by Kirk Alex
While Roscoe turned his head this way and that so that he might get a better view of all that leg there was to see in the mirror on the wall above the bread case and toaster, Biggs had his peepers on Olivia Duarte, who was at his table now with the order.
She placed a plate of fries in front of a disbelieving Marvin Muck. Biggs had had the urge for their popular cheese and mushroom omelette with green peppers, sautéed onions—hold the bacon bits—and this is what was on the table before him.
Marvin kept staring at his own measly fries and then at the appetizing omelette on Biggs’s plate. Biggs didn’t give a damn. His own eyes were on a large black fly buzzing around against the windowpane above his left shoulder presently.
The fly stayed in the center of the window by some handprints/smudge marks, and then buzzed on up toward the top of the glass and then moved off toward that corner.
Biggs watched the fly and thought about wanting to reach up there and grab it. He wanted to tear its wings off, one wing at a time, and then let it jerk around on its back like that with its spindly legs going crazy, like he used to do as a kid in that tenement. The fly brought forth yet another memory, far from pleasant one, in the wannabe shrink’s office at the VA Hospital.
Marvin ate a French fry. Biggs got a forkful of omelette in his mouth, savoring the taste as he chewed, and then washed it down with coffee.
“That’s what I call an omelette. About the only thing they know how to make here that’s any good.”
His flunky stuck another fry in his mouth.
“I had better to eat in the fuckin’ bughouse.”
“You’ve got to start earning your keep, Deacon.”
“Already be underweight.”
“You can have my leftovers.”
“The way it always be. I want to be on top sometime and give some other mofo my leftover, me.”
“You get fed, you get laid, and got a roof over your head. You never had it so good—’Free Ride.’”
Marvin emptied the cream container into his coffee mug. Added packs of sugar to that.
“Don’t nothin’ be ‘free’ in this world. Could be worse. Could be eatin’ mustard sandwich or mayo—or diggin’ in garbage can’. Done it all the time; ate food out of dumpster’ in back of fast food an’ supermarket’. Kept me alive. Yo.”
CHAPTER 97
Vester Jessup, commonly known as “Slim” by the regulars, served Marty Roscoe the cheeseburger and Coke he had ordered. Roscoe lowered the LA Times and bit into the juicy burger.
“You gonna be wantin’ any Fruit Loops today, Marty?”
“Not today.”
“How’s the better half?”
“Working.”
“How’s life treating you, Marty?”
“Can’t complain long as the wife keeps working. She’s assistant manager now, makes more money. Says ever since she married me her luck’s been getting better and better. What can I say? I brung her good fortune.”
“You’ll take all the credit you can get.”
“I ain’t arguin’ if she wants to think that. Nag you to death anyway. Why encourage them?”
Slim grinned and shook his head, and every time he did so or smiled wide enough to reveal a mouth loaded with bright yellow nuggets, Cecil Biggs made it a point to catch the glitter from where he sat in his booth. Five of them. Three in the upper jaw, two in the lower. Gold. To Biggs, those gold teeth represented money, money to buy crack with for the sluts, nose candy cash—and he was looking at a man with a kisser full of cash just itching to be at one with his slush fund. Right there. Where everyone could see them choppers.
He couldn’t figure why people wanted gold teeth to begin with, because in most cases when you croaked, the undertaker, or some greasy grave robber like Jesus Ortiz or Tulio Pedroza, who ran the cemetery where his parents were buried out there in the Altadena foothills, came along and yanked all that gold right out of your mouth. Nazis did it. They were notorious for it. What’s more, Jessup had some gold on his fingers. That watch had to be worth something. Big Bertha had gold, too. Not as much as the diner owner had in his jaw, but enough. Woman was partial to rings. All types. Rings on her fat fingers more than made up for what she didn’t have in her mouth. Assuming they were worth anything to begin with. They had to be. Vain beast like that.
Slim picked up on what Marty Roscoe was trying to get a better look at in the mirror: Lana and Stella showing plenty of leg, too much so.
“Lookit that haunch. Lord have mercy.”
Pearleen and her friends were well aware of the attention they usually drew, and not only from Slim and Marty. Lana was loving it.
“Roscoe can’t afford my time, baby. Man ain’t even got a real job. Got his wife supporting his lazy ass.”
Stella Martel glanced in the redneck’s direction. “She must be a stupid old woman to let somebody like that freeload.”
“It ain’t none of my business, honey, long as Marty Roscoe don’t waste my time with his jive. See him drooling?”
Slim Jessup and Marty Roscoe could hear the girls laugh at that.
Olivia returned to refresh Cecil’s and Marvin’s coffee mugs. Bishop slid a fifty dollar bill her way.
“Will that cover the divas’ tab?”
Olivia was certain that it would. “That’s more than enough for what they ordered, sir.”
“That’s all right. You keep the rest.”
“Thank you.”
Olivia was back at the cash register to ring it up.
Marvin Muck had watched the Ulysses S. Grant disappear and it had made him angry enough. Bigg’ like’ to lay that green on everybody but him.
“What about me?”
“What about you? If you’d have been born with a cunt between your legs things might have gone better for you.”
“You think so?”
Biggs added cream to his coffee, a pack or two of sugar, and stirred. “Probably not.”
He could see Olivia walk over to Pearleen and her leggy friends to give them the good news: Their check had been taken care of.
The ebony beauty looked up, as did Lana and Stella. They waved Thank Yous in Cecil’s direction. Biggs acknowledged with a brief, quick nod, and was back concentrating on his yet unfinished omelette. Marvin, on the other hand, was eating up the attention the girls were sending their way and waved right back. Had a big, toothy grin for them.
“Mamita. Peach LaBelle. Yeah.”
CHAPTER 98
Slim Jessup slid Marty Roscoe’s second cheeseburger in front of him. Redneck still had the newspaper in his hand and looked at it periodically, when he wasn’t stealing glances at the strippers.
“There’s enough crime and everything else in the paper every day to make you wonder what in hell’s going on. I try not to read it, Marty; try not to watch the news. It’s depressing.”
“People will do just about anything for money.”
Jessup nodded. “Lie, cheat, kidnap, murder . . .”
“And fuck.”
“You said it.”
“Got to have a Cadillac now days, Slim, just to get near a piece of ass.” Marty Roscoe jerked his thumb in Biggs’s direction. “Didn’t always used to be that way. Got to have a Fleetwood Brougham—fully loaded.”
“That old bicycle you got, Marty, ain’t gonna impress them much.”
“You’re right about that, Mr. Jessup. Peaches LaBelle sure makes my dick hard. She was born to shag.”
“Pricey, though.”
“Last time I paid for a piece of ass, if you didn’t count ’Nam, was when I rented a tux seven years ago to marry the old lady. She wanted to see me in a tux when we got hitched so I rented one. Cummerbund; the works. Ain’t paid for gash since.”
“Heard that. Peaches don’t put out, from what I get. Likes to show it off. Look, but don’t touch—unless she wants you to touch. The kind of show she does you ain’t got to touch to get your rocks off, man.”
“You better believe it. Gotta be one of the hottes
t chicks I ever seen. Fact is, I ain’t never seen nobody move on a stage the way she does. Jesus. And them others with her? They don’t just suck dick. Them whores siphon the chowder right out; drain the nutsack dry. Can hardly stand on your feet by the time they’re done with you.”
“That good, huh?”
Marty shook his head. “Unbelievable. Worth every cent. Good ol’ boy could go broke gettin’ head all the time. Can’t help it, though. You get so used to it. Want it all the time.”
“You got that taken care of, Marty. Bein’ married.”
“Yeah. But she don’t do it like she used to. Got to nearly beg for it. Wasn’t like that before we got hitched. She couldn’t get enough. Hell, they’re all like that, these days. That’s how they reel you in. Get you to marry ’em. Blow jobs 24/7. And then they ration it out. Want a taste of beaver? Gotta take the garbage out. Itchin’ to have your knob polished? Your nutsack and asshole licked? Gotta repair the backyard fence. Eager for some corn-hole action? Give the dogs a bath—and if you do a good enough job, only then will I consider taking care of your needs. Marriage ain’t nothing but a trap. For fools and losers, is what I always say. Try tellin’ Rudy and them other young bucks around here. Won’t listen. Think they know it all, when in fact they don’t know shit. Wet behind the ears. Man can get more pussy by not being married. Especially in Porn Valley. Why I decided to stay out here. Roadied for Willie and them: Jennings, Cash, Jerry Lee. Roadies get the poontang. Overflow. Whatever the talent can’t handle—and they can only handle so much. What a life. But it took its toll. Travelin’ did. Roach-infested motel rooms and bad food. Missed home cookin’. Decided to stay put when I met Petunia. We was in town with Jerry Lee. Jerry Lee was doin’ a gig at the Palomino. Petunia come up. Was tryin’ to get her songs seen. Hooked her up with some people I knew.” Marty took a good bite of the burger. “Why I moved out from Flat Rock. Pussy capitol of the world is right here. Poontang Paradise. Only you gotta pay. Pussy ain’t cheap here. They got wind of how valuable that money-maker is, got smart—and greedy—and they charge an arm and a leg, damned near. Man’s got to find all kinds of ways to earn money to pay for his pussy. And these porn bitches? All they got to do is spread them ass cheeks, or the beaver, and the gold pours in. Drive Beemers and Benzos—lot of ’em do—unless they spend it on dope. And me? Well, you know about that.” Marty chewed his food. “Fuck it. Bicycle gets me around. So long as I keep them baskets full of rotary dialers, all that shit—for the studios to buy and put in their movies.”
Slim decided he had to walk away. Marty Roscoe was talking way too loud and using foul language.
“Marty; listen to me, Marty. This is a family diner. We got to keep it kosher. Ain’t right to be using graphic language like that. Customers come in here with their kids.”
“I understand, Slim.” Marty looked around. “Sorry. You know how it is: get all worked up whenever we discuss poon.”
Slim grabbed a bottle of ketchup, salt and pepper shakers that needed refilling and walked off. Shouldn’t have been talking to Marty Roscoe to begin with. Big Mouth didn’t know when to keep it down. Worse than that, most of what he said was bullshit anyway.
CHAPTER 99
Bertha’s break was over and she rejoined Olivia behind the counter; helped get more coffee ready and other things for the noon bunch. She glanced in Cecil Biggs’s direction and was discreet with comments regarding Mr. Smelly. “Bigg’ got odor to him like a pile of used socks.”
“How do you know that?”
“I ain’t got to serve the man every time to know what the man smell’ like. Used socks; dirty old pile of used socks.”
“More like the inside of a cat’s butt.”
The large woman did a double take. Bertha wasn’t sure she had heard right. Did that come out of Livia’s mouth? Wasn’t like her. She looked at Olivia, who was grinning, then shot a glance in the direction of Pearleen Bell and her friends.
“Lemme guess where you pick up language like that.” Bertha kept indicating the strippers’ table. The expression said she was taken aback by this.
Olivia remained amused. Shrugged off Big Bertha’s reaction and walked to the other end of the counter to refill a customer’s coffee mug.
Biggs and Marvin finished their food and walked outside to the Cadillac. Pretty soon Lana was running out after them. The bishop was already sitting inside his car when the dark-haired stripper caught up with his deacon as he reached for the door handle on the passenger side.
“Wait up, handsome.”
Marvin turned, giving her the big grin. Now she want’ it. Hard up for bump and she gonna gimme the come-on.
“What do you say we party it up? The girls are in the mood.”
“That be funny. Now you in the mood? How about what happen’ the other night in the dressin’ room? After all you hoe’ done smoked all that good dope and got Trusty all pissed off, on my ass?”
“You know we couldn’t leave, baby.”
“Don’t boo-shit the boo-shitter, hear?”
“Forget it, then. All right? Fuck it.”
“Hold on now. I ain’t said nothin’ like that. I just don’t like peep’ jerkin’ my chain, is all, sugah-bush. If you on the level wiff me—I be on the level wiff you. Be a two-way street, baby. All I be sayin’ here. Don’t like bein’ played for no suckah, Ms. Lana Da Bottom. Can you dig that?”
“Heard you the first time. Do we party, or not? Talk to the rev.”
“I ain’t got to talk to the man. I know what the man want’. You say you womens ready to party—that mean all the womens? Includin’ Livia?”
“You know that bitch is squeaky clean. She don’t ever want to do nothing, just like her older sister. Went to high school with her. Same shit. Ask Peaches. Couple of squares raised by squares. What can I tell you?”
“Too bad. ’Cause my main man the bishop over there go for that Chicana. Got the thang for her. Like’ long hair and dark meat. No shit. Remind’ him of the Filipino lady he was in love with. My main man dig that dark meat, not that Livia be all that dark. Man’ mama was Creole. He like’ that type: dark hair, dark eye’; an’ he like’ them yellow ho.”
“Well, shit, what do you want me to do? We can’t get her. I’m half-Mexican. You don’t think my hair’s dark enough?”
“As far as I be concern’, you jus’ fine, sugar-bush. Ain’t me wiff the problem.”
“What about Peachy? He likes Peachy.”
“Like her myself. More than I can say.”
“Let’s party, then.”
“Let me check wiff the bishop first.” Marvin opened the passenger side door. Was about to speak to Cecil.
“Get in. I don’t want her to hear.”
Marvin hopped in. Closed the door.
“What do you think, Cecil? They want to get high, do the thang.”
Biggs was looking straight ahead, through the windshield, and could see Marty Roscoe unchaining his bike.
“It’s no good. Too many witnesses.”
“Come on, Cecil.”
“Use your fucking head. The dope is the bait. Why waste all that dope when we can’t do anything with them right now?”
“Can get to know them better.”
“Know them? I know all there is to know about cum-guzzlers like that.”
“Let them sit in the Cadillac for a minnit. They get off on it. New car smell make’ ’em hot.”
“What makes them ‘hot’ . . . is cold, hard cash—and drugs.”
“That be yo last word on it?”
Biggs waited. Nodded his consent at last.
“Call them over.”
CHAPTER 100
Marvin stepped out. Waved to Lana and her peeler pals. It did not take them long to climb in the backseat and were practically demanding to get high. Biggs produced a joint that appeared odder than the usual in some way that they couldn’t quite place.
“Got something special here for you.”
“What is it?” said Stella.
> “Jim Jones,” explained Marvin. “Got toot in it, dipped in dust.”
“PCP?” said Lana. “Fucking cool.”
“Super fly shit,” said Marvin. “Blow the top of your head right off.” And he couldn’t wait to get his share of it. Biggs shook his head. “No way.” Passed it on to the strippers. Marvin began to curse and make a general fuss.
“Be like that. Only next time you be needin’ my help to lift somethin’ HEAVY, don’t be lookin’ my way, Bro-tha Trusty.”
“Let him have a toke,” Biggs said to the women. Marvin was thrilled. Had a long one, then passed it back to them. Rested his head back. Didn’t care for the time being where he was or who he was or anything like that. You got high and the world went away; everything that be fucked up about life, being alive, disappeared.
Cecil looked at him, despising his weakness, despising all of them for it. He stared straight ahead. Martin Thurman Roscoe could still be seen in front of the diner fiddling with his back tire, inflating it with a bicycle pump.
The girls noticed that Biggs was not joining in and wondered about it, although there hardly was call for it; they knew the man was on antidepressants.
“Doctor’s orders. They got me on stuff to deal with the occasional funk that settles in.”
Now Stella and Lana were readily admitting that they understood; they’d been on meds (as so many of their friends have) from time to time over the years themselves.
“My mother is on Zoloft,” Lana confessed.
“Zoloft?” said Biggs. “I know about Zoloft. They had me on Thorazine and some other shit, Paxil. Not a good idea to do dope or alcohol when you’re on meds.”
“Marvin over here promised us there won’t be any chickens killed, either,” said Lana “Da Bottom” Sepulveda. “Are we straight on that? Otherwise I can’t go along. I don’t like seein’ animals get killed for no real reason. I know you can get it up without having to cut a poor chicken’s head off.”
