Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  I look around my four thousand foot loft, it’s filled with the stuff I love, pine floors, grooved, pegged and sanded. I did it all myself.

  English pine everywhere, armoires, tables, benches, over stuffed couch, with leaf green cushions. There are Persian rugs on the floor, big bay windows showing the Vegas Strip lights off on the distance. Antique lamps, one a Tiffany, another a Handel, others from the twenties, strung beads falling down the base, blown colored glass, Steuben vases, flowers in them.

  I’ve got this sweet Hispanic doll of a cleaning lady Armida that brings flowers, puts water in the vases. She loves tulips, makes the place nice for me. She even feeds Gumbo and Stella, my gold fish.

  There probably the only things I will allow myself to love. That’s how fucked up I am.

  Lots a stuff about me, folks in Vegas don’t know.

  I’m a white girl, was a model once, not really by choice, just to see what was what. You know, just fucking around, use what you have, see if some muck would pay me for nothing. For being empty shell pretty. Still have pics of me when I was a young shallow thing.

  I glance at them some times, you know, just to remind myself that I once could break a man down from a single glance from my blues. I still can of course, but don’t, unless its work related. Being a young model seemed important at the time, until I fucking woke up and got out of the self induced coma I was in.

  AT the moment I am having major self esteem problems.

  I went to NYU and after that I went to Parsons. I hated that, tried to be an artist. I had no talent. I had huge ego, bombed out of that gig. Hit up Wharton Business School, did four in two and got my MBA.

  Went to Goldman Sachs, filled out their standard job application that went like this:

  Would you be willing to be a heartless, ruthless, sociopathic habitual liar? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

  Would you be willing to steal every fucking schilling away from widows and orphans? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

  Would you be willing to take a machete and cut the head off another broker so Goldman Sachs could have another fucking billion-dollar day? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star.

  Would you be willing to sell your own grand mother to white slavers if she got in the way of advancement? Checked the box “YES”...Gold Star

  Would you be willing to drive your Lamborghini to CEO Lloyd Blankfeins billion dollar palatial mansion in the Hamptons, go yachting, play polo and snort cocaine off of the tits of eighteen year old idiot super models? Checked the box “YES YES” Gold Star.

  I checked that box twice

  And it went on and on, and because I didn’t wear any panties that day, and checked all the right answers in the YES box, they were ready to sign me on the spot.

  They even offered me a huge bonus. Of course that is if I sucked the guys cock off in the cloak room later.

  In the end, I said “Naw.”

  I’d rather be a serial killer, because at least I could work with purpose, respect, dignity and be able to sleep at night.

  XXX

  Anyhooo, in an insane Pentecostal American life which made no sense to me, marriage, kids, mortgages, PTA’s, lie’s, deceit, some fuck wad tired of fucking you, now that was crazy.

  You know, banging the gal at the bowling alley, bad ratted hair like Sarah Palin.

  You know.

  Click, click, click on three inch heels, man-made tits, bee hive, balancing a tray of vodka gimlets and too much eye liner and mascara on raccoon eyes.

  Typical MO, some bimbo outta Perth Amboy thinking a bottle of bleach and Pamela Anderson Tits was the bong.

  After, her legs are thrown to the air at the Paradise Motel, neon sign-missing some light bulbs as your husband butt-fucks her. He then buys her a cheap gold plated locket with a picture of himself in it. It’s the oldest story in the book and always leads to a one way street to nowhere.

  I heard that only Snow Geese mate for life. Why, because their fucking dumb birds, that’s why.

  It was tough being beautiful, so young, having this brain, IQ, north a 160. What’s a girl to do, especially if their stone ice berg crazy?

  Then I got lucky. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no sociopath, but a gift is a gift, and I was looking, looking hard for something.

  Then, the parents, outside of the Paris we’re pulverized when that super sleek white bird Concord went down in flames outside of Paris. Already mentioned that, but it just still hurts so bad.

  Fate took my loving and so loved parents from me. I still find myself crying late at night. Can’t help myself, I loved them so.

  The accident made me something new, something unique, I hope.

  Wept when my parents were creamed and I felt a sadness that never leaves. You know, drilled in my heart.

  Destiny, fate, well, you have the grab the bitches by the throat or you don’t when they show up. I did.

  I opted, to another way, a harder way, a more honest way.

  I educated myself, learned Spanish, German, French and Italian, working on Chinese, since the little yellow guys are going to get all the loot anyways.

  Fuck, Chang down stairs got tons of coin cemented in the walls, hardest working folks I ever seen.

  Read until my eyes closed, learned a lot.

  Spent about a year and a half in Europe, saw a lot of old stuff. I fucked the guy who poled the boat around Venice, played my cunt like a guitar, a real Jeff Beck stud.

  I whistled Ole sola Mia while he did it and, had about a zillion orgasms. Rare thing those back then.

  I woke up to find my jewelry gone, didn’t mind, the kid had shown me a Jake time. I’ve never bought another bauble since except my gold Latina cross.

  Found the French Rivera, St Tropez, Cannes, Nice. I got a million invites to ride around on motor boats, me being so young, beautiful and all. I hung on yachts old guys owned, ate caviar and drank lots of bubbly and fucked a lot.

  Shagged a lot of pretty gifts, danced all night, did drugs, all of them and partied till dawn. I felt pretty good for people seemed to like me; especially old men with limp dicks.

  I ended up in Ibiza and island off Spain, hedonistic, bacchanal party place and a drug nirvana.

  The sex station was over flowing with models, gorgeous girls, boys and Medellin Cartel super tankers off loading cargo containers of E, coke, shrooms and ganja.

  Most nights I ended up in this amphitheater club. It was an insane place where you got guys on the balconies that we’re shooting foam on your naked body. Everyone dancing and drug induced love was everywhere.

  Used up my Disney ticket book of girl fantasies, fell for a French model on vacay. Gigi was her name.

  I did boat loads of “E”, a lot.

  Turned out the bitch was insane. We had sex for a week, went through a gallon of K-Y Jelly, at least. She was fucking nuts.

  I snuck out one morning, tip toes, cunt needing a-steel-belted retread and caught a space ship to Madrid. Blasted to Tokyo, hoping the crazed slut wasn’t going to shadow me there.

  I liked Japan, cool people, not very tall. Folks there eat a lot of fish, something wrong with their eyes.

  I found a dojo outside of Kyoto, signed up for Judo, Karate, Kimbo lessons. Was taught by this small guy, wore white pajamas and got my ass handed to me on a chop stick. It was long overdue and well needed and a real beat down.

  The guy could put his fingers through a plate of stainless steel. He called me daughter at the end, dug my vibe. I never cried, bitched, no boo hoo’s, gritted through it, stood, got slapped down, stood up and took more.

  Boogied out of Japan, Asia, India, Africa, the Middle East for a year or two and, then that was it.

  Passed the entro exam at Wharton, did my prison time and, then vanished.

  Vegas, can you beli
eve it?

  Of all the gin joints in all-the world to hang a girl’s sombrero, I hung it here.

  Go fucking figure.

  After a while I got my pilots license and bought me a sweet blue, white King Air flying machine.

  The stud has duel props, long range, rad flying machine, named her Betty. Keep her over there at Nellis Air Force Base.

  I’ve got a bud there, Major, pulled some strings for me for he owed me a chip on life. I got his run away daughter back to him. No coffin, alive and all of her toes and fingers still connected to her body. He owed me and it had been a come-back-favor. I appreciated that.

  Being an ex British bird it was the last place I thought I’d ever hang my baseball-hat was Vegas. It sorta drew me their, moth to the comet tail, don’t know why. I

  I found it a perfect fit.

  You know hard, decadent, criminal element, evil, dangerous and beautiful, me nuts-o, and all. Why not? I could of ended up in Bingley making crumpets. I didn’t.

  So, I skipped outta the East Coast, arrived one night by a flying machine and gave the Sodom and Gomorrah a lookey-loo.

  I hated the glitz and pompous shit of The Strip, found depraved N. Vegas and bought my loft from Chang.

  Chang’s, I almost forgot. I have to take my leather pants down to the cleaners, blood all over them and get them cleaned and my zipper fixed on my leather hip huggers.

  Anyhooo. The rest of the story, oh yeah.

  I then got my Buick, tricked her out in Tijuana. I studied real hard and got my PI license and gun license too. I bought lots of cool guns. Learned how to shoot out in the desert, tin cans and never any lizards and made friends, mostly cops.

  The rest is history and I became me, a lucky hard, demur dervish, whisper girl.

  Jane, Vegas PI. Girl.

  Anyhooo, time to kick it and have been avoiding it for I feel like Manny Pachio thumped on me all night.

  I can barley peek-a-boo out of my swollen right eye, cuts and blue/yellow bruises all over me. Every bone, tendon and muscle aches, really aches, every time I move, which of course, turns me on.

  Geese Jane, just get you’re self committed.

  Haven’t eaten in three days and thought of maybe a donut, maybe one with a hole in it. I am down to 118 and that’s even thin for 5-11 moi.

  Secretly I love it, still fighting the eating disorder wars. I once binged, purged, wanted my smile and teeth intact and gave it up. It was a smart thing to do. Teeth are important.

  Missy Smiths got me thinking why I can’t commit and why I can’t fall, you know in love. Maybe get something real in my life.

  Most likely not with a guy of course for I sorta gave up on the species long time ago.

  I peek, peek, peek out the window and across the alley at the loft there. I groan, he’s not there, maybe later.

  Keep dreaming Janie.

  I’m into girl so much and like I said before, pretty much into gals except That Secret across the alley from me.

  That is unless Robert Redford buzzes me down stairs, dry cleaning in his hand, looking for Chang’s dry cleaners, maybe a knob polishing. I could do that.

  A girl can only dream, can’t she?

  OK, now, the new honest, better Jane.

  Speaking of radical dudes, I peek out my loft window AGAIN at another artists loft across the alley.

  Nope, not there, but I was hopin.’

  I still have my gold fish though. I love Gumbo and Stella. But what am I gonna do when they drown and flip on their sides, those bug eyes of theirs opaque, like Missy’s?

  Can fish Drown? Don’t know. Will have to Google that later.

  Anyhow, I detest myself right now, self pity, questioning who I am, needy, pathetic, and almost crippled, for my body feels like it got hit by an ice crème truck. There are aches everywhere, sore, inside and out, and that just adds to my woe and weepy feelings.

  I touch my eye, black, blue, butter fly stitches on my eyebrow. I did that last night.

  It’s eye black and blue water balloon time.

  Just fucking great.

  That’s all I need is more cuts, bruises everywhere. Now I look like Frankenstein, sans bolts in my neck.

  Well, that’s just swell.

  Speaking of softness in my life, it’s time for me, me being a voyeur, to check again on something across the alley from me.

  I am obsessed.

  Tippy-toeing over to one of my windows, I sneak a peek around the window sill at this huge artists loft across the alley from me. I pretty much do this a couple of times a day, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the most stud black artists guys on the planet.

  Nope, not there.

  I’m fucking in semi-fantasy-love with this amazing black, African artist; more on him later. I’ve become a voyeur. I am not proud of it.

  I really could use some softness in my life, maybe a little love. I feel girlish.

  Pleeeease, geessh. Give it a fucking break.

  I’m blubbering for maybe I need love. I think of Gumbo and Stella.

  I don’t know, but I need something meaningful, TLC for real in my life.

  Man I hope this mood jets, like real soon.

  But, I got to get out of this god damn bed, didn’t sleep much last night. I checked for the pea under my mattress, no pea.

  So I move, wince and groan. Christ I feel like my bones are shattered. Adrenaline and endorphins only mask the pain for so long. I know me, and that manic violence, only for awhile, helps cover my mental pain.

  But now it’s real and usually not so bad for I love some hurt in my life; just, not fucking right now.

  I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, bare feet on the floor and my face in my hands.

  “Owe, owe, owe.”

  I stand, weave and blink from the pain. “Owe.”

  That even that hurts.

  I grab a smoke, fire her up with my guy Zippo and inhale. I’m smoking more lately, who cares. Decided to skip the gym, riding my bike, move a few steps, my ankle hurts like fuck.

  Looking down, I see it’s swollen, black and blue.

  When in the hell did that happen?

  Limping to my armoire, I gawk into the full length mirror and groan looking at me.

  I look emaciated, which mimics the white smoke trailing to the ceiling, thin. I am white, wisp-ish looking.

  I love making up words,

  I appear like that smoke again to be unconstructed of form, pale and pallid.

  This is as thin as I’ve been in a long time.

  Fuck I look like a teenage boy, sans acne. Geesh.

  I still get carded when I go to the liquor store

  SMILING INSIDE, I’m not really bitching about that as I groan and start to weep.

  What am I going to do? My life is a fuck-cicle and its melting right before my eyes.

  “Booo hoooo, booo hooo.” Fuck, I am pathetic.

  JUST FUCKING GREAT.

  XXX

  OK, baby steps.

  II turn, limpidly dick click across my loft, move into the shower, bathroom, I built myself.

  Went to Home Depot, talked to this cool geek, love geeks, was one, still am, just hiding in this eco skeleton of this pretty skin. That sure has done me a lot of fucking-good.

  That reminds me of something important. I’ve promised ME that I am going to work on my potty mouth. You know make me a new girl, a better girl. I know for sure that I’m going to fucking work on that.

  Fuck, I am hopeless.

  Anyhooo, bought me some home improvement books, a tool belt, two actually if you include my handy dandy sex tool belt I used on Glenda and Zoe other various vixens scattered around Vegas.

  Hand inlaid these black and grey tiles on the floor, loo and bidet
too. I bought lots of wood, lumber they call it, grout, trowels, hammers, nails, saws, levels and power drills and went to work.

  It was way cool and I wore my old Levi bib overalls I bought at Sarah’s Classics, this cool vintage clothing store, this doll Sarah runs. I think she’s straight, not sure. I get most of my togs from her and have been trying to fuck her forever.

  Borrowed Chang’s pick up truck, love that dude. Rustled up some Mexican day labor honchos, love those folks. I speak fluent Spanish, they appreciated that. I’m kind a proud of that.

  Loaded Chang’s banger up with bags of grout, tiles, lumber and all the stuff I bought. I had the Mexican guys drag it all up stairs. Job well done and I gave them two hundred bucks as a tip and got those white smiles back at me.

  Fuck, where would the America fucks be without them?

  When I was done, I looked like a frosted sugar donut, shit, dirt and dust all over me.

  But look, she’s a beauty, huge stall with black-tiles, grey-tiles edging all of it as well as two stripes of grey tiles, double brass nozzles, two teak benches and lots of room to wiggle my tiny toes.

  I like to sit when I shower, masturbate and jerk off with my various collections of dildos.

  I love the feeling of hot water after I’ve forgotten to bath for a week and shave under my arms. It’s always a girl retreat for me. You know shave the legs, clean-up down there, had that laser beam thingy take IT all off, me hating hair so much. So that’s never a problem.

  Got a toothbrush, some shampoo, you know in those plastic squirt bottles, some soap on a rope too.

  And now, MAN, that hot water feels just so fine.

  I always love washing blood off of my body. Girls with good manners do that I have been told. Like I said, I’m trying to become a bit more feminine. I am working hard on that.

  Out of the shower, I feel better, a little.

  My ankle totally is totally Whammoed.

  I made that word up too.

  So, I grab a black towel from the rack. I have them layered in the black cabinet I made. Black, grey, black, grey, looks cool. It’s the little things in life that make me happy.

  Hating the word style for it’s such a personal thing my bathroom fits my style to a golf tee.