by Jane Brooke
“There my boys, there, there.”
The odd voice whispers as now who ever this man is looks off from the darkness, the coolness of the stalls out at the Cox complex.
Mava is back lit, in the windows, gazing at the corrals.
The man, staring out at her slowly slinks back into shadows and a world as strange as any might ever imagined possible.
He is a shadow caught within a shadow world.
NJ
NEW JERSEY, called the Garden State for a reason. It is a gifted slice of nature, stuck of mountains, farmlands, rivers, opulent Estates of the rich. It brims with flowers, manicures gardens, towering trees, horses, beautiful women and the legalized corporate criminals that support it all.
Close to NY City, a financial hub of the World, there is no shortage of Old World wealth. Actors, sports stars, Dot Com Millionaires, investment bankers, software geek geniuses, as well Old Money first families of The Industrial Revolution are prevalent.
Henry Kravitz, cousin George, Warren Buffet, Larry Ellison, and others, Wall Street touts, Henry Blodgett, Mary Pierce at one time or another thought it a comfy place to hang their multiple millions of ill gotten slag. Before jail time, Marvin Bosky, Frank Quattrone, Michael Millikan as well as another New Jersey elite wannabee, one Anthony Uruguay had, or still had palaces along her green countryside.
By definition, Anthony Uruguay is Organized Crime.
In reality, he is nothing, a minnow in a sea of sharks, the man eaters, the real organized crime being Main Street Corporate America.
Compared to the Gang Bangers on Wall Street, Merril Lynch, Morgan Stanley, J.P. Morgan, Kidder Peabody, etc, ruthless Robber Barons, Tony’s organization was like The Boy Scouts of America, penny ante stuff.
Through his ex whores counseling, he owned about fifty mil worth of Blue Chip Stocks. Also, following her brain, he owned various Burger Kings, four Mickey D’s, coupla pizza joints, as well as several legit check cashing houses.
Dim and Bobby had visited once, got the boot, bad mix for future stars in society.
Thanks to Mandal, Tony wasn’t just rich; he was fuck you filthy rich.
Done that, did that, what have you done for me lately.
Was Tony’s sacred mantra.
He wanted his seven-fifty large back from her, plus the bitch.
No one stole from Tony, left him or survived to tell about it.
Rockefeller’s, Vanderbilt’s, Carnegie, Pierpont, Tony Uruguay money, no difference. If ya had it, you were one of the gang, accepted no matter how gruesome, fat and fuck you scary you were. Like the criminals before him, Kennedy’s in Hainesport, Rocky in New Jersey, a boat load of cash could excise all past sins, creating new persona’s, making a street thug, like old Joe Kennedy, a notorious boot legger a respected member of society.
Tony had done the same thing.
Taking his hitters advice, he had bought a huge estate, filled it with treasures, rare art, antiques, Persian rugs, odd things and the most rare and beautiful of them in Tony’s mind, the gold cunt he adored and loved.
That treasure, now gone, missing, broke his gangsters heart. An unhappy mobster, he was filled with sociopathic sadness, almost uncontrollable rage. Like a lot of the filthy rich, he had a second home, preferred the lowlife of his New Jersey crib there. Mandal, odd, dramatic, troubled, stunner, loved dogs, cats, birds, horses which he would rather eat then ride.
More money than God is usually a good thing, yet, even he had blinked at how she had burned through it, his money.
Language, art, music, tutors; she had more computers than fucking Steve Jobs. He was no way sophisticated enough to understand her psychology, who could. Hawking might.
She talked about him, whoever the fuck he was, yet he adored her for those very reasons. He knew class when he saw it. Mandal loved munching popcorn, watching Kate, Audrey Hepburn movies, weeping, fucking cats curled up everywhere; he had learned to love them too.
Everything she did, excited him, fucked him up, all he could think of doing to control her was to kill her, beatings never worked, the whore loved pain.
Unlike the off spring of the rich, which surrounded him and he had worked like a pig his entire life to get what was his. Son of a long-shore-man, he never had a chance to become anything other than what he was. Rolled up his sleeves, through gut busting risk, toil, death everywhere, he had become something.
Mandal of course was the complete opposite, born beautiful, smart, spoiled, why did she fuck him in the end? Tony never did figure it all out.
She was, his reward, or penance, or curse, but she gave him a sense of class.
Mandal on his arm told the fucking world that he had arrived.
Trusting her, going against every street nerve ending he had, he had trusted her and, then what? Stacks of cash gone.
A fool and his money was the oldest fucking story in the book.
Often as he watched from the terrace her, racing on those damn horses across the country side. No Christopher Reeves for him.
At times she fell to the ground, rolling around with the dog’s that adored her, as he did. He would ease drop, she, writing at her computer, Opera everywhere, struggling through Japanese and fighting verbs, vowels in Italian. She already spoke fucking French, talking to the Mexican gardeners in Spanish; fuck, they cherished her too.
She had been unbendable, unbreakable no matter how he tried to control her. Nothing as she begged him to kill her. So he had, in one last attempt sent her on a gruesome chore, unthinkable in its monstrosity. No eye blinks, she had done it. He had, not she, had been broken. After, he had loved her even more and, then a week later, now, she was gone and he thought he knew why.
Shelving all those thoughts, the King is Grumpy because nobody stole from the King, not even the Queen. Love, or no love, not a dime, a penny, or his love, nobody thieved him. Just ask Bobby Ugo.
“HARDER.” Tony said.
As his voice said filled with controlled rage reverberated to the masseuse rubbing hot oil from the simmering wax pot deep into the folds of fat on his back, in his Penthouse crib, in New Jersey.
No one displeases The Fat Man therefore that is why, rub, rub, rub. The masseuse, like the last client she will ever have, a possibility, was wearing a hole into the fat mans back.
Opera, Strauss, filled the opulent room. Paintings, art, vases and shit he knew nothin’ about hung on the wall. The penthouse looked like it fell from the pages of House and Gardens. The bitch had great taste.
Rub, rub, rub, fear, fear, fear, in the masseuse eyes, Tony puffing away on the Cuban.
The house was spotless, perfect, to make her happy when she returned. A fucking gangster dreamer; go figure.
Off to the side, Bobby and his trained Orca, Dim Dim sat. Bobby, face twitches, eyes like they just were ladled out of cauldron of melted lead, white knuckles, on edge, Dim, counting hamburgers in his head.
Very frustrated, how did Cupids arrow pierce the Fat Mans fat heart?
Dead, very dead, was his priority for Tony’s whore now. Nothing for Christmas, no scooter, ball glove, just the cunts front teeth, more than two, laying on the polished pine floors like crapped out dice. That is what Bobby wanted.
Meat loaf arm, to the floor, Cuban attached to it, fat fold eyes closed, girl punching a sinkhole through the lard, Bobby’s eyes drift, the oil pot, looks like it could melt skin. Little note book, gold pen, make sure to get oil pot, Tony’s hitter girlfriends name written on it. Tony, groaning, opens eye, puffs on his cigar and says. “I am not happy, Bobby, not happy at all...please see that I am.”
Bobby stands, Dim Dim stiffens, muscles rippling like a tsunami ready to roll over Japan.
“Tony, she’s gone. Nobody knows nothing. The crews are spreading out...We’ll get her.”
“And Onetta Marnete...Has she b
een helpful?”
Lip twitches, Bobby losing it, slowly turns, look’s at Onetta Marnette sitting and looking like a used sack of flour on the chair; duct taped mouth piece, screams in her eyes. Ankles, hands, wrists, ducted taped to arms, legs of the chair. Burns, blood, cuts, both eyes black, swollen slits, look of unmitigated terror in her eyes, mascara mixing with black burns on her eyelids, three bloodied knuckle stumps on her left hand.
Bobby, disgusted, looks at her, returns to Tony. The masseuse quick peeps at Onetta, rub, rub, rub, harder, fear blasting through her frozen brain.
“Onetta is helping with the problem, Sir. I think if she knew more, she would tell us. The bitch was very cleaver.” Bobby almost spits the words out in disgust. “But what’s new about that.”
Exhales from the Cuban, smoke, words through obese lips. “Good, Bobby. How many of our men are on the streets?”
“Three teams, two soldiers each, me and Dim, make four. We’re spreading out over....”
“I want her back, alive Bobby...Understand?”
Bobby grows livid, silent. Tony lifts his head, rivets him with a stare, no questions asked glare.
“Kapeeche, Bobby?”
Tug of war, kill, bring back alive, Bobby’s temples burning, he murmurs. “Yes, Sir...I understand.” Literal discomfort shows, from his words, “And Onetta?”
Puff, puff, puff, red ember, smoke.
“Talk to her a little bit more. Then if memory fails, kill her.”
Onetta gasps, screams through the duct tape, finger, the one left tapping on the chair rail, bare feet tap dancing in her own blood. Masseuse, eye ticks, rub, rub, rub.
“HARDER.” Tony seethes, digging the red tip of his cigar into her thigh.
Whelps, fear, eye ticks at Onetta, folds of fat, thigh smoking, she digs for her life into his spine, having trouble finding it.
Bobby nods, turns black eyes to Onetta’s shrill orbs, eye contact, smiles from Bobby, boyish, prankish eyebrow waves,
Bobby never jokes and Onetta knows it. Onetta’s praying and drooling, no rosary beads; just screams in silent fear.
Bobby looks at Dim Dim, bolt cutters in Dims sausage fingers, nothing on his face, tilt to Onetta, Dim DIm stands, numb, nothing but a man at work. He moves to Onetta, V on a knuckle, next to two stumps. Onetta’s eyes, wide, ovals, gawking at the bolt cutter tip.
“SNIP.”
Onetta bellows into the duct tape. Dim looks at Bobby as Bobby tilts hishead at Onetta and leers at Dim Dim and understands now why he is the nastiest Bogey-man on earth.
Dim Dim moves in.
Onetta shrieks as another knuckle falls to the floor.
Your Cheatin’ Heart
FRIDAY NIGHT, like an ever evolving Peyote trip materializes at the Cox Bar.
YOUR CHEAT’N HEART blares from the Juke Box. Sorrow, momentary, Patsy Kline’s sad predicament spins from the vinyl platter.
Sue, bubbles in the sink, pulls a glass, hears Patsy’s Texas National Anthem and wonders about Billy. He’s been mightily distracted lately, what with bidness bein’ so good. She needs his strong hand on her body, misses it; only thing that keeps her balanced these days.
Weekends, at the bar, edgy affairs, this night, early still, two bikers, Devils Angels, big men, long hair, beards, jeans and leather, big boots, playing’ pool, few tattooed biker chicks, more leather, denim, lining the bar, beers, shots, tequila, whiskey, hard like them. There gals that don’t want to be sober longer than need be.
Formica tables, cleaned up oil men, looking like Welsh coal miners on a bus mans holiday. Easy actin’ men, like nails, unwritten rule, never mess with the boys from the derricks iffin’ ya valued yer spleen.
These were real men, tough men, even stoned, mean spirited, drunken nutso’s and the hell bent for death bikers knew, no being a smart ass, around Mobil Oil’s biggest and best. Coupla a biker’s mouthed off, once, were broken all up like stale pretzels by the not pretend men. Nobody crossed that line ever again.
Added to the cast of zanies, coupla Mexican Vaqueros, new boots, clean jeans and flowered pressed shirts, white Stetsons, sign of respect in Mexico, on their black hair. They are men, grateful for plumbing, hot water, decent wages and no knocks at the door late at night. They are prosperous, doing the work for the spoiled gringos and are taking their country back, piece by piece. Usually the first to arrive, the first to leave the bar, they are wise men, smart men.
Flip the coin, pool table, two jack asses, dirt bikers, girls at the bar giggling. Devils Angels stenciled on jean vests, bare tattooed arms, necks, Love/hate on their knuckles, laughing, hooping, strutting, feelin’ special, big egos, fringe characters, it weren’t even 8 PM yet, way too early. Sue was getting annoyed, big time.
Bad time, bad for the Angels.
Billy appears from the cafe, muscles strapping’, sleeveless T, black jeans, cow poke boots, Marlboro Man, cept he’s the real deal.
Sue, gazes of love, Billy flips the partition, lays a big ole hand on her butt, purrs from Sue, looks of love, Billy’s radar on, hand grabs a beer from the beer case, snaps it open, starts to suck it dry.
Boys at the table, making a ruckus, slap hands, after, pool balls find the nets, hoops, girls at the bar peekin’ at Billy, nothin’. He’s consumed with bidness tanight.
Sue, lookin’ at the ball bat, cut half pool cue, new addition, scatter gun, Sue, wonderin’ when her man’s hammer fist is gonna set the bikers to an even keel? Nothin’ yet. Sue chills, wipes the counter; loves that boy to death.
Lookin’ a bit edgy, Billy leans in, asks. “Ya seen Cochise, tanight?”
“Not tanight baby. Spect him in though.”
Draws from his beer, slaps a boot on the cooler, pant cuffs up, hand on a 38, good, ready, more beer, suddenly his eyes become sharp. Through the tinted plate glass, an old 62 Buick, turquoise blue, white, restored comes off the main road, dust, sidles up, engine off as it parks. Billy nods, understandin’ everybody in his bidness is doing right good.
He don’t be grudging no one nothin’, that’s the kinda boy he is.
Out of the driver’s door springs a tall, dark skinned Indian, Crandal Bear Feather. He’s a proud man, 6ft 3, stitched cowboy boots, long sleeve blue shirt, white sports coat, shirt buttoned at the neck, white polyester pants, gold rings on fingers, chains, cross of Christ dangling down his chest he got at the Dallas Rodeo.
Standin’ in the dark and under the neon sign, injun boy is lookin’ at his image in the plate glass window. He, touches the shoulder holster, his army issued 45 under the coat, likes what he feels, is ready as he walks through the door.
Crandal Bear Feather is ready to rock’ n’ roll.
Old West, Indian walks to the bar, eyes straight ahead, stoic, quiet. Injuns are like that. Eyes turn, stare at Billy, test of wills.
Apache looses, AGAIN.
Cochise looks at Sue, nods at the beer tap. “Beer, Budweiser.” No please from his hard, Indian lips.
Sue, nervous, a little, tilts a tall glass, watches golden bubble sluice in it, not a lot of head, she is very good. She pushes it across the bar top to him.
Billy leans in, elbows on the bar, in the injun’s face, lights a cigarette, puff, puff, puff as he blows the smoke into Bear Feathers face, grins and, then drawls. “HEY, Cochise, we still on?”
He seems to be almost mocking him.
Sips at beer, irate black bullet eyes, twitches in cheeks, he replies. “Name not Cochise.”
Defiant, big mistake, as he tacks his eyes against Billy’s.
Sue, big breath, eye ticks at the shotgun, tension could be cut with a switch blade knife, mercurial boyfriend, she swallows, thoughts of:
Here we go again.
Two Mexican men, standing at the bar, needing no road map, Billy’s rep well known, money on the bar, Stetsons on th
eir heads, turn and walk quickly out of the bar.
No flinch, Billy, Apache, old time standoff; Custer’s last stand.
Billy drags, blows more smoke into his teak face, leans in, eyes to eyes, Sue’s hands, edging down near the sawed off shotgun. Indians eyes flick, blink, Billy, calm, way so cool, seethes. “Listen feather dick, ya eye ball me, I’ll rip yer fucking eyes out and use I’m fer eight balls.”
Fear, for a hard Indian with so much memory, well, that’s something that is sometime hard to grasp. Slow, very slow, the Apaches eye’s lower, to his beer, his hands wrap the glass as he grows silent, filled with wrath, embarrassed by his fear. Nothing makes him scared, but Billy does.
Backing off, Billy straightens, two biker chicks down the bar.
“Hey Sue, were geetin’ low on shots”. Sue exhales.
Ain’t her man somethin’.
She moves down the bar, racks the shot glasses with more liquid gold. Girls laugh, throw back the shots. Sue refill’s them, they do it again.
“Leave the bottle Sue.”
The drunken gals throw the grease stained hundred dollar bill on the bar top. Sue nods and walks away so she can be near her man.
Cochise is staring at his beer. Sue wonderin’ if Billy is going to murder the red asshole first, for at the pool table the Bikers are Red Zoning, way out of control. Sue wondering if Billy can micro-manage his hair trigger temper.
Answers will soon come.
Billy is leering at the noisy bikers, she murmurs, “FucK.”
She can see the tote board of violence building in Billy right before her eyes.
Billy clearly agitated, not a great multitasker kinda guy, turns back to the Indian.
“Sizzle.”
Billy drops his cigarette into the Indians beer and, then drawls. “Now asshole, what about Speedo...We on?”
