The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook

by Jane Brooke

As within the waking hours, as well as within the vapor thoughts of dreams, it is difficult to understand if visions of beauty are present, or some vision he is sharing in the other world.

  Soon, he will know that all things the mind dreams beautiful are not what they seem. That some dreams become nightmares that clutch a man by the throat and never let him go, let alone somehow allow him to survive.

  Freak Show

  THE SOUND of Reba, people laughing, glasses tinkling, pool breaks, a rowdy atmosphere mixes with the cold winds of the desert.

  Someone loiters in the shadows, hidden from the lights of the Quonset huts and bar along a narrow hallway. Her face is hidden, almost cabalistic in its secret world, a lighter flames; cigarette puffs smoke into the night.

  Adjacent to the room, Mandal presses her body against the motels wall. She stares off at the cemetery of dead cars, the rest of the complex, her bomber jacket shielding her thinness from the cold.

  Slowly, fingers rise, she touches the faded scars on her face, fingers are shaking, unable to control them, she bunches her fist, lowers them, tears begin to well in her eyes. Cold wind has come, rustling her short blond hair. Hand under the bomber, touches her 44, calming her some as she gazes off towards the bar. She watches, bikers mostly, arrive, old ladies along as they move in and out of the bar.

  She smokes, wondering if she will survive this journey she is on. No stretch of though, she knows that Tony’s men are marshalling, somewhere East. Eyes, dripping, she stares at her hands, again they are shaking. Being tough, insane, does not mean that she is not terrified. Bobby Ugo, like the ferret is sniffing, looking for her. She can almost feel his breath on her face.

  Feeling something on her cuff, she looks down, sees the golden pup Arvan had so sadistically kicked earlier. The puppy is shaking and whimpering. There is not a person on earth that loves the innocent more than she. The pup is skin, bones and filthy. Her heart breaks.

  No room for extra baggage; she know this, yet she cannot help herself. She bends, lifts the dog, opens her bomber, places her next to her breasts and cradles the pooch in her arms. She touches a small open wound on her front leg. Anger wells, as she seethes. “Bastard.”

  The grateful dog’s lips kiss on her cheek, she giggles, holds her closer, whispers. “It’s hard out there for us girls, HUH, girl?”

  More dog answers in the guise of kisses.

  Mandal zips her jacket, drops her cigarette, boot heel kills it, she whispers. “Come on Angel, let’s get you safe.”

  The phone call she was about to make will have to wait, as she smiles, says. “Angel, I like it, come on girl.”

  Thus is how fate works.

  Save a dog and perhaps that dog will save your life in return.

  She turns, walks along the passageway, through the door and into her room. Dog under the bomber, she flicks on a light, checks her heavy watch, it reads: 12:30 A.M.

  Gently, she retrieves her puppy, laying it on the floor. At the bed, she grabs a pillow, moves to Angel, bends and, then plops the pup her onto it. Angel’s tail responds like a metronome, wagging, this way, that way, pink tongue panting, a little fear dispelled from her pools of brown eyes. Perhaps she is telling Mandal she has done a good thing, to her amazement, adopting the pup.

  She moves to her valise, digs in and retrieves a gallon of spring water, half full. She bends, pulls out her eight inch serrated hunting knife, with draws it from its sheath and, then saws the plastic bottle in half. Back to the pup, water on the floor, she smiles as the dog voraciously laps up the water.

  Everything going so well, she moves to her valise, pulls out a packet of cookies, rips them open, crumbles several and, then on the carton lays them next to Angel. Angel stops drinking and with puppy teeth chews up the cookies.

  Feeling better, by the moment, Mandal takes a small medical kit out of her valise, bends to her knees, waits for the cookies to disappear.

  “Come on Angel, let’s fix that war wound.”

  Lifting the pup in her arms, she cradles her getting many lapping kisses in return. She giggles, moves to the side of the bed, sits, dog on her lap. Over the next few minutes, in between grateful kisses, she cleans and dresses the nasty gash and, then, back to the cookies, where Angel, shimmering agate eyes stare at her.

  “Go on girl, eat, we’ll get you something better later.”

  “Yelp, yelp.” Angel digs in, as Mandals heart expands.

  She bends, gives her a ruffle, stands and with pure menace in her eyes, moves to the door, opens it, stands on the porch and in anger leers at the bar. Another cigarette, light from the lighter, inhale, filled with anger in her mind she slashes out the smoke, as she seeths. “No one will ever hurt us again, right girl?”

  With that said, she closes the door and begins to walk, not knowing her love of the less fortunate just may have saved her worthless life.

  She is hard, a rock girl, armed, a complicated 44 magnum pistol broad, suddenly changed.

  Right now, let’s see what’s around the corner, fuck it, she’s hungry and let’s see what’s next.

  Maybe a burger, maybe death; who the fuck cares.

  Nice View

  VIV DAMONES voice drifts through the top floor penthouse, mixing with the twinkling lights of Atlantic City close on the horizon of the black ocean.

  The view, from Anthony’s Uruguay’s fabulous, ornate crib is fabulous, dramatic. Ceiling to floor windows, casinos glimmering, masquerading the ugliness of an under world and the surface depravity of one of Americas most favorite resort destinations.

  The Penthouse is garish, red velvet furniture, some mismatches gold gilded French furniture, gaudy paintings, chandeliers, everything but velvet Mexican painting of bull fighters, which if Tony would of thought of he would have been plastered on the walls. His ex whore, never got her fingers on the place, thus Tony is at home in the joint.

  Tony Uruguay sits in his favorite King Louie or somebody lounger chair. Massive girth, red silk robe, red satin boxer shorts, black socks on bulging calves, suspended by black garter belts. Table in front of him, half devoured loaf of bread, bottle of Chianti, he can barely get near the silver tureen, which holds a half pound of Beluga caviar in it. Slathering a dollop on a cracker, he pushes it past his obese lips, chomps down, groans, washes it down his super sized gullet with Chianti, groans in pleasure.

  Velvet Fog on the CD player, Tony’s toes tapping the floor, an enormous male waiter, shoulder holster, 9 millimeter, carrying a massive plate of pasta, on the table it goes. Pasta and clams fog, breezing in Tony’s nose, he wheezes. “AAAh, Clams al dente...Brava.”

  He drains his glass, wipes his fat mouth with the back of his hand and dig’s into the pasta, some of it dripping down his chin, mixing with the hair on his chest. Half of the plate of food is gone in an instant, more wine and, then he settles, gulps more wine, groans again. “Now, my dear, tell me again.”

  Onetta Marnett sits mute.

  Her face is slashed, burns on it, battered, swollen, black eyes, horrific looking. Her face is covered with caked on makeup. She looks like a circus clown. Swollen lips, frosted with dark purple lipstick, bruised eyes layered with heavy mascara running down her face in streaks from tears.

  She sits in a red velvet arm chair, one hand, stumps, bandages, bloodied; the other hand still intact, holding a glass of red wine. Eyes once blue and hopeful are now savaged in terror. She simply gawks as The Fat Man drains another glass of wine wondering when the hopeful bullet will come, ending her nightmare.

  This is Mandals legacy, an old woman, wanting to live out her life, easy like, transparent, never to be hurt again.

  Wreckage of a convoluted life, the innocent left behind, mending her tattered life, this is what Mandal has left for the old lady and now Onetta perhaps will die for her.

  Waving his hand, at her tulip glass of wine, Tony s
eems happy, kind with a light demeanor.

  “Drink Onetta. All is not lost. You ain’t dead yet.”

  Single tear, mascara trail, lips trembling, blood soaked hand tilts the glass of wine. She sips, winces, alcohol burning her cut lips as she trembles uncontrollably, wine shaking out of the glass, falling down her bloodied dress. Not wanting to offend Tony, she sips again, places the glass down on the table and simply leers at him.

  “Now Onetta. Where did you say she was?”

  She has told Bobby Ugo a dozens of times the same thing, but why not one more time.

  “I...I...” She swallows in pain, “I...don...don’t know Mr. Uruguay...Left...She...jest left...I’m sorry....Please....Pleeeeease.”

  Head falls, she begins to shake, her entire body convulsing in sobs.

  Lifting a forklift of pasta, in the yap it goes, more wine, more chewing, more swallowing. Staring at Onetta, he then claps his hands twice, bends forward, pinches her face between his fingers and thumb. Her face is numb, trying to smile, pain cracking bloodied lips, as Tony whispers. “Are you sure Onetta?”

  Tears down the face, Tony touching them, he is insane.

  From the wings appear four, beautiful, topless, Vegas type show girls forming a chorus line of unimaginable and ridiculous pathos. Lights dim, music changes, morphing into some kind of torpid, languid Latin beat, the girl’s shadows dancing on Onetta’s clown painted face.

  Fat fingers, leave her face, below the table, Tony’s lizard eyes appearing dead, girls swaying, moving behind an ornate Chinese standing paper curtain, illuminated from behind by a black light.

  Music, shadows, silhouettes, mesmerizing and sick, the shadows pirouetting on her face.

  Onettas mind, nothing left now but for the end. A hand, twists the volume, music increases, Onettas face blubbering, lifted hand, Tony’s hand, Beretta lifts, silencer pinching it lip. Onetta drained of everything but fear, eye ticks, at the black iron, silencer tip pressed between her stark raving mad eyes.

  Vic Damon, silhouettes and girls dancing. Tony smiles, leans in and whisper into her ear. “It will be better now for you, you’ll see. Much better.”

  Music swells, passion, musk of the Latin world, girls moving in unison, warped decibels of madness and, then a single “PSSSST” taints the windows red with Onetta Marnetts exploding blood spray.

  All of this, a final reward for a tragic woman whose only mistake was to care for a girl as a mother might. In the end, lessons learned what all children that possess violent parents already know.

  The monster that lurks under the bed, does not always have to be a horned creature with razor teeth. As in Onettas case, the monster that finally found her and killed her was her father; though a brutal adopted father he was

  Doc Earl

  SOMEONE is humming, nonsensical ditty, gristle arm moves out, hand opens the freezer doors, grizzled fingers reaches in, grabs a blue popsicle, covered in white powder.

  “CHOMP.”

  Doc Earl bites, swallows, eyes dilate, wild and roll into the back of his head. His body starts to tremble.

  “Chomp, chomp.”

  Hands thrown into the air, he twirls, flops on his back on the bed. Trailer door opens, Billy walks in, groans seeing the doctor vibrating on the mattress. Shaking his head back and forth, Billy sit’s, takes his hands, Doc see him, smiles and, then gurgles. “Popsicles.”

  Billy moans. His fingers, toes are crossed, as he asks. “Good, Huh? Hi ya Doc. Ya okay?”

  Face twitches like he has palsy, the ex Stanford Chemist leers around gawking at the pink popsicles he sees in his head, goes rigid, leers, and says. “If you see the Sun, do not be afraid. It won’t melt them. I have seen the Sun before and it’s safe.”

  Billy, audible groans, moves his hydraulic hand to the doc’s scrawny neck, squeezes. Doc Earl’s face turns Blue. Billy remembers, lessens his grip and remembers how important the freak is.

  “Great Doc, the Sun, no problem. We’re workin’ ta night, yer up fer it, Doc? Huh?”

  Reservoir opens, usable Cranium space clear, focused eyes, Doctor Earl nod’s at Billy.

  “We work tonight, Billy. Doctor Earl likes Billy.”

  To much for Billy’s limited brain, unlimited temper, he squeezes the Doc’s hand, moans, trying to be upbeat, positive, he says. “Great Doc...I’ll get ya later, wha don’t ya rest fer a bit...Okay?”

  Nods, eyeballs rolling and more vibrating skin bones, fingers, he smiles.

  “Yes Billy, later...The Doctor will work later.”

  Billy, disbelief in his eyes, stands, walks out the door, slumps against the Air Stream. He digs a Camel out of a pack from his jeans, lights the Bic and exhales deep. He’s a nervous wreck for he knowed one thing fer sure. Soon, real soon he’s gonna crush Doc Earls frail body like an eighteen-wheeler would a beer can.

  Eyes roving, he watches as Arvan walks to the Cafe, open the door, Arvan in, leaves the door open talking to Mava. Mava seems upset, waving her arms at him.

  Billy don’t like it, flicks the smoke out, sparks, like in his head as he begins to stride across the compound.

  ARVAN stands, chewing gum, cleaning his nails with his hip knife. Mava is annoyed; cafe closed, near the register, no pleasure in her frosted blue eyes for her idiot son.

  “I said, did ya get yer brothers supplies taday?”

  Ego flarin’, bad mood swings, jerks from Arvans head.

  “Fuck Ma, he’s always needin’ somethin’...I’m sick a his sorry ass.”

  Grinding teeth, Mava is ready to crawl over the counter, whoop the hell outta her idiot son, alignin’ his head back to proper thinkin’.

  “Ya listen, yer brother is special, an artist, ya knowed he’s a gentle type. He don’t hurt no one. I want ya ta get his things. We clear on that?”

  More gunk out from under a thumb nail. Arvan is a man of stature and changin’; he don’t take sassin as well as afore. He gets lip in his talk.

  “Fuck Jason...What ever...I ain’t gonna....”

  BOOM.

  A massive hand whacks him in the back of the head. He swallows his gum, flops forward, goes to protest. Billy rips him into the wall, in his face, snarls, wild eyes, fingers wrapped around his face, seethes.

  “WHAT, YA GOT A SCREW LOOSE? YA TALK TA MA LIKE THAT, I’LL CRUNCH YER BALLS SO HARD YOU’ll WALK LIKE A DUCK.”

  Like a load of wet laundry, Arvan goes limp, the mean now starched outta him, fer a minute as he gurgles.

  “All right...All right...I was jest tellin’ Ma I was busy in all taday...Ya knowed, got that Caddy ta fix.”

  Pleads, lies, Billy calms, lowers his hand, “Ma..I’ll get Jason’s stuff...I’ll get it tamarraw, in Solarville...Promise.”

  Needin’ both of the morons, fer a bit more, Mava referee.

  “Okay Billy, enough. Jest a misunderstandin’. Arvan ya get Jasons stuff. Billy, now what about Doc Earl? He gonna make it?”

  Billy turns, explains the situation. Arvan, touches the back of his head, knife still in his hand, one nose hair away from cuttin’ his brother once and fer all.

  Hatred growing, building, through the years, he ain’t no more a passive dog that lets it owner beat on it. He’s gonna bite back soon. He’s had enough.

  Billy continues to say. “and it ain’t gettin’ any better, its gettin’ worse. Them blue meanies is scramblin’ his head. Only thing keepin’ him goin’. He’s gonna work tanight, were okay fer a spell. Abilene looks real good too.”

  Mava nods, thinks, sighs. “Okay, we go forward.”

  Turns to Arvan, who is still leering at his bro, that is until Billy’s hard eyes catch him, makin’ Arvan turn his gaze south as Mava asks.

  “Arvan, what about this Betty’s car? Ain’t good ta have no stranger pokin’ around, specially now. When I’ll that car a her
’s be fixed?”

  “Need ta go to SolarVille tamorraw, get some parts, bearin’ good, needs a water pump.” Arvan breaths anger, but maintains, “Dependin what they got at the Auto Zone, shouldn’t be more than a day or two. Get brother Jason’s stuff while I’m there too. Okay?”

  Peace, the order of things restored, Mava nods.

  “Okay, change a plans, let’s see iffin’ we can do more than one thing at a time.”

  No dissension from the troops, a little, as both boys moan.

  “Lets see. Billy off ta SolarVille tamarraw, gettin’ Jason stuff, that water pump, doin’ his regular bidness, then back here fer the meetin’. Is that right?” She wearily asks.

  There’s an air of desperation in her words. She’s hopin’ they can keep it tagether and not fuck up, until the money is set and, then she then can have Art murder them both.

  “Arvan, ya work on her car, so Betty can be on her way. Make sure the pick-up is runnin’good, so she don’t break down again like last time.”

  Arvan goes to complain, Billy’s leer shuts his trap.

  “Billy, you make the deliveries to the truckers. Both of ya, stay away from this Betty. She seems like a nice gal, don’t fuck it up.”

  Grinning, Billy chirps in. “Ahhh, she’ll be okay.”

  Once again Mava groans, calms, retreats, begins all over again, cause she knows if she don’t nail gun the shit between their ears, the mental midgets will fuck up, one way or another.

  “And don’t go flapping yer mouths off. Okay. Let’s go over it again. Billy, do your thing in SolarVille, get Jason his supplies, Arvan, get that Caddy ready fer the water pump, so Miss Betty can be on her way. Make sure the pick-up is runnin’ good.”

  She cements both boys with her eyes, making damn sure they knowed what the fuck they need to do. No one’s gotta tell Mava they ain’t the sharpest hacksaws in the shed.

  Billy looks irritated, crunches his jaw. Arvan is his usually fucked up self as Mava groans hearing Billy’s reply.