Sex, Thugs, and Rock & Roll

by Todd Robinson

  “I always pick up the tab.” He smiled. “It’s my job.”

  I finished my coffee and stood up. “Take it easy, Frank.” We shook hands and I left.

  When I got home I opened the envelope and took out its contents. I skimmed the papers and stopped at the picture. He was a small, portly man with more hair on his face than on his head. He had squinty eyes, reminded me of a mole. I tossed the picture onto the table and went to my filing cabinet. My gun cleaning kit was in the top drawer.

  After cleaning and loading my Beretta, I slipped it to my inside coat pocket. I found that holsters are clumsy and bulky. Either one could get you killed.

  I picked up the picture and studied it again. Mole Man wasn’t looking happy. He wouldn’t be happy when I got there either.

  It was snowing lightly when I parked my Ford pickup two houses down from the apartment complex. Normal protocol would be to park at least a block away to ensure not being seen before the deed was done. I was too tired for protocol.

  I spotted Larry’s Impala parked on the opposite side of the street with a full view of the apartment’s only door. I’ll be damned, Larry is doing his job.

  Larry rolled the window down as I approached. “Hey, you’re late.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Touchy, ain’t he, Moony? You’d think this was the old man’s last job or somethin’.”

  “I don’t need this shit. Just tell me, is there anything I need to know?” I saw Jonny Moon slumped in the passenger side of the car. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or drunk.

  “New, you mean?” Larry wasn’t smart.

  “Yes, is there anything new?” I clarified, “New since this morning?”

  “Nah. Moony and I have been sitting here since six a.m. No one has come in or gone out.”

  Next to him, Moony mumbled something I could not make out.

  “Oh, right.” Larry turned back to me. “The little fat fuck came out to get his mail about an hour ago. He wasn’t even dressed, came out in boxers and a robe hanging off his shoulders. Moony here got wood from it, right, Moon?” He gave Jonny a backhanded slap in the arm. Moony grunted.

  “Whatever,” I said, turned, and started walking away.

  “Hey, you want us to come with you?” Larry called out loudly. “To back you up?”

  I stopped and turned back toward the car. I’d rather have gouged my eyes out with a rusted straight razor than work with these guys more than I had to. “No, thanks.”

  “You sure? It being your last day and all. Hey, maybe Moony and I can do it for you? Whaddya say, aye, Moony? You up for it?”

  I could not hear Moon, but I’m sure he grunted. “No, really. I got it.”

  “Okay, then.”

  Moon mumbled again, and again I had to wait for Larry. The first thing I would do when I got to Florida was to see a doctor about my hearing.

  “Hey, Moony wants to know if we can split.”

  “What?”

  “You know, jet. Scram. Leave. This is a simple job anyway.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I spun my head around in disgust. I noticed movement in the bushes next to the car. Moon spoke up, like he knew I saw something.

  “Hey, man, chill. I was just fuckin’ with you. It’s your last day, I couldn’t let you go without a good fuckin’ from Moony.”

  Larry laughed.

  Moon continued. “Hey, word has it you’re goin’ to Florida, that true?”

  “Yeah,” Larry added. “You’re going to go give it to Minnie up the ass, aren’t ya?” Larry laughed, Moony grinned slightly.

  “I’m glad to be getting away from you morons. Is your mind ever out of the gutter?”

  “Not us, man,” Larry said, turning his head for approval from Moony. “We think about sex all the time, ain’t that right, Moony?”

  “Damn skippy.” Moony turned his greasy head. “Hey, whatever happened to the tall brunette you were banging?”

  “None of your fucking business,” I said.

  “Aw, c’mon, you’re leaving anyway.” Moony took a cigar out of the glove box and bit the plastic wrapper off. “I won’t hurt her, just want to bang her for a while.”

  “She’s at least twice your age.” I had had enough and started walking away.

  Larry called out after me, “Aw, hey, c’mon, he’s just fucking with you, right, Moony?”

  “I’d rather be fucking her,” Moony retorted. They both laughed again. I crossed the street towards the apartment complex. I pretended not to notice the petite woman scurry from the bushes to Larry’s car.

  The apartment complex was a simple layout, four units on the first floor, four units up top, stairs at both sides. It sat sideways on the property, opening up to a duplicate layout across a small courtyard. I pulled the papers out of my back pocket. I was looking for apartment 2-D. I saw the numbers on the door closest to me, 1-D. This was going to be easier than I thought. I studied the door marked 2-D. This one was different than the rest in that it was missing its screen door. Even better, one less barrier to get through.

  I slipped the papers into my coat pocket with my gun and walked carefully up the sides of the metal stairs to make as little noise as possible. Age still had nothing on my agility. It was snowing harder now, turning into a classic Chicago snowstorm. When I got to the door, I stood to the side to collect myself.

  A noise from the street startled me—Larry’s stereo. The bass was incredibly loud, rattling the metal railing of the stairwell. That fuck was going to get me killed. So much for collecting myself, I couldn’t think straight with his radio boom-booming through the neighborhood.

  I decided to go with the “lost old man” routine. I hated doing it, it made me feel dirty, whorish. But when the game’s on the line, you’ve got to play your ace.

  I blew on my hands to keep them nimble and knocked on the door. “Hello?” I called out sheepishly, almost drunklike. “I’m lost and I need help, is anyone there?” I waited.

  “Whaddya want?” a hoarse voice seeped through the door.

  “I’m lost, sir, please help me?”

  “Go ask someone else, I’m busy.” The voice was annoyed.

  “Sir, please. I have been wandering around here since morning. I’m looking for my sister’s house and I have no idea where I am. Please help me.”

  There was silence; then the voice came through the door, louder, “Go away, old-timer, I don’t have the time for this.”

  “Please, sir,” I poured it on thick. “No one else is home here to help me.”

  I heard something crash and him swear. The door opened and Mole Man was standing before me, still wearing his robe and worn boxers.

  “All right, what do you need?” He was shorter than I and his pockmarked cheeks were covered with five-day stubble. I saw a broken bowl on the floor of the doorway and macaroni scattered. A cat was licking at the cheese.

  “Sir, thank you.” I hammed it up. “I’ve been looking for my sister’s house for—”

  “Yeah, yeah, get on with it.”

  “I have her address right here, but I can’t seem to read it. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” I reached my hand into my coat; my fingers close around the handle of my gun briefly. I grabbed the papers and pulled them out. “It’s right here. What does that say?” I slapped the papers on his chest a little too hard for my persona.

  “What th—”

  Then came the line I had relished saying time and again in years past. That day, the passion was gone and I uttered them for the final time. “Consider yourself served.”

  He took a step backwards and squinted to read what he held. “That fucking cunt! I swear to God I’m going to fucking kill her!”

  I was already on the stairs. My footprints were nearly covered now, the snow coming down fast and with a passion not seen in years.

  “You motherfucker! I hope you rot in hell!”

  I cleared the last stair and walked towards Larry’s car. Serving papers was not what I had always done with my life
, but when I retired from the Chicago Police Department I needed something to keep me active. Serving seemed a natural progression.

  I was nearly behind Larry’s car before I realized that it was moving. I was going to have to get my eyes checked too. The Impala’s shocks squeaked loudly; Larry and his girl were in the backseat. Music pounded through the enclosed car and pulsed off my eardrums. I didn’t look long, but Moony was watching the action from the front seat.

  “Billy Blain?”

  I turned around. A tall, thin man wearing a black sweatshirt and blue sweatpants was standing in front of me. I recognized him as a man I served papers to two years ago. I remembered him because he cried like a whiny little girl afterwards. It takes balls to break down like that in front of another man and I envied him for it.

  In fact, a lot of them cried. Some got angry, and that was what the gun was for, but most of them just cried like little babies. The sawed-off shotgun in this guy’s hands told me he wasn’t a baby anymore.

  “You ruined my life, motherfucker.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My insides screamed to pull out my gun, but his barrel persuaded me not to.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

  I wanted to say I’m sorry. I wanted to plead for my life. But I saw it in his eyes. I was a dead man.

  He fired.

  I felt the searing heat explode in my gut and I fell backwards. The pain was close behind and I nearly passed out. I looked up; I could clearly see Moony in the front seat. If he looked a millimeter to his left, he would see me and my killer. His eyes never left Larry’s bitch.

  I screamed, but spurts of hot blood were all that left my lips. It streaked down my cheeks and crept over my ear. I could see the circle of crimson grow around me. I heard him reload; the spent casing bounced around my left ear. I felt warm metal slip between my lips. He was standing over me now, his face accentuated by falling snow. There was a white haze creeping into my field of vision, making him glow like some askew angel.

  He twisted the shotgun in my mouth back and forth nervously. He regained his composure and stiffened. “Consider yourself served.”

  A loud thunderclap resonated down on the empty street. It was swallowed quickly by the blizzard.

  Buddha Behind Bars

  Daniel Hatadi

  The room wasn’t what Banjo expected. He was thinking fancy rugs, a lot of red and orange, candles and incense, hippy shit. But the walls were bare except for a black-and-white poster of a staircase. It was just another cell.

  Banjo shrugged, nodded to the other inmates, stood in the back corner. Laid out in a grid on the floor were about a dozen blue cushions. Nothing fancy; plain.

  The door opened. A huge bald man walked in, wearing a gray track suit with a picture of a poodle on it. Every part of him was big, almost like he’d never stopped growing. He nodded, looked around the room, eyes twinkling. “We’ll wait a couple more minutes.” He busied himself by rearranging cushions.

  The others filed in, took a cushion each, crossed their legs, and sat. Banjo stayed put.

  “Okay,” the bald man said, “Remember the Stairway To Heaven?”

  A couple of the inmates laughed. One piped up. “How’s that go, Sam?”

  “You forgot? Don’t know about you.” Sam chuckled. “It’s easy. Just think of the song. Imagine all the people you ever knew are up in heaven, and there’s a stairway leading up to them, like the one on the poster. At the top, it’s all white light. Imagine taking a step at a time, one with each breath.” He clapped his hands and closed his eyes.

  “All right, I’ll bite. Why won’t you take a cushion?”

  Banjo took a moment to figure out who Sam was speaking to. “’Cause this is a load of shit.”

  Sam laughed in a gentle way that washed over Banjo like rain. “Maybe. But what I told the boys last week was this: you can handle most situations in two ways—one bad, one good.”

  Banjo said, “Pile it on.”

  “Your legs might get sore, maybe your back too. There’s nothing stopping you sitting on a cushion and taking it easy.” Sam opened his eyes. “See? Two ways.”

  Banjo noticed an empty spot in front of Sam. He picked up a cushion and took it over, sat down, stared at Sam for a few seconds, then nodded.

  “That’ll do,” Sam said. “Now we’ll try another exercise, one we haven’t done before. To make it easier, get in whatever position you like.”

  Everyone shifted. Banjo kept his legs crossed, matching Sam.

  “Up till now, I’ve told you all exactly what to do. This time, I want you to get creative. Close your eyes and breathe slow. While you’re doing that, keep your mind on something else. That something else is up to you. A beach at sunset, a big old tree on top of a hill…” He looked around. “Just don’t make it tits and arse.”

  They all laughed.

  “The point is to remind you of a time when your life was at peace. Five minutes, no talking, just breathing. I’ll tell you when it’s over. Has everyone thought of something?”

  There were a few grunts around the room.

  “Okay, start.”

  Everyone except Banjo closed their eyes. Some of them looked like they’d swallowed a lemon. Others were smiling.

  “This is bullshit.” Banjo stood up, walked to the wall by the door.

  Sam said, “It’s open.”

  Banjo reached out and tried the door handle. It worked. He went out, let himself fall back against the wall.

  Outside in the corridor, there were three inmates on cleaning duty. One of them was a burly Maori that everyone called Kong.

  “Big man Banjo’s gone to see the sky pilot,” Kong said.

  The inmates on cleaning laughed like a pack of wild animals.

  One with a bandana tied too tight around his skull let his mop go. The mop fell against the wall of the bucket, sloshing the dirty water around. He stepped forward, laughing at Banjo.

  Banjo stared until the inmate backed away, knocked into the mop, and tipped the bucket over, spilling dirty brown suds all over the floor. The water came up to Banjo’s feet. Kong wasn’t so lucky.

  Kong glared at Banjo. “Now look what you done, robe fucker, you messed up my boots.”

  Banjo had had enough.

  He leapt at Kong with a speed that startled the others, who scurried back to the wall, staying out of the way of the fight.

  Kong was taller than Banjo and built strong, but Banjo grabbed Kong’s dark, curly hair, letting all of his weight rest on it. The speed of the attack and the pain of having his hair ripped brought Kong to the floor.

  It was on.

  Banjo didn’t waste any time. He balled up his right fist and held Kong’s head down on the concrete with the other hand. Banjo’s fist came down hard. Once, twice, again. He pummeled Kong’s face, cheek, nose. The third strike drew blood, but by then, Kong had twisted his larger frame around, kicking Banjo in the back.

  A dozen shoes came pounding down the corridor. The screws had their nightsticks raised, brought them down on the two fighters. Outnumbered and further bloodied, Kong and Banjo backed down.

  On the way back to his cell, Banjo thought about the class. That thing about the stairway to heaven might have worked, might have given him some peace—if he knew what peace was. But Banjo couldn’t see himself setting even a foot on that stairway. No fucking way.

  He was stuck in hell.

  Banjo stared at the wall, his back to the bars. This whole place was already behind him. He would stay strong, keep it together. Kong was nothing, tough because of his size, not his will. He’d keep.

  After a few days, Banjo started thinking about something that Sam had said. It ran around his brain, knocking against the sides of his skull, like rattling the bars.

  A time in your life when everything was at peace.

  At first, Banjo laughed at the idea. Of course he’d never had peace; his dad had brought him and his brothers up on his own. Mum left before he could remember her.
Banjo’s older brothers all remembered something, even if it was little. The smell of her hair, her yelling in the morning, the green dress with Hawaiian flowers—these were only things he’d heard about, never remembered them for himself.

  Banjo’s father had it hard, working in the mines, picking oranges, whatever it took. They moved around all the time, piled up in the back of Dad’s truck, bouncing on dirt roads, fighting with each other.

  Sometimes they’d eat rice for a week, boiled from a huge ten-kilo bag. Dad would beat them up if they stole one of the other brothers’ bowls, but that was fair enough. You had to eat.

  Banjo nodded to himself, started thinking about his brother Darren.

  Dazza.

  Poor bastard. A smackhead, died the same way all smackheads did. Overdose. They’d lay off the stuff for a while, then they thought one more hit couldn’t hurt, just for old times’ sake. But the tolerance wasn’t what it used to be. Didn’t take much.

  Banjo clicked his fingers. It echoed off the walls.

  One of the inmates here reminded him of his brother. Kev.

  Kev wasn’t tough, couldn’t look after himself. Tall and lanky, with that spotty skin that smackheads get, that blank look in the eyes. Someone had to look after him. Banjo wanted to, but he knew that it couldn’t look that way. Kev would have to learn to survive on his own.

  Maybe he could be taught.

  Banjo held his head in his hands, crossed his legs, tried to relax.

  Peace. Who needed it? Peace didn’t make you strong, didn’t help you out there in the real world. Or in this one.

  When they let Banjo out for lunch, Kev was on the other side of the room, as far away from the door as he could sit. There was something different about him, something missing. That nervous, twitchy energy he always had. That was it. It was gone.

  Banjo walked straight over to Kev. The conversation in the lunchroom stayed the same, but everyone listened, watched, waited.

  Kev in his seat was almost the same height as Banjo standing behind him. The inmates at Kev’s table stopped eating and the seat next to Kev was made empty. Banjo stared at Kev.