Black Neon

by Tony O'Neill

  “He said the worst thing was the smell,” he carried on through a mouthful of food, “After eight hours of fucking and getting high, Jacques said the place just reeked. He said they’d give off this distinctive, chemical smell… compared it to a mix between body odour, ammonia and the stink of a well-used peep show booth.”

  “Delightful. So why you telling me all of this? Your client has finally dragged his ass outta retirement to direct a movie for Kenny ‘douchebag’ Azura. So what?”

  “So… he wants to hire you.”

  Randal put his coffee down. “Come again?”

  Gibby leaned in close.

  “Listen Randal, this is on the down low, okay? Azura has given my client the go ahead to direct his dream project, a movie called Black Neon that he’s been working on the past fifteen years. He’s offering him fat pockets and total artistic control. Jacques needs a tour guide… someone who knows the drug scene over here. All of that shit you’ve shared about in the meetings. The street scene. The hookers. The dealers, the scuzzball motels. Hollywood, man… your Hollywood. He wants Black Neon to be set entirely in the LA drug scene with a cast made up of actual dope-fiends. It’s gonna have a script, but none of the on-screen action is gonna be faked. You ever hear of James Stein?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t he the guy who wrote Point of No Return?”

  “That’s him. We just got him on board to write the script.”

  From what Randal could remember, Stein wrote his bestselling book Point of No Return when he was a twenty-year-old Columbia student. It was a novel about the adventures of a group of rich, nihilistic, sex-crazed, coke-zombie Columbia students that was hailed as one of the defining books of its era. It sold millions, was adapted badly to the big screen, and made the author instantly famous. After that his career had mostly been one of diminishing returns and these days he was better known for his legendary cocaine habit and the string of young actresses and models he had been linked to in the pages of TMZ.

  “Jesus, so your dream team consists of a guy who hasn’t directed a movie in fifteen years and a writer who hasn’t written anything decent since the nineteen-eighties? This sounds like it’s gonna be great.”

  “I’d can the sarcasm if I were you. Azura is betting the house on Black Neon. He’s giving Jacques a blank check to make the movie, no interference from the studio. That’s why we can’t talk about what Jacques is actually planning… it might rock the boat with Chainsaw… but Jacques is offering you twenty thousand dollars for an inside track on the drug scene.”

  Randal was quiet for a moment.

  “He’ll pay twenty grand to see some Hollywood sleaze?”

  Gibby shook his head. “No. He don’t wanna SEE it Randal. He wants to LIVE it. He wants to smell it, touch it. Most of all… he wants to film it.”

  Randal nodded his head slowly, considering this. With his brother’s weekly allowance barely keeping Randal in groceries and gas money, twenty thousand had a nice ring to it. An especially nice ring when Randal considered the fact that it would actually be Harvey’s money, pissed away by that arrogant little fuckwad Kenny on a movie that sounded like it would sink like a stone. Randal absently fantasized about Kenny Azura leaving Dreamscape in disgrace, his career in tatters, after producing one of the most expensive flops since Paramount lost 130 million on Sahara.

  “One question. What’s the movie about? I mean, okay, he wants to set it in Hollywood. And he wants a bunch of junkies and whores starring in it. But what’s the film about?”

  Gibby laughed sourly and shrugged. “I haven’t got a fucking clue. I don’t really understand what the hell goes on in Jacques’ mind most of the time. The thing is, there’s no doubting that Jacques is… or was, at least… a really talented guy. I saw him change right after Dead Flowers came out. He was dating an actress, Isabella Simonelli. Beautiful woman, talented too. She was on the verge of an incredible career. At least she was until she fell in with Jacques. They used to call them “beauty and the beast” in the European press. Nobody could figure out what this woman saw in Jacques – he isn’t exactly what you’d call a handsome guy, you know? But I saw them together. They really were in love. She adored him. Jacques? He was fucking smitten. He’d glow when he was around her. The press followed them everywhere, people just… I don’t know. It was sad. How it all turned out.”

  “What happened?”

  “Car crash. They’d been at some party in St Tropez, both of them drinking, having a good time. It was around four in the morning. Jacques was flooring this obnoxious sports car he used to drive, and he told me they were passing a bottle of champagne back and forth… suddenly, boom. I guess he lost control. There was a terrible crash. She was flung through the fucking windshield and impaled on an iron railing.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Jacques emerged without so much as a fucking scratch on him. He told me even the bottle of champagne they’d been drinking survived intact. The capper was that when they did the autopsy, they discovered she’d been pregnant. Neither of them knew, according to Jacques. Well, the press… they fucking pilloried him. Called him a murderer, baby killer, monster, the works. I know he had to throw a lot of money at it to make it all go away, as far as the law was concerned. In the court of public opinion though he was found guilty as hell. He only ever talked to me about it once. He told me that she was the only woman he would ever love. He never said it to me in so many words, but I got the sense that he kinda gave up after that. When the media called him a pig, a degenerate, drug addict, fiend… I guess he just shrugged his shoulders and decided to give them what they wanted. If you ask me, that was the point that Jacques the persona took over. He also told me that the crash convinced him that he was immortal, if you can believe that. How could she die, Gibby, and I survive? How can all of my contemporaries OD or crack up or admit defeat and get clean, yet I keep going? It’s because I’m special, that’s why. Those where his exact words to me. Because I’m SPECIAL.”

  “He sounds pretty fucked up. You think he can hold it together long enough to finish this movie?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that some people – Kenny included – seem to think he’s a fucking genius, and that’s enough for me. You wanna know what Black Neon means to me? It means fifteen fucking percent. That’s what it means.”

  Randal smiled, and gestured towards Gibby’s margarita glass. “May I?” Without waiting for a reply Randal slid the drink over, brought it to his lips and guzzled it hungrily. He waved the empty glass toward the waitress and said, “Two more, por favor!”

  He turned back to Gibby, shivered, and said, “Goddamn, that was a good margarita. If you want my opinion, they got the best in the city.”

  “Fucking hell, Randal. Are you sure you should be drinking? You’ve been clean for months. Should I, like, call your sponsor or something?”

  Randal laughed. “My sponsor? You’re a fucking crack-up, man. Of course I still drink. How in the hell do you think I’ve made it this far without killing someone? Shit, Gibby, I’ll do it. Sounds like it’ll be interesting, to say the least.”

  “Great! I’m real happy to hear that, Randal. I’ll give Jacques your details, and he’ll be in touch to arrange things…”

  Gibby looked down at his empty glass, still looking unsure. “Seriously though… aren’t you worried about your, y’know, clean time?”

  Two more drinks were brought to the table. Randal picked up his glass.

  “Clean time is a state of mind,” he declared, “So long as I’m not strung out on crank, then as far as I’m concerned, I’m clean.”

  “Well, you’re the boss,” Gibby said cautiously, as they clinked their glasses together. “Cheers!”

  NINE

  On the car’s tape deck Sunnyland Slim was singing, “I’m gonna buy me a Johnson Machine Gun… and a carload of explosion balls… I’m gonna be a walking cyclone from Saginaw to Niagara F
alls…”

  “Where in the hell is Saginaw, anyway?” Genesis asked, tossing her smoldering Virginia Slim out of the window.

  “Someplace in Michigan,” Lupita said. “Never been, but I don’t imagine it’s anyplace special. You know something Genesis? You gotta stop smoking those bitch-ass Slim cigarettes. They don’t suit a tough girl like you. You ever smoked a cigar?”

  Genesis shook her head. “Nah. My daddy used to smoke ’em and I always hated the stink. He smoked a pipe for a while too, and I didn’t mind that so much ’cept that I always thought he looked pretty ridiculous puffing on it. Made him look like a college professor, which is ironic considering he didn’t even finish high school. And anyway, I ain’t tough Lupe, I’m just resilient. There’s a big difference.”

  They were sat in Lupita’s idling Eldorado, watching the comings and goings at The Friendly Drugstore. It was almost six thirty, and the place was due to close any minute. Friendly’s was a tiny little place tucked away in an anonymous strip-mall. It was sandwiched between a Thai take-out and a liquor store. Lupita had been keeping an eye on this drugstore for a while, paying special attention to Friendly’s clientele. It was a mom and pop operation, still limping along despite competition from a CVS five minutes away.

  Lupita had paid several visits to Friendly’s over the past few weeks, buying gum, cigarettes and Band-Aids. The pharmacist was an elderly Asian man, bald and rail-thin with prominent ears and wispy white eyebrows that looked like they were made of cotton candy. Both girls she had seen working in there were young and disinterested. They looked like they wouldn’t cause any trouble. She’d hoped for a little more time to case the joint, but Paco’s murder made the need for money, drugs and a quick exit from Reno all the more pressing.

  “So, you ready or what?” Lupita asked.

  “As I’ll ever be, s’pose.”

  “You getting nervous? It’s okay if you are. Only natural, it being your first time. If you don’t wanna do this… you don’t have to. You could wait out here, I don’t mind going in alone.”

  “No. I’m not nervous I guess. Just want everything to go okay. And anyway, if I’m gonna come with you then I want to contribute.”

  Lupita smiled. “That’s cool. And it’ll be fine, girl. The pharmacist is as old as Confucius, and those bitches he has working there ain’t gonna do shit. Not when they get an eyeful of the ladies…”

  On their laps were the “ladies”. A Heckler and Koch P7 self-loading pistol for Genesis, and a SIG-Sauer P-225 police issue pistol for Lupita. Lupita had a real fetish for the power and efficiency of German handguns. Each gun was fitted with a silencer.

  “I got a good feelin’ about the haul. They got a pain clinic just down the ways there, next to the business park. Plus, there’s been a ton of old fucks hobbling in and out of this place on walkers an’ shit, picking up all kinds of pain medication. The oldsters got the key to the candy shop man, least as far as prescription meds are concerned. Not to mention the middle school two blocks away.”

  “What’s the middle school have to do with it?”

  One of Lupita’s painted-on eyebrows arched extravagantly. “Adderall, girl. Or Ritalin. Dexedrine. You know most of those little fuckers are doped up on something. Nah, Genesis, I got the feeling that this place could be a gold-mine.”

  Genesis took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she said. “I’m fuckin’ ready, let’s do it.”

  It hadn’t been too tough to convince Genesis that knocking off this pharmacy would be a breeze. After all, Lupita told her she’d robbed dozens in her time, never getting caught once. The staff in those places are trained not to interfere with a robbery, Lupita explained, they were supposed to just hand the shit over without trying to be a hero. After all, they’re all insured up the wazoo.

  “So long as you’re prepared, organized, and you don’t go in there dope-sick and desperate,” Lupita insisted, “there’s not a lot that can go wrong.”

  Still, Lupita had half expected Genesis to cop out at the last minute. After all, it’s one thing firing guns at a paper target down at the shooting range, it’s another to walk into a drug store and point it at another human being. But so far Genesis’ desire to get out of Reno and hit the road with Lupita seemed to be keeping her nerves in check. Lupita would never have ordinarily considered roping in an amateur on a pharmacy job, but the girl was strong-willed and serious. Lupita had a strong gut feeling that Genesis would have what it takes, so long as she did what she was told and didn’t lose her nerve at the last minute.

  “Okay. Let’s go through it one more time. First step is we go in, and you lock the door and put up the closed sign.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I head straight to the back of the store. It’s a tiny place, four or five aisles of crap, pharmacy at the back. I show ‘em the gun and the bag, and tell ‘em to hand over the dope and the money. You cover me from the back. If you don’t wanna say shit, you don’t have to. Just listen to how I do it, what I say, and how I say it. Just keep that fuckin’ gun pointed at them. And Genesis, if anyone tries any bullshit – they won’t, but just supposin’ they do – let me take care of it. I don’t want you panicking and accidentally hitting me with a fuckin’ bullet, okay? In a place that size, a bullet could ricochet and hit you or me in the face.”

  “Goddit. I just keep it pointed at them.”

  “That’s right. We’ll be in and out in five minutes, tops. When we’ve got the shit we need we use the handcuffs to slow ’em down, give us time to split. We leave the engine running, and get the fuck outta here. And that’s all she wrote.”

  Genesis nodded. Lupita reached out, and caressed her earlobe. “The first one’s the hardest. Once you get this one over with, the next time’ll be a breeze.”

  They pulled the red bandannas over their faces and their baseball caps low over their eyes. Lupita had insisted on red bandanas, muttering cryptically about red being a protection against the evil eye. In their new motel room in Carson City she had already constructed a miniature altar out of religious artefacts, votive candles, and figurines of Catholic saints. What the hell, Genesis had figured, everybody’s got their quirks. The fact that she suspected Lupita was some kind of religious nut was small potatoes. Lupita was smart, beautiful, and her ticket out of Reno.

  They pulled the car around and drew up in the empty space in front of the drugstore. They were confident that the place was empty of customers. The last one – a black man wearing a hard hat and overalls covered in concrete dust – left over ten minutes ago. The guns were cocked and loaded. They looked at each other one more time and then hustled toward The Friendly Drugstore, slamming the car doors after them.

  They strode inside purposefully, a tinkling bell over the door announcing their arrival. Genesis closed the door roughly, snapping the lock in place. She flipped the “Closed” sign over. Lupita headed to the back of the store, gun drawn, stopping when she got to the counter.

  She pointed the SIG-Sauer P225 at the pharmacist’s chest.

  The old man just stood there, his mouth flapping open, paperwork fluttering from his hand to the floor. He was wearing a colourful sweater and bow tie underneath his white lab coat.

  “Drugs and money,” Lupita said, tossing the empty bag onto the counter, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  Without a word, the pharmacist walked over to the counter and picked up the bag. Lupita noticed with satisfaction that his hand was trembling.

  “Don’t shoot,” he said.

  “Drugs and money,” Lupita repeated.

  Genesis was standing next to her now. She kept her gun on the pharmacist, too.

  “Where’s the girl?” Lupita asked.

  The old man stood there gawping at the guns.

  “You can fill the bag while you’re talking, granddad. The girl who works here. Where is she?”

  Meekly, the old man pointed towa
rd the back of the pharmacy. “Bathroom,” he said cautiously.

  Lupita sucked on her teeth, scowling.

  “Stay on him,” she said to Genesis, gesturing toward the pharmacist. “Make sure he doesn’t try any shit. Keep him filling the bag. I’ll go check on the girl.”

  Encouraged by the expression of terror on the pharmacists face, Genesis told the old man to move it. She led the pharmacist at gunpoint to the narcotics drawer, while Lupita walked back through a tiny corridor cluttered with boxes, until she came to the bathroom. She placed her ear to the door. She could hear someone humming softly to themselves while they pissed. The girl obviously hadn’t heard what was going on. Off in the distance she could hear Genesis saying in a monotone, “Hurry up, old man. We’ll take whatever you got.” Lupita smiled to herself, a feeling of pride filling her chest. Then she kicked the bathroom door solidly, busting it wide open.

  Inside the tiny bathroom a young woman with frizzy red hair and acne scars was sitting on the toilet. She was wearing a white lab coat and sneakers. Her tights and panties were around her ankles. Her purse was on the floor, and she was reading a copy of In Touch magazine. She looked up at Lupita, her mouth frozen in a silent “oh”. She dropped the magazine.

  “Glad to see you’re not on your cell-phone, Annie,” Lupita deadpanned, “I’da really hated to have to kill someone while they’re sitting on the can.”

  The girl, whose nametag read “Sienna”, just sat there stunned. There was no colour in her face. Another weak trickle of pee hit the toilet bowl.

  “Come on, bitch, this is a robbery! Get your ass out there. Piss break’s over!”

  Cautiously, the girl went to reach for the toilet roll at her side.

  “You can wipe later, okay honey?” Lupita cocked the gun. “Right now you got some work to do. Pull your fuckin’ pants up and move it.”

  The girl stood, pulling her underwear and tights up quickly. She said, “I got a kid at home, please don’t shoot me.”