Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  Earl was all grins for me, remembering how I had planted the ten Gee’s in his blood soaked apron and frankly, I was glad to role with him again.

  Doc #2, some pervery named Phillips was a real degenerate, obviously, a real piece of work, all smoke and fractured mirrors.

  He lived in this mansion over near The Flamingo, off the Strip. He was a real pillar of society. You know, selling coke, oxycontin, steroids to the rich fucks of Vegas.

  He was a real semi celebrity, a card carrying, god fearing member of The Christian Right. Those guys are so fucked up, I won’t go there. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do, but you can put the pieces of that fucked up puzzle together by yourself.

  Anyhoooo, I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to stay frosty and I didn’t want him to to do the scoota-roo on some cruise ship to Barbados.

  So, Earls got this nifty 36 inch Louisville Slugger black baseball bat; a Mickey Mantle I think.

  One night we cruised over there in his black SUV, tinted windows and such, havin’ a good time, all ghetto and such.

  We we’re groovin’ be boppin’ singin’, gettin’ it up with some Biggie Smalls rap, Mr. Notorious himself,

  RIP.

  “Neva trust nobody: your moms’ll set that ass up, properly gassed up-Hoodie to mask up, shit, for that fast buck: she be lyin’ in the bushes to light that ass up.”

  Cool stuff and then we found his fancy-dancy neighbor hood he was slimed in.

  The street looked like a line of French whore houses, rich, opulent, earth and an acre here and there. It had walled gates and the usual bull shit of wealth.

  It had security cameras, hide and seek, you know, peek-a-booing out of the venetian blinds before you get in the Bentley.

  Security stuff, making sure some dark skinned Mexican isn’t waitin’ fer ya with a piece a pipe, to high jack yer stuff. Like the baubles that you ripped off from the beautiful and savage Native American people a century ago.

  Geesh Jane, lighten the fuck up, OK.

  He had this black iron barred jail ringing the outhouse he lived in about ten feet tall. It was no problema for me amigo Earl and moi.

  We figured the gate was hard wired, an alarm and such, no problem.

  So, holding a bouquet of red, blue and yellow helium balloons, you know that kind that makes yer voice sound like Wayne Newton’s, we began to slink around.

  I was wearing my black sex leather hip hugger’s. Chang got all the blood off f them, a skin tight red sleeveless body shirt, showin’ off the muscles in my arms again. I’m hopeless, I know, I’m hopeless.

  So, I scampered up on Earls air craft carrier shoulders, hopped the fence, landed on my steel toed boots. I smiled as Earl, like a fucking Black Panther furrowed over the wall, landing right next to me with huge smile on his lips.

  Of course I had a plan, having no dummy in me. Me, knowing that men think with their dick’s first and, me being so cute, adorable and so irresistible and such, we moved through the park like setting, towards the front door of the fucking palace.

  When we got near the front door, and pretty much knowing that there were CCTV cameras somewhere, we did some whispering. Earl got lucky, found a shrub big enough to hide behind, about six feet from the door.

  And me, well I stripped off my top, and now topless, I took a red ribbon from my pocketsess.

  Again, with the The Lord of the Rings thoughts.

  Tying it around my no tits, I held the balloons up, real high like. I walked to the front door, playing ultimate bimbo to the hilt.

  I heard country music coming from the house, won’t go there. I hit that little button, and smiled real slutty like. No problema. I am a slut.

  Smiling at Earl, I heard the little bell go ding a ling, ding a ling ding.

  Now what could go wrong, I’m me, cherub looking, in a sexed up way, a gorgeous twist, all skinny, semi naked and all? I figured if I’m not on the camera, then he’s gonna be looking through the peep hole, seeing a knock out blondie holding party balloons, a red ribbon tied around her.

  He will probably figure it’s a present from one of his degenerate, show biz buddies. I also figured, he ain’t gonna question how I got here, because the dick theory comes in to play, always. A matter of Physics which always supersedes any common sense any asshole has left in his brain.

  Ring, ding, a ling ding.

  I smile, press the little button again, and wait.

  Bingo.

  The door cracks open. I see these sick eyes, stalk of white hair, staked against a wrinkled, tan face, blood shot eyes leering past this little chain, which Earl could chew through, if he had an-inkling to do.

  Now I think I mentioned I never fib, but this is one of those special occasions. So I did, and it went something like this.

  “Who are yo?”

  “ I’m me, Jennifer.”

  “What a ya want?”

  “ Yer doc Phillips? Right.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well blue eyes, I’m yer party treat for the night, Wayne sent me.”

  “ Wayne?”

  “Yeah, you like balloons don’t ya?”

  “ Yeah.”

  “ Well what ya waitin’ for good looking, you want to fuck me, or not?”

  Topless me, rolled the cubes, figured he knew Wayne Newton one way or the other.

  It didn’t really matter for he was a goner at Hello, what with me looking all Jen Aniston adorable and such.

  The cubes rolled-good on the green felt. They mostly do for me.

  The chain moved, the door opened and, then he was surprised, not in that I’m a lucky guy way, but in a bad way. For lurking there, patting a hand that looked like twenty pounds of Chorizo with a ball bat was the biggest, baddest, frightening, scariest black dude he had ever seen.

  He was his worst nightmare, just like the kind he had built that prison wall to keep out of his fucked up, privileged life.

  “Say hello to my leettle friend.”

  “BOOM.”

  It sounded like that, as Earl poked the doc in the forehead with the bat tip.

  Doc went down, we walked in, closed the door behind us. Earl, following my baseball signs, you know, grab yer balls, pull yer ear, blow yer nose, dragged doc by his shoe laces like a bag of turnips into the house.

  He then went to the plate, no bunt sign and swung away.

  It was fucking beautiful.

  xxx

  Didn’t want more blood, bruises or cuts on my hands, was tired of that. I mentioned that before and didn’t want doc DOA at The Tombs at the precinct

  I figured those Arian Brotherhood Homies, with tattooed tears on their eyeballs over there at The Federal Lockup, named Luther, Orvis, and Arvan, love guys who fuck up kids.

  I figured why snuff him, when he could get his ass blistered, reamed out for the rest of his life by the dudes in the Brotherhood. It was the right thing to do, I figured.

  So feeling all filled with attrition and so benevolent, I guess, I had Earl Kapow him a couple of times again.

  I heard both of his knee caps “POP” like the report from my 44 magnum back at home.

  By gosh I was right coming here.

  We nosed around and found a couple of steamer trunks, lots of Louis Vuitton matching luggage, need a heard of African porters to get the stuff to the airport.

  Also found a 1st class ticket to Rio, a pic of the doc, sitting on a 65ft Bertram Motor yacht. He had his skinny arm around some brown skinned Brazilian, stunning honey. Both of them were holding a pink drink, little blue paper umbrellas in them.

  Doc looked happy. Why the fuck not. I would have fucked the Samba girl for free.

  I kept the pic, liked the girl and tacked it to the wall of my PI office later.

  I like nice memories. Sometim
e I can be sentimental that way.

  I snooped around some more and found a Halliburton aluminum briefcase under his bed. It had two-hundred thousand large in it, cool. Nice girls get nice gifts.

  Gave half to Earl, figured I’d add my half to the fifteen large I was gonna give to father Bob.

  Well, what could be better than that?

  Earl hugged me out, almost broke my back, he was one happy God Man. I couldn’t help thinkin’ about his dick and how beautiful must that be.

  On good girl time now, I benched that thought, snuck around some more as doc moaned and groveled around the floor.

  Found a bunch of colored card board bank boots, red, blue, yellow like my balloons. I saw that doc had millions squirreled away, Swiss, Caymans, Panama and Bermuda too.

  I have some of my loot in the Caymans, ME BAD. Have a computer geek buddy of mine, works for the IRS. It will take him about five minutes, (all the bank codes were there too) to wire the dough anywhere I want for a coupla grand of course. I’ll drop a large tip on him, always do.

  I love smart geeks who bend the rules at times.

  I’m a big fan of those Whale Guys on TV. Hero sailors, keeping those bastard heathens in Japan from killing the most elegant and largest creatures to ever habitat the earth,

  Sea Shepards Society. That’s their name.

  I already sent them a hundred grand. I got a nice TY note back, an invite for a sit down dinner and a boat ride. I declined, figured they didn’t need my skinny ass prancing around, me knowing what a distraction that can be for men of the sea.

  Especially I figure for sailors, they being away from TRIM for so long, so far out to sea.

  Good idea, I’ll send a Mil of Docs slag over there to the pirates. I know Doc would have been proud of that and, then I will sprinkle, sprinkle the rest around to various charities.

  I feel good about that.

  Anyhooo, Earl duct-taped the Doc to this big black-panther statue the doc had bought in Bangkok. He gave him a Boing on the head with the bat, just because he could.

  After, we cruised back to my loft, kisserooed and smooched a little, I am hopeless.

  Ooooh, he had lips like Ike’s.

  Fuck, I’m already straying.

  I was tempted to fuck Earl, but no, maybe later, not now.

  I waved good bye to Earl, skipped to the loo to my office, fired up the cell, whistled up Lou, told him what was, what.

  Man, he’s smelling, Captain on his lapels.

  He thanked me, said. “Don’t worry about anything, for he’d handle the after birth.”

  Which he and a bunch of bulls did.

  Later, he whistled me up on my cell, and told me the story.

  After he nabbed the doc he said the puke was bitching about some semi-naked blond, who looked like she was an eighteen year old UCLA cheerleader.

  I’m blushing, tee-hee, still got it.

  Said some creature that looked like King Kong home invaded him. They then beat the poop out of him.

  Lou pooh-poohed him, said he must have taken a bad hit of acid.

  Us Cops stick together. We’re a small club, but a cool one.

  We promised to powwow soon.

  I slapped my cell shut, feeling phat that another night’s work had been done and knowing a good time was had bye all, cept doc of course. It didn’t go down so nice for him.

  So the next day, I got another call from Lou, giving me the final details of our great times.

  Said, about a thousand guys in Swat, Vice, Homicide, and of course CSI had decimated the gate. With bull horns blaring, battering rams, multiple high ballistic weapons, they nabbed the Doc.

  They threw him in the paddy wagon, zipped off with about fifty news vans tagging along to document all of it.

  Lou’s no fool.

  He knows that good press gets a good cop his gold captain bars faster than arresting jay walkers. Lou knows that.

  That kinda brings me back to King, and the favor he’s asked of me tonight. Which with out hearing it, as long as it doesn’t have to do with me muleing drugs through the airport, I would say yes too.

  King, aaaah King, we have a history, all good so far, especially for him.

  Lately, I’m more than worried about him, because I may have fucked up, gentrifying him a little too much. I am convinced folks are going to die tonight, and I don’t want it to be King. I and sure as heck don’t want it to be me.

  King, as a kid came out of East St. Louis, oldest ghetto story in the book.

  Ten kids, dad gunned down at thirty. Mommy dearest was a crack whore. He had three brothers, a sister riddled with bullet holes. His life drug’s, drive byes and it’s either pro hoops, or a concrete street tomb. The options for a bright black kid, well, you know, none and none.

  King wasn’t born with a gold Ducat in his mouth, say like those Kennedys, Rockefellers, and those asshole Bush kids. You know, old Maine money mama boys who got a numbskull elected to the Presidency of the USA.

  Though that was yer basic coup-d’état.

  A pin head zealot that was one big toe smarter then that boy playin’ the banjo on the stoop in that radical flick Deliverance.

  GWB was basically, a messianic ayatollah who thought he had a direct line to god. Because he did, he wiped out about three hundred thousand innocent Iraqi’s and about-five-thousand valiant and beautiful US GI’s.

  He also left the amputations wards over there at Walter Reed working 24/7 trying to sew back fingers, feet, arms, legs and everything else onto the fucking bravest soldiers the fucked up planet has ever seen.

  Calm Jane. OK.

  Not everybody who doesn’t suck college is brilliant. Some folks have other ideas, EG; Bill Gates, Steve Jobs.

  King one day, he still doesn’t know why, packed a back pack, turned the key in his mom’s crack house, hopped a Greyhound and ended up in Vegas.

  And, then over ten years, he chewed, fought, ripped and with unheard of courage, shot, killed, used fists, knives, and guns and became King, the totally righteous dude that he is.

  Most dummies know, well most except Barry McCafferty, ex Drug Czar, tee-hee, gives me a stitch in my side every time I hear that term, that Probation was a snafu.

  Ya just can’t keep people from getting what they want, and King was no dif than say ole Joe Kennedy back in those Probation times.

  He was a smart guy who used to get a bunch of row boats in the thirties and oar over to Canada and lug back the juice for a thirsty nation. He made a shit box of money as he did Al Capone.

  King, is just, in my mind, an entrepreneur doin’ the same thing. He’s filling a demand for people who need some kinda shit to mask the pain most Americans feel go away.

  A moment to moment grief their consumed in as they watch the nation die a very slow death listening to politicians countless lies.

  Geese, close yer yob, get on it with, Pleeeease...OK, so I will.

  MORE on King.

  I met him by fate. It’s a long-story. It involved guns, bullets, blood, death and respect finally. Lot’s a respect. That’s a story for another day.

  In my line of work it usually brings odd sorts around me, won’t go into that.

  We became buds. You know, I protect you’re black-ass and you protect my ass, as small as it is.

  Tee hee, hee.

  And moi, well I did like I told you. I got King legit, almost. He’s almost there.

  In that run of the Tarot Cards, I found a mega intelligent, dead handsome stud with a great wit. He’s solid and a stand up guy. Above all a dude who gives his word, keeps it, is honorable, and would be there, if I ever needed some help, 24/7, which he has before.

  I respect him, of course, for he’s never run whores, hurt kids, women, or dogs.

  He has this k
inda loco honor system about broads.

  He respects them, protects them, cares for them and never abuses them. I’m sure it’s all about mom.

  Hey, lots a guy’s get totally fucked by their mother’s. I’m sure it was that way for King, though in a bad way.

  OK, to make a long story short, never my strong pin point, I got him, like I said almost legal. We’re deep into The Market, Futures, Currency’s, Derivatives Trading I learned at Wharton’ and some fast food joints and also a launder mat here and there, other stuff I learned at Wharton too.

  I’m a little concerned and that’s got my Zen Head worried, for he may a peaked a little too soon.

  Meaning I got the feeling he’s dream in’ a little too much about retiring. Maybe buy a yacht, do some sailing, and because it’s his thirty-fifth B-day today, he’s just not thinkin’ straight, which I of course do. Especially when it comes to anything to do with Mexican Drug Cartel guys, which this latest business venture he’s involved in is.

  Why, because I don’t want King to be the main-ingredient in some plate of Carne Asada at some taco -stand in Nuevo Laredo Mexico.

  And moi blowing bubbles and looking at some of Gumbos friends with a pair of concrete stilettos on my cute feet at the bottom of Lake Meade. Which is the whole point of me internalizing all this crap I have in my head for Its my job to always plan ahead.

  I think I mentioned that before.

  So I had a sit down with King at a Starbucks he half owns, me owning the other half.

  Having a partner like King, well I don’t think a quarter has ever gone missing from the till. He’s sort a drives the fear of reality into the kids heads that work the place. That is a good thing.

  Real light hearted and such he said it was his B-day.

  He also said. “It weren’t nothin’ the little soirée we was going to because he’s dealt with these mooches before.”

  He casually mentioned there had never been a glitch before. Except, (I hate that word) they were a little late with their delivery this time, for a coupla kilos of coke, which he pre-paid for.

  I made King cross his heart on my 357 Magnum and promise me this is his last deal concerning drugs.

  He said, AMEN on that little girl.