by Jane Brooke
Mandal smiles. She’s never had a mom, nods.
“I’m trying Mava, you have no idea how I’m trying.”
“Okay doll, be right back, sip on that coffee.”
“Thank you, Mava, for everything.”
Mava smiles, nods and walks away.
Both hands around the mug, coffee to her lips, sip, sip, sip, groans, closes her eyes, inhales from her smoke, exhales and whispers. “I just might get out of here alive.
Then, well, nothing is perfect.
Out the window, Ranger Keats, brown, white cruiser, kicking dust, drives in, parks, steps out, mirrored sunglasses, just staring around the entire compound, especially at the cemetery of busted up cars.
Mava at the window, Mandal watches, she does not look happy in the slightest seeing the nosy Ranger perusing her world.
Mava, eyes darting back and forth, Art, Keats, Art, Keats, Mava moves behind the counter, slams her palm against a red button inlaid into the wall.
Mandal nods, whispers. “Okay, a warning button below the counter.”
She moans, closes her eyes needing no more drama at the moment in her life as pieces of the jig saw get closer and closer together.
Why in the fuck would they need a warning button?
Cracks in her genius brain as she sees another freak show piece of that puzzle connecting into her brain.
Bidness Is Bidness
A RED LIGHT blinks, Keats can be seen through the cross hairs of a periscope lens, someone watching, big cop walking towards the cafe.
“Fucking Keats.” Billy Murmurs as he watches further through the periscope.
OUTSIDE, camouflaged perfectly, within the cars wreckage, a tiny periscope slowly revolves, dogging Keats as he hits the door, opens it, then enters the cafe.
Lowering the periscope, Billy collapses the arms of the tube, turns, gazes back into the cave where he, Doc Earl and his crew have ingeniously built an underground processing lab to brew Crystal Meth Amphetamine (ICE). Stressed, eyes jerk off at the red light, he groans, angry, always on edge he slaps a button on the wall, the red blink dies.
Exhaling from tension, he turns around, like a movie set, lab equipment, low wooden tables, vessels, beakers, copper tubes, sifters, boiling pots, mixer machines, sucking fans, instruments, all the stuff an entrepreneur needs to make Crystal Meth is there, a fucking lot of it.
In the back of the cave, slanted concrete ramp, elevated loading dock, several fifty gallon drums of Acetone, heavy steel accordion floor to ceiling door, a fork lift, tilted on the ramp, flat bed truck idlying on it. The place is spotless, professional, Billy is responsible for that, he is a Virgo.
Worried, about Keats, his mad scientist burnt out lynch-pin also, he looks at Doc Earl doing some kind of chemistry thing. Bunsen Burners flaming, blue stains against a white surgical mask, lightening bolt hair, fuddling around a huge boiling vat of “Crank.” Doc Earl is functioning, barely.
Groaning, thinking too much and though Mava does the real heavy tote thinking, he moves to a table, white powder spread long on it, drying. Lifting a fine, large tooth comb, he rakes it out, eyes darting at the Doc as he jolts straight up. The Doc sees something in the Ozone, mumbles something, calms, looks at Billy, gives him a mischievous wink, goes back to work.
Unfortunately for Billy, the Cox clan, though not stupid still needed the maniac to do the math, chemistry stuff at production level. Bathtub crank was where they had started, until the day the Doc had arrived. Two years earlier, a much less fucked up Doc Earl, after doing 5 to 10 at the Federal lockup in Houston for drug finagling had materialized, and like other lost souls, he had planted himself at their door step.
Before his fate twisted arrival, Billy, Arvan were just minions in the world of Meth distribution and production. With the absolute love American Youth had for the drug, well it didn’t take long to put two to two together, a calculation that even Billy could master. Thus, the union with the ex Stanford Prof, like sin to a women’s flesh, had begun.
A deal was struck, and like Dell Computer, or Netscape, Venture Capitol was found. An IPO proffered, and the Cox had banked almost a half mil, mostly in Mava’s safe, as well as various mattresses spread around the compound, of course figuratively.
Billy was in a hopin’ mood, for they were about to score, move up the chain, into a massive distribution deal with some edgy men in Corpus Christie, set up by Speedo Gonzalez MS-13 contacts. His future never looked brighter, if he could just string out Doc Earl a little bit longer as well as live long enough to see that golden plumb.
Billy, staring at Doc Earl, hated his guts. Nothin’ he wanted more was than to wrap his pinchers around his scrawny neck, choke the fucking life out of the crazed fuck bobble head. Also, rummaging around
Billy’s head was thoughts of fratricide, as well as genocide, though he didn’t know that word even existed.
He was planning to murder his Ma, Art the cook, maybe even Sue, if beauty Betty fucked like she looked and especially fucking Arvan, who was now confirming those thoughts in Billy simple brain.
Arvan, over in a corner, a hip knife tip digging into the white, then to the nose, a SNIFF, crank into Arvans cranium the powder goes.
Billy, irate, yet maintaining, walks over to his bro whose eyes are jerking around his head like Mexican Jumping Beans, the white stuck on the tip of his nose.
Sitting on the table, in front of Bro was a kilo of the white, silky, fluffy and ready to be pressed in to kilo blocks by the pressing machine. Along side of the mound, five wrapped cellophane kilos waited. Next to them, their cousins, smaller gram cellophane packs to be delivered along The Interstate to truckers, bikers, waitresses, doctors, priests, high schoolers, every body in America wanted the shit.
“What was that?” Arvan, jitters, tongue licking some stray crank from the tip of his blade.
“Keats.” Billy snarls, hand, likes a rattlers strike ripping the knife out of Arvans hand.
Free hand, vice of pain, Billy viciously grabs finger full’s of Arvans greased hair, rips his head back, presses the knife to his neck, draws blood, seethes.
“What’s I tell ya. That shit gonna rot yer fucking brain...Ya want ta end up like THAT...’
Billy twists, points Arvans bulging eyes at the Doc who’s humming bird tweets in his head.
Blade edge, tighter now, blood trickle, down Arvan’s neck, Billy yanks harder, in his face, Arvans panicked eyes, inches from his bros. “”I catch ya snortin’ again, I’m gonna make an ashtray outta yer head...CLEAR, bro?”
Ready to even take a shower if that will make the pain go away, Arvan, stutters. “Ya...Ya...Ya Billy...Ya...CLEAR.”
In your face, Billy swallows his hatred, releases him, pushes him back against a wooden pole, then sluices the knife through the air. Knife, TWANG, embedded in the wood next to Arvans ear, the Cox boys are good at throwing knives.
Arvan, breathing swelling, fury in Billy’s eyes, knife handle swaying back and forth, rips the blade out of the wood, be cool, play it better now, time will come, whispers. “I was just gettin’ high. Why ya gotta thump on me all the time?”
Billy groans, crunches his molars, begins to move toward him, Arvan throws his hands out, whimpers. “Okay, okay, Okay...no more shit...whatever.”
Billy, mix master in his brain on fire, now is not the time to wipe his brother off the face of the fucking map.
“Well fucking don’t. What time we pickin’ up from Speedo tanight?”
Knife in the sheath, not in Billy’s violent heart, not just yet, Arvan backs off, tack red zoning, close now, not now, but soon, whispers. “Midnight...Salt Flat Ridge, like afore...Chill Billy, it’s all good.”
“Right.” Billy says with disgust.
“Garth, Tommy they packed hard, ain’t they, they cool? Jimmy, Lester, they got that big boy ready, right?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah Billy, it’s all good. Pick-up is runnin’ hard. The crew is happenin’. Chill man, I said it’s all good, okay...whatever?”
Groans, from Billy, moves on Arvan, Arvan winces. Billy grabs a leather back pack from a hook, scoops up three kilo packs, a dozen gram cellophane packs, shoves them in the pack, shoulders it, leer’s at Arvan.
“It fuckin’ better be cool, and don’t fucking whatever me, ya prick.”
Arvan, snorts his hatred, nods, moves back into the lab towards another table where the white is drying.
Billy, checkin’ his P’s and Q’s, like his Ma done taught him, moves to the periscope, lifts the arms; it ascends as he then looks through the scope. Through the cross hairs, he sees Ranger Keats talking to his Ma, grinds his jaw, decides to wait it out, sits on a stool, finds a smoke, lights it with the Bic, exhales, turns, looks at Arvan, and fucking groans.
In the back, near doc Earl, near the sifting tables, Arvans just taking a scoop in his fingernail, up to his nose, a sniff. Billy goes livid, his adrenaline and fury fucking off the charts. He cannot wait to cut his brothers fucking head off and make a fucking lamp post outta it.
A Very Bad Man
“HE’S a VERY bad man, Honey. He’ll find you. Hurt You.”
Onetta Marnett’s words filter through Mandal’s head as she watches Ranger Keats hover over Mava, looking none to friendly at her. No budge in Mava, grey eyes welded on Keats shaded mirrors.
Mandal, watching, Keats mumbles something, Mava, turns, Styrofoam cup, coffee from the machine, plants it on the counter. Keats smiles, turns his head, looks off at her, leaving the coffee right where it is.
“Great, what now?” Mandal murmurs.
Keats moseys up to her, hovers like a black crow, he’s a gentlemen, takes his Stetson off, fingers through his red hair, a little concern in his voice, asks. “Mamm, do ya mind if I ask, what yer doin’ here?”
Sunshine girl back again from the mud world of her mind, smiles.
“Hello Officer Keats. I’m staying a day or two until the mechanic, Arvan I guess his name is, repairs my car. Then I’m off to California.” Now she can’t even remember Arvans fucking name, the winner is.
He rubs his jaw, peeks back at Mava and, then down at her smiling face.
“That’s good Mamm, real good. Ya knowed this place ain’t fit fer a young lady as yerself. Best, iffin’ ya get outta here as quick as ya can. Iffin’ ya knowed what I mean?”
She nods, conspiracy time, align Keats, she’s in the know.
“Officer Keats, believe me. There’s nothing in the world I would like better.” She smiles.
“If you know WHAT I mean.” Accentuating the word. “WHAT”.
Nodding, pleased, he seems happy with her reply, as she looks past him, sees Mava looking at her with a lot of intensity. From a pearl buttoned pocket, he digs out a business card, hands it to her.
“Ya probably will be okay, iffin’ ya have any problems, ya call me, ya understand?”
Card in the hand, grift accomplished, she’s got another warrior on board. She nods, telling the Ranger in doing so that she really, really understands.
“Thank you Ranger Keats, again. I get it.”
Nods from Keats, cowboy hat on his enormous head, sun glasses tight, smiles, turns, walks to the counter, looks at Mava, Styrofoam cup of coffee, ignores it, chuckles, says. “Mava.”
He turns, walks right out the door.
“PLOP.”
Mandals breakfast, on the slot, under the infra red, no ashes. Mava, snort of hatred for Keats, takes the dishes, stylizes across the dump and lays them down before the doll. Looking out the window, she watches as Keats cruise out of the compound, hits asphalt, tires smoke and he’s gone.
“Fucking Keats.” She seethes, as a toast plate joins the eggs, and she says.
“There ya go, darlin. What the Ranger want?”
No movie director needed, no prompts, Mandal pretends annoyance, someone else, her specialty.
“That big cop rousted me along the road, after my car broke. Pushed me to Berks, real asshole.”
It hurts her to say the words.
Rolls of the actresses’ eyes, Mava likes her attitude, whispers. “Fuckin’ pigs.”
“Yeah all the same. He was just checkin’ on me again.”
Not lying, eyes tilt at the food, she says. “Boy that looks great. I’m starving.”
Disarmed by her Betty’s dislike for Keats, cops, Mava lightens, clips the pretty skinny gal on her sharp chin.
“Eat darlin’. Yer skinny as an eel.”
She is wonderin’ about her and Arvan matin’, maybe invitin’ the sweet girl into their lives.
Grinning, knife, fork, butter, grape jam, Tabasco, like a heathen, she digs in.
Back in the Kitchen, back in Arts powerhouse arms, some smoochin’, dick grabbing, protection, solidarity, cheatin’ looks at the blond who eats like she’s a starving jackal, with both hands.
In between bites, Mandal whispers to herself. “Gotta call Onetta. See what’s what.”
And, GEEZE there it is again, her mind.
If only she simply kept eating, stopped thinking, her chances of making it to Vegas would have had much better Odd’s.
Nobody ever said it was easy being an eclectic genius, and in fact, it was darn right lethal at times.
More Of The Con
The cross hairs of Billy’s secret periscope center on Ranger Keats as he walks to his ride, stalls and seems to stare across the compound directly at him.
Big Breath, nothing. Keats drives off, Billy breathes.
Billy is wishing he had a button, to press, to send a torpedo from his submarine, taking Keats out, once and for all getting the tall cop out of his face. Nope, no red button, no finned missiles, he moves to the runged ladder, opens the heavy plate, moves slow out into the sunlight, lots a bidness in front of him.
SCOOPING up food juice with toast, Mandals eyes, hidden behind the shaded, suddenly notices Billy materializing from apparently nowhere, centered in the junk yard.
Eye darts at Mava, she’s necking with Art. Back to Billy, striding, back pack on his carrier shoulders, that’s new, over the Quonset garages, straddles his chopper and kick starts it, in smoke and dust he roars off.
Moments pass, Arvan like a genie from a bottle pops up, again from nowhere, mysteries centers in the graveyard. Blink, blink, just to make sure her cabassa is not malfunctioning. Nope. Arvan is moving to the mechanics shed, right where her Cadillac is parked, hood open.
“Come on, Arvan. Go on now...Fix the damn thing.” She whispers.
Smoke out from the tummy pack, 38 still in there, that’s good, very good, Zippo flames, smoke, tummy full, enjoying an after meal cigarette like never before. Curious eyes, stare out at the junk yard. She is going crazy wondering what in the hell is going down out there.
“Later, sneak stuff later.” She whispers.
She thinks about the writer in the barn, getting more of that brain candy is at the top of her list.
“First, things first.” She says.
She picks up her tab, sees its $7.45, layers a twenty on top. She’s a big tipper.
List of things to do.
First: Arvan...Romances, grift him, and get him going. Second: The call, Onetta, see what is what. Third: More of Jason Cox.
Can’t remember the fourth and, then she “Oh Yeah’s” herself. She needs food for Angel.
Grabbing up the paper check, she walks to the register, sees the love birds wrangling lips, watches, is amazed and, then.
“AHEM.”
Mava turns, smiles and walks up to the counter, takes the slip, twenty, asks. “Ya enjoy yer breakfast, Betty?
Patting her tummies, she says. “Best I ever had. Please Mrs. Cox keep the change, y
ou have been very kind to me.”
A little bit a Mava on her side can’t hurt the slightest. The Gorilla in the kitchen just adds to her witches brew. She can’t have too many soldiers just in case she has to go to war.
Mava, eyes at the ticket, twenty, girls blues, twenty dollar bill, man, shes loving this nifty girl, more all the time.
“Thanky darlin’, yer a first class cup cake.”
She suddenly thinks of a couplin’ with her other son, the poet and, then naws herself. What was she thinking about? Though it was a kindly thought from a Mother that loves her son.
Giggles from Mandal, a, “Your welcome.”
What was plan four again?
Mava peeking at the twenty, she looks up at her Betty, smiles. “Ya know darlin’, yer a real gem. A real breath a fresh air.”
Actually moved from her sincerity, Mandal has a rare feeling of remorse in her grifters heart. That quickly passes as she remembers number four.
“Where I come from we appreciate kindness...By the way, I kinda adopted the pup, Arvan Ki...Ahh....We’ll I have a pup now, you wouldn’t have a carton of milk, maybe a spare pound of hamburger, just until I get on the road and can get her some proper dog food.”
Mava gulps, for kindness in her world, is so rare. She looks at Betty with dreamy eyes.
“That must be a nice place. That place yer from, Betty?”
Mandal sighs, a broken smile, even a hard core killer has her moments.
“Yes. A great place.”
“POW.”
Her Cadillac backfired from the garages, bringing her mind back from that nice and horrid place.
Mava, gets her head right, turns to Art and asks. “Art darling?”
Mava winks at Mandal.
“Throw a quart a milk, a pound a sirloin, a loaf a bread inta a sack fer this sweet gal.”
Art nods, Mava winks, Mandal winks back suddenly feeling like she is going to burst out in tears.
Suddenly, she remembers Onetta, another old woman that was kind to her as she recalls the phone call still yet to be made.
