Tats Too: The Case of the Devil's Diamond

by Layce Gardner

  I turn on my stool to face my own personal angel. She smiles shyly at me, showing a mouthful of sparkling white teeth. If she were in a toothpaste commercial a little star would bling each time she smiled.

  Angel is heavyset with dark hair, porcelain skin and family-size tits. A pretty face with dimples and hopeful eyes. My grandmother would say she’s “healthy.” She wears her weight like she owns it and is happy with it and that makes me happy with it. She looks soft, too. Like a big feather bed that I’d like to jump right in the middle of and wallow around in.

  Her shirt is tight and extra low-cut, showing cleavage that goes on for miles. There’s a little peek of lace bra showing around the neckline and framing her assets. I like that. It means she thinks she’s sexy. I like women who think they’re sexy.

  I dub her tits Muskrat Susie and Muskrat Sam.

  Angel catches one of my looks, tosses it back to me and lightly trails her fingertips across the tops of the muskrats. I have no idea why this sexy hunka woman chose to flirt with me, but like the sign behind the bar says: Beauty is in the eye of the beerholder.

  I grab both bottles and scoot down four barstools until I’m sitting right beside her.

  I hope Vivian is watching. I check the mirror. Yep, she’s watching.

  Don’t think about Vivian. I look back to Angel.

  Now that I’m sitting next to her, I don’t have the slightest idea what to say. So, I don’t say anything. I suck half the beer down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “You look thoughtful,” Angel finally offers.

  I shrug and finish the bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “What’re you thinking so hard about?”

  I’m thinking Why do women always want to know what I’m thinking? I never ask what they’re thinking. I’m pretty sure it’d scare the hell out of me if I did know what they were thinking. Besides, I don’t even know what I am thinking half the time.

  But I don’t say that.

  I just deal the top card off the deck and hope it’s an ace. “I was just wondering if Donna Fargo is still the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.”

  She tilts her head at me.

  This is exactly why I don’t try to pick up women. The minute I open my damn mouth, something weird jumps out. I try to make up for it by offering her my tequila bottle. “Drink?”

  “Sure,” she says. She picks the bottle up by the neck and holds it against her full lips. She tilts the bottle a little too high and some of it sloshes out and drips onto Susie and Sam.

  “Whoopsy daisy,” she says, nervously reaching for a cocktail napkin.

  When’s the last time I heard somebody actually say whoopsy daisy? When I was ten?

  I grab the napkin from her hand and we both watch the thin trail of liquor run downhill into her cleavage. The next thing I know, I’m leaning over and lapping up the tequila. I make sure to get every last drop, too.

  I wipe my mouth with the napkin. “Whoopsy daisy,” I say back to her.

  She laughs.

  I’m going to miss Vivian’s laugh.

  Don’t think about her, just take another drink.

  A good salesman always tells the potential customer exactly what they want to hear. So, I tell this gorgeous woman and a half, “You’re insanely beautiful.”

  This is probably what I should’ve said before I cannonballed straight into her tits, but I’ve always been a little back-asswards. I think that’s one of the things Vivian finds so amusing about me.

  For Chrissakes, stop thinking about Vivian.

  Angel’s face softens and her lips part just the tiniest bit. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s an engraved invitation.

  I respondez sil vous plait by lightly touching my lips to hers. She tastes just like me: Half a cup of need with a tablespoon of raw lust, a splash of tequila and a dollop of bitter.

  Suddenly, my head is yanked back by my dreads, my ass is pulled off the stool and I’m forced to backpedal all the way around the bar where I’m tossed inside a dim room. The door slams and a lock clicks.

  I spin around and see Vivian glowering at me. “How fucking dare you!” She rares back to slap me—

  —But, you know what? I’m sick and fucking tired of being slapped and pushed and poked and drug by my locks, so I catch her arm mid-swing and push her into the door. I wrap my other hand around her throat and am so prepared to strangle her that it surprises even me when I kiss her instead.

  Our teeth clank together, and I thrust my tongue inside her mouth.

  She bites my tongue. But I don’t pull away. I want her to taste the fever of my blood and I want it to scald her mouth.

  I turn loose of her wrists and jerk on her pants. Without breaking our kiss, I rip open the buttonfly on her jeans. I press my body hard against hers, and she bites my neck.

  “Ow,” I pant. “That hurt.”

  “Good,” she breathes into my neck. She grabs my hand and moves it to her pussy. She’s already wet and more than ready. She moves my fingers inside her and moans into my ear. “I want you,” she growls. “Now.”

  She grabs me by the wrist and shoves me inside her as far as she can. She moves my fingers in and out, faster and harder than I would ever do it myself.

  I add a fourth finger to the three inside her and she makes a sound I’ve never heard before. It’s like half-scream, half-pleasure.

  She wraps an arm around my shoulders and moves against my hand. She opens herself to me and draws me in even deeper.

  I let her move my hand. I close my eyes and concentrate on the heat of her, the silkiness of her, the tempo of her, her moans that come from somewhere deep and primal. When she pushes me down to my knees, I use my mouth to completely satisfy her need.

  She comes that way. Standing up against the door, hips pressed against my face, my fingers deep inside her.

  She sobs through her climax, and still trembling, she pulls me to my feet and cries softly into my ear, “I’ve never been with anybody else since I met you, Lee. Only you.”

  If I thought she weren’t so fucking serious, I’d laugh.

  “I want to believe that,” I say.

  “Nobody else,” she promises. “Just believe me.”

  “Okay,” I whisper, and bury my face in her hair so she won’t see me crying. I want to believe her so bad. I want to believe her so bad that I do. I do believe her.

  We hold onto each other, bobbing up and down in a whirlpool of emotions that defy logic and I know that if I ever turn loose of her, I’ll sink to the bottom and drown.

  After a long while, she wipes her tears and snot on my T-shirt. It’s my last clean shirt, but I probably shouldn’t bring that up right now.

  “You think you can get us out of here without getting us killed?” she asks, pulling up her pants.

  “No.”

  “Okay, then,” she says, picking up her purse, unlocking the door and opening it a crack. “Let’s go for it, Sundance.”

  “Okay, Butch.” I push her aside and kick the door wide open.

  ***

  We pounce out ready for battle. Vivian has her purse ready to swing and cut a path to the door.

  We grind to halt one step out the door.

  We’re surrounded.

  Mikey and her crew are posed in a tight half-circle around the door. Each and every one of them is holding a gleaming knife.

  Shit.

  Vivian lowers her purse.

  I look for help but the bar is empty.

  “Have a good time?” Mikey smiles.

  “Just let us go,” I say. “We just walk out the door and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  Mikey laughs like that was a joke. She delivers her own punchline, “You mean you won’t get hurt.”

  “Pretty much, yeah, that’s what I meant.”

  Poke laughs and leans into Mikey, whispering.

  Mikey nods.

  Poke closes in on me, toe to toe, and puts the pointy end of her knife under my chin. She whispers in my ear so only I can
hear, “I can save Vivian. Use this to save yourself.” She slips something hard and cold into the back of pants. I hope to hell it’s a gun and if I point it at somebody it doesn’t end up being something embarrassing—like a dildo. That was my first thought.

  My second thought is Who the fuck is she?

  I look her right in the eyes and nod. Ouch. I shouldn’t have done that with a knife under my chin.

  Poke takes her knife away and steps back a little.

  “You can have the bitch. I’m done with her,” I say.

  “Not this shit again,” Vivian mumbles.

  “Just shut up and go with Poke,” I say.

  Vivian nods. Smart girl.

  Poke pockets her knife, turns, grabs Vivian by her arm and drags her toward the front door. She kicks open the door and shoves Vivian through.

  That leaves me to fight it out with five others. I ball up my fists in front of me like how I saw Hilary Swank do in that movie. Then I remember the end of that movie, so I switch boxer poses and imitate Rocky Balboa facing off against Apollo Creed instead.

  Mikey’s laughter splatters me in the face and my nerves get all cold and shivery. She swipes her knife back and forth in front of me like a magician who’s going to saw me in half.

  I drop my hands because it’s become apparent this fight isn’t about fists.

  “Five against one isn’t fair, Mikey. At least gimme a shot. One on one, just you and me. No knives.”

  “I don’t believe in fair,” Mikey says, flipping her switchblade round and round between her fingers.

  “Me neither,” I agree. I whip the gun out of my waistband and aim it right at her face. Yep, it’s a gun, thank God.

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. And I guess I’m feeling a little uppity with a gun in my hand because I toss out an old movie line, “I may not be able to kill all of you, but I can sure as shit get a couple of you. Who wants to go first?”

  Cat, Scratch and Anything back the fuck up and edge away. Just two left—Mikey and Toxic.

  My gun hand gets cold feet and starts shaking so badly, I have to use my left hand to help steady it.

  “No guts,” Mikey says.

  That’s when Jerri pops up from behind the bar with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun aimed right at Mikey’s backside.

  “I got guts,” she says. “And I’m gonna pepper your ass, Mikey, if you don’t take your shit outside.”

  Mikey turns her head to look at Jerri. That’s when Toxic puffs up like a cobra, zigzags first one way, then the other, and lunges at me with her knife. If she hadn’t done all the zigging and zagging first, she probably would’ve gotten me. Instead, she gives me enough time to react through my tequila grog and I jump to the side. She spills into the open doorway behind me. I stumble back, aim my gun at her and—

  Bang!

  Toxic freezes and looks down at her chest.

  The front plate glass window explodes and shatters inward.

  I look from Toxic to the broken window and back to Toxic, but I don’t see any bullet holes or blood or anything.

  Another bang!

  I look back to the shattered window and realize the shots came from outside.

  Half a second later, Toxic and Mikey reach the same conclusion and dive behind the bar where Jerri’s already hiding. The other girls upend a table and crouch behind it, holding onto each other.

  Vivian’s scream unglues my boots from the floor and I run for the front door.

  I careen to a stop, ease the door open a crack and peek outside.

  The neon beer lights blink on and off, on and off, creating a strobe slide show: The Goodfellas are back and standing side by side, each with a gun; Poke lays face down in the dirt; Vivian runs toward the road; CornNuts chases after her; he catches Viv by her swinging purse and throws her to the ground.

  That’s when I jump out the door, gun aimed at the closest Goodfella and pull the trigger.

  Shit, that’s loud for a little gun.

  The Goodfella slumps to the ground on top of Poke.

  Jerri struts out past me with the smoking shotgun held at her hip like a gunslinger-for-hire.

  CornNuts freezes with his kicking leg in the air and looks at Jerri.

  Vivian crab-crawls away and Jerri fires again.

  CornNuts looks very confused. He puts his foot back down on the ground.

  “Fall down you dirty son-of-a-bitch or I’ll shoot you again,” Jerri warns.

  He does.

  I run to him and plant my boot right square in the middle of his back. I aim my gun at his ass and pull the trigger.

  Click.

  Fucking Poke gave me a gun with no fucking bullets.

  “Don’t, man, I ain’t done nothin’ to you,” I hear Mikey say. I look back and see that the other Goodfella isn’t dead. Not by a long shot. He’s got a mess of buckshot all over his left side and is bleeding, but he’s back on his feet. And he still has his gun.

  Mikey is standing about ten feet outside the bar with her hands in the air. Goodfella caught her coming out the door and has his gun aimed right at her head. His back is to me, but I can tell by his posture he’s ready to do some shooting and he doesn’t care who he hits.

  Mikey’s eyes find mine and for a long slow second we hold each other’s gaze. We don’t say anything, but we don’t have to. Inside we were enemies, but out here we’re allies. It’s that whole the enemies of my enemies are my friends thing.

  So, I lean back like a pitcher on a mound and wind up. My aim is straight and true. My useless gun spins through the air like a knuckleball and conks Goodfella square in the back of his head.

  His knees lock and he falls face-first into the gravel.

  “I owe you,” Mikey says simply.

  “Yeah, well, I sliced through all your fuel lines, sorry ’bout that!” I yell. I run to Viv, managing to grunt, “Third base, James Polk Junior High, two years.” I grab her by the arm, pull her to her feet, and we both sprint for my bike. We hit the saddle at the same time, I turn the key, start the engine and scream onto the road. I hit sixty before I even get to fourth gear and eighty by the time we pass the city limits.

  I’m not wearing my glasses so water streams down both my cheeks and the road is like looking through an aquarium. I use my eyelids like windshield wipers blinking on high.

  I hold steady around ninety, constantly checking my mirrors. After maybe ten miles, I slow and slide onto an onramp for a four-lane. I don’t know what highway it is or where it leads, but as long as it’s far away from gangsters and bikers, I’m happy.

  After a couple of heart-throbbing, pants-pooping minutes, I ease down to eighty-ish and start to breathe easy. There’s only one pair of headlights behind us and they belong to a car.

  The car’s coming up fast, though. I speed up to ninety plus and it still gains on me.

  Goddammit.

  It must be Toxic. Or even one of the Mafia guys. They’re harder to kill than some damn cockroach. I don’t know who it is, but they’re intent on catching us and I’m intent on not getting caught.

  Shit.

  I open my throttle even more.

  They stay with me for a little, then speed up and sniff my ass.

  They’re in a Nissan. Who knew those little fuckers could go so fast?

  The striped yellow line turns solid, buzzes and lifts off the asphalt, lashing around curves like a whip. I ride in the passing lane, shooting by a couple of bleary cars to my right. A hundred and five. I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat above the rush of wind.

  I lean into the tank and concentrate on the road in front of me with Vivian glued to my back. I’m coming up fast on two cars. They’re running side by side, one in the left lane, one in the right, going maybe seventy mph. They either don’t see me barreling down on their asses or they think I’m going to slow down.

  They’re wrong.

  Vivian sees what I’m getting ready to do and hugs me with her whole body.

  I punch the throttle and ride the
yellow stripe right down the middle of the two cars. I have maybe three inches of knee room on either side as I slice right between them.

  I edge back into the passing lane and watch in my mirrors as the Nissan gets stuck behind the cars.

  I open the throttle all the way, watching the needle hit a hundred and twenty and push higher. Gotta put some distance between us and—

  Headlights round the curve coming right at me.

  Fuck.

  This isn’t a four-lane. It’s a two lane.

  And that’s a semi-truck coming at us.

  In the next two seconds, I dump the gas and try to decide whether to get back in the right lane or head for the left right-of-way—

  —I feel Vivian turn loose and leave the seat behind me.

  My heart screams, I swear I actually hear it scream, or is that Vivian? No, it’s the semi’s brakes.

  I’ve always heard that when you die you’re supposed to see your entire life flash before your eyes.

  That’s not true.

  What I saw was more like one of those little flip books. The ones where cartoon characters dance a little jig as you run your thumb across the corner of the pages. When you flip through it real fast you see the mouse dancing. But if you look page by page you notice big time lapses in between each page.

  That’s what it was like to me. Picture after picture with big time jumps in between: Headlights. Bike sliding sideways on pavement. My legs stretch out before me. Bike flying though air. Double sets of tires on either side of me. My arms covering my face.

  That’s all folks.

  Chapter Seven

  I know I’m in heaven because I hear angels singing. I float on my back and tune-dial my ears until the voices come in clearer. Angels sing something about teaching the world perfect harmony.

  I’m craving a Coke.

  My eyelids pop open. I’m not in heaven. I’m in a hospital bed with TV sounds drifting in from somewhere down the hallway. And what I really want is a Dr. Pepper. And a cheeseburger.

  “And that’s number ten on our list of top twenty music moments that rocked television. Number nine coming up right after this commercial break.”

  I sit up and my brain spin-cycles, knocking inside my head like an overloaded washing machine. I plop back down and close my eyes.