Fast Bang Booze

by Lawrence Maddox

  “Si. Yes. Soon, I promise,” the bartender said.

  I checked out the overhead fan. Slow, inevitable circles. I was way out of Cloud Time. But then, the gobble had already told me that. The face in the black velvet portrait labeled “Cantinflas” peered down at me like I was a joke. The Dos Equis wall clock said a little after eight o’clock.

  Ronny tossed a wet bar towel to me. “You still got some puke chunks stuck on the back of your pants,” Ronny said.

  I took a few swipes with the towel when I noticed the disruption of light behind the frosted window of the entrance. I whistled at Popov and pointed that way.

  I ducked behind a beam as the barroom door pushed open. A stocky man, decked out in a black sports coat over a black silk dress shirt and western style Jordache jeans, strolled in. He was flanked by a younger version of himself, also in cheesy Jordache jeans, hand purposefully hidden under his jacket. The stocky man was arm-in-arm with pure Latina hotness. She looked just liked the Corona calendar girl on the portrait-sized wall calendar above the pool table. On second look, she was the girl in the calendar.

  Popov ran up behind the stocky dude and slammed his SIG into the back of his head. I knocked Jordache Junior to the ground with one on the chin. Ronny fired into the ceiling to tranquilize the crowd.

  “Hola, Gilbert,” Popov said, standing over the stocky man. “Where’s Antoine?”

  “No habla ingles, pendejo,” Gilbert said.

  Popov put his SIG next to Gilbert’s right ear and fired into the floor. Gilbert howled at the sharp, eardrum-splitting bang.

  “He has my money. Donde?” Popov said.

  “Cool it, man! I haven’t seen Antoine since he got his SUV reprimered at my uncle’s shop last weekend.”

  Popov did a repeat performance to Gilbert’s other ear.

  “Aie chinga!” Gilbert yelped. He cupped both ears and beat his head against the floor.

  The calendar girl stepped up to Popov. “Cut it out you puto bastard!”

  She was dressed in a bronze satin sheath that molded her curves like a moist label on a bottle of Tres Donkeys.

  “What is your name, beautiful lady?” Popov said.

  The lights went out. Speed doesn’t mean jack if you’re blind. I crouched as the place erupted in gunfire and screams.

  Chapter 7

  1994

  Winds off the Pacific played like piano fingers on the nearby canals. Branches scratched at windows like hobos searching for pies. Ray sat transcendental style, leaning back into the arena of pillows that surrounded him. Out cold. A glowing clove cigarette met its inevitable, burning end atop a nearby ashtray.

  Our host was low on supplies. It was either run out of Cloud Time, or start a bottle of Compari, the most disgusting booze ever made.

  Janie and I tiptoed back to the couch with the bottle. She giggled with anticipation, so I let her take the first gulp. I could tell the instant it hit her mouth she wanted to spit it out.

  “Are you sure that’s like, a beverage, and not something you clean toilets with?” Janie said.

  I grabbed the bottle out of her hand and gulped hard. I loved Cloud Time more than anything else. “I think ice is the antidote.”

  “I think leaving it the fuck alone is the antidote,” she said. Janie braced herself, took a swig. “You know what this stuff is? Slippery.”

  “You’re slippery.”

  “Whatever. I think maybe you’re supposed to add something to it?”

  “I think you pour it down storm drains and watch the world burn.”

  “I think it might cause rigor mortis.”

  “I’ll have a stiff one then,” I said. Janie handed the bottle back to me.

  “Thank you, nurse.” I took a slimy gulp.

  “I don’t think I like that Vlad guy,” she said. “What’s his story?”

  “I heard he got twisted in Russia,” I answered. “I heard the crime maestros there did something to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Popov told me that back in Russia an inner circle of their crime world can get brutal with hotheads. Ronnie said Vlad was too unpredictable. Had too much balls even for them. They may have Benihana’d that situation for him.”

  “What? You mean they neutered him?”

  “Who knows? Maybe they just shipped him out here. I just make stuff up.”

  “You know what?” Janie said, looking up at me with her soft browns. “You’re fun.” She climbed onto my lap. Life was good. “You’ve got something to say,” she said. “Most people don’t say anything. Or they just flat out bullshit you to manipulate. Or they’re just stupid loud. But you’re sincere, like you believe it. Like you’re excited just to be talking to me.” She leaned in close. “It’s kinda contagious.”

  Her tongue traveled across my shut mouth. She pried my upper lip open, then ran her tongue all the way back.

  “I need to use the facilities,” she said, suddenly climbing off.

  I felt great. Making out is the best in Cloud Time. I’m in the moment. Ready for a surprise. Sober, I’m frowns, blinks, breaths, nerves.

  I’ve only kissed a woman once out of Cloud Time. The day after Popov hired me.

  I’d finished delivering lounge chairs to Popov’s pool party, and Popov let me hang around. The drizzle from the night before had washed the smog away. Everything seemed new.

  I didn’t know Missy had been paid to be there. She stood at the wooden railing against a backdrop of endless blue sky.

  When she walked me down to the hot tub, I could hear Vlad laughing from the poolside bar. I’d never had the chance to look so closely and freely at a beautiful woman’s face while outside of Cloud Time.

  “You don’t say a lot,” she said, “Like Harpo Marx, which is cool.” I felt a rare burst of, I don’t know, confidence. I didn’t care. I kissed her. A quick peck, really. It was stupid. If she minded, she didn’t get the chance to let me know.

  Vlad jumped into the water between us with an explosive splash. He pulled her next to him.

  “I think you might need some help, retard,” Vlad said. He pulled her bikini top up to her shoulders, not bothering with the clasp.

  “Relax, Vlad,” Missy protested.

  “I want you should stay and watch, malchik. I will teach you how.” He stuck his tongue out and wagged it like a panting dog. “You know, this will be my second time with her today.”

  I got out. I felt my face grow hot. I was seething, embarrassed. Popov’s ’50s era statuette of Falstaff toasted mockingly from the wet bar. I emptied Bacardi Superior and ice into a party cup. Drain. Repeat.

  Ronny stood next to me. “Take it easy on that stuff, Frank.”

  I leaned against the rail, staring out over the party. Drinking. Snorting. Swimming. I had the vague idea that nothing was real, and if I said the magic words, the veil would part.

  “Listen Frank,” Ronny said. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll do shots with you.”

  I poured out six in a line.

  “Great, Frank. Just one at a time, okay?”

  We drank our first pair. I quickly pounded another.

  “I got eyes, kid. I been watching you.”

  “I’m. Blushing,” I garbled with difficulty.

  “Shut up and listen,” Ronny continued. “Popov thinks you have potential. In this business, steady’s more important than that gunslinger bullshit. Silent and steady, not so bad.”

  We downed another pair.

  “Silent,” I choked out. I was about to add, “And nobody knows you.”

  A hand spun me around and tried to brand my face with a slap.

  Barely fast enough to see it coming, I moved with it, turning as it whizzed past my kisser.

  “If I say stay in Jacuzzi, you stay in Jacuzzi.” Vlad picked up my shot and downed it. “Yeah, stupid driver. You drive for me.”

  “I wouldn’t drive you. To the dump.” My voice was atomic turkey, but I didn’t care.

  “Malchik…” Vlad’s ha
nd darted for the Santoku knife on the bar.

  I was buzzed, but I was still faster. I pulled out the little nickel-plated gun I’d found in a drawer at the bar. I held it on Vlad while he tried to think up an expression for his asteroid face.

  “Light. Ruskie?” I said.

  “That is lighter?” Vlad sounded doubtful.

  “Sure.”

  I reached into his pocket and pulled out his fancy Citannes.

  “Take one.” I offered the smokes. Vlad fumbled with a cigarette, eyeing the gun suspiciously.

  I waited for Vlad to put the cigarette in his monster mask, then brought the gun up and pointed it inches from his mouth.

  “Ready to. Get smoked?” I said.

  Popov walked over, both hands tucked in the pockets of his luxurious silk bathrobe.

  “Stop scaring Vlad,” he laughed.

  “Just. Lighting—”

  Before I could finish, Vlad pulled the gun out of my hand and began firing it wildly at my chest. Little sprouts of blue flame repeated at the end of the fake pistol.

  “I guess Vlad prefers to light his own cigarettes,” Ronny said dryly.

  Vlad threw the lighter into the pool, his greasy hair falling over his tight, sour face. “I take care of you, retard! Slice by slice, the Chechen way.”

  I grabbed a bottle of Black Label and escaped into the cool dusk. I didn’t know where I was headed. I was jittery. Anxious. And it had all started with beauty and hope.

  “Good story,” Janie said. “I think you deserve a reward. I’m gonna strip.”

  Beauty and hope.

  Chapter 8

  1993

  “Hey, do you think we can at least get some music in here?” the calendar girl said.

  We were driving north on Alvarado. Calendar shimmered in the backseat next to Popov, smoking one of his cigarettes. “I like The Beat,” she said. “You know that station, The Beat?”

  Someone, the bartender most likely, had cut the El Recreo lights. After gunfire erupted we’d rushed out onto the sidewalk. Popov had scooped up Calendar along the way.

  “And crack a window. Something in here don’t smell fresh,” she said.

  I knew my clothes were still a little pukey. I lowered the windows and kept the air on.

  In the rearview mirror she and Popov acted like old friends. I realized, not for the first time, I didn’t know what was really going on.

  “Deano,” Popov said to me. I put on Dean ‘Tex’ Martin Rides Again.

  “Great,” Calendar sighed. “Old fart music.”

  “I’m waiting,” Popov replied.

  “I ain’t seen no money yet. What if I tell you and you pull some shit like throwing me out of the car?”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Apparently Popov and Calendar were old buds. Or more.

  “I already know Gilbert and Antoine are associates,” Popov countered. “Gilbert talk about Antoine? About tonight? I need to know, Marie.”

  It sounded like she’d been spying on Gilbert for Popov.

  “I had to mess around with him at his cousin’s restaurant.” Calendar stubbed out her smoke. “You know those cabrons put horse meat in the burritos? Damn, I’ve had lunch there.”

  I watched Popov check his watch. I saw eighty-thirty on the fat face of his Rolex. He saw me looking. “Rolex Daytona. Big time customized.”

  The clock was ticking.

  “It’s mostly stupid white people like you pendejos order burritos, anyway,” she said. “If you know what you’re doing, you get tacos. Birria, Carne asada—”

  “Marie,” Popov said.

  “You know, Gilbert put the moves on me on the way over to the bar. It was a lot more work than I expected.”

  Popov flashed an angry look.

  “Right. You and Gilbert used to be romantic,” Ronny interjected.

  “Quiet,” Popov ordered.

  “Yeah, callate!” Calendar said angrily. “And I was younger. I didn’t know any better.”

  Popov leaned in. “Want me to kill Gilbert? Tell me what he spoke about Antoine. I kill him. Tell me now.”

  I watched Calendar bite her soft, pouting bottom lip. Her eyes moved darkly around the car. The streetlights disappeared in her black pupils. “He’s going to meet up with Antoine. Tonight.”

  “I’m getting mad.” Popov squeezed his cigarette.

  “Alright. Tiki Tom’s. At ten o’clock.”

  “What for?”

  “Gilbert doesn’t keep me around to discuss his business with me, you know?”

  “I don’t wanna bring this up now, Mr. Popov,” Ronny said. “But my shoulder. It’s not good.”

  “I say dump his sorry ass on the street,” Calendar suggested. “Little pussy.”

  “I’d blow your empty head off ’cept I don’t want to get cheap hair dye all over Mr. Popov’s nice suit. Whore.”

  “I’m no whore.” Calendar adjusted herself. “You can still see my calendar in liquor stores all over LA, Korean owned or not. Corona took me on a tour and everything. We did Santa Anita, my old man got free beer for six months.”

  “We know that, Marie,” Popov said. “We go to San Fernando Road. Fix you up there, Ronny. Then to the Tiki for you Marie. We have a little time.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Popov,” Ronny said.

  Sounded like this was going to be a busy night.

  The place on San Fernando looked like any suburban house, except every window was barred up like Fort Knox. I parked in front.

  Pulsing bass rattled the door and shook the windows nestled behind wrought iron as I pressed the buzzer.

  No one answered.

  Popov picked up a shriveled potted palm by the stalk and swung the pot into the door. The pot shattered. The reinforced steel wasn’t scratched.

  A slit in the door appeared.

  “Popov for Lenny,” the Russian said.

  Locks cranked. Popov pushed his way past the keeper of the gate. Blaring dance mix blasted out at us like a hurricane. “’Presence’ by Stasis,” I thought, though techno sounded like all the same heartless cluster to me. As Calendar walked past me, she mouthed, “You talk too much.”

  The room was crowded. Some danced, but most just stood around smoking. They could have been waiting for the Greyhound at the Glendale Depot.

  “Where is Lenny?” Popov said, yelling over the music.

  The doorman shook his head.

  Popov tried the first door he came to. Locked. Popov shot a stocky leg beneath the knob. The door slammed back against the wall.

  Amidst Pioneer stereo speakers still in their plastic wrap sat a huddled group sucking glass pipes. Red crack eyes looked up at the four of us.

  A movement drew my eyes to a corner of the room. A black man had his hand under his pea coat. His red eyes stared back evenly. There had been a movement when we first walked in. I realized I was the only one who saw it. I had to guess that under the coat was a gun trained on Popov. I wasn’t used to such fast movements from the normal world when I was stone cold sober. I had my hand under my jacket when I slid in front of Popov. The thin figure in the pea coat maintained, his red orbs locked on target.

  “I think we got the wrong room,” Calendar tugged on Popov.

  Popov muttered as he turned to walk out, “House full of zombie people.”

  “Cluck heads,” Calendar agreed, following behind.

  “They don’t even have fun,” Popov complained. “Coke makes you talk, dance, party, screw.” Popov shook his head, as if the thought of all the money he wasn’t going to make any more on cocaine bummed him out.

  I figured E was a big element here, too, not that I ever dropped my precious coin on it.

  The doorman ran up to us. “Chill out, man. Lenny’s back here.”

  “Keep her in sight,” Popov whispered to me.

  Popov and Ronny followed the doorman while Calendar and I waited. I walked back down the hall, just as someone left the room with the speakers in it. I glanced inside. The armed man i
n the pea coat was gone. I’d have to keep an eye out for him, especially if he was somehow fast like me.

  “What are you, just the driver or what?” she asked when I returned.

  I pointed to my ears like I couldn’t hear.

  “I said, ‘What are you, key butt boy or what?’”

  I pointed to the speaker and shrugged.

  “I left my smokes in the car,” she said. “I’m gonna go and get ’em.”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t letting her leave the room until Popov and Ronny came back. Those were my orders.

  “Can’t you say anything, or are you retarded?”

  Having a guy call me that was bad enough. I didn’t need to hear it from a woman.

  “Can’t think of anything to say, retard?” she said. “I saw you checking me out in the rearview. Don’t even think about it, ’cause no woman would ever be with you.”

  Two muscle boys in tight black T-shirts and jarhead haircuts moved between us.

  “Hey, chum,” one said with an English accent. “You seem to be having some trouble with your girlfriend. Mind if we take her off your hands?”

  “He ain’t nothing to me,” Calendar replied. “Let’s go.”

  The Brit boys laughed and walked her to the middle of the room. Calendar gave me an evil look and began to move to the music. I didn’t care, just as long as I could keep an eye on her.

  She ran her hands up her curves and tossed her tempting gorgon hair. Her lips formed a bad girl pout and her eyes closed in mock delight. She turned her back to the partners, added some spread to her thighs, and let her hips roll to the beat. The dominant English guy moved in closer while his sub-dominant partner swayed and watched. Calendar pulled her dress up, cotton panty level, and met him with her ass.

  I wondered if she thought she was making me jealous. I wondered if Popov would’ve killed these guys if he’d caught her act.

  The English boys escorted her toward the exit. I blocked their path.

  “Sorry, but the lady says she’s leaving with us,” the dominant one informed me.

  “Don’t be a sore loser,” the other one added.