Fast Bang Booze

by Lawrence Maddox

I stood my ground. She’d better call this off.

  The Brit got in my face. “She says you can’t even get your willie up, so why not let some real men do the job?”

  Calendar laughed hard. “I love an English accent. It’s so classy.”

  The dominant charmer, all smiles, broke in. “If he wants to stand there so bad, let’s just go ’round the bugger.”

  They stepped forward. I grabbed Calendar’s waist and spun her back.

  “Hey!” she yelped, spilling on her butt.

  Subdom aimed at me with a fist. He wore a flying bat ring, encrusted with diamonds. The bat face had protruding, serrated edges and a sad mouth. When you’re fast in a slowed-down world, you notice the little things like that.

  Dom, still charming as he waited for the punch to fall, let his buddy do the work.

  I turned and let the bat fly past my ear. I shot three left jabs to his face, starting at the cheek and hammering up to the temple. It took two thumps of the driving techno beat between the first and last.

  Astonished, he uttered, “Bloody ’ell…”

  He came at me with a front kick to the crotch, followed by a snapping back hand chaser. I stepped away and let his fancy-ass cowboy boot dance in midair. I copied his backhand, popping his nose with my knuckles. I ducked under his original, punching straight into his solar plexus. He doubled over.

  More techno beats churned until he finally gasped for air. I stepped back toward Calendar to let them know the fight was over. All the heat from her taunts chilled with the last punch. It felt good.

  Dom sized me up, put his hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “C’mon Bruce. Let’s get going. He must be on some kind of super yayo or something.”

  Bruce wiped blood off his nose and swallowed hard. “Super yayo or something.”

  They grabbed their matching wool jackets and headed for the door of a thousand locks.

  When the Brits were out of sight, it was my turn to gulp for air.

  “Who do you think you are, doing that to me?” Calendar was on her feet. Not as contemptuous as before, but angry.

  Popov walked in with a rejuvenated Ronny. He clutched a burlap bag. “Check it out,” Ronny said. He opened the bag and showed me a hypodermic with a syringe in place. “This stuff will pick you up and shake you loose.”

  “She give much trouble?” Popov asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Bullshit,” Popov said.

  Chapter 9

  1994

  Janie had been gone for a while. Prepping for her dance, I guessed.

  I stood up and dizziness hit me. I collapsed onto Ray’s California king and stared up at the faux tusks mounted on the wall. The rest of the house was decorated in downtown Zen. He even had a waterfall in the kitchen, which he claimed gave off “positive ions.”

  Ray’s bedroom was a different story. Beatnik bachelor-pad jungle chic, I called it. Primitive masks with deranged faces adorned the bamboo-covered walls. Spears crisscrossed above his Rodger’s Sound Lab stereo speakers, intertwined with ivy. Fake animal skins covered the bed, while Ray’s much-used bongos sat in the corner. Above them hung a pith helmet, which he claimed he wore in bed during his “jungle love rituals.” In a glass case on the dresser was a black beret. Ray boasted a beatnik, Maynard G. Krebs, from an ancient TV show, had worn the beret. Ray had dropped a lot of cash for it.

  “I’m back,” Janie said.

  “Thought you got lost.”

  “This will really help,” Janie said as she found the strobe light.

  “How about this?” I hit a switch near the bed. A tropical bird cried out from behind the masks.

  Janie looked up in surprise. “What was that?”

  Other distant jungle sounds followed, accompanied by Arthur Lyman lounge music. A breeze from an open window stirred the vines.

  “Cool. Now sit back and enjoy,” Janie said with a flourish. “Oh, by the way, you’re not seeing me in slow motion right now, are you?”

  “Nope. I’m floating like a cloud.”

  “Perfect.”

  With that, the room went black. Then the strobe light kicked in at an easy pulse. Janie rose from the foot of the bed as another jungle bird screamed. Fully clothed, she turned her back to me and lifted her arms high above her head, holding them straight up like feathered plumage.

  Her stone washed jeans began to slide down as she undulated, revealing silky flesh-toned panties with a frilly edge. The jeans got stuck halfway down. She wiggled her knees, and they fell to her ankles. Stepping out of them, she tucked her hands under the armpits of her blouse and flapped like a chicken.

  I smiled. This was getting good.

  She stretched her legs out and weaved back and forth like an Indian goddess. She spun on one leg, revealing a tramp stamp of a mysterious object that, in all the excitement, I forgot to ask about. Her hands appeared under her blouse and worked buttons.

  Janie whipped the blouse off, knocking one of Ray’s masks to the floor. She disappeared beneath the foot of the bed.

  “Hey, where’d you go?” I said.

  The rhythm of the strobe light increased.

  One of Ray’s jungle masks inched its way above the bed. She held the mask up to her face as she flitted about. Janie leaped into the air and danced around the room, clad only in panties. Her breasts, firm and full, curved upwards. Her knockout body was ghost pale. For a moment, it was like the mask was buoyed aloft by some Venice canal spirit.

  “Eyaahh!” Janie dived onto the bed with a startling shriek. She held her masked face inches from me and growled.

  The end.

  I fumbled for the audio controls by the bed and dimmed the jungle music. Janie waited until the last drop of sound had ebbed away.

  “So what’d you think?” she asked.

  There was no way she’d ever be a real stripper. But she was for real.

  “That was…incredible,” I said.

  “I knew you’d like it. I was afraid it might be a little too artsy, but what the heck. I went for it.”

  I ran my hands along her body, heated up from her performance.

  She lay down next to me. “Talk to me,” she whispered.

  I was in love.

  The phone rang.

  “Oh shit,” Janie said, rushing out of the room to answer it.

  Chapter 10

  1993

  Tiki Tom’s was nearly empty. A drunk teetered on the edge of his seat at the bar, his head buried deep in his hands. Behind the bar, a chubby bartender cleaned glasses while another bartender, an old Japanese dude, chewed a toothpick.

  The bathrooms were clear.

  Above the bar, an irritating gag clock with hands running counterclockwise, said nine-forty. It bugged me.

  I walked out of the bar sober. A Frank first.

  “Twenty minutes to go,” Popov said. We watched from the Acapulco’s across the street. Popov turned to Calendar. “What is the deal here?”

  “I don’t know. A friendly meeting. Antoine was going to pay a peace offering through Gilbert to La Eme.”

  Popov thought this over. “Gilbert said this?”

  Calendar shrugged. “I thought you were gonna give me some money.”

  “Popov always keeps word. So just the two of them?”

  “I guess.”

  As if on cue, a white Trans Am with gold trim pulled up in front of the Tiki. Gilbert’s young double in Jordache got out of the driver’s side. Gilbert got out of the passenger side, adjusting his hair.

  “Gilbert,” Calendar whispered.

  “Surprised?” Popov asked.

  Calendar shook her head.

  “Let’s go now,” Popov said. “Frank and I will take care of these two. You mind if I kill boyfriend?”

  “Gilbert isn’t my boyfriend, Popov, so just shut up about that.”

  “Ronny, wait here for Antoine.”

  We crossed the street.

  Popov let me walk in first. Gilbert and his double stood at the bar. They saw me enter but
didn’t even flinch.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” Gilbert said.

  “I want Antoine,” Popov answered, strolling in after me. “He has my money.”

  “What?” Gilbert asked. Popov’s gunplay at El Recreo had messed with Gilbert’s hearing.

  Jordache Junior spoke up. “He said he wants Antoine and his money.”

  “Don’t translate, cabron.”

  The drunk at the far end of the counter still had his head buried in his hands, but one of his arms jerked.

  Then I knew. A flash of gunmetal black.

  I threw my weight into Popov and bounced off. I hit the floor when the drunk’s corner exploded with gunfire. The drunk knelt behind the counter. He wasn’t a drunk at all.

  From my angle on the floor, I saw the pea coat tucked under his chair.

  Sunken Crack Eyes. The fast one from the room with the speakers in San Fernando.

  Who brought you to the party?

  He’d beaten me to the draw again. Beat me at the single thing I was here for.

  More players made a big entrance, drawing down on us.

  Popov grabbed the fat bartender and used him as a human shield, charging Gilbert and his young double.

  “No! Please!” the bartender begged as Gilbert returned fire.

  Crack Eyes fired over the corner rim of the bar. I covered for Popov, shooting once, twice. Crack Eyes scuttled back into his corner.

  Popov changed directions, heaved the bartender against Gilbert’s young double. Popov placed his SIG 210 against Jordache Junior’s head and fired. Blood and brain matter doused the bartender. He spilled to the floor shrieking. Junior toppled over him.

  Whoa. Today my memory bank was filling with unwanted anatomy lessons.

  “Get Popov!” Gilbert yelled.

  I ran from behind the table, firing at Crack Eyes as I leapt for the bar. He fired back at me, leaving Popov alone. Gilbert and Popov exchanged fire as they backed away from each other. Popov took up my old position behind the table.

  Crack Eyes and I were separated by the bar, me seated on the inside, him outside. I took aim at the position I imagined he was at on the other side. At the moment I pulled the trigger, a shot blasted a hole through the side of the bar and knocked my Ruger out of my hand.

  Damn he was fast.

  My Ruger skidded across the floor, stopping in front of Japanese Grandpa huddled behind the bar with me. He picked it up and pointed it at me.

  Chapter 11

  “No need to hide, pollacita,” Gilbert whispered into the quiet of the tiny Tiki. From my tight crouch behind the bar, I heard the front door click shut. “You have done well,” Gilbert said to someone.

  High heels slowly hammered the knot-holed floor.

  “Hi,” Calendar said.

  The quiet lasted long enough for a cheap feel.

  “You really messed up tonight, big man,” Gilbert finally called out. “I’m gonna guess your man across the street is watching this from hell. ’Cause he’s dead.”

  Ronny dead?

  I was desperate to see what was going on, but I was certain Crack Eyes would blow my head off if I hazarded a quick peak. I crawled closer to Japanese Grandpa. He clutched the Ruger tightly, aiming it at me.

  “It’s just you and retardo. Retardo is probably in his own mierda behind the counter,” Gilbert said. “Luis, Cesar, check it out.”

  Pot shots sprayed Japanese Grandpa and me with booze and glass.

  “Hey Popov,” Gilbert called out. “Let’s see how strong that tiki table you’re hiding behind is.”

  Two shots, like an ice pick stabbing a cardboard box. I heard Popov’s Italian shoes making a run for it.

  “Don’t kill him!” Gilbert commanded.

  More shoes.

  Fighting.

  I needed to be there instead of here.

  “Uh!”

  “Hold him—”

  “Aiee chinga!”

  “Hold him!”

  “Ugh…”

  “Loco!”

  “Ah! He’s biting my arm, man!”

  “Hit him. Use the gun—”

  “He’s biting to the bone!”

  A thud, followed by another, and then the wrestling stopped. Heavy breathing.

  “Tie his hands with this,” Gilbert said. “I want him awake. Hand me that drink.”

  I heard liquid splash.

  “He’s waking up,” Gilbert said.

  I was between Crack Eyes, who was outside of the front end of the bar, and Japanese Grandpa, but I had to do something quick. Japanese Grandpa kept the gun leveled at my head. I crawled closer.

  “Wake Mr. Popo,” Gilbert said.

  More slapping, harder.

  “Big man. Remember me?”

  “Sure. Popov improve your hearing,” Popov said. He sounded good.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “He said he made you hear better,” someone said. Gilbert was getting help from the sidelines.

  “It’s no joke!” Gilbert screamed.

  I heard a series of slaps, punches. “You like that, big man?” Gilbert said.

  My boss was getting his ass kicked. I needed to turn this hide-and-seek around.

  I tore a page out of my pocket notebook and scribbled furiously.

  Give me the gun. Promise I won’t shoot you.

  I slid it to Japanese Grandpa. He read it, frowned, shook his head. He wasn’t buying any diary entries from the freak.

  “You like this puto now, Maria? Look at how he slobbers blood. Me, I’m not so impressed.”

  “Please, baby,” Calendar said. “Let’s get out of here before the cops show.”

  “Uno momento, sexy. I need for Mr. Popo to see that what he did was a very wrong thing. Now, if he begs forgiveness from Padre Gilberto, then maybe I make it quick,” Gilbert said like a scolding priest. ”If not, it’s knees, hips, then two more bullets for the kidneys, and we say adios pendejo.”

  There was quiet.

  “What?” Gilbert asked.

  Resounding question-mark silence. I strained to hear.

  “What? He’s mumbling.” Gilbert said.

  I imagined I heard the breath of a whisper, but it was too faint to be sure. I could be hearing Popov’s last words.

  Japanese Grandpa held the Ruger on me while listening to the mayhem on the other side of the counter. I passed him another note.

  Please.

  “What? Wait…” Gilbert said.

  I leaned forward, as I imagined Gilbert leaned forward, just to hear.

  Then I heard it. A sickening crunch.

  “Aaaah!” Gilbert screamed. “Fucking head butted me!”

  My mind howled, my soul screamed a laugh. Popov didn’t quit. But he had nothing else now. Except me.

  I reached for the gun from Japanese Grandpa. He looked at me, then towards the violence on the other side of the bar. He slowly nodded as I oh so gently lifted the Ruger out of his hands.

  “Luis, Cesar, step away. Say ‘Goodbye’ Popov.” Gilbert spoke in nasal swallows.

  I had to act now. I sucked in air and planted my feet when I heard the single shot.

  I dove over the bar.

  The view was not what I expected.

  Popov on his knees, hands behind his back. Gilbert standing over him, a .45 in his hand. A step away from Gilbert, Calendar. I guessed it was Luis and Cesar behind Popov, one more at his side. One more at the door. Figures frozen on yard sale china.

  The big surprise was Gilbert, looking down at the expanding circle of red on the chest of his silk shirt. And Calendar, pointing a Beretta at him.

  “Bruja.” Gilbert dropped.

  My turn to spring to life.

  Luis and Cesar were turning to blow away Calendar. I worked my trigger, sending Cesar’s gun arm-twisting like a kite tail. Luis did a spastic Macarena, grabbing at his thigh. Their butts hit the floor simultaneously.

  I couldn’t believe I’d actually hit something. Maybe I was getting good at this.r />
  Crack Eyes stood up from his end of the bar and fired. His bullets broke up the bar behind me, doing nothing to pacify the angry Tiki idols lining the shelf.

  Unable to find me, he turned to Calendar. Shots from the front door sent him scurrying back to the counter. I saw Gilbert’s man by the door, firing erratically. Blood painted his gun hand red. Looked like Popov’s bite from earlier had ruined this dude’s aim.

  Crack Eyes fired from the counter. Bloody Sleeve’s cheek oozed dark sludge. He toppled over as Crack Eyes sprinted out the door. He stopped, leveled at Cesar and Luis seated like they were clay pigeons. Drilled them. Cold.

  That answered the question of who Crack Eyes wasn’t with, but not who he was with. He definitely was not one of Gilbert’s. But what the heck? Was he minding Vlad’s business? Or someone else’s? And would I have time to make myself a Mai Tai?

  Calendar shot at the stooge at Popov’s side. He ran out of the bar.

  I walked to Popov and undid the cords, keeping one eye on Calendar. Popov’s head was gashed, his face swollen, but when the last cord fell he jumped to his feet. He pushed me away, staggered to the bar and grabbed a handful of ice.

  “Vodka,” he ordered Japanese Grandpa. “The bottle.”

  Chapter 12

  1994

  Janie rushed back to the bedroom with Ray’s ringing cordless phone. She put it between our ears.

  “Hello?” Janie said.

  The voice on the other end had a thick Mexican accent. “Bueno? Who is this?”

  “Who is this?” Janie threw back.

  “Damn well you know who’s this. I star sixty-nine’d you.”

  Janie giggled, then shot me a sly look. I listened, keeping my eyes on her. I heard Mexican music and loud talking in the background.

  “Uhm,” Janie said. “This is Police Sergeant Nancy Drew.”

  The gruff voice cut her off. “Go to bed little girl, or I’ll come and get you.” A click and dial tone followed.

  “He hung up,” she said.

  “Who was that? Please say ‘Pink Dot.’ We need supplies.”

  “El Recreo! Just like in your story.”

  I was stunned. “What?”

  “Yeah. I looked them up in the phone book. I thought, you know, maybe you were making this stuff up. But sure enough, there it was totally listed.”