by Jane Brooke
It came with baby artichokes, seasoned vegetable ratatouille, garlic whipped potatoes, shaved fennel, sweetly graced with a citrus glaze.
I think I might of cummed after the first bite.
Our guest, of course, had a Char Grilled Rib eye, with ash roasted fingerling potatoes, sweet onion jam, Piquillo peppers, a port wine glaze, and of course set off perfectly with a garlicky broccolini.
The last thing the pug needed was more garlic on his breath.
His food could have been sautéed in turpentine and he wouldn’t have noticed.
It was quite something seeing the guy chow down. He did use a knife and fork on the Rib eye, which I am sure many patrons around the restaurant were grateful for.
Now, because I am a smart girl, I kept toasting him, making sure a new beer was there every five minutes, for the obvious reason. All the while I was pretend sipping at the Crystal, just to keep my brains clear.
I wanted to stay frosty, sharp, in a killing mode.
I never said much during the dinner, and King and he talked a lot, mostly about bidness.
Carlos black pea eyes kept darting at me all the time, to see if I was impressed, which I smiled that I was. T
hat seemed to please him, a lot. His hand finally found my knee and I didn’t flick an eyelash, smiled and raised my white eyebrows. I shook my blond hair like a whore, laughed like a French Poodle, knowing if bad became badder down the line, he might just hesitate before murdering me because he wanted to sodomize me.
You know so he could rape me later. Which I was sure was coming up next on that menu called life.
Anyhooo, I can’t help but not think that I am the main character in one of those Greek Tragedy thingies, you know like Homers Epos Odyssey.
Me of course being Odysseus.
The hero, cunning, a killer, warrior of the Trojan War’s and the Oracles predicting that he would never see life, home again, thus sending him on a ten year journey. A perilous trek through hostile lands, enemies, and I am hoping like Odysseus I will finally reach Ithaca, alive, intact, which is my beloved loft over Chang’s laundry. Once there, finding safe those there that love me; as I Iove them.
But not NOW as I get bright for the journey is not done. Not done by a fucking NY minute.
Focus. OK.
Sooo, the dinner, disguised as Hades, finally ended.
I kept expecting King to abort the entire thing, for you know, what was he thinking? Those warning hairs on my arms were like a Springer-Spaniels and what the fuck was going on in his cabassa hit up my brain?
NADA. Obviously.
Of course, Pierre copped for the meal, all of it. You know.
“Jane daling’, zee money is no good here, you are zee the moonlight of our simple eatery. We love zeee Jane.”
I of course blushed, hand kisses, cheek kisses, six C notes in his tux pocket, for him, waiters, solmolaires, from moi, smiles, gratitude, whispers, me embarrassed for bringing two hundred pounds of sweating chorizo into his chateau.
But he understood for business is always business and so we scooted.
King, I think it was King wanted to go dancing at the Voodoo Lounge. I had bad Missy memories from that name.
COME ON. Let’s get it done so I can get rid of the acid burning a sink hole in my tummy.
So I did one of those back hand things to my forehead, sans white gloves. I pretended I was a southern belle, instead of a gal with a heater in my clutch.
I promised much dancing, maybe fucking later and corralled them to the front door. Once there, I did not see anything that I liked; nothing at all, once out the door.
Parked in front of the joint, was our guy, the limousine, and behind that was a Black Cadillac Escalade. Loitering there we’re two six-foot-two, 220 lbs thugs, obviously Zetas. They were wearing the standard mid thigh, gangster black leather coats.
Three guesses what those chest bulges were?
I needed only one, as I looked at King, who was laughing at something cleaver Carlos had just said, you know like.
I jeeest am going to keel all of you bendaho pinche white assholes, as soon as I can.
NOT.
King cruised up to me, still thinking of cocktails, dancing, and I guess showing me off, spinning on heels around the disco.
I grinned in absolute terror, pretending to be all happy and such from a conversation that went like this. I said nothing as he spoke.
“Come on Janie, were kipping to Carlos crib.”
OH REALLY KING?
“Yeah doll, take care of bidness, get it done, my man wants to make it right.”
IS THAT SO?
“Yeah, finish up some bidness, so we can dance the night away. Come on, we’ll follows I’m to the Towers Suites, won’t take a minute, let’s go
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, I did not say, but the words were thundering in my head.
SO in the limo we go, and I sit on my tiny ass, wonderin’ about that extra clip, Kings hand on my thigh, like buds, nothing sexual, me wondering what I can say, to advert this madness.
I decided to keep my yap shut, me staring at The Towers, super glitzy Condo sky scrapper just a klick away like it’s a Third Reich death oven, me thinking it’s going to be our tombstone and hoping it’s not.
I gotta believe King knows what’s what. I mean he has too. He’ a little drunk, moi, feeling like I have a cattle prod shoved up my ass. I am amped up alert and sipping at the bubbly.
Let’s get it over, one way or the other. 250 large, well its nothing, certainly my diamond bod isn’t worth that much, it is what it is. OK.
We prowl into the big circle, park in front of everything that is wrong in Vegas. Big glitz, sky scrapper tower place, lots of empty cribs, 2006 inflated prices. It was the big bubble real estate float, movie stars, directors, high rollers, directors paid a mil for a couple of rooms. Great views of the Strip, real estate prices tanked, twenty-cents on the buck, didn’t matter to thugs like Carlos.
They got money growing on Marijuana trees, mules lugging in crates of Cocaine.
We park as the black Escalade parks behind us. I have a plan, a last plan, as I see those gold smiles. All three of the Zetas have gold grills.
WELL that’s just fucking SWELL.
In a chorus of good will we hit it through the door, the doorman grinning, valets parking our rides, chauffer parked off to the side.
Fuck, I miss Earl, Jamal and Rudy too. Where’s the love?
It was supposed to be a simple sit down, easy, casual, Carlos, King, me being the stupid arm candy.
Mexicanos like that in their slut women.
I keep peeking through my raccoon ringed eyes at the slabs of meat. King doesn’t way laid back. To laid back.
Up, up, up we go, elevator music, The Velvet Fog, little lights blinking floor levels. Each ping, ping, ping is drilling a bullet hole in my burning mind.
“CACHING.”
The door opens, down the hall we happy people go.
We enter the whore house, me, last of course.
It’s just as I imagined, a real rectum of bad taste, black leather couches, sofas, loungers, chrome everywhere. Slotted along the bar there are lots of crystal, bottle of booze, huge window facing the Strip lights, really dramatic. There’s a big screen TV, CD, DVDS, stuff, lots of DVDS, probably Snuff movies.
I think of Eddie Jett, wonderin’ if Carlos has a cool collection of pedophile kill movies. I’m sure he’s into that too.
About two feet from the big plate glass, there’s a backless leather bench, a small coffee table, chrome, black leather, glass top, and there it is, a silver aluminum Halliburton brief case. There’s always a Halliburton briefcases that now is separating another comfy little black leather bench, rimmed in chrome. We take our seats, and everyone is smiling, which sends a forear
m shiver into my cunt.
I am in a completely no kinda fuck around mood.
I move to Carlos, squeeze his arm. He leaks a look up and up at me. I smile, squeeze a bit more, ask him about the powder room. You know like Holly Go Lightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I almost ask him for a fifty dollar bill. I don’t.
I’m giving him all the signs, you know, fucking, sucking and sodomy later if he’s a good boy. He gets it, gurgles out. “Jest there, me beautiful senorita.”
I grin and almost vomit.
I tell the boys not to start with out me.
Wink, wink at the Body guards. They like me, a lot as I lift my boot to a couch arm, hike my little black dress to the hilt, exposing a hint of my butt. That’s other naked little jewel men think that they cannot live without. I’m glad I’m wearing my black blazer.
All eyes jerked, lascivious glares, I look at the guys, Kings is amused. I seem to blush, straighten and with little clutch in hand, sway into the bathroom, close the door, slam my back against the door, hyperventilating.
Hands on my knees, breath blasting and me trying to force blood into my brain.
Moments pass, I move to the mirror, want to splash water on my face.
Wake up, get sharp. Get it fucking together. I berate myself.
Black mascara masking the fear in my eyes and opaque face, lips. I’m not afraid of death, never have been. No one gets out alive in the end, but not by these ghouls.
Not now, not yet, not never.
Flush the toilet, couldn’t pee if I wanted to.
Get ready doll, yep I am, hopin’ it ain’t so, so I do.
“CLICK.”
I prime my Beretta, shove it into my back waistband and out the door I go
XXX
Walk out into the grand living room, see the sit down. Carlos is sitting on his bench, coat off, behind him, black leather thigh jackets, the evil giants on either side of him, Vegas neon twinkling innocently behind them.
Thought it was going to be a fun evening, just an exchange, loot owed, why the muscle?
King is sitting on the bench in front of them. The Halliburton is on the plate glass, me knowing when that damn thing opens there maybe will be a tuna in it, or phone book.
You know the kind the CIA used whacking those guys in Iraq with, after they water boarded them, which that ghoul Rumsfeld, his Dracula buddy Cheney said wasn’t torture. Unless of course, it was being done to you and, then it is horrific torture.
Drowning really is a horrendous thing.
I twirl to the bench, light the room with my smile, sit and spread my bare legs. There goes the skirt, eye ticks at my pink thing, the Zetas like us lean, us towering All American blondes.
King grins, loving the show this Vegas show girl always brings. He then chirps. “Lets get it on Carlos buddy, we have dancing to do.”
DANCING. REALLY?
All I can think of is they will be dancing on Kings grave, as then Carlos grins, that grin and, then the world falls to complete slow mo.
I take a deep breath, as the grease balls hands lay on the aluminum, and two “CLICKS” reverberate through the room.
As the Halliburton lid rises, as planned I open my legs a little wider, do a little attention drawing cough, as my heels plant on the floor, and my legs part, showing the solar, naked flare glowing out of my cunt.
Tick, tick, tick.
The clock moves as the thugs hands hesitate, moving into their coats, their eyes locked on moi, HER, that pretty golden bauble between my golden thighs.
Carlos distracted, leering too, as the briefcase slaps open to the glass, and there it is. It’s not a tuna, but lots and lots of newspapers, and everything is closed down, by my exposed cunt, Carlos hand moving behind his back
Time is dead, maybe for a sec as King looks at me. I look at him, everybody looking at my magic pussy
And then “Pssssst, Pssssst, Psssst” sizzles through the room, me in a crouch holding my Beretta with one hand, prefer two, didn’t have time.
Zip, zip, zip, three bullet holes in their foreheads.
Carlos slammed back onto the floor, on his side, the lug nuts behind him dead before they hit the floor. The stunning view of the Vegas lights is now abolished by blood, brain matter and shards of skull as they painted the window, opaque red.
King looks at me, I smile, blow the smoke from my silencer tip.
Cute I am as do an Annie Oakley twirl with my Beretta and stand. I look at King, with you know, my usual perfect, ego driven, I WAS FUCKING RIGHT look.
Not wanting to rub it in, It’s Kings b-day after all, but a little mirth never hurts, as I purr.
“Well, who’s your daddy King?”
King grins, looks at me and says.
“I’m you bitch doll, you are the Bong, how’d ya know Janie?”
I smile, say something like let’s gab later.
I call King over as I move to Carlos and hover over him, Beretta still ready. And absolutely not wanting any more blood on my hands, or my Marc Jacobs, we might go dancing later, still want to look pretty, I kick Carols over.
BINGO, just as I thought. There’s a 45, military US Marine issue, stuck in the back of his waistband. The Zetas love those gats.
I actually want to Boink King on the top of his noggin, just for getting’ US into this mess.
But I don’t. Birthdays should be fun, as he whispers to me. “Geesh, they was goin’ to whack us.”
NO FUCKING KIDDING.
I nod to and move to the muscle, flip their jackets open with the tip of my silencer, exposing silenced Glocks nesting in their Velcro cages.
King looks at me, I look at him.
He leans in, grabs me, gang hugs me, a lot. I’m happy, as he whispers some respect, gratitude and love to me. Which as the bitch queen of the world that I am, I accept, for I love hosannas, especially after a job is well done.
I break away from him, and without any smug, I say.
“Get on the cell, get Jamal, Rudy, some cleaning guys, get I’m here pronto. You know, mops, buckets, hack saws, some plastic bags, some golf bags. Come on, let’s snoop, bet YA there’s some presents in the bedroom.”
I love presents.
King nods, I’m in charge, hits up his cell and gets the machine moving as I click into the bedroom, loving the sound of my stilettos on the faux paux pine floor.
As mentioned before, snooping around is one of my fav things.
Let’s see, where do gangsters keep their slag? Under the fucking bed of course.
OH MY GOD, no one would ever dream of looking under the bed, which now on my hands and knees I am about to do as King moseys in.
With my skirt hiked around my waist, bare ass shining to the world, I turn my head and see King staring at my ass. I am complimented, give him a wry stare. He smiles, shrugs his shoulders, me thinking, because I am so jacked up, I might give him a birthday fuck later.
I will think on that, and there they are, two aluminum Halliburton brief cases.
Geeesh, I gotta check their stock on my on line Schwab trading account.
I pull them out, stand and slap them on the bed.
King sidles up along side of me. I wish there were red ribbons on the briefcases, me remembering those folks at the mall, with the ribbons and all.
“Click, Click, Click, Click”
Both cases are opened, and my goodness that is a lot of hundred dollar bills
I figure a half mil, and OH MY GOODNESS, there must be about ten kilos of pure Colombian crank in the others, in sealed plastic bags. Just the kind I am sure Carlos and his buddies were going to wrap my face with as they gang raped me and, then murdered me.
King looks at the slag, me, the slag.
He places his muscled arm around, my bare shoulde
rs. We’re really good buds, and because he knows he’s breathin’ because of me, and I swear I see a tear, I realize that man it’s time for him to get out of the drug trade.
Like I mean, NOW.
I know he’s lost his edge as he whispers.
“Shit Janie, I’m sorry, I fucked up, what was I thinkin’? Fuck baby, what can I say, thank you doll.”
I go to the fingers, hands clutched, extended, staring at my black beauty. I ditch the attitude, no one is perfect, were friends, more than that, bro and sis.
I nod, smile and, then whisper. “Are you going to take me dancing, or what the fuck?”
I see real tears, as he smiles, nods, and roars in laughter.
“Your fucking ALL THAT, more, come on, lets scoot, I love ya, you know that, right Janie?”
“Ditto baby, lets boogie, I feel like dancing tonight.”
He grins. We slap the Halliburton’s closed. King takes the drugs, I take THE money.
We turn, move out of the bordello, to the door, peek back at the dead, know the world, MY world, KINGS world is back in balance.
We exit, scoot down the hall, smack the elevator button and see the hall security video cameras, not a worry in the world.
For after Kings crew is done sawing, packing, sweeping, mopping up the trash, no one will ever know zip, about zip.
Which of course is how Moi saw it all going down from the get go.
For after all, I am Me, Jane, Vegas PI.
XXX
We did go dancing, had to burn the adrenaline, neurons off.
We ended up at Taboo, another Disco maddening, throbbing lights, blaring music. The usual bacchanal orgy all fueled by drugs, alcohol, hormones, and testosterone.
We had a hoot, ME, of course being the center of all worlds.
JUST KIDDING. Well not really, I’m bloody unbalanced, never said I wasn’t.
The usual suspects were there, semi naked show girls, strippers, cock tail waitresses, young, young, everywhere. Lots a Metro Males, coiffed, plucked, deodorized, effeminate all playing their James Dean roles and me with the only stud in the bunch, my lovely and reborn hard again, black man, King.
I of course, went insane, dirty dancing, straddling Kings-knee.