by TJ Vargo
“She probably thought I was sleeping with James to get ahead,” thought Angela. “What a laugh.”
She looked down to read Angela’s address. Windsor Farms. Her brow creased. That was a nice development. It had a clubhouse, pool and tennis courts. Julia remembered how she and Angela went to a couple parties there thrown by pampered college kids. The clubhouse even had a free keg for residents. It was damn nice. Julia glanced at the address again and turned on Patterson toward the bridge that crossed to the West End. So Angela had moved up in the world. Julia glanced in the rearview mirror and wiped her scar.
“Good for you, Angela,” she thought. “I’ll bet you did it all by yourself.”
Julia sniffed her armpits before she knocked on Angela’s door. She’d driven through the night, slept in her car and drove half the day to get here. A shower was badly needed. She knocked and crossed her arms, checking her watch. A little past noon on a Saturday. Hopefully Angela was here.
She waited a bit, then put her ear against the door. It was quiet inside. She knocked again and heard someone walking down a flight of stairs.
The door opened and there was Angela. She always had big breasts, but they looked even bigger because she was so skinny. The tight white muscle shirt didn’t hurt either. Her legs were tanned, nearly matching the orange of her Massey High School gym shorts.
“Julia?” said Angela.
Julia smiled. All she could manage was a quick “Hi,” before Angela squealed, jumped on her and squeezed the breath out of her.
It was a early, but Julia took one of the beers Angela brought from the kitchen. She sat on a couch and sipped her beer, watching Angela sprawl across a rattan chair with overstuffed floral cushions. Angela lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. She picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue and folded her bare legs under her.
“It’s so good to see you,” said Angela. “What are you doing in town?”
Julia scanned the townhouse. “This is nice. You must have a good job.”
“I do okay,” said Angela. She took a drag on her cigarette, swigged her beer and cocked her head at Julia. “You’re looking good,” she said.
“Thanks. You too,” said Julia.
Angela tapped her cigarette on an ashtray. “Last I heard, you were seeing the superintendent, Mr. Stockton. Then you just disappeared. Didn’t even say goodbye. What happened?”
Julia nodded, relieved that Angela wasn’t acting pissy about her getting together with James. “I got a job in Tombs,” she said, touching the scar on her cheek. “Sorry about not saying goodbye, but it came up all the sudden.”
Angela pointed at the scar and Julia lowered her hand, wishing she hadn’t brought attention to it.
“What happened there?” Angela said. “That looks bad.”
Julia stood. She walked to the big picture window with a view of the parking lot, picked up a photo of her and Angela smiling and holding up beer bottles.
“This was a fun party,” she said, tapping the photo.
Angela stubbed out her cigarette. She walked over, took the photo from Julia and put it back on the window ledge. “You okay, girl?” she said, gripping Julia’s shoulder.
Tears welled in Julia’s eyes. She was exhausted. Angela hugged her.
“It’s okay,” said Angela. “I got you.”
Julia cried. She let Angela lead her back to the couch. Having someone hold her and murmur to her that everything was going to be fine helped. She didn’t know how much she needed it until now. Angela handed her a tissue. She wiped her face and looked at Angela.
“I need someplace to stay, but just for a little bit,” she said.
“Long as you need,” said Angela.
“I don’t have much money,” said Julia.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Angela. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Julia picked up her beer and took a long drink. She wiped her mouth and laid her head on Angela’s shoulder. “There was this guy. We were going to go away together,” she said, feeling Angela play with her hair.
“Can’t trust guys,” said Angela.
“He was bad,” said Julia. “He stole from a church.”
Angela fingercombed Julia’s hair. “You deserve better than him,” she said.
Julia sighed. “I still can’t believe it. He seemed to be such a good guy.”
Angela circled a finger around Julia’s ear. “He fooled you. It’s happened to all of us.”
“He was cute,” said Julia.
“Looks and money—that’s how they suck you in,” said Angela. She rubbed the back of Julia’s neck. “You need help bringing your stuff in?”
Julia leaned forward, grabbing Angela’s pack of cigarettes. She lit one and took a drag, handing it to Angela. “Yeah. You got an extra room?”
Angela took a drag and handed the cigarette back to Julia. “I do, but it’s a mess,” she said. “You can sleep with me tonight. And after we get your stuff moved in you can take a shower. It’s right next to my bedroom.”
Julia lifted her arm and smiled, looking at Angela. “You think I need a shower?”
Angela laughed. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you stink.”
The shower relaxed Julia. When she was done, she realized how tired she was. She walked into Angela’s bedroom with a towel wrapped around her. Angela was on the bed in a white muscle shirt and panties, reading a magazine. Julia slipped into black panties. Her old black tee-shirt was the same one she wore when Curtis took her fishing. That had been a fun. She smiled. He’d nearly talked her into skinny dipping. She jumped on the bed next to Angela and smacked her on the ass. “You’re looking tight. What have you been doing?” she said.
Angela looked over the top of the magazine. “Dancing.” She hid behind the magazine again.
Julia pulled down the magazine. “What kind of dancing?” she said.
“The fun kind,” said Angela, acting coy.
“Oh my God,” said Julia, smacking Angela’s thigh. “You’re a stripper!”
Angela lifted her shirt, flashing Julia. “If you got ‘em, use ‘em,” she said.
“I can’t believe it,” said Julia. “Stripping?”
“It’s not bad. You should try it,” said Angela, tossing her magazine on the floor. “Listen. If you need work, we’re looking for a dancer. You’d rake it in with that body of yours.”
“My tits are too small,” said Julia, laughing. She turned over. “But I can’t even think about it now. I’m exhausted.”
Angela snugged in behind her. “Alright,” said Angela. “You sleep. I’m gonna clean up downstairs. I’ll be right back.”
Julia listened to Angela pad out of the room. She opened her eyes a slit, watched the bedroom door shut and closed her eyes. She was asleep instantly.
Angela walked downstairs, careful not to make too much noise. She lit a cigarette and stood at the bottom of the stairs with an ashtray in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She blew out a cloud of smoke. She’d always been a good friend to Julia. Danced with her. Partied with her. She had feelings for that girl, which was why it was so disappointing when she heard that Julia was catting around with James Stockton, the school superintendent. There was no way to know what Julia got out of the bargain, but Angela knew how it worked. Julia got something from James, that was for sure. Like everyone else, she was trading something for something. That was bad enough. The worst, however, was how Julia left without saying a word. Never even called. But she sure didn’t have any trouble showing up here when she had no where else to go. Angela tapped ash off her cigarette.
Typical. Julia only thought of Julia.
“So she won’t be surprised if I do the same,” she whispered.
She smoked her cigarette to the filter and gazed up the steps, listening, but Julia never made a sound. A last cloud of smoke eased out of her as she put the ashtray on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen. She picked up her cell phone from the counter, scrolled down to the name, “James
,” and dialed. When he answered, she took a deep breath and smiled.
“Hey honey, I got something I thought you’d like to know,” she whispered. “You’re old girlfriend, Julia, is here.” She shook her head. “No I’m not kidding. She’s sleeping in my bed right now.” She laughed softly. “Yeah, that’s me. Very thoughtful.” She walked into the living room, lit another cigarette and stepped quietly back into the kitchen. “No, there’s no guy with her. She dumped him.” She tapped ash into the sink. “What are we doing? Well, I’m taking her to Sweeties tonight. Gonna see if Billy can hire her. You help make that happen like you did for me and she’ll be there waiting for you.” She narrowed her eyes. “But you’re gonna owe me.” She listened for a moment and shook her head. “No I don’t know what I want just yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as it comes to me. I’ll be fair. Okay then, hon. See you soon.”
She walked upstairs on tiptoe. Slipping under the covers, she spooned Julia. She kissed Julia’s neck and hugged her tight. Julia smelled good. All soapy and clean. When Julia let out a small, satisfied groan, Angela kissed her neck again.
“It’s okay, baby,” whispered Angela. “I got you. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Duck zipped up and flushed the toilet. He looked in the mirror while he washed his hands. The black around both eyes had begun to fade to a sickly dark yellow. And the split in his bottom lip made it look like a hotdog that was left on the grill too long. He took a washcloth and dabbed his lip, wincing, then threw the washcloth in the sink. He gripped the sink and stared at his reflection. Curtis Monroe was going to be shitting broken bones by the time this was said and done. He opened the door and limped downstairs to his dining room. Taking a seat at the head of the table, he scanned the assembled group.
Johnny Tong looked none too good with that big egg on his forehead and his bruised face.
Derek Ryder, the cauliflower-eared cage fighter, didn’t look bad at all. It was when you heard his labored breathing that you knew his ribs were cracked.
Across the table, Barry Schiff looked great, and it pissed Duck off. Barry and his perfect haircut with just a touch of gray at the temple. Designer, frameless glasses. Clean-shaven. Crisp, blazing white button-down, collared shirt with a conservative, striped blue tie. Fresh manicure with clear-coat gloss on the fingernails. Duck bit his bottom lip, tasting the dried blood, and shook his head. Barry was a sociopath that would do anything to anybody to get ahead, but Duck knew the man would be nothing without all the help he and Artie had given him.
“And now,” Duck thought, nearly choking on spite, “Artie’s in the hospital and I’m looking like a gimpy raccoon because of that punk Curtis Monroe while Barry sits here like the queen of the crooks.” He took a deep breath and turned his gaze on Derek.
“So,” he said. “Why am I sitting here without Curtis Monroe lying dead at my feet?”
Derek waved at Johnny Tong. “Me and Johnny have been all over town. The kid is no where. He completely disappeared. Tell him, Johnny.”
Johnny straightened. “We checked everywhere. We got eyes on his apartment, Angel Silva’s garage, and most of the bars in town.” Johnny looked around the table, nodding. “If he pokes his head up anywhere, we’ll be the first to know.”
“And what about you?” said Duck, focusing his gaze on Barry.
“What about me?” said Barry, putting his elbows on the table and steepling his hands.
Duck pointed at his black eyes. “You see this? I blame it on you. And Artie’s in the hospital. You need to make this right.”
“I have Derek, Johnny and the rest of my guys looking all over town for you,” said Barry. “What else can I do?”
Duck stood and pounded the table with his fist. “You don’t have Derek and Johnny looking for him, I do!”
“What can I do?” said Barry. “Name it.”
Duck took a breath. “Here’s what you’ll do,” he said, talking slow and even. “You’re putting up ten thousand for anyone that brings me Curtis Monroe’s head.”
Barry’s brow wrinkled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“And,” said Duck, raising his voice, “You’re going to put up twenty-five thousand for anyone that brings him in alive and finishes him off in front of me.”
Barry shook his head. “I can’t—”
“And you’re putting the word out today,” said Duck. “Unless you need me to make a call to our local law enforcement about Terry Fitzsimmons.”
Barry set his jaw and kept quiet.
Duck looked at his watch. “Shit, I have to leave,” he said. “Visiting hours are starting. I have to check on Artie.”
“Before you go,” said Derek. “Uh, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Spit it out,” said Duck.
“Curtis isn’t gonna be taken out easy.”
Duck looked at Derek in disgust. “Based on how you’re breathing I’d have to agree, but what’s your point?”
Derek readjusted his position and winced. “I know this guy from when I was cage fighting,” he said. “Joe Cracker Jones. No one’s ever beaten the guy. I could give him a call. I guarantee he’d find Curtis and put him down.”
Duck rolled his eyes. “We don’t need to be advertising our business to some fighter I don’t know from Adam,” he said. “And I’m sure this friend of yours is making a fine living fighting. What does he need us for?”
“That’s just the thing,” said Derek. “Cracker can’t fight no more. Word was he went overseas and fought in death matches. Places like China and Cambodia. Ever since he came back he can’t get on any fight cards. Even the regional circuits won’t touch him.”
Duck perked up. “Death matches?”
Derek nodded. “Some of these underground circuits offer big money for fighters willing to do it. Had a guy ask me once. Said I could make a two-hundred thousand for one fight. I told him to get lost, but it’s real.”
“And you’re friends with this Cracker?”
Derek laughed, then grabbed his side. He took a slow breath and shook his head. “No. No one’s friends with Cracker. He’s a scary hillbilly that hurts people and likes doing it.”
“He sounds like a problem,” said Duck. “I think I’ll pass.”
“He’s no problem,” said Derek. “You treat him square and he’ll do whatever you want. Nothing stops him. He’s a freaking pit bull.”
“How so?” said Duck.
Derek turned in his chair and winced. “Well, one time we’re in the locker room,” he said. “Tarko Gomez, who is three hundred pounds of muscle, bets Cracker twenty bucks that Cracker will give up first if they take turns punching each other. Cracker only weighs two hundred five, but he takes the bet, cause he’ll do anything for a buck. Tarko turns his shoulder to Cracker and slaps it, so Cracker punches him in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, Tarko punches Cracker in the face and nearly takes his head off. I thought he was dead. So Tarko picks up Cracker’s twenty from the bench, but Cracker pushes off the floor, grabs Tarko’s hand and says, ‘We ain’t done yet.’ Five punches later I’m driving Tarko to the hospital with a fractured skull and Cracker’s twenty bucks richer.” Derek took a shaky breath and exhaled, looking around the table. “If we put him on Curtis and tell him there’s twenty-five grand in it for him, our Curtis Monroe problems are over. Cracker will pull him apart like a bug.”
Duck touched his split lip. He stood and walked into the kitchen. He came back with a wall phone, plugged it into a jack and put the phone on the table in front of Derek.
“Call him,” he said.
* * * *
Joe Cracker Jones swiveled back and forth on his bar stool, drinking his beer with his cell phone against his ear. “I can do that,” he said. “See you tomorrow afternoon.” He drained his mug. “Another one here,” he said to the bartender, who was staring at him from the far end of the bar with the rest of the bar’s patrons. The bartender filled a mug and walked over, putting the beer on a
coaster.
“Um, shouldn’t you leave before he wakes up?” said the bartender.
Cracker looked down at the police officer on the floor.
“He’s fine. I’ll finish my beer first,” said Cracker. He eyed the bartender. “Have I caused you a lick of trouble since I been here? Have I?”
The bartender swallowed hard. He looked back at the patrons who were watching, then shook his head at Cracker.
“That’s right,” said Cracker. He drained half his mug, belched and nodded at the bartender. “He should’ve moved when I told him he was blocking my view of the television,” he said, then pointed at the plate of hamburger and fries sitting on the bar. “Slide his food down here.”
The bartender handed him the plate.
Cracker looked down on the unconscious police officer and started munching on the fries. “Nothing I hate worse than somebody who lets his food get cold,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Curtis kept his knees locked as he touched his toes. His hamstrings hurt, but then calmed down. He shook his legs, watching Angel stretch. The basement of Angel’s garage was a pretty decent workout and sparring room. Free weights filled the far corner and mirrors covered the walls, but the bulk of the space, which was about nine hundred square feet, was open wrestling mat. Hard-core anything-goes sparring was what Angel liked to do. Curtis wasn’t a fan—too many bruises afterwards— but Angel was letting him stay for a couple days, so it was the least he could do. Stripped down to white spandex shorts, Curtis checked himself out in the wall mirror. The fight with Derek Ryder at the church had painted his thighs, arms and shoulders with bruises. Sparring with Angel would only add to his collection of aches and pains, but what the hell.
He tied his hair into a ponytail and padded over to Angel.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
Angel cracked his neck. “Were you really gonna leave town with a girl?” he said, rolling his head from side to side.