by Jane Brooke
He got a merit badge for it, gold star on his cop jacket too.
You know, super cop of the year stuff.
Lou made a speech, kissed some babies, shook the mayor’s hand, and of course never let out a peep about moi.
I also sent along fifteen grand, fat envelop, c-notes for my cop buddy at the gate. Lou chatted him up, guy was glad to be mum. US cops stick together. Hope it kept his kids in sneakers for a long time.
That’s the least I could do for the hard working dicks in blue.
What about Eddie Jett?
Well it went down like this.
In Vegas well, it takes all kinds to make a pudding. I got this contact through my gangster buddy King, super duper, hard, black stud, who runs his gang empire down here in N. Las Vegas. I gave him a toddle doo on my cell. King, he knew just the right dude to help me with my special problem. I knew the guy too, a little.
Well he’s a doc, or used to be, before he got his license jerked out from under him. Seems he’d been selling party treats, mostly prescription drugs to Lawyers, doctors, ex rock stars and teenagers. You know, like Oxycontin, which made it hard for the teeners, making them steal the stuff out of their parent’s bath room drawers now.
He had oodles of dough, used to live in this exclusive part of Vegas, real posh. You know, walled estates, lots of video feeds, lots a Third Reich cars and other stuff the rich need to prove their somebody to impress people that don’t really give a shit.
No more though, blew all of it. Apparently he ran bad, craps, drugs, whores, heroin and such. Now he stacked out in the shit box in the desert. That’s what King told me.
I heard of this guy, a real sicko, heroin habit out of this world. Think I mentioned that, strung out on the edge, like a lot of folks in a city with no memory. He was just the kind of guy I needed.
Has this nice little clinic, you know, a FIXER, a mob guy. Repairs gunshot, knife, and baseball bat wounds for stick up guys, gang bangers, car-jacker’s and such. You know, the usual folks trying to eek out a living during this depression. He lives out in the desert, real remote, lots of Horn Toads for neighbors I suppose.
SO I zoomed out there after King hit him up first on his mobile.
Sure no problema, money, yeah she’s got loads if it, yeah, anything, send her bye. Take care of her, ya hear.
So I did. I parked the Buick and the place looked like a shit box. It was run down, dead car chassis resting near the cactus. It had news papers in the windows and nobody for miles all around
Perfect.
Sometimes a man’s screams can bring nosy neighbors, not here though.
Doc met me at the door. He was wasted, old, white hair, eyebrows, maybe sixty, looked eighty. Black Tar does that to a man, hands shaking. I was glad I had my tonsils out.
Doc was hospitable, invited me in and gave me a beer. The place smelled like a toilet, crap everywhere, old food, mold, dirty dishes everywhere.
I think he had a dead parakeet in a cage, don’t know.
Doc didn’t look like he ate much fiber. I was gonna mention that, but we got to it, me sitting on the couch feeling the springs hurting my ass. The beer was good though.
We pow wowed, a bit, back and forth, me being a straight to the point kinda girl that I am.
I guess there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do, for the right coin. Probably give his dear old mom an abortion with a coat hanger, if the money was right.
And Jane, yeah, sure, no problem, moneys right, when do you want to get started, come on, let’s take a looky-loo at the clinic.
He was kinda proud of that.
Doc had a CAN DO kind of attitude, and I appreciated that.
He gave me the ten dollar tour, the operating room too, if you can call it that. It looked swell to me.
Had a big bed, oxygen bottles, lots of scalpels, spat hulas, hack saws, cutters, electric drills, lots of cat gut, would need that. It had a drain in the center of the concrete floor to catch all the fluids. I guess it seemed perfect to me.
We cut the deal real quick like. I told him a friend of mine named Earl would be vistin’. He was the kind of man that could be trusted, good with saws, power drills and such.
Doc said. ”Fine, King said I was all that. No appointment needed.”
I laid off fifteen grand to him, made him cross his heart and hope to die that he wouldn’t get fucked loopy until the job was done. Said he was a Boy Scout once, never lied.
“Sure doc, no problem.” I reminded him about King.
That seemed to make the promise stick. I knew it would.
OK, doc had this gurney thing, little rubber wheel’s on it. It was nice, real professional. We wheeled her out to the Buicks trunk, opened her and, then off loaded Eddie on to it. He was wining about something, couldn’t make hide nor tails of what.
I guess the duct tape wrapped around his terrorized face was responsible for that.
Now doc, was kind of scrawny, heart could have had a few tick tocks left in it.
Heroin does that to a man, a Pop Tart diet too.
So me being the thoughtful gal that I am, I did most of the gurney pushin.’ Doc was real grateful for that. I, not one to use big language, you know showing off and all, said. ”It ain’t nothin’ doc. Glad to help.”
It only took a few minutes to get Eddie settled in to his new home. He groused a lot, screamed into the duct tape. I couldn’t figure out what he was saying. I know it was something important. Maybe I’d chat about it later with him.
We made sure the sheets were tucked real nice right under the blood dripping off his chin. And, then me being the prankster and all took his shattered finger, gave it a real healthy tug. He screamed into the duct tape. I could see he didn’t like that.
Geesh, he was one ungrateful, ex head liner and hurt my feeling a bit. I knew I would eventually get over it.
Doc was nice as he walked me out to my Buick, said. “Sweet ride.”
I said thanks, fired her up and in a plume of dust I whizzed off, doc waving his goodbyes behind me, full moon there in my rear view mirror.
Wind in my sails, I hit up King, bought him a coffee at a Starbucks, one we both co owned and I convinced him to buy. He was grateful for that. I also got him into two Burger Kings, a couple of Taco Bells, some other stock stuff to wash his crime syndicate money legal clean.
You know, like Kinder Morgan, that pipe line, oil mover conglomerate over their near Houston, pays about %17 dividend, cash money for every nickel you give them. My pimp brokers turned me on to them. So I turned King onto it. Can’t be a gangster forever, I figured.
Anyhooo, King loves my style, never forgets a friend, and has this pal of his named Earl. He’s real spooky, about six foot six, three hundred pounds, all nigger muscle. I hate that vile word, but that’s how King describes him.
King says Earls a savant with a pair of bolt cutters, good with a blow torch too, occasionally likes a chain saw. I said Naw, probably wouldn’t need that, but that is what Kind excels at. I listen to him about those things.
King understands me, knows I’m a princess with a heart of gold. I love him for that.
XXX
So back to this gorgeous Kong friend of Kings.
Earl was one of those Guys.
You know. Some guy, addicted to gambling, just sure this time he’s got a sure thing, hits up King for the bet because the casinos won’t touch him with a ten foot pole. He lays his kids tuition on the 5th at Belmont.
WHAMO.
The fucking pony, home stretch, leading all the way, sees a shadow, veers off, breaking its leg and, then a bullet in its head. Next stop the slaughter house and a one way trip to McDonalds.
Then Earl comes visiting, big gold tooth grill, the VIG is %30, a week. Earl, looking like a feeding Mako shark, doesn’t say much, no
need to do so. He mentions something, off the cuff about a wood chipper out there near Barstow.
Then the guy digs the money out of the floor boards looking for quarters He sells his and his wives wedding rings, jewelry, furniture, Beamer, maybe even a kid. Anything, just so Earl won’t ever visit again.
He seems perfect, so I cut a deal to rent out ole Earl, think he’s from Alabama. King says he’s a country kid, can bend iron bars with his gold teeth, just for fun.
I offered to pay for Earl. King said. “Naw doll, pro bono, I owe ya for the fast food joints, don’t worry yer pretty little head about nothin’.”
I kind of blushed from the compliment. Old traits die hard, though it would be a while before I slept sans nightmares again.
So, Earl as was promised was the real deal.
It took only a first visit from Earl for Eddie to give up the other doc’s name. I guess a bolt cutter and a couple of fingers gone made Eddie get religion. Get it right quick.
Doc was there, my doc, and worked hard for me. He was stitching, mending, lots of oxygen, alcohol, sutures, making sure Eddie over the weeks didn’t bleed out or get some kind of nasty infection.
Nothing gained if he got any life threatening infections from all the snipping and cutting Earl was doing. Doc cared real good for Eddie. I appreciated that.
After all of Eddie’s fingers went AWOL, Earl began with the toes. That seemed to go slow, but Earl had a great work ethic, even though it took a couple of weeks to do the job right.
I was impressed and I had to say thank you, some how, so I snuck ten grand into Earls leather work apron, the one with all the blood on it. He was very happy about that, and we bonded.
I was happy making such a nice, new friend.
I wasn’t there for most of it. I’m a bit squeamish about such things.
Since Missy, I’m re evaluating my life, trying to be a bit more feminine, adding more value to my life. But near the end, I got a picture of the kid from the tombs from Lou.
I put it on the end of the bed, you know, just to remind Eddie that he fucked with the wrong bitch. I wanted to remind him of what he had done was a very bad thing.
I hoped he could see it, because he only had one eyeball left at the time. I think he did, because he kept blinking it at me. Me wondering what he was trying to say to me that late in the game.
After I had left, Earl felt it was times to wrap things up. So he cut off Eddie dick and stapled it to his forehead, which I figured had to hurt like hell.
Doc stitched him up, and loaded him into Earl’s old school, 63 Cadillac, Coup Deville. We both-dug classic rides, drove him out to the desert, strapped him to a cactus and pretty much, with a job well done feeling, let the coyotes do the rest.
Me, well I haven’t been sleeping so well lately, but that will pass. I still have stuff on my mind, two things still to do, just to make it all right with my girl Missy.
I have to make a visit to the other doc, the one that cut up my babies womb and lobes and make that right. I know Earl will help, he’s my new bud.
Then I have to go to Toys or Us, keep my promise to Lou, and buy his kid a pink Teddy Bear.
Lou’s kid will like that. I know Lou will too
XXX
Me Jane, you, what ever, for sure not fucking Tarzan.
I’ve been feeling bent cold lately, like a rolled iron loop de loop bitch. You know, like a Coney Island roller coaster, curved in a leap of death, near the pier pilings. There rotting, wasted away from the salt tear drops of an unrelenting army of a sea’s vengeance, crewed of ocean soldiers. No memory, no pity, corroding soul killers as old as ancient time.
I’m a lost smart Alec cunt, lately that is. I’m feeling leaderless, no general to guide me. I’m usually very fucked up, in a good way, but not now.
It feels bad this time and that’s about it.
I’ve been feeling like that ever since I seen the kid Missy Smith looking like 98 pounds of dead, white zinc, over there at the Tombs, at N. Vegas Metro.
Normally I dig it here, the dumpster world and my massive loft, just above Chang’s laundry.
I like the sound of the gun shots that rack this part of bad N Las Vegas. Even love the garbage strewn alleyway’s where the dead bodies splinter, decomposing near the dumpsters. Life is odd, and I exist in unison near the gang cribs, shoot up houses, city block thug empires, held, fought and died for tooth and nail. Fought for, for no other reason at all, except that’s all they got and that’s all their ever gonna get.
Fuck, I wouldn’t live anywhere else.
I keep having these night mares.
You know, its summer and I’m on the boardwalk in Coney. I lived on the East Coast for a bit, know it well. I can smell it, taste it, you know, snow cones, blood as the neon that lights the coaster timbers, screeching iron wheels in the big dip, near the cotton candy vendors and the bumps of the bumper cars.
I keep seeing this kid, white dress, white hair, showing up and, then vanishing. There are the usual crowds spinning near the Ferris wheel. Throw a dime on a dish and win a pink moose.
Missy’s there. Then she’s not.
It’s a summer night filled with strolling Chechen’s, Uzbek’s, Russian mob guys out of Perth Amboy, Brighton Beach and The Jersey Shore. There ex cannibals out of the savage gulags of Siberia. Hard men shooting the water pistols for a purple teddy bear for their screaming kids. It’s a surreal world of death, life and pain, and normally I dig that kind of vibe.
But, I can’t wake, claw my way out of this dream thing, mostly because the kid keeps calling my name.
Jane, Jane, Janie girl, come find me if you can.
I move through the crowds, filled with the usual suspects, ghetto gangs bangers, street hitters, kinda dudes that chat it up with zip guns, duct taped pistol handles of Saturday Night Specials gone bad.
The place is puissant with Wise Guys, Mick’s, Greeks gangster wannabees, Cambodians addicted to the Fan- Fan tables, Haitians, Hispanics of every ilk. Lots of duck tailed Puerto Rican pimps turning out their girl friends for the street life, and the hard men and bitches that run with them.
I know I’m dreaming, cant abort out of it.
Then I see those bare feet, a swish of a white smock, white hair moving by the carrousel, wooden horses, camels, elephants, kids on them, nab a gold ring, if you’re quick. There’s gangsters watching, proud, and there she is again, moving out and around the crowds.
I follow her. I can smell’s her scent. It smells like white cut roses as she still gaily calls me.
Janie, Janie please come find me.
She’d be a sweetie pie, if she wasn’t’ stone cold dead.
I track her out of the amusement park.
I see a light flash of her. I move past the throngs strolling on the Board Walk. There are strollers, kids, dogs on leashes, tattoo parlors, places selling Coney dogs, foot longs, mustard jars and relish if you want it. Kids are eating pink cotton candy and other sodium laced junk that’s killing Americans.
There she is, on the white sand, moving towards the decaying pier
I follow her, hear a tiny little voice. “Janie, Janie, come find me.”
I can feel the sand, quenching between my toes.
Zingo, she’s gone, vanishing underneath the pier. Some guys dropping lines and fish hooks in the salt, above me. Guess they don’t mind mackerel stuffed full of Mercury.
I can smell her, there’s that flower scent again.
It’s kinda dark under the pier, salt water on my toes as I move into it.
Silhouette, little blond girl, in the shadows, don’t blame her for the lights are bright in The Tombs.
I see her, I think and, then my mind goes bright, illuminating her. My eyes dead bolt open, as the light, that fucking light exposes her, the new her.
&nbs
p; She’s smiling, and she’s white, dead paste white, naked, purple, red cat gut holding her together. Her forehead is missing. Brains are spilling out like worms. Stacked in her hands is a bouquet of burning black flowers.
Why the fuck is she smiling at me? Trying to suck air into my thundering eyes, I can’t stand and fall to my knees, salt water, not the sea, spilling down my cheeks.
Raising my arms to her, I want to hold her, protect her and, then she whispers to me, driving a spike through my heart.
“Why Jane, why Jane couldn’t you protect me? Why did you let them do this to me?”
My lips mumble, tremor, me body vibrating, teeth chattering. I shriek, bend and pound the sand with my fists.
I wake in my loft, the skylights high above and it is raining, eyes stark like pool balls, hyperventilating, terrified and irate.
Slapping at my bruised face with my hands, clawing at it, I try to rip HER FACE out of my brain.
Time moves, I calm, it’s a Zen thing.
Reaching to an old pine table, I love English antiques, next to my old iron rung bed, I can barely get a Marlboro out of the pack.
Finding my Zippo, tough girl stuff, my image, am so sick of image, light it up, shove it between my bruised lips Eddie Jett left me as a present.
Wincing, I drag on my smoke as I watch the smoke filter thirty feet up to my skylights, rain banging on them. I get it together, just a bit, throw the white down comforter back, and groan.
I see all the blue welts, black and blue on my no breasts, cuts, tiny tummy, legs, arms, more slashes from the glass and the two red dots on one small tit.
They are just just like the ones on Missy over there at the morgue.
The nightmares, they mean something to me. I think there telling me I have to do something, something else with my crapped up life. I love who I am, toe to toe with life.
Take no prisoners, rumble, mix it up, generous with the poor, I give, but maybe not enough.
I screw the pooch sometimes and get a beat down, so what. But it’s a fucking honest life. It’s my life.
I am way too far into sex with my girls and I’m not a sex addict, but close.
Maybe enough is finally enough?