by B. L. Morgan
Graham Nash was the head of the D.E.A's Midwestern Department. He occasionally calls me and gives me work.
"You woke me up," I told him. "I was dreaming I was fucking your wife."
"You should thank me then," he said. "That must have been a really bad nightmare."
"OK, What's up?"
"Got some work for you, John," Graham said. "So, are you in the mood to make some money?"
He knew the answer to that question.
"I'm only in the mood to take a shit and throw up," I told him. "Meet me at Johnny's in about an hour."
"I'll be there," Graham said and hung up.
* * *
I wasn't joking about needing to take a shit and throw up. I made my way to my throne with my stomach making squishy growling noises the entire way. I sat down and spread my ass cheeks and let loose with a flood of flying shit that had the consistency of watered down chocolate pudding.
About a gallon and a half of this crud that smelled like hell on earth spurted from my asshole before I was done with that part of this morning's adventure in bodily evacuation.
I felt about five pounds lighter. But the adventure wasn't over yet. I tried to stand up and my stomach instantly spasms.
I instinctively hit the flush lever. I knew where my face was going in a few seconds.
Turning around and looking at the swirling shit made my head swim. The swirling motion of the liquid shit made me dizzy as hell. Then, I realized it wasn't going down.
The crap was coming back up to visit me.
It was all I could do to keep from spewing my guts up and there was no way in hell I was sticking my head down there.
Holding my mouth shut and doubled over from the waist I stumbled over to the window. I threw the window open and stuck my head out into the East St. Louis winter. The cold hit me in the face like a slap. I wretched out a long stream of greenish vomit. My stomach felt empty at last.
From below me came a yell and a curse.
"Hey, you motherfuckin' bastard," someone yelled.
I opened my eyes and saw below that I had just woke up some wino by throwing up all over his head.
"Get a bath," I yelled back at him. I pulled my head in and closed the window.
Jesus, I thought, what a fucking morning. Well, it could have been worse. I could have been that guy outside.
* * *
East St. Louis in the winter is not a pretty place. Come to think of it, East St. Louis in the springtime isn't so good either. Today the sun was bright. Too damn bright! The snow was dingy and dirty. Piles of trash were partially covered by the old snow.
I had a headache that was like an ax in my brain. Before I'd showered, I'd taken six aspirin. They didn't help. Even combing my hair hurt this morning.
At Johnny's place, I almost fell through the door. I walked over to where Graham was sitting at the bar. He was taking a drink of his beer and making a face.
Johnny was behind the bar. I Dream of Jeannie was on the TV.
He said, "Bet that girl's got a bush an anaconda snake could get lost in. And I know the snake that'd like the job of explorin’ that jungle."
Graham held up his beer to me. "This stuff tastes like piss water," he said.
Without so much as turning his head Johnny said, "I pissed in that glass just for you. That's the part that'll give you the buzz."
"Is he always like this?" Graham asked and motioned at Johnny who was making faces at Jeannie like he was fucking her.
"Yeah," I said. "Except when he's in church, then he's worse."
"I say what you think," Johnny said and turned his prune like face toward us. "You all know you want to fuck Jeannie, but now you act like she ain't good enough for your dick." He looked back to the screen and blew a kiss.
"I have some work I need done," Graham said his voice hardening.
This must be something serious, I thought. Graham had hired me several times before to dispose of problems for him. He was the kind of guy who'd tell jokes while his friends bled to death. But his attitude this time was dead serious.
"You all have to discuss that shit somewhere else," Johnny told us. "Last time I got mixed up in John's business I spent a week in the hospital."
I told Johnny, "I thought you wanted to be a hero that night."
"Well, I did," he said. "Right up until I got cut."
"It wasn't all bad," I told him. "Remember Sushi did fuck the hell out of you."
"That's right," he said. "It was good too, but damn, she busted all my stitches open. Most of that moaning you heard was pain."
Graham was growing impatient. "Let's take a walk," he said and we moved toward the door.
Johnny was back to watching Jeannie's ass.
"John," he shouted from behind the bar. "Stop by Jose's and bring me back five tacos."
"Who says I'll be back," I shout back.
"You will," he answers.
CHAPTER 32
MONEY IS MONEY
We didn't talk much on the way over to Jose's.
Graham made a few comments about how attractive the neighborhood was. He'd point at a boarded up building or an overflowing dumpster and say, "Urban renewal is in full force here. And I do see that it makes a difference."
But for the most part he was silent as we walked through the grim cold streets of the crumbling city.
It was only about two blocks to Jose's but I felt about half frozen before we got there. The sun was shining like a laser beam into my head. It may have been bright but the sun wasn't warm.
We opened the door to Jose's and the smell of Jalapenos and fried meat rushed out to meet us. I realized right then that I was hungry.
Jose's has heavy wooden benches instead of chairs and big thick wooden picnic tables. We sat down. The floor was dusty and the lighting was dim. Bull horns were hung high up on one of the walls. Other things were hung on the walls that were supposed to look Texasy. It didn't matter to me if it looked like we were in Hong Kong. This stuff smelled good.
A fat, sweaty looking Mexican guy with a small notepad in his hand came over to our bench.
He wiped his nose with his hand then wiped his hand on the front of a shirt that had once been white. Now the shirt was kind of yellowish, especially near the armpits.
He dropped two menus on the table, glared at us and walked away.
"Friendly service," Graham said.
"Well, the cook don't have to be pretty for the food to be good," I told Graham.
Graham reached in his shirt pocket and took out a photograph. He slid it across the table to me. "Address is on the back," he said.
I picked up the photo and looked at it. It looked to be a D.E.A. Surveillance picture. The photo was of a young man standing on a street corner. He was slim, had a clean cut handsome face and short, well-trimmed blond hair. Even in the grainy photograph I got a sense that this was no hardened criminal. Not like the usual problems I'm used to removing.
Graham picked up the menu. I looked at the picture and the menu.
"Stay away from the tamales," I told Graham. "They put extra peppers in them. Eat those, you'll be shittin' fire."
"I'll get some tacos," Graham said. "The usual fee right?"
This was unusual. Graham never asked anybody anything. He was used to telling people what to do, not asking. This, as well as his tense attitude, and the guy in the picture not looking anything like a hard-core criminal, made me feel like something was wrong with this job. But, hey, money is money.
"Price just went up," I told Graham. "You're not acting normal. That tells me that something is different about this hit."
Graham's face colored red for a moment and he looked away toward the bullhorns on the wall.
He turned back to me, "How much?"
"Double," I said.
Graham flushed red again, "This one will be easier than your normal jobs."
"You even saying that worries me," I told him.
A waitress came to the bench. She was large, to put it mildly. T
hey must have good food here, I thought. This girl is well fed.
"I'll take a Tecate," Graham said, "And three beef tacos."
She looked at me with almost disdain on her face.
"Give me a Corona," I said, "And I'll take five beef tacos."
She wrote the orders down slowly. She looked back to Graham. "The meat will be hot," she said and winked at him. Then she turned and walked through the door to the kitchen.
"I think she's in love," I told Graham.
"That is scary," he said. "I won't pay you double."
"Everything is negotiable," I said.
Our waitress came back with the beers. She smiled at Graham and gave me the evil eye.
She went away.
"Six thousand," Graham said.
"Nine thousand," I answered.
"Shit," Graham said. "Split the difference, seven thousand five hundred."
I took a big swig of my beer. It was cold and good.
"I'll do it," I told him. "With one condition. Half now, half later."
"Agreed," He said. "I'll send someone around tonight to slip an envelope under your door."
"Good!"
Graham took a long drink of his beer. He stuck out his hand and I shook it. "One other thing," he said while still gripping my hand. "Make him die slow."
"I'll consider it," I told Graham and pulled my hand back.
CHAPTER 33
DOMESTIC BLISS
After we ate, mostly in silence, I ordered five more tacos and went back to Johnny's.
Johnny looked in his bag of tacos and said, "Where's my Picante Sauce?"
"You didn't say you wanted any," I said. "Besides you smell bad enough already without me adding fuel to the fire."
"You know I like Picante. You could have brought me some," he said.
"Kiss my ass," I told him.
"Move your face," he came back.
"I'll kick your ass," I told Johnny.
"Yeah, you and who's army," he said.
"Mine," I said. "Get the set."
Johnny reached beneath the bar and brought out an old battered chess set. He set it up on a table and commenced war.
"Today I got your ass," he said under his breath as he made his first move.
At least my headache is gone, I thought as I made my first move.
Today Johnny was good. I tried my tricks and he fended off my attacks rather easily. We were on our third game and he'd won the first two when Johnny asked, "What's up between you and that girl, Julia, lately? Seems like you've been hanging around here a little too much."
"Ain't nothin up between us," I told him. "Julia told me if I was going to be around her and Felicia I needed to stop the drinkin. Hell, I ain't lettin no woman tell me what to do."
"Then you're an idiot," Johnny said.
"She said that, too."
Johnny moved his knight. I moved another pawn forward to free up some pieces to attack with. It may have not been a great idea to open up my king row as much as what I was, but today, I seemed to be short on ideas. We sat in silence for a while. I took a drink of my beer. Johnny took a drink of his.
"So what's up between you and Sushi these days?" I ask.
"None of your fuckin business," Johnny said.
"Well, that's good," I tell Johnny. "You ask me questions, I give you answers. I ask you a question, I get shit."
"Some things are personal."
"No shit," I told him.
Johnny was looking deeply into the chess board. "She told me I should improve my life," he said. "She says I should either make this place into a nightclub with entertainment or turn it into some kind of a sports bar with pool tables and a big screen TV so better people come in here."
"Maybe you should," I said.
"Shit," Johnny said. "For me to get better people in here I'd have to bus them in from out of town. You know nobody with any money and half a brain comes to East St. Louis."
"That's why we're here," I said.
"You got that right," he answered. "And the brilliant ideas about how I should improve my life came from a woman who shakes her bare ass in a tittie bar."
"Don't tell me you told her that," I said.
"Yeah, I guess I did," Johnny said. "It wasn't one of my smartest moments."
I made another move and told Johnny I was going to checkmate him in about five moves.
"You're full of shit," he said.
Maybe he was right.
* * *
I played chess with Johnny till about nine o'clock in the evening. He won most of the games. I left and got in my car and cruised the streets. I didn't have anywhere I wanted to go, so I just drove around.
I found myself gliding past Julia's house. The flickering light of a TV set was all that was on inside. It would be so much warmer in there, I thought.
I wondered why I had to drink so much. No answer came to me. I drove on toward my empty home.
* * *
An envelope with three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars was just inside the door of my apartment.
I counted it carefully.
Twice.
I took the photograph out and looked at it again. This guy could have been any young dude in his first year of college. He looked like he had not lived a hard life. There was a softness about his face and about his posture. This guy was used to the good life and not used to working for it.
I wonder what he did to deserve what I was going to do to him. It was best just to do the job and not think about that.
The address on the back of the photo read, Robert Perry, 2020 Division Street, Pontoon Beach, Illinois. It wasn't that far away. Maybe fifteen minutes.
The time was about ten thirty. I didn't feel like sleeping. I sure didn't feel like drinking myself to sleep. For some reason the whiskey bottle just didn't seem too inviting tonight. So I decided to take a ride out there and take a look at the scene of a murder.
CHAPTER 34
A TOWN THAT SLEEPS IN SILENCE
Pontoon Beach is a small sleepy village east of St. Louis. Not too much goes on there. Anyone from Pontoon Beach who wants to do anything leaves town to do it. There really is nothing there but a couple of small town bars. I can't go near any of those bars.
I have to be invisible.
I cruise the streets. There are very few streetlights and lots of trees. The streets are dark so every time I come to a street sign, I have to slow down and almost stop to read the street names.
I wonder why they call this town Pontoon Beach. There's not a beach anywhere and the only water I see is a murky lake that only the suicidal would swim in.
I drive slowly through the streets of this half dead town. Sometimes dogs bark, but mostly there is just a heavy silence. Sometimes I see the blinking lights of TV sets in the houses. The silence is like the breathing of a giant in his sleep.
Division Street.
I turn onto it and drive down it slowly. It's one of the darkest streets in this town. Which means it's nearly pitch black. This is good for me.
Mail boxes are almost all the way out in the road. I look for the address on them.
After about six mailboxes set in front of houses that were way back in very large lots with long gravel driveways, I see 2020. No name is on the mailbox. I drive slowly past the house. No lights shine from the house. It's completely black back there. Good for me.
About ten houses down there's a house that is closer to the street than the others. It's more of a shack than a house. It looks like it's ready to cave in on itself. It's obviously deserted. I park in front.
I take a pair of old cloth gloves out of the glove compartment of my Olds Delta Eighty-Eight. After putting these on, I walk by the side of the road back to the driveway of 2020. It's so dark I can barely see my feet on the pavement. The driveway is white gravel. At least I can see the ground from here.
The house is a one level white brick home with a garage on its left side. I try the windows on the side of the house.
They're
locked.
I try the windows at the back of the house with no luck. At the kitchen was a big glass sliding door. I try it. It is locked.
There is an outside entrance door to the garage. This door is unlocked. This room was as black as the darkest pit of hell. I felt my way along the wall and scoot along trying not to run into a shelf and somehow find a door leading inside.
I felt a light switch on the wall. I switch it on to scan my surroundings. A door was right beside me. I switch off the lights and turn the door knob. The door opens.
I step onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen. No lights on inside. I'd seen this from outside. But compared to the blackness of the garage, I felt like I had stepped out into the morning sun.
I went to the sliding glass door and flipped the latch, opened the door, then shut it again.
There was a table with four chairs in the center of the kitchen. A glowing digital clock on the front of a microwave oven told me that it was eleven thirty five. Time to wait. I sat down in one of the chairs and looked out into the darkness.
The nightclubs in this area usually close around two o'clock. I would expect this guy I'm waiting for, Robert Perry, to stay out at least that late. Of course the clubs in Washington Park never close. Or maybe this guy could find a girl to spend the night with. In which case, he may not come home at all. Either way, there was nothing for me to do but wait.
This Pontoon Beach was a small town. I wondered what it would be like living out here. This place was quiet. It seemed like people kept to themselves. Could I live in a place this quiet, I wondered. I was used to hearing ambulance sirens at all hours of the night. I could hear gunshots at noon or two o'clock in the morning. Drunks slept in the alleyway beneath my window. Which wasn‘t such a good idea.
Out here, life was slow. People don't bump into each other. Where I live people bump and shove, sometimes with shoulders and elbows, sometimes with fists or bullets.
I sit here in Pontoon Beach in a dark kitchen and wait. Life is slow here. No cars drive by out in the road. People live to be old out here, but they are probably dead a long time before they make it to the grave.
