Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  I reach forward, close her eyes, there cold too. Draping the tarp over her naked body to her chin, I want to give her dignity back to her.

  I just want her to know some one loves her.

  I feel sick, cheap, no glib, no smart remarks and no vanity in the revolver any more. I feel ashamed, more tears, bouncing off of her dead skin, stretched like plastic over her lifeless corpse.

  I cut the tears right out of my face, for the moment.

  No more tears, not just yet.

  I lean down, close to her tiny ears. She smells like skin cleaning fluid. My nose wrinkles, the odor clarifies my mind. My lips move close and, then I whisper as softly as I have ever spoken any words in my life.

  “Its okay baby...you rest now...the white angels are waiting for you, you did your best...it’s not your fault...” My throat constricts.

  It feels like it has concrete packed in it.

  “There, there sweetie, you let Jane take care of it now...I’m going to make everything right. I love you doll...I really do.”

  I straighten up, get right and look at her one last time.

  Pulling the tarp over her face, I smile, swallow and look one last time at her.

  Moving to the crypts door, I look back, nod once and I’m gone.

  XXX

  “OH, POWERS from Hell, grant me Nero’s wish, that all women have but one head and that head belongs to the screw who tyrannizes me: then grant me the pleasure of chopping it off!”

  Bastille, Paris, 1700,s, DeSade wrote that, in his own blood. It seems reasonable to me.

  I’m in a head chopping off kind of mood.

  Once I was out of The Tombs, Garcia cornered me. I could see stark concern on his brown, Pudge Rodriguez of a face. He knows me, and he also knows I sometimes can nudge my toes over the Blue Line. Well, some times way over that line.

  It sorta went like this.

  Come on Jane, you know something.

  Naw Vic, it’s just the kid upset me.

  I know you Jane, let me and the boys help.

  Naw Lou, it’s all good.

  Don’t fuck up Jane.

  Blah, blah, blah, and blah, blah, blah, back and forth we went.

  THEN I blew him off, not like me at all. I felt bad about it.

  Lou understands, but I had other things on my mind, more important things.

  I know where Eddie Jett lives, once went to a bash, he had going down there. Like I told ya, he’s hit on me, more times than I can call up right now.

  I’m going to use that now. Yes I am.

  He’s entombed over there at The Lakes. You know, super rich planned community, gated, keeping the poor at bay. It’s laid out with palatial mansions, man-made lake, oldsters whacking a white ball around and a boat marina.

  The Lakes Club is super private, exclusive, old widowed broads fucking the tennis pros over by the ball machines.

  You know, a living graveyard, a place to hang, just until they kick dirt in your mouth.

  I’ve got everything I need. Mossberg in the trunk, loaded, my walk around chrome 38 in the glove box and my Beretta, extra clips. I figured I might need those.

  Stiletto still in my boot, a load of melting BB’s in my brain, dry mouth, lips, mood, dusk is coming, soon night following. I like night, that’s where this shadow girl works best, does her thing, a beautiful thing.

  Cruising down Tropicana, could a taken I-15, no hurry.

  Its BUILDING, death, blind fury, life, it’s really not about me. It’s about the kid.

  MY KID.

  I haven’t eaten for two days. I like that. I like the hungry wolf feeling, sharpens me, tightens me, an hour til mid night.

  Seeing a Winchell’s donut shop, smooth like, I drive in, park and sidle over the door. I need a cup of coffee, maybe a donut with some pink sprinkles on it. That should set everything strung tight.

  You know, like a cue ball melting the black eight into the corner pocket, game over. Except my game is just about to begin and it involves pain and guns; lots of guns.

  Donut time over and night time is here. I take the cell, scroll and hit the button.

  Why make it hard, when it can be so easy?

  I know the guy thinks with his dick, many invites to party with him. Let’s take him up on it. Man, I am so ready to fucking party with him.

  “CLICK.”

  “Hey baby doll, its Jane, what ya doin’” You been dreamin’ about me?”

  M-7, Bingo.

  He’s cranked, voice all a stutter stepping, molars grinding, coked out, loud music, voices, tinkle, tinkle of glasses. He’s zoned and real happy to hear my voice. We flirt back and forth, you know me. It goes like this.

  “Been thinking about ya, a lot, heard your dropping them dead over there at The Venetian. What ya doin’ big boy?” Mae West, why the fuck not?

  “I been thinkin’ about you Jane,” I can here his dick getting hard.

  “Geesh Jane, ya want to come over later?”

  “Sure baby doll, in the neighbor hood buying donuts. Where are ya?”

  “At the Voodoo Lounge Jane, be home later. I’ll call the guard, at the gate, go on in, you know where my crib is, don’t ya?”

  “Sure, sweetie, I’ll just make my self at home, till rock boy gets home to mama. What kind a donuts do you like?”

  You’re so fly, Jane. See ya soon.”

  He bellows, I giggle.

  I fight dry vomiting.

  “OK mister rock star, see ya.”

  ”CLICK.”

  The phone dies as I am certain that something else is going to die tonight. Maybe me, just don’t care.

  That was easy. It’s always easy when cranked hormones battle testosterone.

  Every bitch worth their salt knows that.

  Twenty minutes later, I cruise up the guard gate, see a LVPD cop I know. He’s just one more cop working the night shift, trying to keep his kid in Kobe tennis sneakers.

  He grins, I smile back, we chit chat back and forth. He got the message from Eddie. It’s all good.

  The pylon red and white stripped elevates. In my calm mind, I know it might be a good thing a cop’s at the wall, might need that later. I make a mental note of it.

  It’s the little things that can keep a girl from the silver table with a syringe duct taped to her arm.

  Give my pal a wave, I drive through the gate and cruise past the last ditch palaces of the elite. Blocks later, manicured lawns, opulence, Mexican guys with rakes, leaf blowers, lawn mowers have made the place pretty. You know the hard working campesinos these white folks detest and whose privileged lives would be totally fucked without them.

  I hang a left, stall out before the gate. Eddie gave me the code as I stab the numbers into the little box. The gate swings open, up the long drive I go. I see a black Bentley, ditto on the color Escalade parked in the circle drive. No Ferrari, guess he’s not home yet.

  That’s a good thing.

  I’ve been thinking about all of this and I have a plan. I don’t think I will need the 16 Gauge, so I grab my 38 from the glove box, stuff it into my back waistband. Not needing my shoulder holster, I stuff my Beretta in my front waist band, stiletto in my boot. I feel pretty good.

  I open the door, real lady like. I’m practicing for later, step to the bricks and look at the moon. Umber yellow comes to mine. It’s full, and I’m feeling like I want to bay at it.

  Move along girl, I do the stroll in.

  I stall out in the entry way, peek up, way up about thirty feet, nod, then look straight ahead. I’ve been here before, remember most of it. The whore house looks like you could land a B-17 in it, huge, a real mausoleum of bad taste. It’s obvious that some crazed Peyote strung out interior decorator pulled out all the stops decorating it.
You know, nothing personal, warm, everything expensive, no style and no heart. There are loungers, couches, tables, lamps, chairs, desks, nothing with a pulse to it, everything new and nothing old. The place makes me want to vomit, again.

  I don’t figure he will be home, for awhile. So, it’s time to snoop around, my favorite thing. I’ve got this one word in my head, blinking on and off like blue neon, and that word is:

  FROZEN. For the obvious fucking reasons.

  Since I had a donut for dinner, I’m not hungry. So let’s see, where do people keep stuff frozen and a blue finger nail? It’s not like they got an ice house back there near the Jacuzzi. Oh yeah, the kitchen.

  DUH.

  Out comes my Beretta. I dangle it by my side. I sleuth to the edge of his vast living room and groan for bad taste run amok is everywhere. Money can’t buy style, class or friends. It can only buy you people that pretend to be your friends.

  The place is huge, all kinda crap as my eyes fly across the room.

  There’s an entertainment center, massive flat screens, two of them, CD, DVD players, gadgets, racks of CD’s, DVD, pop corn machine. I see bowls of nuts on the bar top, draft beer, bottles of booze everywhere. I’m not here to see a movie. But I might have a martini sitting on a corpse later if everything grifts out OK.

  I move down the white tiles, find the kitchen, big chopping block and think of DeSade again. Good place to chop off a head, or some guys fingers, if that’s gets ya off.

  The place looks sterile, bags of Doritos, Fritos, couple a bags of Ho Ho’s on the counter tops. The guy likes sweets. I see a big stainless steel fridge, freezer, GE I think. I got one too, though I can barely boil water. Cooking is not my thing.

  I move to the fridge, pry open the door, usual suspects, beer and an apple in it.

  An apple a day keeps the doctor away, not this time.

  There’s Tupperware, old food, a couple of bottle of wine, red, white, pink, nothing there. So, I jack the freezer open, a few steaks and frozen TV dinners; to small of a place to freeze an angel in. I never thought it would be. There’s got to be another freezer, I’m certain. So I turn and walk into the pantry, sans utility room.

  Stacked to the left, floor to ceiling, are these blue ceramic washer and dryer machines, GE again, and there’s that color blue again. It matches the color of the blood pumping, raging, screaming torrents of my own blood through my Sapphire, hard veins, directly into my head.

  I glance left, there it is. I thought it would be.

  One of those floor freezers, eight feet long, four feet high, planted to the white tiles. I really don’t want to open it. I really don’t want that. What if there’s another kid in it? Don’t think I could handle that, would have to go insane.

  That would never do, just not yet that is.

  Hard choices, sometimes are easy, this one was not. I move to the freezer, lay my hand on the chrome, open it, take a step back, cold kissing my cheek, face, lips. My face feels like a steaming car radiator. The cooling air seems to cool down the burning nuclear reactor that I am.

  Nothing.

  It is empty, cold, like her hands. Going to close it, I see something in a corner, something:

  BLUE.

  XXX

  I’m hating the color indigo these days. So I bang my forehead with my silencers tip, just to stop from going completely nuts, my heart thumping. I calm, exhale, reach down, and pry my baby’s fingernail from the ice.

  Swallowing my own bile, I lift it to my eyes, focus and, then my bod begins to shudder, shake and vibrate out of its pinions. I go down in a crouch, whack my face in my hands, hyperventilating. I’m trying to get it together, for good times are coming. I am positive about that.

  FROZEN ALIVE.

  Hammers my brain.

  Don’t have a watch, but I can hear the Tick, Tick, Tick of my violence clock. It’s counting down, thundering in my temples, throbbing in my neck that is so filled with blood, it just might detonate before I do.

  REALITY TIME.

  I could call Lou; tell him what’s, what, and then what?

  Lou, uniforms, cops blue and whites, homicide dicks, swat, crime scene kids, tweezers, hair, particle, fibers, DNA, Luminal, vacuum cleaners, maybe an eyelash left over from the kid. Maybe they would find traces of her blood too and another blue finger nail.

  Bull horns blasting.

  “EDDIE JETT, WE GOT THE PLACE SURROUNDED, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.”

  Sure, right, OJ all over again.

  Could ya see it, big money lawyers, grafts, charts, DNA guys and spin doctors pointing at charts with pointers.

  Up is down. Down is up, pathologists and maybe get Alan Dershowitz, maybe that Jap guy again.

  If the glove-don’t fit, you can’t convict.

  Yeah, she was just visitin’, sellin’ Girl Scout cookies, a dirty little whore. Tole me she was eighteen. Who me? She slipped on a banana peel. I bought her a ice crème cone. Weren’t my fault, drugs, never touch them, who me?

  And on and on it would go.

  Nope, that’s not the way I see it going down, that is if I’m not violently snuffed tonight. Anything can happen, it usually does. There’s no delusion left in my life. I guess ya know why. It’s better for me to fight for the kid then to wimp out like a pussy not doing my thing for her. I do know that.

  I think I’ve figured out the Eddie Jett play, how it will go down. If it all goes down like I’m figuring, then I will send Lou a post card, you know.

  “Dear Lou, on vacay,The Lakes. Been kayaking, eating donuts, having a great time, wish you were here, check the freezer out at Eddie Jetts. I think he left a blue popsicle for you, lotsa love, smooches, Janie.”

  Yeah, I could do that, because I’m not gonna kill Eddie, I mean the hard way, the easy way. Why because I need to get the docs name, you know. I need to get the fucking savage who sluiced out my little sweethearts lobes like he needed them to make a pizza.

  Anyways, that’s later, if there is a later.

  So I move, and a minute later, I’m in the living room, sneaking around, Beretta banging my knee. I’m hanging around the entertainment center, that’s what they call them over there at Wal Mart. All the guys have them. You know, flip flops, pizza, Tom Brady jerseys, big guts, case or two of Bud, NFL Sundays, with the guys. Ego centric, done nothing mucks, with massive snout egos, no lives, no futures, no reason to be anything.

  That’s cause there mommy’s been telling them from the time they squirted outta the womb, that little Jimmy is fucking perfect. Then they moan that no bitch will give them play, which one eventually will, because she’s stone cold desperate. That’s another tragic American story.

  Because my brain is basically a hard drive, I see stuff, in the margins. As me and my silencer moves down the rack of DVD’s, CD’s my silencer click, click, clicking on them, I see he’s a porn guy, a Disney flick guy too.

  There’s Little Mermaid, Snow White, Dumbo, kids stuff, why am I not surprised.

  I fucking cringe, thinking about Missy.

  Maybe he showed her a flick, just before you know he cut the fucking life outta her head hoping to make a human Barbie doll out of her.

  Silencer tip stops, some custom CDs, black marker scribbles on them, some kinda code on them. There’s about a dozen or so of them. I get it. I get it real fast because that’s how my fucked up brain works.

  I see one, YSSIM, cleaver, know exactly what it is. My blood runs cold. I pull it out and it feels like a slab of ice as I violently inhale a hit of oxygen through my nose.

  Kicking open the DVD machine, I slot it in, fire her up. Then, the big screen stutters to life. It’s shadowy in Eddie’s tomb, most of the lights dead in the room. I grab the remote, stab the button, step back, knowing some horror movie, don’t like them, is about to debut. It’s one I really don’t
want anything to do with.

  The movie comes on. It’s a home production. All I can feel is the flickering lights burning on my eyeballs, my face, lips twitching, as I watch, watch it all.

  There she is, the kid, on his bed. Uncle Eddie is there too. She’s holding a doll, blond like her.

  You figure it all out.

  I can’t talk about it as I feel my donuts coming up.

  I fall to my knees, vomit and dry vomit again and, then fingers pressed to my eye balls, peeking through them. I see horror, pain, agony blow torched to my screaming eyes. Standing, I have to support myself against a sedan as then:

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  I blink, blink, blink again.

  Turning, there’s Eddie standing there, 6ft 2, faded jeans, all sinewy and such, cosmetic surgery run amok. He’s bare chested, bare foot, gut, dyed black hair, holding a plastic bag in his hand. Maybe he bought me some donuts, don’t know?

  He looks like Keith Richards, on a bad day, a very bad day. I reflex, just a little, still stunned, as my Beretta on its own accord begins to lift and, then a “PISSST” whistles through the room.

  I literally can see the tiny wires as they rake towards me. The Taser darts, two of them spit into one of my breasts, two red dots appearing; Missy kinda dots.

  I yelp, vibrate, shake, my eyes go static, my brain too, white lights, pain, lots of it and I fall, KO’ed, count of ten.

  Then, there is only darkness.

  XXX

  “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are.

  Anything your heart desires will come true.

  If your heart is in your dreams, no request is too extreme.

  When you wish upon a star as dreamers do.”

  I CAN hear music, sounds familiar, like from that Pinocchio flick.

  You know, that puppet stick kid with the long snoz, had big dreams. You know, like the kind Missy probably had.

  As a kid I liked that fairy tale, I guess most kids did.

  Life lessons, we all need them. Lying gets you Zinc. I always try to tell the truth, learned that lesson long time ago.