Lucky Supreme

by Jeff Johnson

  Not surprisingly, Mary was getting a tattoo that made the most of her supple figure, probably to drive him mad. Tasteful. Big. Muted tones. The Cadillac of wallpaper. The image was taken from a wrought iron fence she’d seen somewhere in the south while on vacation with the poor fucker. I’d made it look like aging brass, but lighter, almost like brass smoke. We were working on the highlights. It ran up her side, so I caught a few brief glimpses of her possibly fake tits, which were absolutely perfect. Each time it happened, Delia glanced over and tried to catch my eye so she could make humping motions with her hips and roll her eyes in mock trance ecstasy. I ignored her.

  “Mary, I’m absolutely so fuckin’ sorry to hear about this,” I said finally. “See, you have a classic problem here, Chica. Your douchebag, what’s his name, he sounds all right, really, if you can find matrimonial bliss with a dude who likes his mom too much, wears your shit out with the pep-pep-peppy sort of crap he’s probably up to so he doesn’t have to think about how soul crushing his life is. You’re just horrified he wants to spread the boredom around like low-fat butter on white bread with no crust.”

  “Exactly,” Mary said, almost hurt that I understood so perfectly. Her eyes teared up a little and we stopped. Behind her, Delia went into robohump with pantomime blowjob, her own eyes rolling and delirious.

  “I know,” I purred. “But the other side of the equation is just as dangerous. Think about a dude who has no mommy to drive you batshit. Said guy could give half a fuck about voting, or even reading the newspaper. A sworn cat guy, swings a mighty dick at all hours. Will never eat fake food. Now, that dude may rock your sweet world, maybe take you to the kinds of places you never even knew were there, but company Christmas party material that man will not be. So you, delightful creature, are trapped between worlds. Maybe you should use that big-ass brain and make up your mind. Spring for a dousing wand. Send a postcard to the cosmos asking for directions to contentment. Find out which type is for the real you.”

  Mary looked thoughtful at my thinly veiled resume presentation. Alex looked on, face open with anticipation. Even the customers hung on the exchange. Delia ran her surprisingly long tongue around the outside of her lips in a rapid helicopter motion.

  “You’re right,” Mary finally said, her voice just audible above a sonic eruption in Empire of Shit. “When I think about it, I guess Ronnie isn’t asking too much. Maybe I’m just too much me me me. I try to control everything, and then I wonder why I have to do everything! I mean … he really is so sweet.” It was there in her eyes, her expression, the artificial sweetener that was Ronnie.

  Alex reeled back in disgust. Delia crowed softly and got back to work, smiling hugely from ear to ear, a smile so giant and tight and triumphant that it looked like it might explosively turn her head inside out with one more micron of glee. The customers looked briefly confused, but drifted back into stoicism when the machines opened up again. I nodded my agreement.

  “If we only got more vacation time,” she continued. “Ours never seems to match up.”

  “Vacation time,” I repeated. I started tattooing again. Alex wiped his customer down, finished. He clearly couldn’t stand to hear any more.

  “Yeah. We went to Fiji once.” She was dreamy at that point. “If only I could find a guy who had a good job and a nice home and liked the same things I do. That’s what I kept thinking. And there he was, right in front of me. I just need to put in the work.”

  “Maybe try a dating service for free range—” Delia began.

  “And that about does it,” I said loudly, overriding her. “Just one more little bit of pokey pokey here and there and off to the races for you. Delia! Will you go in back and get me a tongue depressor?”

  “Fuck that,” she whined. But she got the message. The pout was instant.

  A few people came and went, mostly lookers getting in out of the rain. I was far enough from the door to stay out of their conversations, so I learned all about Mary’s Aunt Judith while we finished. By the time I was bandaging Mary I wanted to go over to her house and wear matching pajamas and watch TV. I wanted to rub some of the flavor of life off on her and ruin her for all time with color and bright, beautiful madness. I wanted her to lower and demean herself by making meatloaf and greens and cornbread. I wanted to go snow camping with her and talk about shit like artisan cheese. I wanted to feed her organic blueberries in bed and listen to her bitch about anything at all. It made me feel warm in the face. Sometimes I disgust myself. She was less than a minute out the door, on her way to a guilty post-tattoo cumber martini when my second appointment arrived. He was a likable enough guy, an entry-level something of some kind who had moved to Portland from Buffalo and was really into Brian Eno. We chatted about music, with Delia occasionally chiming in with all-important local band gossip. I was done in less than an hour. Alex went home a little early, which I’d been hoping for. When Nigel and Big Mike came in at six I made a ‘wrap-it-up’ motion and pointed at the back room.

  “Gotta clear the station,” Delia said. The union guy heaved a colossal sigh of exhausted relief. She’d been drilling on him for hours. I went into the back. Nigel and Big Mike looked up from their lockers.

  “In the office,” I said. “Time for a meeting of the senior staff.”

  I went into the lounge and sat down at my desk. Nigel came in a few minutes later, followed by Big Mike. They sat down and lit cigarettes.

  “This about Bling?” Nigel asked. They both watched me with poker faces.

  “Yep. He made some new friends.”

  They didn’t have anything to say to that. We waited for Delia, who joined us moments later and settled into the chair across from me.

  “I locked up and put up the BACK IN TEN, GETTING HEAD sign,” she said. I nodded. Everyone looked at me, their expressions like those of convicts waiting in the chow line. I steepled my hands under my chin.

  “Here’s the story in a nutshell,” I began. “About a year ago, I found out the Roland Norton flash was worth a serious amount of money. No earthly idea why. You’ve all seen it. Anyway, the buyer of the piece I tracked down lives in San Francisco. Bling must have discovered the same thing, which is why he stole all of it. I went down there and I kicked Bling’s ass. He was still slinging pills, which I left”—Nigel rolled his eyes—“but he had money, which I took. And fuck you, Nige. Anyway, Obi tracked down Bling’s boss, who by then I kinda sorta suspected might actually be the guy who put Bling up to the heist in the first place. I went to talk to him, but they ran some kind of low-grade whammy on me, and I had to split. But that’s our dude. Name’s Dong-ju.” I paused to let that sink in. None of them said anything.

  “The enforcer type I ran into was a monster with one bad eye, but he was smart enough to confuse the cops and put me on the red list down there, so my movements were slanted. On the way home, I busted the same guy following me. Bling knows where I am, who I am, all that, obviously. His boss does too. The only reason to follow me all the way back to Portland would be to dust me somewhere along the way. Make it look like a car wreck, or shoot me somewhere isolated enough to be able to get rid of the body and ditch my BMW. I was at the edge of just such a stretch when I caught sight of him on the security camera at a gas station.”

  Big Mike took in a breath. Nigel’s angular mug hardened, but he smiled a little because I was still alive, so he knew the story was about to get good. Delia had heard the story already, but she was clearly prepared to enjoy herself.

  “And …” Nigel said softly.

  “I pulled into a truck stop just north of there, probably the last place with lights for a long ways. He waited out by some semis for me. I convinced some truck drivers to go fuck with him, maybe talk to him long enough for me to split, but he beat them into comas, so I broke my laundry room key off in his ignition and stranded him there. Cops got him after that.”

  All three of them began to talk. I raised my hand for silence.

  “So this Dong-ju sent his monster to wax me. Fact.
But any weirdo with that much dough has more than one of those guys on the payroll. And I picked one off all by myself. So I’m guessing more might be on the way, as in more than one.” I let that hang.

  “So we have a problem,” Nigel summarized.

  “Right.”

  “So, uh, so …” Big Mike looked at his hands and then up at me. “So what does that mean?”

  I looked at Delia.

  “If the floor is open, I think it means this,” she began soberly. “No matter how we look at it, all four of us worked with Bling. All of us. So if they want Darby, I can’t really see why they wouldn’t like our heads too.”

  “I don’t get it.” Big Mike squinted. “Why?”

  “The Norton flash,” I said. “We can’t figure out why the shit is valuable. But it is.”

  “Who cares?” Big Mike argued. “We don’t have any. Bling stole all of ’em.”

  All eyes were on me.

  “Not exactly. I still have two, in my storage space. The worst ones, real runts of the litter. I don’t even know why I saved ’em. But I did.”

  “Does Bling know?” Big Mike looked worried. I shrugged.

  “I’m betting he does, but he’s hasn’t said anything until now. It’s possible, anyway. He was around for a while before we hired him, long enough to ask all kinds of questions. When I kicked his ass and followed his trail of bullshit back to the source, I think he got into trouble, and from what he said about this dude, that trouble was raw news. I think he used me as a chip to keep his skin, and also to get rid of me at the same time.”

  “He might be just smart enough to do that,” Nigel mused, “but only if he was really fucking desperate.”

  “He was,” I replied. “Told me they had pictures of his family. He wouldn’t give Dong-ju up even when he thought I might kill him.”

  “And you might have,” Delia added. “Might. He knows you’re not really killing material, but you’re nothing if not versatile, and he knows that too.”

  “Trapped in between a rock and a hard face,” Nigel said slowly. “I can see how that could make a checkers man play chess.”

  “Yeah. So, I have an idea what we should do, but I want your ideas first.”

  Silence. They actually looked surprised. It was Big Mike who spoke first.

  “Darby, I think I speak for all of us. You sort of got us into this. I mean, you hired him. If—”

  “Mike!” Delia snapped. “Shut it.”

  Nigel looked at Big Mike and his jaw muscles pulsed, once.

  “That’s not what I meant!” Big Mike said heatedly. “What I mean is, look. You already got one of these guys. I don’t do shit like break off keys in ignitions in some fucked-up town in California. I hit people. I kick them sometimes. Yes. I break shit. Yes. But any kind of clever bullshit is all you, dude. I got your back and I’m sure Nigel does too. I know Delia does. But maybe you should just tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

  “He’s got a point,” Nigel said. “I also shoot people and occasionally poison them or steal their wives. But you had the whole rest of the drive back and all morning to think about this. We’ve had, like, no time at all. So where are you on this?”

  “Let’s vote,” Delia said. “Who in this room wants to hide and who wants to go to the dark side because the Lucky is under attack. Vote.” She raised her hand. “Kick some ass, get our shit, steal and rob and otherwise fuck shit up.”

  Nigel raised his hand. “All that.”

  “I’m in,” Big Mike said. “But I don’t want to go in blind. So spill. We know you have a plan of some kind.”

  “Okay,” I said. I lit a smoke. After the first drag, I sat back and ran my hand over the arm of my chair. “My plan is this.” I looked up. “First, we create a cloud in the street life. I’ve already started. Half the motherfuckers out there owe us favors and the other half want to. So we do this.”

  I turned to Delia. “Sweetheart, you research this Dong-ju Trust. The lid is off, so have your friends get in on it. Customers who have computer chops, all of it. Pull out all the stops. I want everything.” Next I turned to Nigel.

  “Nige. You’re a scumbag and we all know it. Send your long sticky fingers out into your contact list. Any ripple, and I mean anything, I want us to know about it. The first wave could fly in, so anyone needing a shitload of cold guns and some limos needs to be flagged, and we need to know about it. Also hit up the MC reps and watch for muscle jobs, because those will be pointed at us. They won’t hit us, but someone might ask them to. We want to know what those people look like. Names. Where they’re staying, how they’re paying, everything. Also, get the hookers riled up, and I’m talking way crazy. I want to see some greed, paranoia, and balls-out insanity. Except for Monique. Leave her to me.” Nigel nodded.

  “Mikey, you’re my big-ass guard dog. You sleep here tonight. Flaco is already watching and putting the word out to the general wino and dime-bag population. Free rich dudes, all you can eat, plus one wish from the Lucky, so we have eyes on us outside. I also want you to deal with the day guys. I’m afraid those dudes are pussies. Keep their pulse rates low because I don’t want any kind of disruption in the cash flow, and we have to project business as usual. The rest of us are going to be busy and they’re going to notice.”

  “My chick is going to be so pissed,” Big Mike said.

  I shrugged. “She’s always pissed.” I raised the open palms of my hands, ready for questions.

  “Fuck,” Nigel announced into the silence.

  “Why the hell did you ever hire Bling in the first place?” Big Mike asked. “And how did he fucking fool us?”

  I shrugged. “He seemed all right, that’s why. Look, we hit this snag every time. Take Alex and Dwight, for instance. They work hard and so they build a clientele, but do you think they really have the shit to hang in a street shop like the Lucky forever? I can’t tell either, but my gut tells me they’ll eventually farm out to some rosy boutique joint and turn into the tattoo equivalent of hairdressers or pro-level toenail painters.”

  “And make less money,” Nigel pointed out.

  “And make different money,” I clarified. “But by then it’s a status thing. They get big heads. I mean, who wants to work at some old shop in a broken-down part of town every day? When you can work at some fake-o little artsy place with recessed lighting, your own cubicle, and a receptionist?”

  “I do,” Delia said, clearly offended.

  “Me too,” Big Mike said, disgusted.

  “Fuck those places,” Nigel growled. “Like I’d ever work in a cubicle.”

  “So you see my point,” I said. “And so did Bling. He really did. We were all waiting for him to become less of a tool and it never happened. So let’s not feel bad, people. He made it about halfway to where everyone in this room sits. It’s not our fault that he didn’t make it across the finish line, and I think it reflects well on all of us that we even gave him the chance. I’m actually surprised he lasted as long as he did, considering what we know at this point. The street just gobbled him up, plain and simple. It happens.”

  “So what now?” Nigel asked. “You think this Dong-ju guy is going to be trouble, as in tonight, or in the next ten minutes?”

  “I dunno, but it’s a real possibility.”

  “The dude in the Lincoln is going to be bad news at some point,” Big Mike said thoughtfully. “Though it sounds like he might be in jail for a while. You’re a crafty fucker, boss. Laundry key in the ignition.”

  “Yeah.” I scratched my head. It had bothered me a little when everyone cheered at that point in the story.

  “I hate to even suggest it,” Nigel said slowly, “but maybe you should call the cops.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Delia said, surprising me even more. “I mean, it looks like the situation is a little more out of control than usual. We have no idea what’ll happen next, except that if we do nothing, you’ll never see that Roland Norton flash again, or the rest of what it’s worth, and
we all become game animals in some dipshit’s human safari fantasy. Maybe we should just take the whole thing south as soon as I get all the research done.”

  “Shop field trip,” Big Mike said, leaning back, warming to the idea. “Bring some of our more upstanding criminals.”

  “A half dozen gas cans,” Nigel mused, looking inward. “Some of my homemade chemistry stuff …”

  “Empire of Shit,” Delia added brightly. “And Monique. And some ether.”

  “Nah.” I shook my head. “Can’t leave the shop unattended, plus a frontal attack means we have to leave our turf. It’s better to fight here in familiar garbage.”

  “You stickin’ around tonight?” Big Mike asked.

  “Nope. Other than appointments, I think I’m gonna make myself scarce for a few days while I light some bonfires.”

  “What should we tell anyone who comes around looking for you in a mild-mannered way, like an actual new client or something?” Nigel asked.

  “Get their name and number and tell them I’ll call them back.” I turned to Delia. “You done?”

  “Yepper.” She got up. “C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  We went next door to the Rooster Rocket and sat down at a booth by the door. The place was mostly empty. Cherry, the head waitress, already knew what we wanted and brought us a round of Jameson’s on the rocks and little Pabst beer backs. Delia waited until I’d downed half my whiskey before speaking.

  “So you still don’t have a gun.” It was a statement. I shook my head.

  “Nope.”

  Delia shook her head in disbelief. “Dudeboy. Those metal balls you carry around … ah shit. Lost my train of thought.”

  “Very clever.” I spun my drink and watched the ice cubes swirl.