.”
CHAPTER SIX
After dropping Dent off, Carl drove to the WJJ studios and did his Playing for Keeps show. Finished, he went to his office to wrap up some paperwork and his phone rang. He picked up.
Tommi Gilmour said, “Did you get a chance to talk to our mutual friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Good boy. He on board?”
“I need to see you about those video tapes.”
“What video tapes?”
“You know what video tapes.”
“Why doncha come over.”
“Be there around seven-thirty.”
“Want Gus to pick you up?”
“No.”
“Stinker, use the private entrance. I'll buzz you in.”
Black moonless night, driving to the High Five, Carl called Rachelle. After fifteen rings, no answer. He dialed again. Another twenty rings, then, “Hello.”
“How's it going?”
She hung up.
“Bitch.” He pressed the number again.
“What?”
“Don't ever hang up on me again.”
“Oh, okay.”
CLICK.
The High Five red neon sign flashing against the black night, Carl pulled to the side garage door and stopped. The door yawned open. Tommi's Rolls looked like it hadn't been moved. He pulled in and the garage door closed behind him. He went to the private entrance, buzzed, and the door latch clicked open. He entered and looked to the top of the stairwell. Nobody there. He went up. Nearing the top he smelled the thick smell of burning jasmine candles mixed with that musky whore house bouquet.
He heard Shearing-like jazz dancing down the hallway. He walked toward the music. At the entrance to the living room, he noticed more candles burning than Midnight Mass and, the fire place blazing, the room was a maze of flickering shadows.
He looked around then heard: “Hi doll, come in.”
Out of a shadow, Tommi appeared. Tonight, dishwater blond, she wore a skimpy white blouse that revealed her navel, black hip-hugger jeans, and black stiletto high heels. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like cotton candy. Her lips red, moist, and full, she extended the dripping red fingernails of her right hand to Carl. “So glad you could come, how did it go with Mr. Dent?”
“Great, now hand over the video tapes and there better not be any copies.”
“Stinker.” She chuckled and sashayed to the bar. “How about a rum and Coke?”
Carl went to the bar and sat, “Where's Pete?”
“Night off.”
As she mixed Carl's rum and Coke, she said. “So Dent is on board?”
“Only if I get the video tapes, and don't give me that 'what video tapes’ you spouted on the phone.”
“Carl, don't you know about talking about things on telephones?”
“The tapes.”
She handed him his drink, “Is Dent on board or isn't he?”
“The tapes.”
“Paranoid boy.” She patted him on shoulder. “I'll give them to you after the Super Bowl.”
“Tommi, If you mess with me, I'll....”
“Relax big fella, you'll get the tapes, after the game.” She sipped from her fish-bowl-size brandy snifter.
“That that Polish hooch?”
“Yes in-dee-dee.”
“Watch that stuff don't catch fire.”
She swayed to the front of the bar and sat next to him.
Carl leaned away.
“I won't bite.”
Carl looked around, cynical, “Is this being taped?”
Tommi gurgled a gut laugh, “Heavens to Betsy, no, this is for eyes only.”
“Uh huh.”
She said, “Say, how would you like to see a really hot video?”
“I'm afraid to ask who's in it.”
“Silly boy.” She chuckled throatily, pushed a button and, to Gene Autry singing “Back in the Saddle Again”, color video lit up the big screen:
Bareback, two blonde nude girls ride a pony into a barn. They get off and one begins brushing the pony. Then other gets a water hose, lathers some soap and begin playfully washing the pony. The pony licks her face. She drinks water from the hose then lathers the pony's belly. An enormous erection grows from the pony.
Tommi, “Do you believe that pony's dick?” She put her hand on Carl's leg and, as the girl stroked the pony's erection, she moved her hand to Carl's groin, felt his hardness. “My my.”
They watched the video:
One of the nude girls gets on all fours and the other helps the pony mount her.
Tommi said, “Godamighty”
Carl, watching the show, felt Tommi pull his zipper down. Then, holding his fly, she stood and led him to the sofa. He sat and she knelt between his legs, took him out and went to work.
Carl pushed his right hand under Tommi's hip-huggers. Reached. Stopped. Frowned. He was holding something familiar, yet unfamiliar, unexpected, in his right hand, felt like a half cooked hot dog. He felt again. It was! A dick!
Carl flushed red, purple, hot, cold.
Tommi licked, “Ummm, oo la la.”
Carl wrenched Tommi's head back, “You dirty rotten son of a....” He stiff-armed him away, kicked him in the groin. Tommi moaned, rolled to the floor.
Carl kicked him in the stomach then straddled his chest and began pummeling his face.
Tommi's wig sideways, blood oozed from his mouth and nose. He smiled up at Carl then, licking at the blood covering his lower lip, said, “More, big fella, more.”
Raging, Carl tore Tommi's wig off, grabbed his short black hair, and began pounding his head against the floor.
Tommi's smile slowly disappeared as blood trickled from his ears.
Carl stood, kicked him again. “Get up you freak prick.” He kicked him again. “Get up.” He kicked him again.
Tommi didn't move.
Carl kicked him in the face, waited. He didn't move.
Carl, sweating, his mind swirling, went to Tommi's office to retrieve the video tapes of Dent and himself. But there, rummaging around, he found hundreds of tapes. No time. Destroy everything, he thought. He returned to the great room. Tommi hadn't moved. Prick. He kicked him again. He didn't move. Carl looked around. Wiping his lips, he noticed Tommi's snifter of slivovitz on the bar. He remembered the time Tommi had lit the stuff in an ashtray. He went to the back-bar, found a case of slivovitz, opened two bottles, doused the carpet, sofa, Tommi, and the top of the piano. Then he went to the fireplace and turned the gas off. The flame sputtered out. He turned the gas back on and quickly went to the piano, tipped the candelabra. Blue flames spread across the piano top, the varnish began to burn. A blue flame snaked across the carpet toward the drapes. Carl hurried to the private stairs, skipped down, and went into the garage. The closed garage door froze him. He looked around. A button by the door. He pushed it. The door start
ed opening. He quickly got in his BMW, backed out and, lights off, drove to the street.
He glanced back to the High Five. Flames were rising in the upstairs windows. He gunned it and, speeding away, heard a violent explosion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachelle, trying to concentrate on a research paper, couldn't. A metaphor keep popping up: her marriage a ship hung up on a shallow reef, refused to sink. She reasoned she knew why: image, societal pressure, mores, admitting mistakes … hers!
Who are you kidding Doc, its fear of bodily harm. One or both of you will end up dead. So you delay even though you know in your heart (thank you very much Mr. Faulkner) the ultimate outcome must be el extremo.
She put on her white silk pajamas, crawled into bed, and, T.S. by her side, read began reading a story in The Missouri Review.
The sound of the garage door opening broke her concentration. She looked at the time, 2:05 A.M.
She got up, slipped on her night gown, and went downstairs to the kitchen door that led to the garage. Like he knew who it was, T.S. didn't bother following.
Cracking the kitchen door an inch, Rachelle looked out to see Carl emerging from his BMW.
She opened the door and said, “What are you doing?”
“What the fucks it look like.”
She turned on the kitchen lights and sat at the table.
Entering the kitchen, Carl said, “Long day … exhausted, damn radio show, I've been working my ass off. I'm tired, calling in sick tomorrow. I need a drink.”
“You smell like a drink.”
“Hah hah.” He went to the bar, filled a water glass with rum, and drank.
Rachelle stood and went to staircase, “You want the bed or the sofa?”
“Sweets, don't push me.”
“I don't want you in my bed.” She started to go upstairs.
He rushed and grabbed her by the ankle. “Come here.”
“Let me go.” She kicked free.
Carl laughed and went back to the bar.
Two hours later Carl stumbled into bed, mumbling incoherently, Rachelle went downstairs to sleep on the sofa. T.S. joined her.
Next morning, Rachelle up early, her first class at 10:00 A.M., she fed T.S., skipped her morning exercise and retrieved the Lansing State Journal from the front stoop. A cup of hazelnut cappuccino brewed, she sat at the kitchen table, unfolded the paper, and read the headlines: LATE EDITION: INFERNO DESTROYS MOTOR CITIES' HIGH FIVE.