by Mike McCrary
A fist bursts through the thin wall behind Leon’s head.
Thick, well-manicured fingers wrap around the back of his neck, like a mama cat snatching up her kitten. The unseen force yanks Leon through the wall and into the dilapidated Third World home. In a single motion Leon is thrown helicopter style, arms and legs spinning. He lands in a tumble-roll across the dirt floor.
Dust dances as Leon skids to a stop. He manages to squeeze off two blind shots. Prays he hit something, anything. Nicked a vital organ…please?
Nothing.
Silence.
Tiny dots of daylight shine through the bullet holes, with thin slivers of light creeping through where the walls don’t completely meet up with the roof. A cockroach sprints across the dirt floor.
A John Lobb loafer steps on the roach with a moist squish, its high-dollar companion stomping Leon’s gun hand with a twisting crunch of ligament and bone. The Glock slips out from his helpless fingers. Scrambling for the gun, Leon is met with a beatdown delivered by a master of ass kicking.
A blizzard of punches, kicks, chops, flips, elbows, palms of hands—all really unpleasant shit. Leon fights back, giving him hell, but only lands every fourth or fifth fist or foot. It’s not enough. Leon is fighting a beast way outside his class. Like the house of straw against the big, bad wolf, this piggy is in deep shit and sinking fast.
A Colt held by the figure shrouded in shadow jams into Leon’s eye socket.
The dark figure speaks. “Hola.”
Leon cannot, will not, give this man the satisfaction of knowing his fear. “Hi.”
“Sucks when friends up and fuck you.”
“That it does.”
The dark figure readjusts his grip then continues. “What have I ever done to you? How long have you been on me?”
“Two years, five months, eight days.”
“Seriously, when are you going to cease with the shit?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“But not today?”
“Unlikely.”
The dark figure playfully exaggerates a sigh then pulls back the hammer. “Buenos días, my little dead Fed.”
Leon spits out a pulpy tooth. “Fuck you, Grande Ugly.”
Part II
a few shitty years later.
4
It’s a moist, sticky night inside a pay by the hour motel room.
Dirty, pink flowered paper clings to the walls. Even the room seems to sweat. An open window lets a breeze into this horrific excuse for living quarters. Graffiti marks the walls—something about big dicks and your mother—beer cans fill the bathtub, and what looks like old, dried-in blood stains on the carpet. A brown couch squeaks as if a jackrabbit were screwing an unwilling Tasmanian Devil.
A wiry twenty-something, Brobee is half-dressed in a Wonder Pets! t-shirt, camo cargos down around his checkered Vans. Brobee huffs and puffs with a much, much older hooker riding him with the enthusiasm of a comatose cowgirl.
He’s working way too hard.
She’s bored-to-tears.
The hooker glances at her ancient Swatch, slightly bouncing up and down. “You’ve got five champ.” Brobee goes faster, face beet red.
The door busts open, ripped out chain lock dangling impotently from the doorframe.
Three mean-spirited gents step in. Rasnick leads the charge, with two Eastern Bloc thugs named Vig and Oleg backing him up. Brobee’s eyes go wide, but keeps at his squeaky sex. He’s still on the clock, dammit.
Brobee knows Rasnick is a forty-four-year-old enforcer who’s gone as high as he’s going on the career ladder. It probably bothers him, sure, but what are you gonna do? He does his thing, makes a so-so living, dances when the boss says boogie, and buys lottery tickets. Right now his boogie partner is Brobee.
Fucking Brobee.
Rasnick shields his eyes from the horrific intercourse as calmly he asks, “Brobee, where’s the money?”
Brobee responds with hump-altered speech. “Look, Rasnick. Bro. Dude…” More squeaking. Oleg and Vig pull guns. The hooker gasps in between bounces. Rasnick’s eyes never leave Brobee. “You lost twenty K on women’s lacrosse.”
Vig chimes in, “Who the fuck bets women’s lacrosse?”
“What kind of shithead…” starts Oleg.
“That kind of shithead,” Rasnick says. The room goes silent save the squeaking. Brobee is still at it. The kid’s dedicated to getting his money’s worth.
“Could you stop fucking her for five fucking seconds?” asks Rasnick. The squeaks stop. Bouncing hooker stops. Rasnick takes in a breath. “Tell me you have the money. Please tell me that I didn’t make Oleg and Vig come down here for this sad-sack sex show.”
Oleg and Vig could be twins—they’re not, but they could be. Walls of former Soviet Union beef with tight crew cuts and Russian prison tats from neck to nuts. They’d joined up with Rasnick about a year ago, and things have gone well. Oleg and Vig are happy employees as long as they can drink the good stuff, get mouth-sex from time to time, and inflict pain on a daily basis.
Brobee looks over the situation and knows it’s not favorable. His options are limited at best. Unfortunately, run like hell or certain death are the options Brobee usually faces. He thinks that a smart guy would find a better way to live. And he will, starting tomorrow. Tomorrow is personal inventory day for Brobee. Just gotta get to tomorrow, and right now that’s a problem.
He tosses the naked hooker towards them with a yelp.
Rasnick and company are knocked off balance as they open fire. Their blasts crater the walls, taking out fistfuls of drywall. Brobee does a two hop, penguin walk with his cargos around his ankles. The pounding bullets barely miss as he takes a bare ass dive out the window.
Brobee hits the trash cans ass first, his tailbone screaming as his lower back locks up. He spins from the cans as Vig and Oleg hang out the window looking for a shot. Brobee manages to pull his pants up and gain speed as they open up on him. He runs like he’s never run before, bare feet slapping hard on the pavement. Brobee remembers hearing something about how running barefoot is better for you, had read the first paragraph of an article about that somewhere. Thinks, This is the start, the start of a new Brobee.
He’ll almost definitely take up barefoot running, eating right—well, better at least—and he will, without question, poke fewer hookers.
5
A cab pulls into LAX.
Brobee tosses a few bills to the cabbie. It’s not enough. The cabbie screams as Brobee storms into the airport.
Always keeping his head on a swivel while he waits in line at the American Airlines ticket counter. He takes an opportunity to cut in line as the family in front of him wrestles with a stroller and three kids. At the counter a chipper ticket agent asks, “Where will you be traveling this evening?”
“Next flight the fuck outta here. Doesn’t matter where,” Brobee fires back as he slams down an AmEx he stole from a Persian guy he knows who churns out credit cards using stolen identities.
On the plane, Brobee starts seat dancing with headphones planted on his head, his cocktail sloshing all over his hand. He flips off the window in rhythm with Katy Perry. Other passengers pretend not to notice.
Hours later he lands at some bumfuck airport just north of nowhere. Brobee didn’t even bother really checking where he was going, and he didn’t recognize the name of the place on the ticket—someplace that starts with a B or an M, maybe in Montana…perhaps Idaho. He’d had to change planes three times, and he’s hammered out of his skull from the Jack and Cokes.
Brobee walks through the parking lot, looking over the available vehicles as if he was shopping for a new ride. The booze is starting to fade and he lost his ticket at some point. He still has no idea where he is. Could be Oregon. Could be Canada. Could be Sweden. There are woods in the distance, with mountains. Brobee selects a slick, old school Cadillac and smashes a brick through the passenger window.
The freshly stolen Caddie weaves and winds down a serpentine,
country road that’s completely surrounded by thick walls of trees. The headlights cut through the dark, foggy night. Inside the Caddie, Brobee has the 10-speaker, 2 subwoofer, 200 watt sound system booming classic rock. He’s enjoying Golden Earring so much he doesn’t notice the red blinking fuel light.
Brobee’s new ride slows down to a crawl, then rolls to a stop as “Radar Love” shuts off.
“Fuck.”
Brobee exits, nothing for miles but trees, crickets and moonlight. He fumbles around the glove box and finds a flashlight. He hears a muffled noise coming from the trees far away. Distant, but it almost sounds like someone is there.
“Hello?” Brobee asks the dark.
The sound comes from deep within the woods. Brobee hates this: still half-buzzed, alone in the wild, no gas, had to bail the motel without his cell, and his only food is that extra bag of nuts he swiped from the plane. He moves into the heavy woods with the flashlight in hand.
After what seems like hours of pushing through this dark maze of bark and vegetation, Brobee’s out of breath. He’s been at this awhile, and hasn’t begun his exercise program yet. That’s tomorrow, he reminds himself as he leans on a tree.
The sound has stopped. Brobee asks, “Hello?” Nothing. Complete silence greets him from the darkness in every direction.
Dense.
Claustrophobic.
This sucks and I’m not happy.
Then the sound is back. This time it’s much louder and sounds like it’s just up ahead; sounds a lot like singing, actually.
What the fuck?
Brobee pushes through the seemingly endless forest until he finally reaches a clearing.
“Thank Christ,” Brobee exhales. He’s saved. He’s so excited and happy he starts to bounce a bit. The singing continues, belting an almost operatic version of AC/DC.
Brobee strains to get a good look at something out into the distance. Something located in a large clearing has grabbed his attention by the throat. He freezes, not believing what his eyes are reporting back to his brain. He mutters to himself, “Is that? No. No fuckin’ way.”
Confusion fills his feeble mind as recognition shakes his flimsy body. Pure fear mixed with terror, topped off with an asshole clenching panic. Lips tremble. Eyes twitch. Flashlight drops.
He hears the sound of water trickling. Looking down, he sees piss rolling down his leg splashing all over the flashlight—so terrified he didn’t even notice he was pissing himself. A new low, even for Brobee. All of this, the twitching, trembling, pissing…all of it because of what is up ahead in the clearing.
Brobee unleashes the scream of thousand girly men as he hauls ass back into the woods, running for his life. With no regard for his body, he bounces off trees, falls, skids, slides, and claws his way through the darkness, maintaining his feminine wail throughout his frantic journey to safety. Bat outta hell style, Brobee flies from the woods and lands sprawled in the road. A truck skids to a stop inches from plastering him. A portly driver steps out, but the nice guy doesn’t even get the chance ask “Are you okay?” before Brobee jumps him. He puts a foot to the driver’s balls and a knee to his chin, then steals his truck.
Brobee lets the tires peel as he continues his screaming, tears streaming and fists beating the dashboard. At the airport parking lot he brings the stolen truck to a skidding stop, leaving the engine running as he bolts for the terminal with arms flailing.
After the plane takes off, Brobee gulps down two Jack Daniel’s mini bottles, skips the Coke. He sniffle-cries between breaths like a two-year-old. Far from okay, but at least he’s not screaming or pissing himself. Calming down he tries to think. The wheels in his head turn as he takes a moment to piece together what he saw.
Correction.
Who he saw.
6
Brobee flies through the doors of the dark, nasty bar with purpose, ignoring everything in his path. It’s a hardcore drinker’s bar, where people throw a few back while minding their own business…until there’s an opportunity to kill or fuck someone. A dirty mirror clings to the wall behind the bar, tattered bras hung with care like a rainbow. A burly, aging bartender wipes down glasses with a rag that looks like used Charmin. He pulls down the tail of his flannel shirt to cover the .38 tucked in his waistband.
The bartender tries to stop Brobee. “Hey, asshole!” But nothing can stop him as he burns a trail to a back room, throwing open the reinforced steel door.
He enters a room that serves both as an office and criminal playpen and finds Rasnick, Oleg and Vig playing pool. Nothing shocks these guys, but even they are a bit taken aback at seeing Brobee here.
Brobee runs toward them, forgetting these guys tried to kill him not long ago. Rasnick’s punch to the face reminds him quickly. Brobee stumbles back, then tries to sooth the mood of the room. “Let me talk…” Rasnick slams a pool stick to Brobee’s gut, followed by a fist to the jaw. Brobee drops to a knee and screams, “Wait!” Before Brobee has a chance to utter another word, two 9mms are jammed into his skull.
“Please listen, motherfuckers,” yelps Brobee.
“Really, guy?” Rasnick slaps him.
Hammers pull back.
“I got something, fuckheads.”
Earns another slap.
Oleg and Vig tighten their trigger fingers.
“I found Big Ugly!”
The room goes quiet. Oleg and Vig look to each other. They know the name, and that name scares the shit out of even them. Rasnick lowers himself to eye level with Brobee. “You mind repeating that?”
“Big Ugly,” Brobee pants. “I know where he is.”
“Bullshit,” barks Oleg.
“He knows shit,” agrees Vig.
Rasnick looks into Brobee’s eyes trying to get a read. “How do I know, huh? How do I know?”
“Oh, fuck you. When have I ever lied to you…”
Rasnick slaps him again.
“Fine, fine. Okay, I’ve lied. But I’m telling you the truth.” Brobee gets to his feet. Oleg and Vig keep their guns on his head. While adjusting his shirt Brobee unfortunately feels the need to say, “Now, if you cocksucking faggots aren’t interested in finding the biggest prize on the planet, then maybe you could go fuck yourselves.”
Not well received.
An avalanche of fists and feet rain down on Brobee. He’s beaten to the floor, curling into a ball covering his face with his arms. This is a defensive stance that Brobee has perfected over the years. Rasnick, Oleg and Vig take turns kicking the various parts of Brobee still available.
“Stop,” barks a commanding voice from a dark corner of the room.
Rasnick, Oleg and Vig follow the order, immediately pulling back as if scalded. Out of the dark wheels a man in a chair. Face covered with burns and scars, the man looks as if he was pulled from an industrial accident seconds before death. He wears a suit and tie, partly to keep a certain level of respect, but mainly to cover up his disfigured body. His legs are useless, but he opted for multiple surgeries to avoid amputation. This is fifty-year-old crime lord, Doren.
Doren eyes Brobee carefully, trying to assess if he can believe this man. “Tell me everything.”
Brobee swallows big at the sight of Doren. He knows not many people actually get to speak to this man…or at least not many live after speaking to this man. He nods and begins to explain. “Big Ugly. I swear to whateverthefuck you worship, Doren, I can give you Big Ugly—spin the wheel, let’s make a deal.”
Doren’s hard stare burns through Brobee. Bubbling rage spikes through him as Doren’s memory flips through a ton of pain and unpleasantness. Big Ugly left Doren scarred from head to toe, but it’s the unseen scars that truly eat away at Doren. His eyes stop just short of popping as he commands, “Call a meeting.”
7
Doren, a king on wheels, rolls across the floor of a gorgeous penthouse hotel suite, Rasnick pushing the chair with Vig and Oleg close behind. It’s a room tailored for the illusion of royalty: crystal, glass, brass, oak, fresh flow
ers. All at the price tag of ten grand a day.
Doren is focused, mind churning behind cold eyes that burn with a hate that few will ever know. They glide past the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the LA skyline. A family of fifteen could live here, quite comfortably. You could feed a small country for the price of the art hanging on the walls. Rasnick eyes a painting closely—he’s pretty sure he can lift it out of here without a problem.
They stop as they reach a dining room that holds massive, circular granite table. Seated at the table are the other three crime bosses of Los Angeles. Knights in the round. Nothing happens in this town without these guys and Doren earning a piece of it. Outside of a random domestic violence case here and there, there isn’t a drop of blood spilled in LA without these guys knowing about it. These are the lords of the city.
Cherrito: middle-aged Latino hood, but worth multi-millions.
Bosko: fifty-something, full-fledged Irish mob.
Waingrow: late sixties, but tough as nails with style and class—his blue hearing aid even matches his tie.
Doren is wheeled to the front of the table, as he should be. Doren has the respect of the room and he has earned it, the hard way. Rasnick, Oleg and Vig take their places against the wall. Dorn addresses the room. “Thank you for your timely response. I called you here to discuss an urgent matter that concerns all of us. Today, right now, someone can lead us to Big Ugly.”
The mood at the table turns electric, tension gravy-thick. It’s as if Doren just announced that Lucifer is alive and well. Waingrow rubs his ear, adjusting his hearing aid to get it just right—wants to make sure that the guys outside got all that.
Parked outside the hotel is a standard, non-descript, trying-hard-not-to-be-noticed van. Inside the metal cube of a workspace is wall-to-wall surveillance equipment. Stacks and stacks of Federal tax dollar funded audio and video equipment. The van’s interior is dark save for the bouncing red and green levels, B&W images light up the screens.
