The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

  She is beautiful, a genius, so the fuck what.

  None of that shit has ever gotten her anywhere.

  She wants to crash her fist into the mirror, take a shard and rip her face from her head; beauty, shallowness, gone, allows her to get on with it, whatever IT is, for a moment. Her intelligence, her face, especially her body, her only weapon in a world of soulless men that is what she has to fight this new war with.

  She groans and thinks.

  What kind of human would have robbed a cop, maybe two of their lives? Why would a person do something like that?

  She groans, stares at herself; she knows, is disgusted as she wonders how many other horrid females there are just her inside of her.

  Image in the mirror, she turns, stumbles into the urinal and, then falls to her knees, dry heaves into the toilet.

  Spittle, liquid vomit, bursts into the white porcelain, acrid, filth, like she, dripping down her trembling lips. She rises, slaps at the seat, falls on to it. Hand’s in the tummy pack, 38, shaking hands, she leers at it.

  NOW!

  Now, finally now, tip in her mouth, hammer back, “Click.”

  Finger pressure on the trigger, more, closer now, perfect, the time is right, the planets aligned perfectly, eyes crazed, clean, now:

  DO IT.

  “HONEY, YOU OKAY, IN THERE? Foods ready, darlin.” Kate’s voice filters through the john’s door.

  Blink, blink, back, from the abyss, thumb on the hammer

  “CLICK.”

  She shakes her head hard, eyes watering, 38 struck before her eyes. NO as she morphs again.

  She’s hungry, for food, for a future she does not understand. 38, back in the tummy pack. She rises, out of the door and stands before the sink.

  “Just a minute, be right out.”

  She washes vomit from her lips, her mouth, turns and walks out the door.

  Kate’s there, both sharing stares. Mandal is in a state of suspended animation, wondering where she is.

  Kate sees it, something terrible, odd, complex, she reaches out, touches her ashen, broken face, whispers. “Life can be hard, that’s fer sure, darlin’. Come on sweetie, let’s get ya fed.”

  Blink, blink, blues. She is changing before the waitresses eyes.

  New girl now, different girl now, she smiles easy like, not a care in the world, multiple personalities flaming. A little swagger, Mandal smiles, touches Kate’s big Texas hair.

  “Thank you; I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Kate crinkles her brow wondering where the crazed girl she had seen moments ago just went.

  “Sure am hungry, though.”

  Mandal smiles as she strolls by and finds the booth and, then plops her tiny butt along the Naugahyde throwing those long legs out before her.

  Jekyll, Hyde, Kate is confused, raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, turns and moves back to the kitchen.

  Mandal, back at the booth, feeling swell now, smells the food, groans, sips at hot coffee, groans again and, then with both hands, butters toasts, spreads jam, smothers her eggs with Tabasco, peppers ups her potatoes, a dash of salt to the ham. And, then like the heathen she is, she digs in,

  She’s just a hungry gal having breakfast on her Texas summer vacation.

  Jesse Lowe

  “FEELIN’ better, honey?”

  Sweep, sweep, sweep.

  Mandal gathers up the remainder of the sop on the plate, last crusty of toast, pops it between her lips, groans, wipes her mouth with her forearm, groans, smiles at the waitress, hovering like a mother hen.

  “Delicious, scrumptious, much better, thank you. Some more coffee, please.”

  Kate nods, pours from the thermos, fills the darlin’ girls cup off, turns, turns back from the gals voice.

  “Excuse me. Would you know of a hotel around here? Maybe a mechanic too?”

  Coffee pot suspended, rubs her jaw, ponders on if for a sec.

  “Honey, this here is the middle a no where. Ain’t no hotels in Hot Rock.” Shrugs of the shoulders, a giggle, “Hell, these folks jest been wearin’ shoes fer a spell.”

  Mandal, chuckles, allows her eyes to roam, where they then stop on a sign above the cash register that says,

  Be sure to ask about motel rooms.

  “How about motel rooms? The sign over there?”

  “Them is fer long term. All filled. Really not fit fer a nice young lady as yerself.”

  Her thought process is beginning to tighten up. Mandal nods, brain returning to escape mode.

  “How about an auto mechanic. Anything near here?”

  More jaw rubbing. Kate goes to say something, changes her mind. Mandal picks up on it, moves forwards with her queries.

  “You were just going to say something?”

  The old gal fidgets with her two foot beehive. She squinches her face, a torn look on it. She is obviously going back and forth in her mind with her thoughts.

  “Well, there’s the...nah, ain’t fit fer a dog, let alone a sweet young thing like yerself.”

  Desperate, any salvation will do, she presses the reluctant waitress further.

  “Please, I have to get to the Coast real quick, dads sick. You know someplace...Ah, you were about to say something?

  Kate glances around. Berks staring at her; some other men too. She winks at him, a huge smile is returned. Turning to the polite girl, she has concern on her face.

  “Well, there’s Cox, over in Inferno Flats. Gotta a garage an all. Fixes oil truck and bikes and the like. Got a motel, a bar, food, I guess. My thinkin’ darlin’, ya don’t want to go anywhere near...”

  “They rent rooms? Repair cars...”

  “Suppose so, but filled with bikers, fringe dirt types and the lot. Real shit dump, you best be on....”

  “How do I get there? I really need to get my old Cadillac fixed. They have an auto mechanic, right?”

  Kate’s, rolls her eyes, shakes her head back and forth and thinks. She turns to the four oil men and, then yells.

  “JOE BOB. THAT IDIOT ARVAN, OVER THAR AT COX’S. Lady here, havin’ car problems. He fixes cars, don’t he?”

  Big fella, Lucky Strikes rolled in to a t-shirt arm, rubs his ear with a callused finger, nods his head and shakes his head again.

  “Sure. That boy’s a mean critter, can turn a wrench though.”

  Kate turns her head, raises her eyebrows, telling Mandal in doing so.

  There, I tol ya so.

  Smiles from the blond, she lights a celebratory cigarette, exhales, smiles.

  “Cox it is. How do I get there? Thank you.”

  Kate rubs her jaw, shoots out a smile accompanied by a wry barb. “Never thought how ta get there...jest how ta get out darlin’.”

  Giggles from Mandal, over active brain, not figuring anything out, not listening and just wanting what she wants when she wants it, freedom, a bolt, a wrench, a fan belt away.

  Same gal, same place, an hour has passed. She is super woman, doing it, no fear, gimme, gimme, gimme, no consequences of life. It helps that she is stoned cold crazy.

  “How to get there, Kate?”

  Kate, turns, bellows. “JESSE, YA TAKEN THAT TOWER ANYWHERE NEAR COX’S TADAY?”

  A grease smudged, heavy set Levi, white t-shirt man, nursing a beer, burnt face, folded eyelids, friendly acting though, looks up, tilts his beer in The Affirmative to her.

  “Can ya give the gal here a tow?”

  Big smile from the tow truck driver. Big smile from the blonde doll too.

  “Sure Kate, bout ten minutes, K?”

  Pals, oil men, ranchers giggle, shoot him lucky stares. Kate scowls, everybody shuts their pie holes.

  Tearing the gals bill from the pad, she lays it down, says. “Thar ya g
o sweetie, Jesse I’ll get ya there.”

  A noticeable breath escapes Mandals lips. She digs in her fanny pack, withdraws 2 twenties. Kate see the 38, swallows, as Mandal staples the twenties and check together with her fingers, hands it to her.

  “Please, keep the change. I can’t thank you enough. Thank you, you’ve been so kind. Was a waitress once my self.”

  She lies, wants to bite her tongue out of her mouth. She didn’t have to lie, but she did.

  She is habitual.

  Kate looks at the forty, shoves it in her double D bra, raises her eyebrows.

  “Why thankee darlin’, thank you alot.”

  She turns, twists back, real concern on her face.

  “Honey, take some advice. Get outta there soon as ya can. Matters not always that good around there at the Cox brothers.”

  Words of warning filter right past her mind. She stands, towers over the fire plug of a woman. She bends, kisses her on her sagging cheek, smiles.

  “In and out, quick, promise.”

  Life, destiny’s intermingled busted fan belt, a broken down De Ville, a truck stop, a friendly cop, helpful waitress, a lost girl, a hell hole of a desert sewer hole, little things, all interconnected.

  Kate did not know, no inkling, that she would play more in this story. Of course she did not know that at the moment; not really knowing there was any story to be told to begin with.

  One last smile, from the girl, Mandal turn’s, slides though the restaurant, turns, looks at Big Jesse, says through a pooling swirl of promises and smoke, just to make sure.

  “Jesse, I’ll be outside waiting....for you.”

  Big man, melting man, her beauty does that, grins, watches as she slinks out of the bar, his pals chiding him, laughing; Kate staring after her, feeling some dread in her bones.

  Kate appears, glowers at Jesse, shoots the other men dead to silence with her glare.

  “If she so much as stubs a toe Jesse Lowe, I’ll personally cut yer balls off, ya hear.”

  Jesse swallows, nods his head. Giggles from the other men as Kate returns to the register, stares out at the girl leaning and smoking along her busted down car. She pulls the forty out, looks at it and, then back at the gal, real worry in her eyes.

  Exhaling, she shakes her head back and forth watching what she is positive is a girl with problems she hopes are the likes she never sees in her own life, ever.

  Cox Clan

  IF BERK’S seemed a little long on the tooth in glamour, missed all the Texas best lists, compared to COX’S at Inferno Flats, Berks is like The Hot Rock Ritz Carlton in comparison.

  The COX Empire, consisted of outlaws, morons, cleaver sorts, bikers as a host of violent lost losers filled out the list.

  They ran an elephant graveyard junkyard of worthless iron carcasses, wrecked cars, trucks, bike’s, tractors, struck like rusted skeletons around the 40 acres of their spread.

  There is an old Winnebago trailer planted near the guts of the accident victims, an extension cord running into some boot legged current source.

  That’s where infamous Doc Earl lives.

  Across the dirt expanse about a hundred meters, separating the junkyard from the main complex is a picture post card of any last ditch desert dump ever imagined.

  The restaurant/bar/motel, mechanics Quonset shops are a hodgepodge, boot legged mismatch of corrugated metal heat sucking roofs, which pulse with fire of the Sun. Nobody can ever understand why they made Texas thermometers with anything that didn’t being at a hundred anyhow.

  Inferno Flats, is the Cox’s outfit.

  Ma Mava, Billy, Arvan, Art the cook, of course the other one, the secret one, Sue too, Billy’s sexy squeeze, live like dogs in different places along the tribes compound.

  The permanent population of the dump heap, about a rovin’ dozen or so. Mostly stray motorcycle gang members, drug runners, Mexican business men, some contraband women who hang with these types of worthless men.

  The Cox Bar, open until 4 Am, 7 days a week, cold beer, strong liquor, two pool tables, a juke box puking out Country Music, a dance floor and saw dust. A guy could spin a girl around the dance floor just before a ten dollar motel room. There was lot’s a fucking, blow job’s and drugged drunken sex goin’ down. Nobody was particular of which.

  Most nights the place packs them in, not because it is anything special, but because it is the only place within a hundred miles that will host such trash.

  Looking in, it appears that Billy runs the entire place. Look deeper, you will find Mava is the boss. She’s hard worn, 65; SOB mother of the Viper Brothers, their nick and she the brains of the outfit.

  Things, not what they seem though at The Flats.

  A lot of shit is going down, everywhere. Yet, to the blood shot eye, the crib, the cock roaches that crawl around there seem to just service garbage to the likes a garbage.

  If pure violence, depravity, abject deviance, a tumor on the brain and the things that fuel such pathos is a commodity, Cox Corp. would have been listed on NASDAQ.

  Nothing could or ever would prepare the killers at Cox, for the once in a life time Perfect Blond Storm approaching them.

  Sometimes being ignorant hillbillies is a good thing

  This time it could be fatal

  DEA

  Ranger Keats, just cruising by, just for a looky-loo, knew a lot of stuff or thought he did about the deviants there. His patience, his violence, for them, was running thin.

  String bolo tie thin.

  He has been to the DEA office over in Nogales City, chatted up the corrupt cops and was sure that the Cox’s were dealing Meth.

  How, when, where, well someplace off of the compound.

  Someone was brewing the shit and there was no doubt in his mind it was Billy and his idiot, lethal brother Arvan. Keats knew they were responsible for so many deaths along the highway.

  The folks at the DEA had scoffed at him, tellin’ him they had their own problems. They had spread out a map, laughed and pointed to the blue border line separating Mexico from the US.

  “We’re thinkin’ of buyin’ tour busses, chargin’ admission, so least; we can make some money from the drug smugglers.” They’d joked with Keats.

  “Fuck, Keats. We’re spendin’ billions on the drug war. Only one gettin’ rich is GWB and his pals. The fucking blimps, eyes in the sky, Predator Drones, jets, cameras, it’s a fucking joke. I’ll tell ya, the fucking German Shepards are eatin’ us outta house and home. Fuck Keats they got tunnels that would make the Holland Tunnel look like a fucking Flex Straw.”

  All the DEA guys laughed.

  “Cocaine, Heroin, E, pot, LSD, Crank, American teenagers like going blotto, what a we gonna do? Their usin’ Zeppelins, mules, yaks, llamas, bi planes, Mexicans, Colombians, Americans, Russians, hoppin’, swimin’, tunneling, don’t no one in DC knowed probation made folks rich?”

  Lots a back slapping, lots a Gold Rolex watches on Border Patrol Cops wrists; lots a flash cars in the parking lot.

  “Christ Keats, Crystal Meth, ya can get the fixin’s at Wal Greens to make the shit. Own stock in them, it’s a growth business, drugs. Christ their boiling it up in Oregon, Washington, don’t’ even smuggle it no more. Christ, why should they when they can brew up ten kilos in some motel over a fucking Labor Day weekend.”

  Lots of giggles, arm around Keats shoulder; chauffeured him right out the door.

  Like a sad puppy, Keats had left, not before a nod and a wink from the boys.

  “Ya knowed Keats, why don’t ya get some a yer cop friends, take matters into yer own hands. Off the record.” They laughed.

  With a wink of course.

  Keats had ambled out of Nogales, Mexican music on the radio, brown faces everywhere; %100 percent Hispanic.

  He groaned.

 
“Let I’m have it. We stole the shit box from them to begin with.” Groan,” Let them have all fucking all of it.”

  On the way home and of course passing the inferno of the incinerated truck, driver burning, strawberry graveyard spread across the desert, gut burning, Keats was one pissed off lawman.

  Then Billy, Arvan and Sue with her finger raised into the air and the nice blond in the DeVille (that still didn’t feel quite right to him) made him growl.

  “A great fucking day, just a GREAT FUCKING DAY.

  They were a sick and dangerous calliope of deviants that just made his mind that much more all crazy and all.

  The blonde:

  What was that all about? What is she all about?

  There was something he was trying to piece together about her. Fuck, he’d scratch that itch later.

  He’s knows that when the Cox vampires are in their coffins, late at night, that a visit would be called for. He would place bullets just left of their eyeballs, in their ear, into their temples, maybe, just before he retires to his nice new motor boat cruiser. It’s the one staked out before the pier, blue waves, nice weather, over there in Ft. Pierce Florida.

  Keats likes options, feels a little better, cruiser in gear, he does a U-turn, trucker moving past 95, siren, thoughts about the blond.

  Something, something ain’t right, never mind.

  Maybe a conversation with the boys about the Cox tonight?

  He feels better, a lot better as his cowboy boot toe rams the gas-peddle and he roars along the desert night.

  Billy

  BILLY COX, all Texas, 6ft-3 of him lifts a dirt, greased, denim leg, slides offa his chopped Harley Davidson. Strutting, standing still, he plants both cowboy boots into the dust of his empire.

  Surveying his domain, he whips out a comb, guides it with air cylinder arms through a tuft of thick black hair. Sue, longs legs, lean mean, literally a dirty blond, sleeveless t-shirt, no tits, tiny waist, great bod, painted into denim, pushin’ late thirties, green eyes, melts off the back seat. Standing, she does what she does best, acts seductive, sexy, B movie stuff, chews bubble gum, thumbs hitched into belt loops, just watchin’ Billy.