Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  On the spot I name her Bijou. That’s French for jewel and wondering if she is a French dame, she being so cute and all. I speak the lingo to her, as I slot the Buick in D and feather down the street.

  SO, I’m feeling like Mother Teresa, except I didn’t have my womb cemented shut when I was a teeny bopper. Feeling all French and such, so why not, I love dancing with a Paris tango, lingo, so I do.

  “OK, venu le bijou, vous venez avec moi, laisse voir ce qui se produit, aucunes promesses bien...oh us basier, que est work...come dessus, laisse le get hors d’ici.”

  I think I mentioned that I speak fluent French, and she seems to get it.

  Me telling her, her new name, and maybe things might work out, no promises, but let’s see what is what?

  So, as I reached out, petted her, I got a tongue kiss and now I’m sitting here on my couch, staring at her and wondering what in the fuck have I done.

  I’ve named her, rescued her, me too I guess, and now she’s part of Team Jane.

  First Gumbo, then Stella, then Ike, now Bijou.

  I’m getting far too many pets in my life. I kinda like it.

  I look over at Stella and Gumbo swimming in the tank. They seem to be reading A Street car Named Desire.

  They look OK with everything and their new kid. That makes me happy. So I pick up Bijou and get lots of kisses, lap, lap, lap.

  She seems happy as I walk across my loft and put her on my bed, pant, pant, pant, wet nose.

  I heard that was good sign for a pup. I look at her and know I have to get ready for dinner.

  “FUCK, what in the hell do dogs eat?” Crashes in my head.

  I could go down to Chang’s, maybe get some egg rolls, chop suey, their always eatin’ that stuff. But I’m terrified that Sehi-Shei might be hallucinating again and might corner me about her hair.

  So I look at pooch. I gotta admit I’m in love and say to her. “You stay, kick back. Try not to poop on the floor. If you do, don’t worry about it. I’ll be back with some dog grub. I’ll put a bowl with some water down, so don’t worry about anything, be right back.”

  Pant, pant, pant.

  Tail wags, wags, wags, good.

  I pat her on the head, she likes that, licks my fingers, big smile in return from me.

  I walk across the loft, go the kitchen, fill a bowl with H2-0, return and lay it on the floor, more smiles, her and me. I pet her, get a smile and move back across the loft.

  Grabbing some cash from my cash thingy, I hit the stairs and am gone, next stop the convenience store on the corner. It’s the one with all the security bars on its windows, and a sawed off 16 gauge shotgun behind the counter.

  Ten minutes later, I’m back, two huge bags of doggie chow with me. I bought every dog product they had at Wong’s convenience store.

  He’s great guy, one of those Vietnamese boat people. He’s worked his ass off, wife, eight kids, 24/7, cept Vietnamese New Year’s.

  They took that day off, pillar of society, brave people, just made it out and barely got out with a pair of chop sticks after the USA ass fucked his people.

  You now, right after the fucking Yanks they said they would never do it.

  Empty the stuff on the chopping block, cans and lots of them of dog stuff, liver, beefy treat and kidney food. I guess dogs love that kind of chow, don’t know. I never had a dog before.

  Asked Wong what he thought, knowing he has a dog, or he eats dogs, can’t remember which.

  He suggested boxes of Puppy-Kibble; pups have small teeth, got two bags of that. I also grabbed a bag of some Purina dry dog food. The words on the bag guaranteed it would make Bijous coat shine, would be good for her tummy, lots of vitamins.

  Seemed right, those folks been making dog vittles for ever. I can’t remember any dog deaths from it on Bloomberg Financial News.

  I gotta trust somebody, I guess.

  Got her a couple of those cowhide dog chews. Wong said when their young they like to eat furniture, pillow and desk legs. I hope they will help her during her formative years, when ever the fuck those are.

  Let’s see. I have to get her a leash, collar, one of those dog harnesses, for walks and all. I will buzz over there to Pet Smart when I have time.

  It’s a huge place, nothing but pet supplies, cats, dogs, birds, rats, lizards, probably for pet Oysters too, if you ask them real nice.

  I get a couple of bowls and fill them with some of the dog steak food. That’s what it says on the can, another with dry food. Balancing them like a waitress at Denny’s, I move back to her.

  No poop yet. I wouldn’t have minded if there was.

  I lay them on the pine and look at her. She’s as cute as a mink button.

  Picking her up, I set her on all-fours. She sniffs, sniffs, sniffs at the chow and looks at me.

  I get it. She’s waiting for the belt again.

  I kneel, take her little snout in my bruise less fingers and, then look into the two kindest brown eyes I have ever seen. I feel a tear, my own and whisper to her like the sweet angel that she is. “You just listen doll, yer Aunt Jane is never going to let anyone hurt you again, I just want you to know yer family now. OK?”

  I swear she’s smiling, as she licks my hand and my face.

  Because I’m nuzzling her, and she’s stopped the tremors, she peeks at the food and, then hits it, and eats like she’s a starving wolverine. I guess she’s feeling peace, safety and surrounded in love.

  Probably for the first time.

  Life is on the up swing, nothing more I can do now. I haven’t heard her bark yet, know she will.

  You know, at the park, chasing discs, riding around in our Buick, tongue waging, barking at other dogs and hopefully telling them.

  “Look how phat I am. I got the ride, the license and the babe. She’s got a gun, so don’t fuck with us. Three squares a day, and a bitchin’ crib to live in, and to boot, two rad gold fish as my new buddies.

  That’s my girl. Gotta scoot, get ready, see ya in a few.

  Jane, Vegas PI, over and out.

  XXX

  CARRYING a bouquet, and handkerchief and gloves, proud of her height as when she lived, she moves with all the careless and height-stepping grace, the extravagant courtesan’s face of perfection.......

  That’s right, that maniac, drug addled, Absinth struck bad boy Baudelaire wrote that, and how does he know...LOOK AT ME.

  Vanity, vanity, vanity.

  But, I’m working on it, as I pirouette on my nifty, sexy, new 3 inch, zip on the side, black Marc Jacobs ankle boot heels.

  Legs never looked better, long, lean, bod like a whisper.

  I like being 6-2, a real tower of power in stiletto heels.

  I’m decked out in my eight inch above the knee, little, black Betsy Johnson cocktail dress. I read in Vogue, French edition that every gal should have one; A Little Black Dress.

  I also have my brand new Dolce & Gabbana black silk jacket on. Normally wouldn’t wear one but, I might need to conceal my Beretta. So always thinking ahead is moi.

  No jewelry, except my dress up gold Latina-cross on a chain. I love that look. I don’t believe in god, there are so many, but working on that too.

  Hair kinda looks like Bijous, fluffy, soft, looks like I care.

  I check out Bijou. She hasn’t left my bed yet, ate like a mule, that’s good.

  Then, I get up close and personal with the reflector mirror on my armoire.

  I check out my makeup, which is kinda fun.

  Eyebrows, hair snow white, hate using clichés, but that’s them, heavy mascara and eye liner, blue, black, tints of orange. I kinda look like a blonde Zoe. See. I can still learn looking at my mascara silhouetted indigoes.

  I have wheat colored lip stick on. I look ghostly, pale, eyes stark. I look almos
t invisible.

  I mentioned before that I am whisper girl, love the look and know King will to. Of course no panties, thinking ahead, you know, might need a last sec distraction.

  The pink pearl always works. Ask Eddie about that, if he’s still alive.

  OK, have to kick it. I walk over and check out Bijou, open eyes, smiles, pant, pant, pant and a lick on my hand. I smile too.

  My girl looks happy, safe. I know that she knows the bastards would have to get through me, to get to her. How? I don’t know. I just know pooches understand cool, love when they get it.

  I hope she’s happy. I know I am.

  Back to the couch, I look at the flat screen, wondering how the Knicks, Heat game is doing, later. I TIVOED it, or will watch Sports Center later. That is if I’m still alive.

  I open my super duper slender Rebecca Minkoff, black satin clutch, the one with the real moonstones beveled everywhere around it. The perfect clutch, the one that just fits my Beretta, silenced of course to a tee.

  OK, cherry Chap stick there, silencer, Beretta too. I don’t figure I’ll need an extra clip, it is what it is, just enough room for my stiletto, love this clutch.

  It holds the basics of my life; all of my girl favorite things.

  I giggle, giggle, no makeup in my clutch, no brush, comb, no golden rings, just a loaded hand gun which is another of my favorite things.

  Am thinking of getting my Mood Ring out of the card board box that holds my baseball card collection in it, but nix that idea.

  I already know I’m in a bitchin’ mood, hopefully that will last, or not. Gun play can throw a swizzle stick in a girl’s good mood, if she allowed that.

  Let’s skiddooo.

  I grab my Apple C-4 cell, text King that I’m on my way.

  Teetering on my new heels, I stand, feel edgy, great and wired. It’s all the stuff I am before a good time or homicide.

  I glance at the blue translucent water world of Stella and Gumbo. Their doing something, I never know what.

  Grabbing my jacket, I click, click, click, (love the sound of heels on pine) and move to the steps, take two at a time, then “Damn.” I forgot to do something, almost always do.

  So I click back up to the loft, hit it to the Aquamarine colored water world of the aquarium. I do a tap, tap, tap on the glass with my paint less fingernail.

  Stella and Gumbo swim over, you know, with those little fluttering oars they got on their sides.

  I turn the page on Street Car, smile at them and give them the thumbs up. I smile, and turn and tap over to a watching Bijou. I kiss her on her nose and get a joyful tongue lick back.

  I rough up her fur, she smiles as I dance back to the stairs, feeling better.

  I hope Stella and Gumbo are enjoying themselves, are happy. I sure know I am.

  Signing off, JANE, VEGAS PI.

  xxx

  VEGAS, off of MLK, near the freeway underpasses, staked over a cardboard box world, black alleyways, a dying, dead universe, the red fluid pumping from severed arteries, urine and semen, white powder sizzling on a silver-plated-spoon. Blood neon splintering off of the chrome of a needle point and desperate people, lost within an illusion, a lie, drug addicts, homeless, hopeless, it’s the new America, a tragic world, my world, Vegas Jane PI’s world.

  Dusk, onyx clouds, color of cordite, gun powder grey, last lightening strikes of the storm, mimicking flames fluming out of the tip of a hand gun barrel. I

  I see the Vegas neon, a carrousel of colors off there, on the Strip, not far from King’s house now. I always make the cruise past the destruction of the human soul. It’s just a reminder, life nudges that I got it all, be grateful for it all and I am.

  “My mama said, that yer life is a gift, and my mama said, there’s much weight you will lift. And my mama said, leave those bad boys alone. And my mama said, before the dawn. And my mama said, you can be rich or poor. But my mama said, you can be big or small. But I’m always on the run, always on the run, but I’m always on the run.”

  Top down, Buick is running true, three inch heels, ankle boots on the shot gun seat. I’m driving barefoot, toes on the gas-peddle. Lenny Kravitz is speakin’ the truth, exactly how I feel, moods, lots of moods, I have them all, music to fit every occasion.

  Lenny has to be the most solid, sexiest man alive. I wish I knew him, don’t. I understand him though and think he would like my way. I guess I am just a girl dreaming. What else is new?

  Storms gone, rain seems to have cleaned the streets, washing the filth and body parts into the storm drain gutters, cruising down Tropicana.

  I take peek-a-boo at the Space Needle casino.

  It’s a tall-fucker. Sometimes folks take the Big Louie off of the top, make the big splat on the asphalt of their busted up lives. I can understand that, yes I can. Sometimes life is just too fucked up. Sometimes, it’s the only way to stop the morbidity of it all and to stop the pain is to make the leap.

  I get it.

  My fingers are tapping to the music, on my black clutch, Moonstones picking up the lights, me feeling so on edge, smoking, just to calm the frazzle.

  I’m not comfy at all with what is going to go down tonight. I’m prepared and glad my Beretta is in my purse. There is nothing I like at all about the night, nothing at all. I am wondering if I should have brought an extra, clip? Nope, its either thirteen will do, or not.

  Because if one clip doesn’t do it, no time to reload. That is if it comes to that. Which King assures me it will not.

  Famous last words.

  “Don’t worry about those INJUNS, Colonel Custer. Indians, what fucking Indians? Just kick back, have a good time.”

  EXACTLY. That’s what I’m talking about.

  “I’M, just saying.”

  Take anything for granted in this violent wonder world, and yer dead, case closed, story over. You end up being plant food for the cactus that was Eddie Jett’s last known address.

  No thank you very fucking much.

  I have too many loved ones depending on me. Bijou, Stella, Gumbo, they need me. I need them; forgot Ike.

  Time is weird. I am missing Ike less all the time. I guess that’s good. What would happen if he’s murdered?

  Africa’s a mojo world, a dangerous world.

  They don’t call it the Dark Continent for nothing. Anything can happen, it always does.

  I’m sure when he returns, well, It will be nice, like before. That is if anything ever really is the same as before.

  Now Vegas is a shit hole, no doubt about it. But it is also an illusion and can be solid, glamorous at times. That is if you hit up the right folks, know them, like I know them.

  That’s why I opted for eatery Olive over there at the Bellagio.

  All the great eateries have landed in the grand hotel/casinos. Their like a shadow secret world, service, food, ambience no different then their sisters, brothers in Berlin, Paris, Rome and London.

  But, you gotta be connected, know someone, which of course I do.

  Because I am moi, have all the bells, whistles, am always generous, super polite and am a shinning star everywhere I go, BIG SMILE, I know Mr. owner Todd English over there at Olive. I also know the cook, and one of my buddies is the super neat French mater dei, Pierre over there.

  He’s one of those guys. Sophisticated, classic, a real comfy pro and because I speak the lingo, and do the euro kiss thing on the cheek and am always approachable, (many beautiful bitches are not) well he is always filled with smiles when ever Janie lights up his life, with that smile of hers.

  I gave him a toddle-doo earlier, for some RES’S. I could hear his smile through the phone. You know. “Jane daling’, vas missing zee so, merci me amore, of course, nine tonight, vee are honored.”

  Of course so am I, for he and Olive are classic.

/>   Fuck, its Kings birthday so why not splat large, we might both be dead manana.

  And to boot, I’m starving. I haven’t really eaten a decent meal in days.

  So lets make it special times and anyhooo, I’m dying to be adored some more.

  Why the fuck not?

  Crickey, I am hopeless, but am working still, on the vanity thing, though it mostly is nonsense from my cynical and nutso mind and I know that.

  XXX

  There’s all kind a secret places in Vegas, and one of them is the block where King lives.

  Off of Desert Inn Drive, there are a many streets, stunning, old Vegas, Spanish villas and Med style palaces where guys like Liberace hung their toupees. There are lots a place’s that look like they were sub planted straight out of Tuscany. Lots of Med Villas and festooned with flowers grounds, trees, fountains, burnt umber yellows, red tile roofs, some other looking like French Chateaus too.

  During Kings Transformation from gangster to gentlemen/businessman, I, me being the center of the world, tee hee, dragged King out of the ghetto.

  Why?

  Because he needed some new digs, for we almost had him out.

  Because Vegas had been gutted by the depression, and prices had been halved, we wheeled and dealed, diddled and doodled on the price of the 15,000 square foot Spanish Villa.

  Just a year earlier it had been stacked at one-point-three mil. It was two acres of primo earth, and we got the joint for six-fifty five, cash money, on the barrel head, sign out of the earth, done deal, sold to me amigo, St. Tropez blue water swimming hole to boot.

  Now, because I am Mensa member, I have this little off shore account in the Caymans, which we funneled King’s dough through. It’s a nifty place of illusions, where his cash came back like a clean whistle.

  And anyhooo, my buddy at the IRS can fix any snafus, which I never expect. Of course no problem if anything should ever poke their noses into the daylight, which of course did not happen. I am not surprised.

  So, all of this is great, except like I said before, King might have lost that one-percent edge that keeps a bullet hole from finding a dudes noggin. That has me worried. I mean really worried. I guess that’s why I’m riding shotgun tonight.