by Mike McCrary
Rondo, however, is a mess.
He’s terrified. Shaking.
“Come on, Rosie,” he babbles. “This isn’t right. I’ve never done anything like this.” He thumbs back toward me and Skinny Drake. “It’s these two. They beat me and dragged me up in here.”
“And why is that, Rondo?” she asks.
Her voice is like a rasp. Rough but smooth. There’s no elevation to her tone. It’s even. Constant. Somehow this woman has pulled off a voice like velvet sandpaper. A calm threat of violence, as if she was asking where you bought those shoes.
“Why did they want to come here?” she asks Rondo, still not addressing me or Skinny Drake. “What is it they needed so badly they would come to you to get to me?”
“Fucking ask them,” he says.
Rosie backhands him with a lighting-fast strike, sending him spinning face-first into the couch cushion with his ass pointing high in the air. Her thick-fisted gentlemen don’t even blink. They haven’t moved into any kind of backup position. No hint of concern. Rondo has her by a few inches and outweighs her by way more than a hundred pounds. He’s fit, looks strong. Yet her people seem to know that Rosie has this.
She’s good.
She kicks Rondo in his ass with the spike of her heel, then gives him a sideways kick to the ribs that flops him over on his side. Skinny Drake and I bounce on the couch, speechless as we watch. Once Rondo flips fully around, Rosie places the pointed toe of her kick-ass shoe to his throat, pressing ever so slightly. Rondo coughs. His face is getting redder and redder. Veins pump up along his forehead and grow like vines wrapping up his neck.
“Things do happen, Rondo. I get that,” Rosie says with her gravel-like sweetness. “No shame or harm in the unexpected getting the best of us. What I find concerning is that you thought you could bring your unexpected shit to my doorstep.”
She presses harder. Rondo cough-yelps.
“It’s you thinking you can do whatever you want to make things right for you, that’s what is upsetting. That’s what I don’t like.”
Stronger toe press. Stronger yelp with a gag.
“I mean seriously. It’s not like I’m some older woman you’re banging for rent money. Am I, Rondo?”
Rondo tries to get out an answer. He’s struggling to even breathe. Hard to do with an amazing shoe jammed into your throat. Her calf muscle flexes as she keeps up the pressure.
“Wait. Is that what you think?” She scrunches her nose. “You’ll pull out your magic dick and I’ll fall in love?”
“No,” he spits out.
“Again? Didn’t catch that.”
“No.”
“No, you don’t think you can bang me, or no, you don’t think I’ll fall in love?” She’s pushing harder and harder, forcing him deeper and deeper into the couch. “I’m confused, Rondo. Help me understand.”
“No…”
“Draw me a picture.”
“Rosie…”
“I’m not very smart.”
Rondo is half a second away from passing out. She smiles big, pulling her leg back. Rondo sucks in air hard, grabbing his throat as if this were the first time he’d experienced the gift of oxygen.
Rosie takes a few steps back to the front of the room, landing almost perfectly in the center of the windows. As if she’s hitting a mark on a stage. Every look she gives, every move she makes is designed to impress or intimidate. She adjusts her don’t fuck with me suit, takes in a deep breath, then looks to me and my brother.
Her green eyes are penetrating. She’s studying us, I can tell. She’s assessing us, but doing so with a warm expression on her face. Waving off Rondo as he gasps and chokes next to me, she scrunches her nose again, only this time it’s as if she’s apologizing for all that unpleasantness.
“Now.” She locks in on me. More like drills into me. Her eyes flare and pop with electricity. “Okay, Sweet Angel, let’s have a drink. Have a chat.”
Oh yeah, I like her.
A lot.
Chapter 18
We sit at the bar of the hotel suite.
We drink whiskey.
She’s turned on the TV for Rondo and Skinny Drake, as if they were children who needed something to keep them preoccupied while the grown-ups talked for a bit. Madam Rosie selected a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle. It’s so expensive I don’t even know the label on the bottle, which is a bit embarrassing given the fact I was a bartender not too long ago. The hipsters of Austin who fancy themselves whiskey experts like to sip the good stuff in order to impress others or themselves, but this one is beyond their small batch whatever-the-hell.
This is the good stuff.
The twenty-three-year-old stuff.
The stuff someone who doesn’t have time to Google what to drink and who doesn’t give two shits what you think about their whiskey choice drinks.
Madam Rosie drinks Pappy, therefore I am drinking Pappy.
It burns, and I’m loving it.
As I look her over I can’t help but think about how much I’d like to be hot as hell, in complete control and drink whiskey like I don’t give two shits about the rest of the planet. Doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend your days and nights, right?
She hasn’t said much yet. I haven’t either. She asked me if I wanted a “Big Nasty.” Luckily I have a past in tending bar and I know that’s in reference to a large ice cube in my drink. I’m also wise enough to know to turn it down and not insult her by watering down the good stuff. I hope this earns me a check in my column. The average person might think the “Big Nasty” was what I turned down at Rondo’s beach house. Dammit. I was going to stop with that.
Reset.
I take a swig. So good.
Not sure where to begin with Madam Rosie, and I’m also not sure what she wants to say to me, either. I figure she has some very specific questions she wants answered. The most important being…
“So. I usually know what people want when they come to see me, but you? Not sure. Could be a lot of things. You got me curious, Sweet Angel.” She pours a fresh snort for the both of us. “What do you want with me?”
I take another drink, more of a gulp.
I realize what I say and how I say it is important here.
This woman is being cool at the moment, but I realize she can go in a much different direction at any second.
“Thank you for your time and your whiskey,” I say as she smiles and nods in return. “I need to find someone.” I let my last gulp of whiskey spread a warm spiderweb through my body. “Someone I hear you know.”
“Do tell,” she says, her eyebrows raised. “You’ve come a long way. You’ve kidnapped that fucker over there. By your accent I’m guessing you’re not local.” She pauses, looks me over with flash of eyes. “Southern, without question. Texas?”
I nod.
“Ah, a Texas girl. That’s where the toughness comes from. The grit. The balls, for lack of a better term. You’ve got some kind of something. I can see it. It’s all over you.”
I can’t help but smile as I run my finger over my glass.
I know she’s playing me, she’s good at it too, but I appreciate the kind words all the same.
“But there’s an emptiness there, too.” Rosie continues studying me. “Something’s wrong. Something deep and dark, I’m guessing. Coming into a place like this all the way from Texas is not easy, right? That deep, dark something brought you here.”
I nod again.
She leans in with her elbows on the bar as if we’re old friends talking about old boyfriends who pissed us off. Throwing back her last taste of whiskey, she glances to the couch at Rondo and my brother, then back to me.
“So, tell me. Don’t leave me in suspense. You made it all the way, found your way into this little den of sin. So, please, I’m very interested in who you want to find.”
I swallow hard then say, “Gordo.”
She scrunches her nose and shrugs her shoulders, not knowing the name.
“Sorry, his real na
me is Marcus McCluskey and it’s a long story. Be happy to tell you all about it, but I need to find this man. Badly.”
She pours another drink. Turns to Rondo, then back to me. Pours me another. Gives me a little side-eye as the brown liquor rises to the edge, a much deeper, longer pour than she did before.
Rosie then raises her glass.
I raise mine too.
“I know this man. I know where to find him.” She clinks her glass with mine. “I want you to give me the five-minute version of your story. Drop your best five minutes on me. If I’m compelled, and I’m hoping I will be, I will tell you where we can find him.”
I start to talk.
She places a finger to my lips, pressing ever so lightly. “When I say five minutes to convince me, I mean five minutes, because I know where this man is going to be in about an hour from now.”
I feel my eyes bulge with excitement. No idea where to begin with this.
“Now.” She removes her finger from my lips, then whispers, “Go.”
Chapter 19
It was a hard five minutes.
I bounced around, skipped some beats I’m sure, but I think I got all the meaty parts out there for her to digest.
I started with my parents, the house, the invasion, the beatings, the killings, my memory loss, my sleep loss, my bar, my business, how Gordo came to me, how Jonathan is a complete prick, not to mention my biological father, how I met Skinny Drake, how he’s my brother, how I killed Mama McCluskey, and how Jonathan came to my house with his bullshit.
Not sure if it was five, four or ten minutes, but she listened to every word and she did not look away once. Not sure she even blinked. More surprising that she didn’t take a drink during any of it. She also didn’t help me with nods or smiles or little word nudges here or there. She let me spill it all out for her in my own words.
No interruptions.
No bullshit.
This is why she is who she is.
I give her everything and she gives up nothing. She listens. Absorbs. Breaks down everything about me. What I say. How I say it. How I look when I say it and the stress I place on each word that I choose. She’s sitting there like a powerful, sexy laptop, crunching everything I’ve said and done in the last five minutes into information for her to process and use. More importantly, she’s using that data to come up with an answer to a question. One only she can answer.
Can she trust me?
I get the feeling this is the only answer that matters to her whenever she meets anyone new. I also get the feeling there are several people buried in holes out in the desert who didn’t process well with this sexy laptop they call Madam Rosie.
Recently, I’ve dug some holes and dropped some problems in those holes too, so I can only hope I’m still Sweet Angel and not part of her desert landscaping needs.
Now she takes a drink.
Checks a clock on the wall.
Cocks her head and looks to the ceiling.
“Well, okay then,” she finally says. “Your Gordo is going to be on a party bus in about fifty-odd minutes from now. A bus I set up for him. It’s picking up him and a few friends of his at a golf course in the desert. It also has a few friends of mine.”
I try to keep from jumping out of my chair and hugging her.
“I know you understand what I’m saying, based on what you told me about your hotel bar situation.” She pauses. “But I want to be clear. I have girls on that bus. I don’t want them hurt in any way, shape or form. I know you’re pissed off, and you should be, but I can’t have my girls mussed up.”
“I understand,” I say.
She leans back, drinks and thinks. I can see her mind turn this thing round and round in her head as she twirls her dark hair around her finger.
“Good. Now, we don’t have time to meet them at the golf course pickup, but they will make a stop. A stop that I will arrange.” She taps her phone on the bar. “I’ll tell the driver they need to stop to pick up another girl, some more booze and some dildos or whatever. At that stop you can slip onto the bus.” She waves a finger toward the couch. “I suggest you have those two follow the bus. I also suggest you dress like a whore so you don’t get made by Gordo immediately. The bus will be dark and Gordo will be drunk or high, or both, so that will buy you some time.”
She thinks some more.
I think some more.
I know better than to speak. Interrupting her would be unwise.
I want to storm into that bus with a gun in one hand and middle finger blazing on the other. I want to spit acid and spray blood across the walls and windows of that bus. I want people to hurt. I want Gordo screaming my name for mercy.
“You want to go in strong. That’s what your gut is telling you, right? I can tell.” She pauses, places her hand on mine. “Oh, I know you, Sweet Angel. I knew you before you walked in here. You’re me, only a few years removed. You want to go in with your hair on fire, a knife between your teeth and gun in your fist.” She laughs as if reliving a fond memory, then puts up her hand like a stop sign. “But don’t do that. I think that’s the wrong move, here. There will be other people on that bus. Not all of Gordo’s friends are there to party. Some are there to protect. Two in particular.”
I shoot up in the chair, my back stiff as a board. “The Nasty Brothers?” I call out. I had to.
Skinny Drake looks my direction. I wave him off.
“You know those two as well?”
“I do.”
“Then you know a lot.” Rosie pulls her hair back, revealing a mark that runs from behind her ear to her collarbone. A mark made with a knife, no doubt. She’s been cut in a place that would not be seen by many, but would send her a clear message. The cut is healing, but looks like there were stiches not long ago. She lets her hair fall back. “I know them and they know me. They almost killed me.” She holds my stare as her mind drifts for a moment, then says, “You need to get on the bus as a whore, get Gordo, and get out without the Nasty Brothers getting involved. Also without my girls, or you, getting hurt.”
She clinks my glass.
“That’s my offer. That’s the deal.” She twirls her finger in the air while making some flash eye contact with her thick-fisted gentlemen. Turning back to me, she asks, “Do you accept?”
I’m not sure I have much of a choice here.
This woman holds all the cards. She wants me to dress like a whore, step into a rolling shitshow with killers and hookers all by myself, without my bat, I’m guessing, and somehow get Gordo out of there without harming a single hair on the heads of her employees. I can respect all that, but sweet baby Jesus, lady.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” She turns my chair around, facing the living room. “I don’t like Gordo,” she says into my ear.
One of her gentlemen has just wheeled out a rack of clothes. Whore clothes. At least I get a choice in what I wear. Of what I might die in. Rondo and Skinny Drake get up. Rondo smiles big with an odd giggle. Skinny Drake is more than confused. Another one of her gentlemen holds some different wigs. They are different cuts and colors. I like the pink one. No wait, the purple.
“Don’t worry,” Rosie says, pulling out a shiny black dress with some dark-gray leopard spots scattered across it. “These little numbers all have places to hide guns and/or knives. We’re not amateurs here for Christ’s sake.”
I slip on the purple wig.
Rondo grins like he likes it.
Skinny Drake’s eyes bore through me. He does not like it.
At all.
Chapter 20
I’m standing alone in the desert at night in the parking lot of Wet Works liquor store a few miles outside Las Vegas.
I have a bag at my feet that’s filled with bottles of vodka, whiskey, tequila and some limes. I’m holding a box filled with dildos, butt plugs and exotic lotions in my arms. I’m dressed in a shiny, dark, leopard-print dress with a gun and knife firmly secured uncomfortably close to my hoo-hoo.
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I’m also cold.
My makeup screams I’ll do anything for money and my purple hair tells you that I’ve made some questionable choices in life. I look nothing like the girl who grew up in small-town Texas.
Nothing like the woman who managed the eye of the storm from my bar in Austin. I’m all for trying new things, but this is a lot to take in.
Even for me.
Even the new me.
Rosie and her boys dropped me off about five minutes ago. She went over the layout of the bus. Not much to it. A moving metal tube of sin.
“Think of a mobile strip club,” she told me.
She said it has bench seating along the sides, leaving an open area down the middle of the bus, with stripper poles scattered down the aisle. It will be dark with some neon that will do a slow dissolve into different colors periodically. There will be a glow, she tells me. There will be some visibility, she tells me.
“There will be a pretty thick air freshener smell in there, too. Like an overbearing potpourri. It’s to cover up all the stink of sweat and pussy,” she tells me.
You’d think I’d know these things given what I did in Austin at the bar, but I guess you never stop learning in this life.
Skinny Drake and Rondo are in the Yukon, parked not far away, and have guns and eyes on me at all times.
A part of me is sad I didn’t get more time with her. With Rosie. I wish we could have talked more about stuff, life, and what the hell I should do with mine.
I need to talk to someone.
A woman. Could really use a sister or a close girlfriend or, yes I’ll say it, a mom. I know that all sounds crazy, me looking for maternal understanding from a woman they call Madam Rosie, but I do feel like she gets me. Maybe too much. Maybe she wants distance. Maybe that’s how she survives, by keeping people at arm’s length.
I get that.
Been doing it most of my life.
Now that I think about it, up until Skinny Drake, I’ve done it all my life. At least as long as I can remember. Was I more connected emotionally when my parents were alive? Am I just one of those types of distant folks who really don’t let people in, or have I changed because of what Jonathan and Mama McCluskey did to me years ago? I might not ever know the answers to those questions. Who’d answer them? Maybe the stuff in that box Jonathan is holding ransom could clear it up, but I doubt it.
