by Tony Black
Too Cool for School
So, I had the old addiction thing again. It's not like the smokes, or the sauce. Or the horse, or the pills. The addiction. Mother of them all. Daddy, too. It's what Mad Macke calls 'The big time addictiano …' He talks that way, even when he's not slamming meth at the meatpackers.
'What you get?' I'd clocked out ten or fifteen minutes ago and was back at our trailer sitting on a mattress, just surfing some sites. We had another shift hanging hog-ass inside an hour; needed a lift before that, but Macke was on the case.
'Some cold remedy,' he says.
'What the hell …? I need a slam to get me up for some carcass-beating tonight. Jesus, you know that!'
I grab the pipe anyway. I've just got to, just getting so tired that I need the juice. You can't live this life another way, no one I know can, the meatpackers is the only gig in town and this whole place lives like this.
'What you at anyway?' says Macke, getting twitchy now. He's been getting real twitchy and real bug-eyed lately; been living this life too long.
'Internet, man.'
Mad Macke curls up his lip, sniggers. 'I get you; porno, huh?'
I set him straight. 'No. Just surfin', y'know …'
He starts to fire up. He cooks this shit like a gourmet. But always this dude is way too high on his own supply.
'Not porno?'
'Shit, no … I turn round the laptop. 'Check it out.'
My Dicko screen-saver's jumped into action, one with the little devil horns and the cold, dead eyes of a shark. He's toting an M-16 and riding an Exocet like that Harry Potter asswipe on a broom or some such shit.
'What you got that shit for brains on there for?' says Macke.
'Dicko? He's the key, man.'
'The Key Man?' Macke scrunches brows. 'Like a jailer or something?'
'Yeah, I mean no.' I'm flipping out now on the cold remedy. 'I mean yes, kinda.'
'Which is it?'
My reply comes on the back of a sigh, like I'm talking to a five-year-old. 'He's the … key, man.'
Macke's eyes are wide and glazed, he's got the whole moon-monkey deal going on. There's a bit of drool sitting on the side of his mouth that says I'm making him think and Macke doesn't like to think. Me neither, come to think of it. No one who works the meatpackers, up to their nuts in pig guts, wants to think about a frickin' thing except getting out.
I give him five, ten more seconds, then I slap him across the grille. Not hard. Just like a tap. Like a cat playing with a ball of wool or a mouse or something.
It does the trick.
A little bubble pops from the saliva in the corner of his mouth …
'What's that for?'
'You need an education, man … you need to wise-up to the key man's ways.'
'What?'
I trip down my favourites, get the conspiracy theory sites up; only it's no conspiracy. Dicko's the man at the helm, running the show, the shooting match. He's a lizard … yeah, you heard right. I seen the pictures. Read the depositions; folks who swear to it they seen him working that shape-shifting lizard magic with the Queen of England. Some dude in Wisconsin says he's seen him drinking blood, no bullshit, says he had it on film but Dicko sent round the Men in Black and they wiped his hard drive.
I yell it at Mad Macke. Fill him in. Re-educate the sorry asshole. We're both baked on the meth; damned if this ain't as close to a slam as I've had. Macke might not be the brightest, like mentally, but he can cook.
'Great stuff, Macke! Shit-yeah!'
He sits through the YouTube reels I dig out, pulls his hair. He has that, I-dunno-what-to-make-of-these-apples look, like he's just found out some piece of shit's been pimping out his sister. In the back of his car. Parked in his drive. And not changing the shocks. Not even once.
'This sucks,' he says.
'Hey, buddy, I told you this sucks the big one.'
'Dicko's a roach, man. He's raking in billions.' Macke's up on his feet, pacing, raving, flagging arms like a drowning man.
'That's what the war's about. The towers, man, Dicko blew the towers … it was an inside job!'
'All those Americans, man.'
'All those little Iraqi kids, man.'
'Dying, man.'
'Dead as dead gets, man.'
'For what?'
'For bucks, man … for Dicko's billfold. Man's a snake, a frickin' lizard …'
Macke's full-on motivated, carving the air with some slow-mo Ninja moves. I've seen this shit before, the man's a weapon. Guys in the joint twice his size were scared to go near him; he carried a threat … well, maybe was more than a threat. Like I say, the man's a weapon. Has to be, it's not paranoia. It's this town, this world. You don't need to be called Mad Macke to know that's the truth.
'Hey, hey …' I yell as Macke's kicks start to fly. 'Watch my Buffy DVDs.'
'Screw Buffy.'
'What the hell you mean saying that?'
'This Dicko dude has got me lapping here, I've got a real beef for this bastard now.'
He's grounded for, like, a second or two, then he's roaring again. Macke goes back to the cold remedy, starts cooking up.
'Well, get in line, buddy,' I tell him.
He smiles … or is that what you call a sneer? Crunches a fist, shoots it into his open palm. He drops his works and sets off out the door at a clip. He leaves the hinges screeching and a stack of dust goes flying off the ledge. The trailer, I swear, rocks on its blocks.
It's the last I see of the freaked-out Macke for a while, except when I catch him hanging at the web café, just surfing all this conspiracy shit.
I don't know, he's a funny guy, Macke. All those chemicals, all that time inside, must have messed him up, I guess. Yeah, must have fried some cells. Had to, really.
****
I don't watch Fox News much. I don't go near television since I started at the meatpackers and got on the addiction, but when you get a call like this, you take it serious.
'Oh my actual God … turn on Fox!' It's Amelia, chick from the record store up on Trinity, we were in rehab together. First rehab, way back in the day.
'Amelia?'
She doesn't call too much these days. Mad Macke had a thing with her a bit back that lasted a few weeks, month maybe, then she blew him out. Said he had issues. Serious issues. Creeped her out with his mad ways.
'It's frickin' Macke, man!' She's yelling now. 'He's on Fox. He's got some hold-up on at the zoo … and he's … you got the station, yet?'
I found it.
'Holy Jesus.' I can't even take this shit in.
'Exactly!' yells Amelia.
My cell goes, too. I don't pick up, but I see it's Ben Castillo from the meatpackers, he's been dealing to me since Macke dropped off the dial. I wait till he hangs up and the call goes to voicemail.
'What's he playing at? Is that the reptile house or whatever?' I say.
Amelia wails at me, that shrill, shrieky girl's voice. 'Oh yeah, oh yeah … he's been ranting about a lizard apocalypse and shaking about that Slugster pump!'
'A frickin' 12-gauge, man!'
A text comes in from Ben Castillo: 'Macke's gone ape at the city zoo with an automatic. Turn on TV.'
I throw down the cell. It's like the world knows now. And so like that dick Castillo to exaggerate. 'It's a pump, asshole!'
I see the sign Macke's carrying – it says DEATH TO THE LIZARD KING. It's written in red, blood red, and hangs around his neck like a noose. He doesn't need a noose, though, not where he's at. Not with that Slugster in his paw and that big-old target round his chops.
This is out the park, even for Mad Macke. This is a whole other world of shit for even this town. I've never seen a thing like it. My gut takes a leap. I think I'll hurl, throw chunks here and now.
A jolt goes through me. I sit up. There's shots from the roof.
Not gunshots – film – like camera shots. Shows the view. There's cops there, sharp-shooters too. All round the zoo on the little grassy knoll there's dudes with
repeater rifles and scope-guns, and man, this is intense.
Fox switches from Macke at the reptile house – he's screaming and waving his pump about like Arnie in some action movie – and then it goes back to the dudes on the grass. Dudes with the high-calibres getting pissed. There's folks running wild, far and wide. Fat little kids dropping ice-cream and moms and dads looking like they've shit their pants. It's Elm Street, I tell you, I've never, never seen a thing like it.
But I do see where this is going. I sense it. For, like, a whole second I kinda become aware of my heart beating, of my breathing, it slows right down and I'm thinking of when people say your heart is in your mouth and I'm waiting, waiting for it to jump up there, and then my eyes go wide, real wide, like the dude with the winning ticket in the lotto ads, and then ... then I'm frozen. I'm cold all over as Mad Macke starts dancing in a hail of bullets.
'Macke!' I look away, just can't face it.
Ben Castillo's calling again. I know what he wants but I switch off the cell and take out the battery. Thanks be to God I don't need to score today.
****
Bastards going through my drawers, tipping up my mattress. They're taking away my laptop. I'm seriously pissed now. They better not wipe my favourites. I got sites of importance marked.
'Hey, hey ... that's mine!'
'We're taking it,' says Suit Dude.
'Why? I mean, why would you ever?'
This suit dude's playing wise-ass with me. He has that doughnut-munching lard-assed grin of his cocked to one side as he floats around the trailer like he owns the place now.
'Sir, I'm not at liberty to disclose that information.'
'This is about Macke, don't shit me … We all saw him on Fox.'
'We understand you were a known associate of Mr Macke.'
'Known associate … What the …? We worked the meatpackers together, if he wants to go blow the hell out of horny toad skinks on national television, it's not my concern …' I try to hold onto the laptop. 'Look, leave this, huh? Leave it with me, huh? I need it, dude.'
He watches me place hands on the computer and quickly jerks it away.
'No can do, son.' He smiles, a creepy one. 'You won't be needing it where you're going, anyway.'
'What? Where's that?' I'm thinking the joint, or worse.
He doesn't answer. Stamps on my pipe; the glass breaks underfoot. I see that grin of his again and I'm thinking, you bastard. I wait to see if there's a look, a giveaway, a flash of lizard skin, but this dude's too cool for school. Smiles a full-on smirk and tips me a wink. But he's way too fast with that wink.
'Come on, son, time to go.'
I raise myself up. Wish I'd changed my screensaver, formatted my hard drive. Wish I'd never gotten the addiction in the first place.
His hand feels cold, real cold, on my shoulder as he directs me into the black Dodge. The glass in the window is thick, I'm thinking bullet-proof as Suit Dude watches me for a moment from the sidewalk. His eyes are big and round, dark and cold and ugly. I feel sucked into those eyes; as the driver starts up, I can't pull my gaze away.
That's when it happens.
In just one second, one brief moment like no other in my entire life, a black forked-tongue flicks out from his mouth.
In an instant – it's gone – replaced by another grin.
'Let me out of here!' I'm sweating, my mind's telling me it's just a flashback – bad acid, maybe – man, that's all it is. The addiction. But my heart's telling me Dicko's got me. Holy shit, Dicko has got me.
The wheels spin, tyres screech. There's a lot of smoke coming up from the street as we get going.
'Let me out, let me out!'
They're smiling, laughing. All the way to the Interstate they're laughing. I cover my ears, but I can still hear them. I close my eyes, but I can still see that lizard tongue flashing at me. That reptile skin, soon to be revealed. I see them writhing in the sun, slithering. I try to shut it out, but they're there, they're in my mind. Locked in there like Mad Macke in that cold-store box at the city morgue. Like the big old wide-assed hogs hanging at the meatpackers, their mouths spewing and laughing on their last chuckle, frozen fast as the bolt gun clapped shut and blew out their brains.
I've seen them now, lizards. I know they drink blood, they do. They do, I know.
'Dicko, you evil bastard,' I yell so loud my ears hurt. 'Dicko, Dicko you bastard! God damn you to hell!'
###
Thanks
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Tony Black
About the Author:
Tony Black is an award-winning journalist and the author of some of the most critically acclaimed British crime fiction of recent times. His Gus Dury series features: Paying for It, Gutted, Loss and Long Time Dead, which is soon to be filmed for the big screen by Richard Jobson. A police series featuring DI Rob Brennan includes: Truth Lies Bleeding and Murder Mile. He is also the author of the novellas The Storm Without, R.I.P. Robbie Silva, Long Way Down, Last Orders and The Ringer. His first novel outside the crime genre, His Father's Son, was described by Lisa Jewell as 'Soulful and stunningly written ... a future classic'.
Visit his website at: www.tonyblack net for all his latest news.
Table of Contents
Praise
LONDON CALLING
London Calling
Hound of Culann
Last Orders
Pretty Boy
This Charming Tam
Jailbait Stalemate
KILLING TIME IN VEGAS
KILLING TIME IN VEGAS
THE LONG DROP
on us — we were always going to go to shit. The Toyota came to rest on its roof; Craven watched the wheels spinning and shook his head. He tried to crack his backbone into place. 'The car's fucking finished. We're finished.' 'Oh, y'think?' said Lois. She had a deep cut above her left eye, it looked like jello when she dabbed it with her shirtsleeve. As her flannel rode up I saw the SIG Sauer was still tucked in her waistband. That was something. 'You need to get rid of that,' said Craven, '' we're finished!' She turned to me, gave a slight sigh, then looked back to her shirtsleeve. 'Oh, I'm good for now.' Her tone was enough for Craven to fire up. 'Someone's been killed. We're fucked.' He strode forward and flagged his arms like he'd lost control again. Lois didn't like that. The way her lip twitched, the way she narrowed her eyes ... I could almost smell her anger. She removed the pistol. I knew to look away. For a second, the spinning wheels of the car were lit by the muzzle flash. **** I'd met Craven at NA, it was three weeks after my split with Pam, two weeks before Lois crossed the dark divide into the long drop that was my life. Craven was an old hand at kicking; he was wrapped far too tight for the real world and meth was his crutch. I liked to think I had the edge on him in that regard. When I used, it was because I was bored. Or working a job. 'So, how'd you end up here?' Craven collared me at the coffee counter; he twitched and oozed sweat from his heavy brows. His hairline was receding and some freckles on his crown looked like they were ready to slide down his face. 'Do I know you?' He shot up his hands. 'Whoa, easy cowboy!' 'Don't call me that, please.' 'You object to being called cowboy? Or, you're just not real friendly?' The tone was queer, but I didn't have him down as a homosexual. Either way, it had taken less than two minutes for me to tire of him. 'I don't like people messing with me.' 'Well, fuck you!' He made a dramatic flourish with his coffee cup; some grey liquid spilled on the floor. A few heads turned. I moved off, found a vantage point by the doorway — it seemed a good place to assess the crowd. I soon had them sussed. The room was full of trembling, bug-eyed losers, all except the one. I watched over the cold decaf as Craven made a bee-line for her. I wished I had his courage — Pam had taken that. **** The lot held only two vehicles, three if you included the trail bike a group of kids were using to burn doughnuts on the asphalt. I watched them from below a to-let sign hung over the door of a long-vacated HoJo's. The neighbourh
ood had lost its sparkle. Brownstones were being boarded-up left and right; cops kept clear. 'This'll do,' said Craven. 'You sure?' I said. 'Oh, yeah ... these Toyotas, can't kill 'em with an axe.' I took his word. Watched him approach with his steel rule outstretched; it didn't take him long to make the ignition kick, then the engine purred to life. I ran to the passenger's door. Craven gunned the gas. As we drove he lit a Montecristo; said it was 'his thing' on a job. I didn't question it — I had met a lot of guys with strange rituals and superstitions. This wasn't any take down, though. We'd moved up a league. The thought made me edgy. 'Hey buddy boy ... you keeping it together there?' said Craven. I turned to face him, 'Me?' 'You think I'm talking to Mr Magic Tree? Fucking-A I mean you.' 'Don't worry about me.' His voice dropped, took on a mocking tone, 'Oh but I do buddy boy ... I do.' 'Cut the shit, Craven ... just spit it out, where you going with this?' He started to laugh. He laughed me up. 'I ain't going anywhere ... and neither are you! Isn't that what your little woman used to say?' I felt a rush of adrenaline enter my veins; I grabbed the SIG and pushed it in his throat. 'Pull this fucking piece of shit over now.' His face changed colour, dropped several shades. His mouth turned down towards his chest, as he grabbed for breath his words came falteringly. 'Jesus ... I'm, I'm ... only messing with you, man.' I moved the gun from his throat to the middle of his temple. 'How many times do I have to tell you? I don't like people messing with me ... Pull the fuck over!' **** The job was bloody; I never meant for it to be that way. I knew Lois wouldn't approve; she had insisted on one thing only — no body bags. We'd cleared the city, made the highway in good time but Craven wasn't in any kind of condition. I took the wheel from him but I wasn't in much better shape. She was only a girl. 'Man, this is wrong, dead wrong,' Craven whined. 'Shut the fuck up!' 'Why was she in the middle of the road?' 'I said shut the fucking hell up, Craven. He rocked to and fro on the passenger seat. Tears streamed down the sides of his face as he tugged at the few tight red curls that sat above his neck. I could see the streaks of blood where he'd cradled her head on the front of his jeans, it had already dried dark on the pale blue denim. 'What was she, man ... six?' I couldn't listen anymore. It was his fault; he rolled out way too fast after we cut Pam loose. Craven had fucked up twice now — tested our luck — and that was fucking fatal. If I had to produce the gun again I'd fire it in his face; make that two body bags. 'Craven, listen ... now listen. Are you listening?' I needed him to chill out; for all our sakes. He sobbed louder, brought his knees up under his chin. 'We have to collect Lois from the drop ... if she has the money, we can still make this work. Do you hear me? We can still clear out … go our ways like we planned. Only richer, a hell of a lot richer.' Craven didn't answer. As the wind and rain picked up, and the sky darkened I started to think of Lois. It had all been her idea — the kidnapping. I had never had a thought to it; not even when Pam had turned me out without a dime, not even then. There was something about that line of business that brought nothing but bad luck; that's what the old boys said. But Lois was certain we could pull it off ... 'You don't need to be part of the gig ... just feed us what we need to know,' she had said. I never believed her. I knew better, but Pam had taken something from me and I wanted to take something from her. Christ Almighty, my mind was ablaze. I was full of thoughts of the past, the present meant nothing to me, and Lois had this way of making me believe anything was possible. Anything at all. **** Craven pulled the Toyota into the side of the street. The SIG started to feel heavy in my hand; my palm was sweating. If he had made contact with the mark then we were finished before we'd even started. We were skating close to the edge on this job as it was; it would take one look from Pam, one hint that I was back in her ambit and her father would have her locked-down by security. Billionaires are funny that way about only daughters. 'What the fuck do you know about what Pam used to say to me?' Craven knew he'd fucked up. He had set about riling me, taking me for a ride … but he hadn't thought it through properly. He didn't see where his joking would end. 'I ... I ... didn't do anything.' He looked pathetic, his eyes looping in wide circles, searching for some answer that was never going to come. 'I didn't do anything ... Is this fucking kindergarten? ... Am I playing with you, here?' 'No. No ... I …' I smacked him with the gun. His cheekbone opened up, a little blood spilled out. 'Tell me now ... when did you speak to her about me?' He turned to his lap, looked at his palms. 'In the diner.' I hit him again, the force of it sprained my wrist. 'What did you say to her?' 'She didn't know me ... she didn't know who I was ... I just sat next to her at the counter and she asked me to pass the mayo ... we started talking and she said something about an ex she had. I just put two and two together ... that was it. I promise. She had no idea who I was ... she'd never know me again. I promise. I promise you …' I took the SIG in my other hand, I was ready to blow his fucking dumb head through the window. 'Craven, you stupid motherfucker. You stupid son of a bitch … you never heard of tempting fate?' **** If I had been anything like the man I once was I would have pulled the trigger myself, but he was gone. Pam had turned me around, made me believe I could change ... and I did. I had changed so much that I wasn't capable of living the life anymore. I'd grown soft; that's what the meth was about. It was recreation to begin with, a break from carrying shopping bags in Beverly Hills, some kind of reminder of the old days, the old kicks. I knew I'd taken it too far. Pam knew that too — or maybe she was right when she said I was never going anywhere. 'What the fuck happened?' Lois yelled. Her blonde hair was tied back tight from her face, it made her look harder than usual, her features seemed severe as she squinted through the falling rain. 'Get in! I shouted.' 'What the fuck's going on?' She looked at the dent on the fender, where Craven had hit the girl … throwing her little body in the air. 'What happened?' I let her get inside the Toyota, she looked at Craven rocking to and fro and yelled at me again, 'Tell me what the fuck is going on …' 'Take this, keep it on him. She took the SIG Sauer from me.' 'What is this?' 'Never mind ... Did you get the money?' Lois wrestled the rucksack off her back, stayed calm. 'Every dime … let's hope we get to hold onto it.' I gripped the wheel tighter. I was already upping the revs as we sped into the rain. Lois spoke. 'Now, what happened back there?' Craven was stirring, 'We're finished ... the girl. That poor fucking girl.' 'What's he on about?' I tried to keep the needle below eighty but I was desperate to put some distance between us and the scene. I felt a cold gun on my ear, 'I'm not going to ask again,' said Lois. 'We killed a fucking little girl ... she was in the fucking road!' Lois turned back to Craven, he was still cradling his head in his hands as I yelled, 'You fucking killed her ... you dumb bastard! You killed that girl when you spoke to Pam in the diner.' 'No. No. No.' Craven mumbled and sobbed. 'You burned our luck ... You fucking burned us!' Lois couldn't take it anymore; she exploded. 'You spoke to her? You fucking spoke to the bitch!' She levelled the gun at him. I turned, saw her eyes widen, her breathing stilled. I tried to grab the gun — her shot broke the windscreen — I went to right the wheels but the car was on the verge already. I pumped the brakes but it only made matters worse. We fell into an uncontrollable skid. The second the car turned over on its roof, I thought we were all dead. As we rolled to a stop I wished I had died. Outside I tried to find the courage to go and take the SIG from Lois but I knew Pam had been right about me all along, I was going nowhere. A little girl had died, but I did nothing. Sometimes it was the thing to do. Daddy's Girl Ben the gimp racked up another bottle of Bud, leaned over the bar, real conspiratorial, then blurted, 'He was fucking her for years, y'know.' I thought, not again. Some guys see you with an eighteen-year-old in hot-pants, they get off on this shit. I grabbed the Bud, watched a white head of grog float over the edge and caught it on my tongue. 'Straight up,' said Ben. He eyeballed me real close, even let a fly settle on the bar, blinked at it, thought about a swipe, thought again; watching me was obviously more interesting to him. I slurped the beer. Ben's jaw jutted, a jagged line of crooked teeth poked up like fence-posts ... and, what was that, drool? He
was drooling as he waited for me to go postal. Riding me for a move; the signs were more subtle in the Joint. 'So, you, eh ... you know? Gonna take care of it?' he said. I'd been out just long enough to know what passes for shit-stirring on the street. If I was cracking heads through, Ben was topping my list right now. I lowered the Bud. 'You wouldn't be making trouble, would you, Ben?' He swatted at the fly. Missed. Moved back from me real fast and flicked a bar-towel over his shoulder. 'Fuck off! Trying to be a mate that's all.' He did the petted lip thing, my little sister Kimmy used to do this when she was about eight, nine ... no later than ten, for sure. I still remembered her ways. 'A mate, eh?' 'Too right, try and do a man a good turn and what do you get?' He didn't know what he was saying; he was still pumped on the rush from the job. 'I dunno, Ben, you tell me ... what's a good turn?' He got that faraway look in his eyes. Slapped palms on the bar, leaned in again, 'I'm telling you straight down the middle ... that girl bangs like a truck stop door! She's my sister, I should know ... there's more to being in this crew than lapping about in my old man's Mustang.' He wrapped the bar-towel round the pumps; the fly settled down on the bar again. I swatted it with the heel of my hand; showed Ben the blood and guts, little legs still twitching. He turned down the corners of his mouth, dropped brows. 'That's fucking gross.' 'You want gross, Ben?' There was no one in the bar to see the muzzle flash, hear the shot or Ben's cry as the bullet lodged between his ears. **** The Mustang started first time. Beautiful set of wheels. Always loved these old cars. 'It's junk,' Angie had said when her old man offered it to me. 'Junk ... girl, this is quality. Genuine piece of American history, this is!' She flicked her hair back, those dark-blonde curls making waves like the ocean behind us, 'I'm hungry, let's eat.' I took her to Maccy Dees on the Point, out by the auto-mart. I liked to listen to the crickets at this time of night, smell the imported eucalyptus breezing in over the burn of gas and burgers. 'What do you want?' said Angie. 'I'm good, thanks.' 'Not even a Coke?' 'Maybe a Coke, small one.' She smiled as she spoke into the clown's nose, ordered herself a Big Mac, sprung for the 'Go Large' option when she was asked. As she leaned over she exposed her lower back above her trackies ... how did she stay in shape and eat all that comfort food? We drove to the back lot. Gulls were scratching on the nature strip. Angie devoured the burger and fries, then set about washing it all down with the Coke. 'Daddy has some work for you?' She wiped her chin as the Coke dribbled down the side of the cup. 'Oh, yeah.' 'Yeah, says it's something you'll like—' she opened the cup, took out an ice cube. 'Like?' I liked two things, playing the ponies and the other ... Angie climbed over the stick-shift, popping the ice-cube in her mouth. 'Mmh-hmh,' she said, fiddling with the cord on her trackies, and passing the ice-cube from her mouth to mine. Was it all just a game to her? **** I was making good time on the highway. The Mustang took its time lapping in the 'burbs, but out on the proper roads — no problem. Had the needle touching 70-mph. Always made me jumpy travelling at speed on the way to a job. Never on the way back. Amazing how some sirens, few Mars lights, helps you get your shit together. I felt hot, must have been a 30-degree day, in country LA, you remember those with a fondness, mostly. The sides of the highway, the verges and trees, were burnt yellow. Not even a bird digging for a feed. Out the back of the car a trail of dust kicked up. I could feel sweat forming on my spine. Drops ran down my forehead, got in my eyes. I took the sleeve of my shirt and wiped. I was coming into Venice as the cell phone rang on the passenger seat. 'Yeah, it's Jonny here ...' The voice on the other end was one I recognised straight off. 'Why the fuck are you not where you're supposed to be?' said Patto. What was I gonna tell him? I'd thought of blowing him out? That it was a last-minute change of heart? I went with: 'I got ... side-tracked.' Patto roared. I could hear the Irish coming into his voice; most parts, I'd say it was left in the old country, but now and again it came back ... usually when he was about to go Ned Kelly on someone's ass. 'Now, you listen here ye little gobshite, I will permanently end your ability to play the hard fuck by removing your tongue and any other protuberance I find to my feckin' fancy if you are not at exactly where you are supposed to be in the next fifteen minutes ... do I make myself feckin' clear?' Those Irish, real way with words. I clicked the cell to end the call. **** Patto saw me pulling up in the Mustang and burst a blood vessel. 'You dumb Yankie fucker, what the hell are you bringing that piece of shit for?' I wound down the window, it played on his nerves, kind of accentuated the car's vintage. 'It's your car.' 'I know it's my feckin' car ... holy mother of God, that's why ... look, fuck it!' He called over to his feckless son, yelled at him: 'Ben, get those feckin' plates changed ... and stick a feckin' rocket up yer arse would ye!' We were late already. Later now, with the plates change. I gunned the engine. Patto and Ben sat silently in the backseat; Patto running a hand over a Mossberg 12-gauge. I thought it looked a very sexual movement. Wondered what Freud would say? I saw Ben and Angie watch him too; they didn't seem to have the same feeling as I did. They didn't see it as sexual ... it was fear I saw in their eyes. The Mustang was a noisy car to take about town. The revs attracted glances. 'This will never feckin' do,' said Patto. I pushed him, 'Want to back out?' He put the shooter to my head, 'Don't feckin' rile me, laddie.' Ben placed an open hand on his father's shoulder, 'Come on, calm it! We got a job to do, right here and now.' It had the desired effect; Patto settled. I knew I never had that level of influence on my father. If I had, maybe Kimmy would still be with us. I screeched the tyres to a halt. We dived out — masks on. Angie was the first. Fearless. I guess she felt she had the least to lose. The driver of the security truck had too little time to react before Ben put a round through the gap in his visor. He turned to his father grinning like an imbecile as the man twitched in his death throes. 'Drop the fucking box!' yelled out Angie. The second guard stalled, his eyes fixed on the dead driver where he lay, head contents spilled on the asphalt. 'I said drop the fucking box!' This time he complied. Angie took the box and keys from his belt, then led the way back to the Mustang. Inside of five, we were done. I drove back to Patto's bar. **** After the gunshot Patto came running through from the back holding the Mossberg out in front of him. I had my Glock aimed on his shoulder, dropped him easier than tagging cattle. Angie appeared at his back, fists full of dollars from each hand fell all over him as she looked down. I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to see her sigh, in relief. I wanted to see her run to me, open arms, shower thanks on me. She cried. 'Angie,' I said. I put the Glock in my belt, went to her. Patto writhed on the floor, tried to get to the shooter. I picked it up. 'Angie, why the tears?' She couldn't find words. Breath was trouble. She raised hands to her face. 'He's in pain.' 'So fucking what?' I said. Patto slapped about on the floor, grimaced in agony. She started to pat her cheeks and make bellows of her face. 'He's in pain.' 'So fucking what?' I repeated. I knelt, put the Mossberg in his face. Patto yelled out: 'Arggg, Jonny ... you're fucked!' I wanted Angie to see him in agony, the way he'd seen her in agony — I hauled her down. 'Look at his face, remember that ...' I grabbed Patto's hair, he screamed as I smacked at his head, 'see the way he's squirming, trying to get away?' She looked, her eyes wide. All colour left Angie's face. She was white as an angel, just like Kimmy, in her coffin. 'Angie, see him.' I wanted her to see her father in pain, but more than that I wanted her to see him in terror. The kind of terror he'd inflicted on her since she was a child. 'Angie, see him ...' She froze. I think she understood. I took the shooter and aimed it at Patto, but couldn't pull the trigger. I threw the gun down, it was too easy a way out for him. 'You dirty fucking bastard, your own daughter, how could you ...? Your own daughter. How? You fucking animal.' I knew the words I wanted to say, they came easily. They were the same words I'd wanted to say to my own father when Kimmy died; before he took the easy way out to avoid the back-lash. 'You dirty bastard, you dirty fucking bastard ... your own daughter.' I was crying. I could see the tears falling on Patto's chest. The look on his face was defiant though, he couldn't care what he'd done. He smiled, laughed at
me, 'You dumb bastard ... the hoor loved every minute of it!' I couldn't move as the Mossberg went off behind me. I felt my ears ring. One side of me went numb. I turned to see Angie holding the gun. She was motionless. Her face was cold, firm. Dark blood pooled on the floor under Patto's groin. Enough of This Shit Already Shopping is, like, my way of getting over Steve ... until the meds kick in anyway. I'd been to Wal-Mart buying stuff I don't need or want — picked up my fourth pair of Ugg boots for Chrissakes — had them under my arm as Brad Johnson squeezes beside me in the elevator to math class, starts his shit again. 'Been trappin'?' he says, leaning in close enough to let me know he'd sprung for a second chilli-dog at lunch. 'Excuse me.' 'What Dad calls it when my mom comes back all bagged up like a fur trapper,' a laugh on his last word, like, for no reason. This jock shit has me weirded out, but I've got good cause. The elevator jolts and Brad rocks forward on the heels of his Nike Airs. I get a feel of his semi and I'm thinking, whoa ... that stuff about me putting out is such fiction already. But my heart's racing. Pounding and pounding because this is my first day back after ... The Incident. Brad and I haven't even spoken about The Incident. 'This is my floor!' I say, edging away real fast, I'm sweating, shit, this is too full-on. 'Your floor, my floor ... I don't mind one bit!' That's not even funny. Six weeks past, at Trish Jacob's party, Steve caught Brad on top of me, doing stuff. I was way out of it, can't remember a Goddamn thing. But Steve and me are so over now. And Brad, I just feel way too strange around him. Real strange. I'm shaking as I turn to push the button and he smiles at me, moves in close, all slimy-like. In the polished elevator door I see him eyeing my ass, pursing his lips and flicking out his tongue like a snake or a lizard or something. It's all for his jock buddies, they high-five, and I want to hurl. No shit, I want to throw chunks here and now. Brad's hot hands grab my hips, pull me back. His semi feels more like a hard-on now. I can't move, I want to say something but I'm too choked, what a wimp-out! 'You remember this, Alana?' he says, smiling, laughing. My heart goes from flat-out to stopped in a second. I feel chills all over me. But I remember nothing. Ding! The elevator stops — a judder passes through me. I shake off Brad's hands and run out. I'm in such a rush I nearly drop my new Ugg boots. **** 'Hey, someone's been to the stores, let's see,' says Louisa. She comes running over and takes my bag with the boots, 'Oh my God, Alana, these are so awesome!' I'm too pissed to respond, my heart is, like, racing as I think of Brad and his buddies laughing at me. What the hell were they saying? 'What the fuck is this?' cries out Louisa, she holds up a little white box I took from the pharmacy. I mean took, I'd never stole before but I couldn't bring myself to buy it. I'm acting real strange since The Incident. I snatch back the box, tuck it away. 'It's ... you know, a test.' I whisper on the last word. Louisa's eyes widen, she drops her voice lower than mine, mouths the shape of the word: 'Pregnancy?' I nod. Louisa rolls her eyes, 'But, you and Steve ... I thought you never did it!' I can take hearing his name from Louisa, she's my friend, she makes me laugh, but I still don't like it. 'We never.' Louisa sticks her tongue in her cheek, rolls up her eyes again, 'Oh.' I don't think she understands. Shit, I don't think I do. **** I sit through math but I don't think I'm learning a frickin' thing. My head is full of Steve and how I'd promised he'd be my first and the way his face looked when he said about catching me with Brad. He roared and cried and said I was like all the other dumb chicks jumping in the sack with an asshole just because he gets 'Daddy's Porsche on weekends. I cry, too, when I see the little white stick go blue. I cry and it hurts because I don't know why I'm crying. Is it because that's my life, like, over already? Or is it because I've done one more thing to hurt Steve? I don't know anything anymore. 'Alana, you dumb bitch,' I say. I've been sitting in the girls' john for an hour; it took me so long to build up the courage to pee on the little white stick but now I have the answer I wish I didn't. I wish I was never born, Christ, how did this ever happen? I pull up my panties and take Mom's gun from the strap thing on my leg. Mom loves this little gun; she saw it in a movie once and Dad bought it for her, strap thing and all. She laughed and laughed that day. That was a long time ago. All the happy days seem a long time ago now. I look at the gun, it's small, says Beretta on the side but Mom calls it her Bobcat, like, why? I dunno. I don't know anything. I don't even want to think about anything. I put the gun in my mouth and close my eyes but I can't pull the trigger. All I see is, like, my mom and dad and grandpaw crying and crying and crying and the tears are just too much. I don't want to cause anymore tears. I didn't want to cause any tears, ever. **** 'Hey, Alana ... how 'bout a replay?' shouts Brad to me. Am I, like, underwater or something? My mind feels all fuggy, could be the tears but I feel changed. My thinking just doesn't work. Dr Morgan said I'd feel different when the medication kicked in, but I don't think this is what he meant. 'Are you talking to me?' I shout back. Brad's jock buddies slap him on the back, there's white teeth lighting up the whole corridor as all the queen bitches stop to stare and you could hear a fuckin' pin drop, like they always say. 'That night at Trish Jacob's place was, ehm, y'know ...' I sure as hell don't know. 'Was what?' More back slapping, one of the goofballs gets so excited he drops a folder, papers swirl about when the door to the schoolyard opens and the breeze takes them. Brad puts his hands out. 'What, you don't remember?' I shake my head. I'm just so glad Steve's moved to Lincoln High and can't see any of this. 'Well, how about I give you a re-run tonight?' This is, like, tennis or something, eyes flitting up and down the hallway to catch what I'm gonna say next. I don't even know, only, I've said it before I realise. 'Okay, sure.' The silence breaks into uproar. 'Woop-woop-woop,' carries down the hall and Brad's buddies try to lift him up. The noise brings out Mr Martinez from the history department and he smacks his hands together to get everyone to shut the hell up. Soon all I hear is the queen bitches slipping past me and muttering 'slut' over and over. Like I give a fuck, now. **** The black Porsche 911 is sat outside our front porch for, like, maybe a minute before Brad's hitting the horn and yelling. 'Who is that?' asks Mom. 'No one,' I say. 'Don't you lie to me, missy!' She goes to the window, pulls back the drapes. 'What in the name ... who do you know drives a car like that, Alana?' 'No one!' I'm pulling on my Ugg boots and then I'm running for the door when Mom starts to flap. 'Now, just you hold on a minute my girl ... I know you've been a little out of sorts but remember what Dr Morgan said about taking things easy!' 'Mom ...' The horn again. 'Alana, I don't think running about all over town is the way to get your head together.' 'I'm not running about, Mom ... I'm just ...' 'Alana, I never ... I didn't mean that.' She looks concerned, starts to undo her apron strings at her back, then moves towards me with her hands reaching for my face. 'Mom, please.' She clasps her hands round my face, her eyes are all misty as she says, 'You're such a pretty, pretty girl my darling ... You could have anything you want, anything in the whole world.' I want to say, 'Anything?' Like it's a real choice or something, but I know it's not. I can't have Steve. I pull away and run for the door. I can hear Mom yelling after me as I get into the Porsche. We drive, like, forever. Brad talks and talks about a whole heap of crap, what the Dodgers need to do next, how his daddy knows President Obama, his vacation in France and England and wherever. Eventually, we're parked out by the flats. They have crags and rocks out here and they say some serial killer used a scope-gun to shoot kids who were making out way back. I dunno if that's true, but it's what they say. I think about that a little as Brad turns off the engine and swivels round to face me. He has that shit-eating grin of his on. I never noticed before now but the grin's crooked, too. 'So, here we are,' he says. 'Yeah.' He sits on the edge of his seat with his crotch facing me, like maybe that serial killer's scope-gun once looked. He touches his lips, sways a bit. Goes on and on. Says Steve's name, like three, maybe four times, I lose count. I'm, like, hearing Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, and I'm thinking, why? Why's he keep on him? Enough. Enough already. All the while I just look into him and want to hear this is all, like, a nightmare or something. That my life's a
bad dream I'm soon gonna wake from. But I don't hear it. Nothing like it. 'Hey, c'mon, you know I wanna fuck you again, Alana, and I know you ain't getting none from old loverboy Steve, so I'm guessing you could do with the action.' This is the best he can do? I'm tuned in to what he's saying and I'm, like, is that it? We done? You had your say already? He reaches out and tries to pull me towards him but I pull away. 'Oh, I get it.' 'You do?' 'Yeah, you want some stuff.' 'Stuff?' Brad goes into his jacket and pulls out a baggie, I can see a little white powder in the corner. He takes a few pinches and lays out a line on the dash and offers it to me. 'Go on, it's what you want.' I shake my head. 'Go on, go on.' 'I don't do drugs, Brad.' Now he does the eye-roll thing and looks through me. 'Oh, yeah.' 'What do you mean, oh yeah?' He starts to tie a knot in the baggie, tucks it back in his pocket. I ask him again, 'What do you mean, oh yeah?' 'Nothing, I mean, well ... you were pretty out of it back at Trish's place.' I feel my heart beat fast again. 'Yeah?' 'Hell, yeah.' He leans in again. I feel him start to breathe close to my neck. He starts to kiss me, then his hands move over me. Touching and grabbing. 'Where did you get the coke, Brad?' A laugh, then, 'Connections.' I feel his tongue come out, it runs up and down my neck, onto my chest. He starts to unbuckle his belt. It seems to take him, like, forever to draw down his zipper, but when I look up at his face I see he's grinning and trying to tease me or something, yeah, like he was some strip-joint dream boy, I don't think. 'Your connections, they can get you anything you want?' I say. He's on top of me now, pops it out, starts grinding, pulling at my panties. 'They can get me anything I want, baby.' He's grinning and acting like some frat boy who's just got the town slut in the back-seat of his daddy's Buick. I lay there feeling my head pushed against the door and my ass jammed against the stick shift and I want to scream but my voice is so weak I can hardly get the words I have to say out. 'Like Rohypnol?' He puts his hand on my ass, says, 'You know, Steve ain't coming back, Alana, why don't you relax?' He moves fast, now. There's no, like, struggling with buttons or straps or whatever, he's ripping at me. 'Stop!' I tell him. 'What?' He looks pissed with me. 'I can't stop now!' His hands move fast but mine move faster as I slip the Beretta out of the leg strap and point it at his crotch. As he feels the cold metal touch his balls his face looks white as death, but that might just be the moonlight. He's sure as hell stock-still ... until I pull the trigger. Blood splatters the window behind him instantly. I move the gun about and I'm firing and firing until there's smoke everywhere, so much I can taste it. For a moment, I lie there. I can feel the gun smoke burning my throat. My lungs fill up and I start to cough. Brad's mouth isn't crooked anymore. It flops open and his lips spill blood on me. I'm like, yeuch. He's a dead weight on top of me as I slide out from under him. I wonder, does he know why? Oh yeah, like I'd care if he did. Too Close to Call Marie had been at me for close to an hour when I flipped. Dropped beside her on the couch and cracked a knuckle on her brow. She flopped like a deflating sex doll. 'Well, what do you expect?' I said. 'Jesus Christ!' Pedro rose, put a greasy paw on her cheek. 'She's cold.' 'No shit ... tell me something I don't know, huh.' He went back to his window seat and lit a Lucky. The neighbour's Schnauzer started barking. 'Dog don't like it none,' said Pedro. I took up a football trophy and aimed it at his head. 'You want this?'' I'm only saying, bro ... No need to go all bugeyed on me.' I slammed down the trophy, said, 'Just shut up and give me a smoke.' Pedro smiled, his yellowed teeth looked like little fossils inside his old head. It was all his fault, this mess. I wanted to smack his teeth off the four walls. Bitchslap him a hundred times harder than I'd just done to Marie. Pedro tossed the pack. I sparked a match and put the Lucky to work. The taste came like old dreams as I tipped back my head and sighed. 'So, what's next, brother Mitch?' 'We sit tight.' 'We've been sitting tight for an hour now, Mitch. Cops gonna be coming by soon. Real soon.' He was riding me. In the Joint they tell you, someone starts riding, you take a breath. I took another belt on the Lucky. I wasn't ready to go back to beating off buttfuckers and an orange jumpsuit. Pedro knew this. He was clean — as clean as any wino crackhead motherfucker in Dodge. But my card was already punched. I rubbed my knuckles. They hurt like hell, sitting up in points like a row of KKK hoods. 'Well?' 'I'm thinking.' The Schnauzer barked like bad news. A beige saloon went past the window in slow-mo. 'Don't take too long.' I turned to eyeball Pedro, expected to see him grinning, perhaps perched on the end of a cigarillo like Eli Wallach in his most famous role. That's what the three of us were — The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. My mind ran amok ... I heard some of Eli's lines: There are two types of spurs, Blondie ... The type that come in through doors and the type that come in through windows. 'Get to the back of the fucking house,' I roared. 'What?' 'You heard me. Get off your ass and check the back's secure and lock the Goddamn door.' 'Are you for real?' 'Fucking A.' 'No door's gonna stop Mr Nightstick coming in.' I lost it. Ran towards him and yanked him by the collar. On his feet, I spun him and rabbitpunched the back of the head. His shoes flew out behind him, he stumbled out to the back door. As Pedro left, Marie let out a low, barely audible mumble. I bent at her side. She looked like she was coming round. 'Yo ... Marie, honey, you with us?' A groan. 'Guess not.' 'Mitch ...' she said. 'Yeah, honey. I'm here.' 'What happened?' 'I hit you. I'm real sorry.' I was aware how pathetic I sounded. 'You hit me. Why did you hit me, Mitch?' 'I've got a bucket of adrenaline racing through me and you flipped out. It was just instinct.' 'Mitch, you've never hit me before.' 'Honey, I'm sorry. I'll never do it again. I promise. Are you okay?' 'I guess.' I propped Marie up on the couch. She touched her head. I could see a red leaf-shaped stain forming on the skin. The contusion would be berryblack inside an hour. I felt time ticking away. We needed to move. 'Where's Pedro?' 'I sent him out back?' 'The money?' 'Still in the trunk.' 'Mitch, those cops didn't just come from nowhere.' I hoped she wasn't starting to push my buttons again; I knew the cops had been fed a line by someone and I'd lost my edge. 'They were tipped off,' I said. 'Who?' I looked to the door. 'Dunno.' I heard Pedro hammering down the window frames, it set the Schnauzer in the yard off again. 'Mitch, we've got to get out of here.' I looked to the window; the sun streamed in, painting an oblong block of yellow in the centre of the floor. 'Mitch ...' From where I sat I could see the car, front fender bashed, back window shot out. I was no wheelman, but I'd lost them. It wasn't meant to be like this. Simple job. In and out. Just stick to the rules. But they were waiting — two cops — for a bank job. Shit, these days a motorcycle courier forgets to take his helmet off and there's choppers overhead. 'Mitch, we have to move, now.' I turned back to Marie, her face was torn in misery, her upper lip trembling. If I didn't act soon, she'd need hosing down again. I wiped her brow, said, 'You good to go?' She nodded. 'Then sit tight, I've one more thing to do.' I stood up, walked through the door. In the hallway, I heard Pedro. He was whispering, or trying to, into his cell phone. 'I didn't know he could drive like that. How is I to know? You should have chased, chased ... the money's still here. Out front.' I reached round to the .45 tucked in my waistband and took off the safety. My heart pounded, I felt sweat gather on the back of my neck. This was my ticket back to the Big House. Even bent cops refuse to turn a blind eye to this kind of thing. I tasted the Joint's gruel and grits again, the smell of stale sweat, Bubba's necklock in the showers. I wanted to apologise to Marie once more. Fuck. Why did this shit keep happening to me? As the .45 clicked in his ear Pedro lowered the phone and turned. He looked at me as if I'd just beamed down from Venus. His lips drained of blood and turned grey. I wagged the .45 towards the phone. He moved his thumb to 'end call' and dropped the handset on the floor. I gave him a second for words. None came. My nerves shrieked, I felt the blood surge in my veins as I raised the gun to his head. 'Oh sweet Jesus, please, no ...' pleaded Pedro. 'He's not gonna save you now.' I blindsided him. Put my left through his eye, opening it up like a welt, the white shot through with red. He fell. I kicked him in the head. A flap of skin tore clear of his brow. More blood ran out. Lots this time. It looke
d like a coathanger abortion. He put both hands over his head. 'You made a mistake, Pedro.' I put the .45 to his head. He crouched, as if in prayer. I swear, he whimpered. I'd expected more of a put up. 'What else did you give them?' 'Nothing ... Nothing... Nothing ...' 'Horseshit.' I slapped him with the gun. 'No, I swear ... They don't know nothing.' 'My name?' 'No. I would never.' Somehow, I didn't believe a word of it. 'You lose, Pedro.' 'What?' 'The Game of Life.' He screamed like a loose fan belt. The Schnauzer kicked off outside the door. I hoped it would drown out the sound of the gun's discharge. I left him flat on his back. Dark blood covered the floor like a slaughter house. In the hall, Marie ran to me. 'Come, on,' I said. 'But?' 'Not now, get in the car.' I grabbed her arm and led her through the front door. Sunlight burst like an explosion all over the burnt-yellow lawn. I felt my guts begin to heave, felt for sure I'd hurl but somehow I kept it all in. My hands trembled, I couldn't get a grip of the keys, but Marie leaned over and helped me locate the ignition. God, I didn't deserve her, did I? I got the car started, and then suddenly, the Schnauzer came running, stopping still on the lawn. He turned his head to the side, made that dog look, one that says a million things and nothing at all. I pulled out on to the street. 'You good?' said Marie. 'Yeah, fine.' I took one last look in the rearview mirror, caught sight of the Schnauzer again. I could have swore the damn dog waved at me. I gunned the engine. Eat Shit 'He said that to you? ... I don't, you wouldn't shit me on this, Eddie?' Miami Mike carried two Buds back from the bar, he swayed a little — nights with old Eddie from the block could turn pretty tasty. 'He said it, I tell you now, God as my judge ... it's what he said, Mike.' Mike slammed down the Buds; white froth flowed down the sides and onto the table top. 'Whoa, calm the fuck down, man ...' The beer spill pooled on the chequered paper tablecloth, a red candle in a dancing-girl statuette, her hooters glowing from within, trembled in prelude to a fall. 'This kinda shit, it's way outta line,' said Mike. '' Run this by me again, from the top, don't leave anything out ... and I mean anything.' Eddie picked up his Bud, ran a hand over the bottleneck and slugged deep. His lips twitched. Nerves on edge and out there for all to see. 'Well, you asked ...' **** 'She's at it again, the fucking Party Queen,' said Gloria. Eddie struggled to the edge of the bed and wiped the sleep from his still-tired eyes. 'You're kidding me.' 'You can't hear her?' 'Honey, I took a bucket of Moggies, how else you think I sleep here.' Eddie slapped palms on his face, shook his head; it seemed like the neighbourhood joined in, 'Oh yeah, now I'm hearing ...' Gloria stood at the window and looked out with a face ominous as thunder. She tugged at the heavy drapes and light flooded into the bedroom. As he smarted, Eddie noticed the Lucky in her fingers; she'd started smoking again. It was the stress. He knew it was all wrong. They were being held to ransom in their own home. 'I can't take much more of this,' said Gloria, 'this is some kinda retirement!' Eddie rose, went to her side. He tried to take the Lucky from her; Gloria snatched her hand away. 'What are you going to do about this? We can't live like this anymore, Eddie ... we can't!' Gloria yanked open the window and roared: 'Turn that fucking music down you crazy fucking bitch! Turn it the hell down or I'll come over there and wrap that fucking boom-box round your scrawny motherfucking neck!' **** 'So that was the start of it, huh?' said Mike. 'Yeah, like I say ... since we moved from back East, all we had was like, y'know ... parties from the get go.' Mike leaned in, stroking the base of his Bud like it was a lapdog, 'She's round the clock with this?' 'Hey, buddy ... let me tell you, when we was growing up back in the old brownstone, we had it peaceful compared.' Mike looked thoughtful. Eddie scoured his mind for the word to describe him; he thought it might be contemplative. 'What're you thinking, Mike?' He rose, tipped back the rest of his Bud. 'Thinking it's your turn to get the Buds in, pal.' Eddie made the run to the bar. On his return he was careful not to spill any beer like Mike had done last time. 'Well, I'm all ears.' Mike played with the edges of his moustache, greying now, but the jaw was still firm. He was carrying none of the meat Eddie was. 'Then what happened?' 'The bitch's daddy came round, he's some big-ass lawyer, slapped a stack of papers on me and next I know I've got a restraining order and he's saying I harassed his daughter.' 'That it?' 'No, man ... he's suing my ass.' 'You spoke to this girl of his?' 'Man, yeah, 'course ... but nice, like … fuck, this is Miami, I ain't looking for no aggravation. I had enough of that thirty years renting Pintos to fat ass out-of-towners.' 'This restraining order ... what did it say?' Eddie sighed, lowered his eyes, rapid-fired on the Bud, 'That's the worst.' He put down the beer and stared at his palms like the answer was written there. 'Claims I sexually approached her.' Mike banged the table. The dancing girl fell over. The candle went out. 'The low motherfucker!' Eddie stayed silent. He looked at his oldest friend, his one remaining relic from childhood. He knew the look on his face, he'd seen it before. It was like back in '68 when he took the Louisville slugger to the basketball court, took down five, six guys who'd welched on a drags bet. 'Eddie, here's what you do — the next letter he sends you, you wipe your ass on it.' 'What?' Mike grabbed Eddie's arm, there was darkness in his eyes, Eddie had never seen this look before. The thirty years that had passed before they'd hooked up again held some blind spots ... he understood that now. 'Okay, okay ... but, then what?' Mike released his arm, 'I'll keep you posted.' **** A pool-side party was in full swing as Mike pulled up outside Eddie and Gloria's condo. It was a neat set-up, he thought. Sun-dried adobe brick, bit of a hacienda feel happening. Nice. He could see why Eddie had sprung for the condo, made their old stomping ground on the Lower East Side look just like the hell on Earth it surely had been. He lowered his mirrored Ray-Bans and scoped his friend's home. Looked quiet; drapes shut. No one home? Or, if they were, keeping totally out of sight. No way to live, thought Mike. Not at all. Not for an old friend of his. He retrod the times Eddie had shared his lunchpail with him when they were kids. Mike could still remember how it felt to have an empty belly. But he'd worked out of that world; so had Eddie, he deserved better. There was some dance music playing. Loud as all hell. Mike was five-hundred yards from the pool but he could still make out every line of Marky-frickin-Mark's Good Vibrations. It was obviously a track daddy's girl enjoyed. 'Yeah, do it, do it ...' said Mike. Pullman appeared: 'You want I should grab the slut?' 'Slut?' said Mike. 'Yeah, she's a slut, look the way she's dancing ... that's filth, man!' The girl was groin-grinding two beach bums, surfer-types with blonde bangs and over-tanned complexions. 'She's gonna have those guys dicks out like two ski-poles any minute, wait see.' Mike took off his shades, 'She's some piece of work alright.' 'Look, now ...' She took off her bikini top and tweaked at her erect nipples, the surfers poured beer on her breasts and she encouraged them to lick it off, 'See, I fucking told you!' 'Sexual suit, huh?' said Mike. 'Come again?' Mike put his shades back on and walked to the SUV. 'Yo, boss ... you want I should snatch her?' 'What for?' 'Take her to the border ... make her suck Mexican dick for a month — fifty cents a throw! ... See how loud she wants to play fucking Marky Mark then.' Miami Mike gunned the engine and motioned Pullman to get in. **** Daddy had a practice on the sweet side of the street. Old colonial mansion, painted white and bathed in sunlight. If there was royalty in Miami, they'd keep a joint like this. But Mike knew there was no royalty in Miami. Not the type with crowns and robes anyway. The royalty he knew carried Mossbergs in the trunk and hired people like Pullman to fire them. The lawyer wore a light linen suit, black shirt beneath with a flower-print tie. He topped the outfit off with red-toed cowboy boots. 'That's our man,' said Mike. 'You sure?' asked Pullman, 'Motherfucker looks like Boss Hogg!' 'That's him.' Mike didn't need to say anymore. Pullman got out the SUV and crossed the street. As he went, Mike watched his muscle-bound factotum walk towards the sidewalk. The SUV's windows were blacked out, they kept Mike's identity hidden from the street as Pullman grabbed the lawyer round the neck and wrestled him to the ground like a steer. It was a carefully-practised manoeuvre, all over in under a minute. The lawyer squealed like a stuck pig in the back of the vehicle.
It took two raps on the side of the head from Pullman to quieten him down. They drove out to the flats. It was hot, topping eighty Fahrenheit. A dust trail blew up behind them. When Mike stopped the SUV, he slowly turned to face the lawyer for the first time. 'Do you have any idea who I am?' said a crumpled suit, covered in blood from a fierce nosebleed. 'Do I look like I care who you are?' said Mike. The lawyer, flustered, raised a finger. 'I will, t-tell you ...' Pullman grabbed the finger, snapped it back. The lawyer shrieked then folded like a knife, cradling his hand. 'Look, boss he's crying ... Straight up, he's crying like a fucking girl. I never seen that before, you seen that before, boss?' Mike turned away, spoke quietly, 'Yeah, I've seen that before.' 'W-what do you want from me?' screamed the lawyer. Pullman laid a hand on his chest, 'Boss, let me ass-fuck him, please, huh?' Mike turned front again, watched Pullman in the rear-view, he saw him eye the lawyer up and down, grab his thigh ... 'Go on, Boss ... I ain't gave no one a good ass-fucking for the longest time.' Mike laughed. The lawyer seemed to let out a whimper, then wet himself. 'Man, he's pissed in his pants!' Mike stopped laughing, 'Get this piece of shit out of here.' Pullman opened the door and kicked the lawyer off the seat. He landed face down in the dirt. 'I think he lost some teeth that time,' said Pullman. The lawyer tried to run, his arms and legs splayed out like a newborn foal struggling on fresh limbs. Mike let him get a hundred feet before sending Pullman to the trunk. The first shot from the Mossberg stopped the runaway in his tracks. **** It was the strangest thing, thought Eddie, it had been quiet for days. Party girl seemed to have shipped out, then the 'For Sale' sign went up. A knock at the door amidst the silence startled him. 'I wondered if I may ...' It was the lawyer again; Eddie's heart sank. 'I ain't got a Goddamn thing to say to you, what is it now? You got a new suit to slap on me?' The lawyer raised his hands, 'No, no ... q-quite the reverse.' There was something strange about him, and it wasn't the Band-Aid above his eye, he seemed ... different, quieter somehow. 'Please, may I come in?' Eddie opened the door. Inside, the lawyer politely asked to sit. He produced a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch from his briefcase, 'I wanted to, a-hem, er, I wanted to offer my sincerest apologies for my daughter's over-exuberant behaviour ...' Eddie rose, ranted: 'You fucking roach! You tried to sue my ass ... you filed a restraining ...' He intervened: 'I-I know ... I was very misguided, it would appear I was misinformed ... may I offer my sincere apologies, and if I may also, I would like to compensate you.' 'What?' 'I did some calculations, you've been here for three months, is that correct?' 'Yeah. What the ...? You know I have ...' 'These condos attract four thousand dollars a month rental and so I thought twelve thousand would be ...' 'Fifteen,' spat Eddie. The lawyer fumbled for words, looked startled, his bead-eyes narrowed some more then seemed to wet up, 'But ... y-yes, of course. Fifteen thousand.' Mike's advice was playing to a tee, but Eddie wondered about the next part. He was ready to let it slide, accept the cheque and kick the guy out on his ass. But then lawyer daddy spoke up. 'I believe you have a letter of mine, if I may have it returned I w-would be most grateful.' Eddie went to the dresser where he kept the letter. He returned to the lawyer, slowly taking the document from its manila envelope, then he presented it: brown streaks of his own shit lined the length of the page. Slowly, trembling, the lawyer accepted the offering. He stared at it for a moment and then tore it with his teeth and began to chew on it. 'All the way down,' said Eddie. 'Y-yes, yes of course.' 'Eat shit!' said Eddie, smiling, 'Eat shit, you motherfucker.' I Want Candy I'd been working homicide for twenty years, but this kind of thing, you just didn't see every day. 'It's the pits, Jake.' 'The pits, that's it, that's what you got for me?' Billy's mouth dropped, but I wasn't finished. 'A pregnant woman, hacked to death with her child cut out of her, the strays in the alley eating her guts ... and that's all you've got to say?' 'Jake, I ...' 'Forget about it!' I hit out, could have taken down a wall with that one. Billy didn't see it coming. Fell on the asphalt and shook his head. He got up and walked, grimaced and flashed hurt blue eyes as he spat blood at me. Two days later they took me off the case. The next week it was my badge they took. Now I'm doing security in a 7-Eleven in Buffalo. Earning minimum wage and sending half of it back to my ex-wife upstate. You'd think life couldn't get any worse. But, maybe I was the guy lying in the gutter looking at the stars. **** 'Jake! Jake! Get your goat-smelling ass out here.' I swear that bastard tries to bigfoot me one more time, I'm popping' a cap in his wide old ass. I walk through to the front counter, with the Irish in me rising like a rain cloud. 'You want something, Mr Delago?' '' Course I damn well want something. Think I'm hollering for my health? Help this lady out with her groceries would you ... And put them in the trunk, too.' He turned that greasy head of his towards her, spat out one of those lousy piranha smirks of his: 'Always glad to help a lady,' he said, adding slyly, 'especially one so fine.' Delago got a smile back, but her eyes were on the roll of meat spilling over his belt. 'Much obliged to you, kind sir,' she said, turning tail and wiggling her ass at us both. Please. I mean, was anyone still falling for this Daisy Duke shit? I slung arms around the groceries and followed her out. 'I'm the Caddy,' she said, smiling, 'pink one.' I nodded and headed off in the direction of the shiny phallus, trimmed in chrome. All the while I could feel her eyeballing me, as she rolled a cherry liquorice between her lips. 'You look like you've been working out there, fella.' I'd heard all the lines, but most times, I hadn't been on the receiving end of them. As I popped the trunk I felt her hand stray onto my hip and knew I'd scored for sure. Perhaps this wasn't going to be such a hard stretch. **** I didn't tell Candy about my having been a cop. 'This place sucks,' she said. 'What do you expect? The sign outside says Rooms by the Hour.' 'We should've went to the Holiday Inn, at least they've got a pool.' I sat up, reached for my pack of Luckies on the bed-stand. 'I didn't know you wanted more exercise.' She smiled at me, climbed on top and stuck her hooters out like a cowgirl at a rodeo. 'Give it to me.' 'Honey, you're going to kill me.' 'The smoke, wise-ass.' I could tell she was restless. Always that look in her eye, darting off somewhere, searching for the next big adventure. Shit, that was the last thing I needed dragged along on, I'd way too much on my mind. 'I've got to get back to the city,' she said. 'New York?' 'Of course, where else?' She rolled off and parted her legs in the birthing position as she blew smoke-rings to the ceiling. 'This place hasn't got any action. And I need action.' I took back my smoke. 'You're not a big hometown girl, are you?' 'Shit no, I outgrew Buffalo long ago ... I'm here because I have to be.' 'And why's that?' She slit her eyes as she stared at me, changing tack again. 'You're a city boy, don't you miss the action?' 'This suits me fine. The less action the better.' 'Horseshit!' She sat up, shook the bed as she threw back her long blonde hair, 'You're just like me ... you're primed.' 'Get out of here.' Candy got up and jumped on the bed like it was a trampoline. My Lucky went flying and I landed on my ass, staring up at her from the floor as she stomped up and down like a five-year-old. 'Jake, I'm gonna rock your world,' she yelled. I didn't doubt it. **** Onetime there wasn't much could butter my muffin, but these days, I'm not doing too good keeping a lid on it all. Say what you like about me, and some have said plenty, but what sets me burning is the injustice of this world. Delago was riding me: 'Jake, Goddamn, how many times? How many times? Get that fucking deadwood away from the dumpsters.' He was talking about the winos. Most were there because they couldn't help themselves. But the point was missed on Delago. 'Have I got to get a bat and break their fucking heads myself?' he said, pointing at me with the chocolate shake he'd brought back from his second trip to Wendy's today. I held it together by a thread. 'Mr Delago, what you're proposing goes against the law.' 'Against the law ... hold on, remind me when you got out of Harvard Law School, Jake ... Huh, c'mon, remind me.' 'I'm only saying ...' He cut me off, waddled over and slapped a wet paw on my face, 'You ain't saying nothing, you'll do as ...' I tried counting to ten — by now I knew I had serious anger issues — but I only got as far as two. I took Delago's shake in my hand and squeezed so h
ard a chocolate-coloured volcano erupted all over him. His eyes turned black. He threw down the cup. There was words, loud words, but they bounced off my back as I walked. The sight of the winos scattering made me look around. I spotted Candy at the edge of the lot, blonde hair blowing wild as she leaned on the fire escape, sucking down a can of Sprite. 'Now, I know you're ready for some action,' she hollered. **** Does everyone become what they despise? My father had asked me that in high school. He probably had a reason, some incident, some mistake I'd made, whatever it was I didn't remember it now. 'Just sit tight honey-pie,' she said, 'and when you see me come running round that corner, you gun that motherfucker till she screams, y'hear?' I heard alright. I just didn't have the words. Dropped a vague nod. 'Good boy.' Candy leaned over, placed her wet red lips on my cheek and smiled. 'You'll do just fine.' As she left, her aroma lingered in the Caddy. That French perfume she wore, the smell of her hair, her scent. She was the whole package for sure. And right to think that most men would do anything for her. She wrapped them around her little finger to get what she wanted. She was used to getting what she wanted, regardless of the consequences. The bank was two blocks from where we'd parked. The back way out led right onto the alley where I sat drumming my fingers on the wheel — like a teenager hot to take the family sedan for a first spin. Time was lost to me. Could have been a half-hour, could have been minutes. But I was so keyed when I heard the gunshots, I had to open the door and heave my guts on the sidewalk. This was serious. What the hell was I doing? I tried to fix my thoughts, get in line. But I was shaking so hard I couldn't make the engine bite. Then I saw Candy, running. 'Start the fucking car!' she yelled. I couldn't get my hands to work. 'Start the motherfucking car!' I don't know where it came from but I found a thin dime's worth of cool, suddenly the Cadillac purred to life and I made those tyres screech louder than bush pigs fucking. Candy dived through the nearside window and waved me to burn the road up: 'Get the fuck out of here.' I heard the sirens now, saw the Mars lights speeding along the highway. I turned through the alleys. There was a drill for these things. I knew what the cops would be doing. I just had to hold in my guts and drive, slow and steady. 'What the fuck was wrong with you back there?' said Candy, climbing into the front seat and checking on the loot. 'I don't know.' 'You don't fucking know, no shit! That's exactly right.' 'Look, I ...' 'Don't go saying sorry to me, you know I hate men who say sorry. Man, you're one fucking candyass bastard to be taking along on a job.' She seethed with white-hot anger. 'I ...' 'Enough already. I told you, didn't I tell you?' She was hyped, madder than hell, the adrenaline twisting her face. I hardly recognised her now. Truth told, I hated this person and what she'd got me into; even if my intentions were pure. She turned on me. 'Man, you are one weak bastard, Jake ... I should have known better. That was nearly a repeat of NY, I didn't have you down as a Lottie Tanner, no I didn't.' That name sang like a pay cheque to me. 'Who?' 'The bitch on my last job, turned yellow on me, wanted to split before we sealed the deal ... She got hers.' I looked at Candy, she had a twisted smile as she counted the cash, 'How?' I said, my voice a soft plea. She turned to me, wiped off the smile. I swear that look in her eye came closer to evil than I'd ever seen. 'I carved her.' She made a slashing move with her arm. 'But I still delivered, I got the job done.' Candy looked back down at the cash, her mouth counting out the reams of bills. 'That name, Lottie Tanner ...' 'Yeah.' 'Think I might have heard it before.' 'Oh, really ...' 'Yeah, she came from Buffalo didn't she?' Candy looked up, her tone rose higher. 'You knew Lottie?' 'Only of her. And only professionally.' 'What the hell are you saying, Jake?' 'She was my last case.' I looked her in the eye. 'I was a cop ... some days I think I still am.' Candy's lip twitched. I saw her reaching into the bag for her Colt but my foot was already on the brake. Her head hit the windshield like a ten-pin strike. I stopped the car. Leaned over to Candy, put her hands behind her back and took off my belt to tie them. The words felt worth the wait, the work I'd put in. 'Time for a trip downtown, honey.' ### THE LOST GENERATION A lonely ex-pat in Paris finds himself acting out of character when a beautiful but troubled young woman walks into his meaningless work-fuelled existence in The Lost Generation, whilst an ex-con takes matters into his own hands when a bullying boss targets his new inamorata in Take it Outside; both stories feature in this new collection of short fiction by Irvine Welsh's 'favourite British crime writer', Tony Black. See a recent school-leaver react against the rigours of the workplace in First Day in the Job and witness the drug-addled descent into madness of a man forced to take the only job in a town peopled by junkies in Too Cool for School. These stories are collected here for the first time in an 8,000-word anthology. First Day in the Job originally appeared in Northwords Magazine whilst the rest of the collection featured in Demolition Magazine and the American anthology, Dicked. The Lost Generation The Lost Generation First Day in the Job Take it Outside Too Cool for School The