"I think you know it by heart. Don't you get tired of it?"
"It's my lucky movie. I'll never get tired of it."
"Well, that explains it," I said, and I reached over and cuffed his head lightly. "No one ever gets tired of good luck."
"Nope," he replied, rolling under my arm and nestling along my side. "No one ever does."
I looked across the room in Alix's direction, and she glanced up from the book she was reading and met my gaze. We knew why this was Quincy's lucky movie, and that icy knowledge both tied us inextricably together and chilled the bond between us. The man who murdered my daughter had tried to do the same to Alix, and in the effort had held Quincy for twenty-four hours. Quincy had been watching The Lion King when I finally extricated him from that situation, and a lucky movie was born.
"You are really good for him, aren't you?" Alix asked.
"Kind of amazing," I said, "considering my track record."
Alix kept her dark Asian eyes locked on me for a moment, and I took advantage of the time to plumb those silent depths. As usual, they didn't tell me much, and when the moment was over she turned back to her book and I went back to nestling with her son on her living room floor.
TWO
Dookie was flexing in the mirror behind the bar when the woman he was waiting for walked through the door. He ignored her for a moment and focused on his own reflection.
Not bad, he said to himself. He liked the way the veins in his arms popped up when he tensed the muscles there, and the way his power seemed to ripple beneath his dark, black skin. Not bad at all, he thought. Two or three inches above six feet would have been better than this motherfuckin' inch or two under, but all things considered you gotta love this shit just the way it is.
He turned away from the mirror and looked around the room for the woman. He found her at a table near the jukebox with Fat George, so he surrendered his stool at the bar and followed his eyes until he was standing at the fat man's side.
"What?" Fat George said, and Dookie put a short left hand right behind the question mark. Fat George tumbled off his chair and rolled on the floor with his hands over his mouth. Chairs scraped the floor in the vicinity as people cleared out of the way, but Dookie knew the action was over.
"What the fuck?" Fat George sputtered finally.
"Don't come 'round this bitch no more," Dookie said. B. B. King was spilling out of the jukebox as he said it, but Dookie could see that Fat George heard every word. "You're through with her, you sorry motherfucker."
Fat George looked up at Dookie from the floor for a heart-beat or two and then nodded his head.
"Get your white ass outta here," Dookie said, and Fat George slowly clambered to his feet and walked unsteadily across the floor and out the door. When he was no longer in sight, Dookie claimed the empty chair and looked across the table at the woman.
She looked back at him without a word. Dookie made himself comfortable in Fat George's chair and studied her. She was a light-colored bitch, which Dookie liked. That shit'll look good on me if I ever wanna fuck her, he thought while he waited.
Which I just might wanna do, he said to himself after some more time leaked away. Her face shows a little wear and tear, but that's a nice frame she's got on her. And even the face ain't that bad, you look at her a while. No wonder she's still makin' that money.
"What makes you think I'm goin' with you?" the woman said at last.
"Please," Dookie said. "Anybody with a piece of shit like George is just waitin' for someone like me."
"I don't even know you," the woman said.
"Sure you do," Dookie said. "I'm the man of your dreams."
"I don't have any dreams," the woman said.
"Then I'm the man of your worst fuckin' nightmare, bitch. Either way is fine with me."
The woman stopped talking then, and she stopped looking at Dookie. She stared into the depths of the jukebox for a while, and an old Albert Collins tune came up as the minutes stretched out between them.
I like this fuckin' music box, Dookie said to himself. Not many places you can still get the old blues like this.
"Why me?" the woman said, her eyes drifting back to Dookie. He could see a hint of green in them, even in the dim light of the bar. I like those eyes, he thought.
"There's still a lot of money in that sweet ass of yours," Dookie said. "I want it."
"So you're my manager now?"
"And any other fuckin' thing I wanna be," Dookie said.
The woman looked at him some more, and then she opened the purse on the table in front of her. She removed a pack of smokes, fumbled with them until she had a cigarette in her hand, and then locked her eyes on Dookie again.
"Got a light?" she asked.
Back to TOC
Table of Contents
Introduction
Killing O'Malley
Requiem for Jack
Requiem for Moe
Pearls
King Fixer
Bathead Speed
Reed's Bio and Bibliography
Copyright Page
A Preview of Counting to Infinity by J.L. Abramo
A Preview of Saw Red by Bob Truluck
A Preview of Wiley's Shuffle by Lono Waiwaiole
Back to TOC
The Brooklyn Rules Page 8