Jane, Vegas PI

by Jane Brooke

  It’s like the flick Prizzies Honor.

  What’s the Prizzes is forever the Prizzes, especially their coin.

  In my burning head, why would this Carlos monster ever give up two-fifty-large, when a brass cap can erase that debt, in a Scooby Doo, minute.

  I’m hoping that’s not the case. I’m a little bit tired of blood on my hands, especially after moi has made such an effort to be pretty tonight for my debut as Kings main squeeze.

  Chit chatted King up earlier, just checkin’ facts. I had to groan. I couldn’t believe my ears. King wanted all of us to drive over there, Jamal, one of his lieutenants driving his bullet proof black Caddie Escalade. Carlos with us, in the back seat, me sitting shot gun. You know, me being the arm candy girl for the extravaganza.

  NOPE, SORRY.

  I can already hear two 9 mil pssssts, pssssts in the back of my blond mop and see the brain matter on the tinted windows.

  Told King, rent a limo and tell Carlos we will meet up at Olive and he better be fucking alone.

  King had foo-fooed me.

  I held strong. He acquiesced. So tonight, its limo time and there it is, Kings Street.

  I hang a left, pulse calm, temples throbbing, that Bangkok itch again. What’s wrong with this pictureroo?

  Street, like I remembered it, elegant, stylish, old Vegas was you know, before the godless heathen corporations raped it, made a pyramid for the tourists to gawk at.

  I drive along, music off, have to concentrate, might jerk off later, picture of Lenny in my head, if I’m still leaking oxygen, that is.

  Gate open, pull in, circle drive, cruise past the Yosemite Park that came with the crib. Park, there’s King’s Black Escalade, a Black 364 Beemer, black Hummer. Black seems the color of the day, no blue thank god. I think of Missy.

  Fuck, the color black. Reminds me of the color when you are restin’ permanent in a lead coffin, for fucking forever.

  Parked to the right is a black stretch, white guy in a black suit, smoking, wiping the windshield, ready to be our driver for the night. Would of preferred Rudy, or Jamal driving, but I don’t figure bad stuff was gonna go down in transit.

  I figure the shit will happen, if it does go down, at the exchange, at the Mexican guy’s super sleek, expensive crib at the Tower Condos, where he has a million dollar crib set.

  Anyhooo, grab my Marc Jacobs ankle boots, slip them on, six foot two, grab my gun clutch and open the door. Practicing being lady like, I step out, slip on my jacket, feeling beautiful, sexy, pretty, slutty, edgy, aware. I get a big smile from Jamal.

  He’s this tall, black dynamite looking kid, who is one of Kings main posse dudes. Jamal is one of King’s Lou’s, a trusted guy. He’s holding a tech nine, alert, now smiling.

  Were buds, he loves me too.

  Gosh, love seems to be everywhere tonight.

  Do the high heel stroll, eight inches of thigh staking out my turf, grab Jamal’s fist, gang hug him. He bangs his chest. I grin, conversation goes something like this.

  “Jamal you are such a stud, lookin’ fine my man.”

  “Back at you Janie, you lookin’ all THAT. You goin’ take care a him?”

  “Yeah Jamal, you happy with what’s goin’ down?”

  “NAW Janie, its fucked up, it’s what it is.”

  “YEAH, it is.”

  Like Lou over there at Vegas Metro, Jamal and I both have hard street creds. Nobody has to drop a beaver on our heads, tellin’ us that bad shit happens to good people.

  So, I get a nod, bang my chest with my fist, telling him. “No problem Jamal, nothin’ is gonna happen to our King tonight.” At least I am hoping it won’t.

  I take a step, on the red bricks, stall out, there’s King, walking through the door, smiling that megaton smile of his, in MY suit. He’s looking like a younger, better looking Wesley Snipes with a black fedora low on his forehead. I like that, a little ghetto for my tastes, but it works, a lot.

  Were eye to eye, he takes my hands, does some stellar gazing from the tip of my pointed toe heels, then way, way up my legs. That’s a long way I assure you.

  I have my gold Latina cross on a thin chain as he looks at my new makeup styled out face. Which I mentioned is so featureless, wheaten lips, except for my Glenda eyes, heavy mascara, a little green, some oranges and black silhouetting my blues that are like cannon blasts, detonating straight out to the world to see.

  We hug, do the cheek kiss. I am glad I never fucked him. That would have complicated stuff, big time. We exchange words, look at Jamal, he looks worried, me too, nods, he nods back and, then date night begins.

  We walk to the limo, get the door opened treatment from the guy, I sit, eight kilometers of skin, driver notices, vanity. Do I love the attention and adoration? You fucking bet I do.

  King sidles in, door closes, chauffer back in the cab, engine ignites. We make the turn and sluice out of the place, me wondering if I will ever see Jamal again, alive.

  The drive is kinda silent, few words, I don’t want to wig out King.

  Yer packin’ Jane?

  “Yes I fucking am.

  It’s all good Janie, prob won’t need it.”

  IS THAT RIGHT?

  Trust is bantered around between King and I.

  JUST FUCKING GREAT.

  I will always trust some homicidal maniac named Carlos from Ciudad Juarez, who would butcher his mother with a garden hoe if it meant one more suit case of money, in a long line of suitcases of it.

  Already gave Pierre a honk, told him about this Carlos. I can’t wait to see this piece of work.

  Pierre said. “No problem Mademoiselle Jane, zee friend of zee, is a friend of moi.”

  Great, there goes my reputation down the drain. No prob, will go the distance for King and I am hoping he is right. I don’t know. Time will tell. It always does.

  We swing into the Bellagio, circular drive with green coated valets burning it up, everywhere and alerted. We are VIPS, so far so good. I see a bunch of plaid dressed folks grazing all around. Casinos want their money; all of it.

  They are the masses, probably good people, wouldn’t know a Kobe Beef Tartar from a Big Mac. That’s OK, I’m not judging, life is hard and all these folks want is a moment in the glitz.

  Anything is better then Biloxi, Trenton, Kansas City, anytime.

  Lots of tourists and, then I imagine if as a space saucer just landed, and exiting are these bubble head aliens, oddly beautiful.

  You know, Avatar, seven-foot blue people.

  As the driver springs the door, I step out, a zillion yards of legs, followed by King.

  A hush, along with jaw drops stun the tourists that are gawking at Moi, hopefully. I literally see cell phone flashes detonate all around us that make me tick my hand on my clutch, thinking there muzzle flashes.

  No bullets whizzing, thumping, no odor of cordite, thank fucking god, and we have to be someone famous to these folks, especially ME. King again looks like either a Rap magnet, or a movie star and then Pierre is there, smiling, two security guards with him.

  I smile, THAT SMILE.

  Pierre takes my hand, kisses it. I throw down some of those brush kisses on the cheek. I do the intro of King and receive hosannas from Pierre for me simply being ME.

  In the door we go, my fanny burning, one because I’m wearing no panties and two I can feel the heat from all the fucking flashbulbs searing it.

  No complaints from Moi. I am, for the moment, the axel that the world revolves on. Of course I am kidding.

  PLEASE, Jane, just get through the door and shut your brain and vanity down, for a sec.

  So I get to it.

  Feeling like Uma Thurmonds prettier, younger sister, and with our phalange of guards, Pierre leading the way, King and I holding hands, we cruise throu
gh the Casino

  And, then everything gets like, well you know, gets all slow motion and such. I kind of silence hit’s the place.

  You know like in the flick Un-forgiven when William Mony walks through the bar doors with a shot gun to kill Little Bill.

  SILENCE almost, for King and I, well what can I tell you, right out of Show Biz tonight, which me being me, simply adore.

  We get to Olive finally and enter to the sound of china, crystal, real silver tinkling and pinging. We drop the security at the door. T

  The bistro is astonishing elegant, old Milan world, as a hush falls over the Palace. Pierre leads us to the bar. Now, I’m either, a fashion super model, a famous actress, or the most expensive hooker in the world.

  Which of course are all and the same thing.

  We finally hit the bar, which is festooned with hanging glasses, chrome, teak, all the bells and whistles, back lit by blue neon, hate that color. The best booze on the planet is racked everywhere.

  I gasp, for there he is, Carlos, looking very Tony Montana like.

  And why am I not surprised.

  I could of picked him out blind folded of a mass murderer line up, and in my mind he looks like the lead shooter in a casting call for a Tijuana firing squad.

  I do the kiss cheek thing with Pierre and tell him to hang for a sec. He bows. I love to be bowed at.

  I hand him my black blazer, and of course that cements every stare in the joint at me. I am not surprised, but I am Jane and don’t take it seriously. That’s not saying that I don’t dig it. I still love the fact that I can turn multiple eyeballs, just because I’m me.

  Back to Carlos who’s about five seven, obviously in his elevator black Cholo cowboy boots, that with out he’d be five-five, on a good day. I can see his black eyes, back dropped by shades of red, yellow and that he’d drop a kilo of pure crank on King, if he could fuck me. Which is, exactly what I want him to think about.

  Plan ahead, remember. Two plans are better than one, three is better then two. I could go on and on, but I am sure you get the idea.

  Internally, I am groaning, for he’s got this Miami Vice white suit on, a black shirt and a white tie.

  REALLY.

  Is this how their dressing down there across the border? I think I could help him, like I did King. But, the guy has so many gold chains on his fat, sweating neck, and a thirty grand solid gold Oyster Rolex on his wrist, well I stab that idea. He seems like a lost cause.

  He’s got this stalk of black, greasy hair for Mexicans are blessed with DNA hair. His forehead is perspiring and it looks like you could re fry frijoles on his forehead.

  And, then because his eyes haven’t left my bod or my legs, and now my face and I want to be polite, I don’t mention it, as King makes the intros.

  I smile.

  Made IM blink, tee-hee.

  He takes my hand, you know, seductive like, for I’m sure he’s a hit with the putas in the barrio. He grins at me like Ricardo Montalban.

  There are those Earl gold teeth gleaming at me.

  Speaking of Earl, I wish he was fucking here, man do I ever, but he ain’t.

  So, because seduction is my other weapon, use them all and may need them mas tarde, I smile all doll an such, feeling his meat in my fingers.

  I smile more and, then speak his lingo to him, which gets more gold grill. As King watches, we literally seduce each other, as he oils on.

  As he makes his play, I ooooh and aaaah and call him jefe.

  That is the word for big fucking shot in Mexican.

  As the spud tells me what a big PLAYA he is, how phat he is with money I’m wonderin’ if I can get my tuna tartar down with him any where near me.

  I’m also thinking that King has lost his fucking mind, trusting one percent of this thug.

  I know this dude, do I ever know him well, especially after King gave me a heads-up that he’s a player with the Zetas over there in that no-man’s-land, Nuevo Laredo.

  There a band of homicidal, sociopathic Mex-Tex maniacs, that have murdered in cold blood, at least thirty five thousand of their fellow citizens, every year just across the border. You know the one that looks like a yellow ribbon of water.

  He’s in to everything, drug trafficking being on the top of that list.

  Thank God King is one step away from that hideous world.

  He moves weapons, pot, meth, ludes, X, dogs, cats, snakes and tweeters, everything that can make him a buck; especially young girls.

  The campesino is into people moving, his people. He’s a coyote leading a hundred sweet, desperate Mexican folks to melting desert deaths. There hard working folks that just want a better life.

  Their moms, dads and kids that cross a burning hell of a desert, half dying of thirst, rattle snake bites just for better lives. While their relatives eventually get death postcards after their folks are sent flying over the wall by catapults, if they live long enough to even do that.

  Then about three make it because most are scooped up by the Border Patrol. Those that do make it, end up washing dishes for some fat fuck doctor for the rest of their lives. No gratitude, no kindness, no sweetness, as they break tinsel steel backs for the rest of their lives doing work that no elitist Americano would ever touch.

  I’ve had this conversation with Lou before, and I can make bet on the fact that this Carlos meat is into female human trafficking. That’s another grift Lou told me about that just about broke my heart.

  The drug lords scower the interior, border too and, then find these fourteen years old Mexican stunning pheasant girls. They lay a coupla thousand pesos on their dirt poor farmer parents, make the scoot and, then take them to a cutter (Plastic Surgeon) usually along one of the border towns.

  Then the doc, I imagine like the one that sliced Missy up, pump silicone bags into them. They get I’m to the beauty parlor, cut their locks, pluck their eyebrows, blond them out, get I’m in the gym, ride the bike, starve them down and stuff them into Tijuana brothels.

  With the really gorgeous ones, Lou said, they ship I’m out to The Middle East, COD, where they spend the rest of their lives living in a tent, sucking the dick of some degenerate wearing a white sheet.

  The others girls, tricked out, stunners too, get pretty shoes, for the first time, tart whore clothes and, then become border bar girls, fucking ten Americans a day. Most of the ignorant pheasant girls have never been happier, because their getting three squares a day, don’t have to shear corn, milk a goat and live on a dirt floor.

  And, then when their youth is gone, their buried in the desert, fucking forever.

  SO, anyways, after the fuck released my hand, I gave Pierre the nod. He chaperoned us through the glitz, all eyes on Moi, thank you very much.

  He set us down in this leather booth, me not in the middle I don’t like being in a cage. Carlos sat between King and me. I was waiting for the sops hand to fall on my naked knees. That didn’t happen, thank god, because I didn’t want to gun him down in Pierre place. It could ruin a good time had by all if I did that.

  I’m of course was starving, been eating more, but have a nervous tummy before what? I do not know?

  Then and presto-chango there’s a waiter and Pierre, like a hawk in his tux is standing at attention next to him.

  Next to Pierre there’s a silver tureen, ice chips, and a bottle of Crystal chilling in it. Something I wish I was doing at home watching the Heat game, with my family, Stella, Gumbo and my girl Bijou.

  Out comes the crystal tulip flutes, bubbly is poured. I can hear its sizzle. I hope I don’t sneeze and, then Carlos, kinda rude, asks Pierre for a Corona as I groan.

  I heard their peeing in it in Mexico, hope so. Pierre gives me the, are you fucking kidding me look.

  I shrug, smile at Carlos, he grins back. His breath smells like a burning tir
e.

  Pierre turns, back to the bar, King and I wait, toast time coming.

  King seems oblivious to everything. I don’t get it. Could he actually be enjoying this sit down?

  Fucking MEN, I’ll never get it right.

  Pierre returns with the yellow bottle and sets it down. Carlos lifts his brewsky, we clink. I sip, exhale, delicious, my head feeling like it’s got a nest of scorpions in it.

  OK, the dinner went down like this, me trying to keep down what I did eat.

  King and I shared a scrumptious duo of Pan Roasted Foie Gras Steak.

  YUMMY.

  It was decked out with spiced quince & apple chutney, caramelized shallots, brioche points, amaretto froth, seasoned with a sprinkle of Balsamic.

  We were in a delicate beef mood, so we added an order of Beef Carpaccio, decorated in polenta, Roquefort crema, shaved parmesan, and of course these delicate little cipollini onions, which were out of this world.

  Carlos opted, for an order of fries, and a bottle of ketchup, which he wolfed down like the human-sow that he was. No one is perfect, and actually Olive is famous for its fries.

  BUT REALLY, is this what King wanted?

  I couldn’t, fucking believe it.

  He seemed to be enjoying himself, so not wanting to put the screwy on HIS night I pretended that Carlos was Javier Bardin. I rodeoed up, and tried to enjoy my meal. That’s the least I could do for my black stud, me feeling like a Christmas tree ornament for the night.

  Still starving, we ordered some Tuscan Farm House flat breads. You know, looking like a Monet painting, shaved Smithfield ham, asparagus, Provolone cheese, caramelized, which again King and I shared, me feeling the cum gathering it was so dreamy.

  Carlos had a shrimp cocktail. He being of good manners diligently wiped the cocktail sauce off of his chin with a linen napkin, before it hit the collar of his ghastly white suit.

  Because I have the smallest tummy on the planet, King and I shared a Pan roasted Chilean Sea Bass. Protein keeps the brain sharp, also a guy’s dick hard, which I was hoping Kings was, at least.

  The fish reminded me of a bigger, blacker, deader Gumbo.