Homeboy

by Seth Morgan

  Keep on cracklin, Joe wished them with affection. Hell’s just half full. Junkies appreciated the crack epidemic for the heat it drew off their traffic. They wished the crackerjacks continued success in filling headlines and prison cells.

  Across the street, Holy Hubert, as common a Strip pestilence as the clap, mounted his orangecrate pulpit and crackled through his bullhorn the customary call to curbside services: “Sinners, repent! The Reckoning draws nigh. When all who ever walked to and fro and up and down the Earth, and the dead given up by the sea and delivered up from Hell … the Lord’s bullpen, yuh see …”

  “Shitfire, boy …” Kitty Litter’s wild glossy mane was poked around the curtain, flickering like black fire in the breeze. “You tendin mass or barkin? The girls asked me could you crank it up. They need the pictures.”

  “Tell em to chill out, the night’s still young.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s more than I can say for us bimbos inside.”

  A frown then flickered between her screwball eyes. “No sign of the Man? …”

  Joe glowered. “I thought we decided if and when …”

  “You decided,” she reminded him; then smiling too brightly, “Got a kiss in your pocket?”

  They swapped quick spit, Joe murmuring, “Kitty gal …”

  She cut him off, “Gotta run, boy. I’m on next,” and was gone. Leaving him with the wax candy flavor of lipgloss before he had a chance to say he loved her, hearing the backbeat of her opening number Ecstasy BA BOMP BA-BOMP When you whip that stuff to me BA-BOMP BOMP-BOMP when she’d strut down that runway switching fire off those Texas hips.

  Holy Hubert was exhorting the small crowd gathered at his crate: “Dipsos, deviates, harlots, and hooligans! Who’ll plead your brief? Satan, that’s who. Ole Nebucanezzar will cop you a plea straight to Hell …”

  “And who’ll be your mouthpiece, you pious putrefaction?” bawled a voice through truly ecclesiastical whiskers, stained though they were with cheap port and puke. “Judas Iscariot?”

  Pete the Packrat extracted a shortdog of wine from the shopping cart filled with trash harnessed to his Dalmatian bitch, Daisy; drilled it with a drunk’s perfect panache and bowed from the waist, acknowledging the crowd’s applause.

  Oh whoa whoa ecstasy BA-BOMP

  “Hurry, hurry,” Joe urged two bozos caparisoned in burntorange leisure suits that might have been cut from Motel Six drapery remnants, accessorized with white vinyl loafers and matching belts: the Full Cleveland. “She’s wet if yer ready. Watch Miss Kitty Litter perform eerotical acts unknown outside the seraglios of Istanbul not Constantinople. See her go slow like turtle …” Joe demonstrated sending his thin hips around the world “then quick like bunny …” He pumped them rapidly and slipped in a sotto voce personal imprimatur. “Getcha harder ’n Chinese rithmetic.”

  It was only the nametag that saved Cleveland One from being taken for a bowling trophy salesman: Claude Sweeny, DDS. He put it to Joe slyly, “Any chance of some side action with the girls?”

  Joe winked and leered, careful to hide his junkrotted teeth. “What the girls do on their own time is their own business.”

  “That’s all we needed to know!” Cleveland One cried squaring his cowboystitched shoulders. “Once more unto the breech, eh Larry?”

  “Tallyho!” caroled his Dacron clone, shining a shoe on the back of his pantleg before charging inside with his chum.

  When you whip that stuff on me BA-BOMP BOMP

  And Joe’s mind saw Kitty all creamy fold of breast and buttock opalescent above the candycolored lights and wondered why he bothered always saying he loved her. Sure he loved her coarse mestiza hair, her dimpled coccyx and obloid nipples. He loved her screwball wandering eye that looked like the five ball off the eight, the hard way; loved the consumptive blush rising to her cheeks when she needed a fix; and especially the way when they were walking and she got excited over something and would spring ahead to skip backward before him, corralling his full attention. But it was only love’s delusion, its desperate carnal charade, he sadly acknowledged. By blocking his heart from hurt he’d stopped it from love, and until he’d earned the courage for the one he was denied the other’s grace. Dopefiends dont take lovers; their hearts seize hostages on the long retreat.

  That same morning Kitty had cut straight to the quick. Still astride him after sex in their sixdollar room at the Jupiter Hotel overlooking the Strip, she laughed: “Big ass and chichis is all you love.”

  The laugh became a growl as she stretched, arching backward, tossing up her hair with the backs of her hands to fall in a whispery black mist. She froze then, staring up at the strands of crumbly plaster hanging like stalactites from the flophouse ceiling.

  “What?” he’d asked, reaching lazily to toggle one raspberry nipple.

  She seized his wrist, stared down hard at him. “I was asleep when you come in last night. Then you got me so hot wakin up this mornin I forgot …”

  “Forgot what?”

  The cops was what. Come swooping in four units from both directions on the Blue Note door and it was only luck that it was Joe’s night off. Because these weren’t your regular cops, your SFPD cracking wise and goofing with the girls, but state police units, Kitty saw the shields on the doors, clean young silent plainclothes troopers with faces blank as paper, whose leader wore a cheap black suit and smoked a cheap cigar. When the Manager asked what warrants they held, the Cigar said none of his fuckin business in a way that gave Kitty the geewillies; then, later one of the girls said she was in the dressingroom directly over the mensroom and heard one of the troopers at the urinal grumbling to another about enforcing the law for people the color of his piss bent on rotting democracy with cheap TV’s and subcompacts.

  Joe screwed his mouth sideways, tonguing a broken tooth. “The gook pharmacy Rooski and I boosted last week.”

  “What came down?”

  It was the first Joe’d told her. How Rooski swore he cased the place, guaranfuckenteed the chink pharmacist went home at six; and how Rooski went through the backdoor locks and alarm box like a hot knife through butter and then Joe handed him the flashlight while he jimmied the narcotics box and all of a sudden up popped the Chink in his nightcap like a Mandarin fright puppet and Rooski panicked and whacked the flashlight over his head. Joe heard something break, whether aluminum casing or skull he couldn’t be sure.

  “You can be sure now. Shitfire! Leave it to Rooski to panic and probably croak the gook. That’s murder during the commission of a burglary, fella. Under the felony murder rule, you guilty as Rooski. And it’s a special circumstance …” she paused a beat. “Capital.”

  “Even if Rooski killed him they aint got a case, they’re shootin dice in the dark. The light was in the Chink’s eyes, he couldnt make a deathbed mug ID. No one saw us go in or leave, we wore print mittens.”

  “Why take the chance, fella?” She gripped the iron bed railing above his head, lifting herself, plopping out his wrung cock; then resettled atop him, urgently clinching his hips with her big Texas thighs. “Shitfire!” again she exclaimed, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “They could bust in that tragic door any second.” Everything from nukes to broken nails was tragic to Kitty. Leading the list was heroin, that tragic magic. “Why not cut n run, fella?”

  “Because like another Joe once said, you cant hide. Not from the law. Runnin’s just another charge and circumstantial evidence of guilt. Jump state and the feds get sicked on you and those boys dont know quit. Had a father I never told you about once played rabbit from the Federales. They ran him to ground in the hospital an hour before I was born … No, this one we gotta play on Front Street.”

  “Listen to the tragic desperado.”

  “They aint got squat diddly do, girl.”

  “But the caper fits yall’s M.O. like a rubber. How you figure they swore out warrants so fast? And when they get
Rooski he’ll turn over in a heartbeat. Rooski cant go back to the pen. With his snitch jacket, he wouldnt last a week. You told me yourself, boy. And if he ratted inside, he’ll rat twice as fast on the street.”

  “Even if he turns state’s witness, an accomplice’s testimony has to be corroborated by independent evidence.”

  “Shitfire and piss bullets, Joe. You’ve been watching too much TV”—an odd accusation since their’s had been in hock these last two weeks—“this is the real world.” As if to show him how real, Kitty scissored her long legs out of bed and crossed the room to squat on the sink sagging in the corner and piss like a cow. Finished, she hopped off and honked the rusted pipes running the water. The drain sucked down the water and urine with a sob drowning her own.

  “Dont cry baby …”

  “I’m not!” She leaned against the collapsing dresser with its top drawer stuck halfway open like a moribund tongue stuck in the act of vomiting up its bellyful of cheap underthings, feather boas and tangled G-strings. Making a face, she concentrated on fluffing her pubes with a broken-toothed comb. She held the comb to the dirty orange light strained through the oilcloth window shade, flicking out tufts of hair to float spiderlike through the murky silence. Then her hand froze. She cocked her head and slanted Joe a savvy slantendicular. “You layin for Rooski.”

  “Give the little lady a kewpie doll.”

  “Cuz they aint got nothin till they got him n he turns over to keep from goin home again.”

  “Throw in a threedollar ring.”

  “Where is that tragic wingnut?”

  “Dont know. He ran one way down the alley, I ran the other. Aint seen him since. He must’ve known he did something stupid to put the Man on us and was too scared to tell me. The only good news we got is that the cops aint got him. Not yet.” Joe watched a slice of golden light projected onto the ceiling through a nick in the shade.

  “Shitfire, he’s the cause of all the trouble …”

  “It could’ve been me,” Joe said abstractly. A wind nudged the shade; the slice contracted like a junkie’s pupil. “Rooski’s holed up somewheres. I gotta find him before the cops do …”

  “And? …”

  He lowered his gaze. “I dont know. Christ, I just dont know,” and fear seeped from his eyes.

  Kitty stared at him. Comprehension congealed, drawing her face into a mask of sorrow. Shaking her head, she shoved off the dresser and stood naked at the room’s center, arms akimbo and hands backward on her hips, bunching together her heavy breasts with their nipples still lipsticked from the night before. One mimicked her screwy eye, staring at the wall. Usually he’d laugh, and wanted to now, but Joe could only blink and softly smile.

  “Whatevah comes down, boy, it’s you n me …”

  “Till the wheels fall off, baby,” he’d mumbled, “right to the hub.”

  “Shitfire.” She raised her fists like sixshooters, cocking their thumbs, pointing them at his chest. “I’m talkin love, boy. Big as Dallas …”

  “Uncle!” Joe had shouted, reaching for the flophouse ceiling, toward which another appendage arose with only slightly less alacrity. And she’d run that morning, laughing to his arms, grabbing for that dang ole Dallas …

  I’ll start huntin Rooski tonight, Joe resolved within the Blue Note’s thumping neon cloud. Soon as the club closes I’ll beat the night bricks.

  Voices suddenly rang on his ears like clashing pots and pans. He was surrounded by a giggling gaggle of gooks. From the inverted quartermoon eyes, expensive dark suits, and ubiquitous cameras, Joe made them for Japs. Dozos, in Stripspeak. Prime fleshpot fodder; spent dollars like dimes on proscribed pleasures.

  “Dozo! Ichiban! Hairu suguni! Skippy. show! Iza!” His Japanese exhausted, Joe resorted to the international vocabulary of smut, jobbing a forefinger into his fist.

  Giggles riffled through the group, the sound of wind through temple chimes. Americans were both fearsome and funny, despots in diapers. Several unslung their Nikons to immortalize with insectoid whirclicks this antic young man with a wolf’s grin and dragon jacket. According to their custom when visiting foreign lands, they had a spokesman prechosen for his command of English and knowledge of Western wiles.

  “How much?” this toothy delegate inquired with a jerky bow.

  In pidgin English that drew a fresh crop of giggles, Joe explained there was no charge to enter, but to stay for the show cost the price of a drink. “Dlink,” he caught himself saying absurdly, nearly spewing heroin balloons in their faces.

  “Ahh …” the delegate nodded knowingly and, turning to his constituents, repeated the richly nuanced syllable. “Ahh …” The whole gang now chorused “Ahhh … ,” turning each to the next and nodding amazedly as though Joe had revealed the secret to some ancient conundrum. He wondered if Jap doctors bothered stocking tongue depressors.

  The ensuing discussion amounted to an audio root canal. Joe divined a dispute was in progress whether to test the waters at the Blue Note or first canvass the rest of the Strip. The pros shrilled; the cons barked and grunted. With their waving arms and contorted faces, they resembled wrathful oriental dancing gods.

  Joe stepped back and snatched aside the curtain to hiss “Dozos …” The girls all knew this cry for assistance with Orientals. Luckily it was Candy on point, the girl perched on a barstool just inside the curtain whose charge it was to gaga, goose, or garrote incoming rubes into buying a drink before their eyes could even adjust to the dark. Hard was the only sell these girls knew.

  Out poked Candy’s spunsugar wighat, baby blues agog. At once the dozo caucus fell silent. Suckers for Amazonian blondes, those zipperheads. Doubtlessly from being weaned on thirtyfoot B-movie bombshells. Candy squeaked dropping the curtain exposing a beachball boob dusted with sparkles. “They call her Candy,” Joe explained, “because she’s hot n sticky n sweet.” The dozos signified a unanimous quorum with a concerted fullthroated AHHH! and nearly bowled Joe over banzaiing into the Blue Note.

  Across the street, Hubert was getting down with some Big Tent revelating. Conjuring for his motley flock the reek of brimstone, the scorch of the hellfire coursing through veins and igniting eyeballs; summoning the fiends of Hell vomiting molten rock. He was just wrapping up the travelogue along rivers of burning flesh, past the smoldering tar pits to the very shores of the Great Lake of Fire; and in conclusion was wheeling his eyes apocalyptically, cupping a hand to his ear, saying: “Hearken! I hear the roar of cleansing fire …”

  Yet the roar he heard was his assembly’s laughter. Looking down, he spied Pete, laceless brogans spread for support, pissing on his orange crate. His bladder drained, the tramp staggered backward, fencing his wizened member at Hubert.

  If Joe hadn’t been standing at the curb, he would’ve needed Velcro sneakers to keep from being blown into the middle of Strip traffic by the blast of Bermuda’s chainmail lungs: “AND STAY OUT!”

  Out onto the sidewalk reeled the dental Clevelands followed by Bermuda in nothing save stiletto heels, G-string, and dishonest sweat. No shame in her bustout game when it came to affairs of honor. Squalled she, “Whaddaya think this is, a whorehouse? This is a nightclub, dicklicks. We sell drinks, not pussy.”

  Horns blared as cars slowed pretending to glare down the Clevelands like choirboys caught with dirty pictures in their hymnals, but really only memorizing those silicone monuments for dreams as yet unwetted.

  “But we gave you a hunnerd dollars.”

  “You didnt give me nothing but a hard way to go …” Bermuda could snap that gum like a smallcaliber automatic. “What kinda girl you think I am anyhoo?”

  Wisely the Clevelands declined informing her. Instead they turned to Joe. “You said …”

  “I said nothing,” he corrected them curtly; then, just to show there were no hard feelings, pleasantly shared perhaps his only conviction unattached to a penal code number: “You want somet
hing for nothing, jerk off.”

  Cleveland One turned to Cleveland Two. Between the two a fresh resolve was forged. Goddammit, they weren’t just fifty percentilers but U.S. citizens as well, with godgiven rights! “You cant just rob us …” “We’re getting the police!” “Fuckin A.”

  “No you aint, I am,” Bermuda volunteered. She jammed two fingers in her mouth and split the night with a whistle that belonged on a steamboat.

  “You callin the cops?” the Clevelands harmonized in horror.

  Bermuda read them the law west of Oakland: “You’ve been soliciting for prostitution, which carries six months and five thousand dollars, butt-breaths.”

  Across the street, Patrolman Daniels was cajoling Hubert into moving his ministry off the Strip, suggesting other neighborhoods equally hungry for the Word; while Hubert likened him to Pharaoh and called down all manner of loathesome plagues on his head. At Bermuda’s summons, Daniels abruptly wheeled and nearly fell off the curb. Yet he wasn’t so drunk he couldn’t read the situation in front of the Blue Note. The Manager gave him all the free bourbon he could guzzle and, if he could still get it up, some Oblivious backbooth skull just to discourage the likes of these two Clevelands from filing complaints.

  This time his help wouldn’t be needed. The Clevelands knew when the deck was stacked against them. Off they grumbled with Bermuda’s vilifications raining on their bowed Dacron backs: “Twistos, weenie wavers, panty sniffers … Show up again n I’ll break yer faces!”

  Passing back into the club, she palmed Joe a twenty, his cut of the Murphy, as any bunko prostitution game was called. The variety Joe and Kitty played was the simplest and most common. When she was too sick to turn a trick, she’d just pick one up, take him to a motel, drop the keys out the bathroom window for Joe. Waiting an appropriate interval for the mark to get naked, he’d bust in and impersonate an undercover Vice officer willing to take all the john’s cash and valuables to forget the matter.