A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  He pointed to a fifty-foot wooden fishing vessel, dark red paint old and flaking off, wheelhouse small and crusty with tall antennas sticking up in front of the windshield. The out-rigging for the shrimp nets were drawn up like folded wings, steel tubing and pulleys well used, rust colored with a liberal coating of white 'gull droppings.

  “Boss place,” Shocker said sincerely.

  Blondie gave her a skeptical glance. I waved for Big Guns to lead the way. “I like psycho people. Let's see if he's home.”

  Fifteen boat slots, all of them full of watercraft, jet skis to eighty-foot yachts, surprisingly held no people. The backwoods bayou was not known by the general public and would hold a measure of privacy a person of Loc's nature would appreciate. I realized the fugitive in the girl-beast must have noticed the same thing.

  We stepped up on the dock's platform, tall marsh grass poking up between the boards, water sloshing its high tide under our feet. Fingers of wooden planks fanned out between the boats. Loc's home was docked in the last slot, stern in, bow facing the open bayou, marsh islands dotting the brackish water with tall grass and small pine trees. A single deep channel cut through the center for traffic to and from the Biloxi Bay.

  As we walked onto his pier, I looked down and read the name on the stern. “Fortune of Stealth” was painted in large yellow lettering, flaked, barnacles clinging to the waterline under it.

  Big Guns stepped past the first pilings and tripped over an invisible string, catching himself hard on his hands, splinters lancing his palms. “Cac!” he cursed, hurriedly regaining his feet.

  Trip wires were a bad sign. As an outboard motor started up somewhere I turned and shoved the girls off the pier. The motor revved, the lines holding the Fortune of Stealth to the pier dropped in the water as the boat puttered away. I took a moment to speculate on the engineering involved in Loc's setup, impressed.

  Seeing there was no danger, just a tripped escape alarm, I walked back to Big Guns, the girls following. “Looks like he learned quite a bit more than how to kill,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Big Guns grumbled. Blondie handed him a tissue for his hands. He thanked her, said, “I should have known. I forgot to mention he's paranoid.”

  “He's a survivor,” Shocker said, once again admiring Loc's home. She nudged Ace, who looked to be studying the Marine's setup as I did.

  “I'd certainly have something rigged like this if I had been on America's Most Wanted,” I told them. Ace grinned, though she frowned severely at the reminder of her infamy.

  Big Guns flashed a curious chrome smile at them. Shook his head. We turned our attention to the boat once more. It turned a half-circle, fifty yards away, motor throttling down, cutting off. The wheelhouse had a small door on the portside. It opened and an incredibly fit man emerged, stepping lightly on the deck, staring at us with black expressionless eyes. Those eyes have seen a few dead bodies, I surmised. Loc wore black loose fitting pants, no shoes or shirt, and looked like a stunt double for Bruce Lee. His obsidian hair was shaved high and tight, skin golden brown over a chest that has done thousands of pushups. Face strong. Clean shaven. He looked like a bad-ass soldier.

  Big Guns cupped his mouth and yelled, “Sorry to disturb you, Loc. We were sent by Anh Long.” Loc didn't answer. Didn't blink. His hands stayed by his sides, veins in his arms visible now that the sun broke through the clouds, a bright yellow ray crossing his eyes. Big Guns glanced at us, See? Psycho. He yelled, “Anh Long wants you to help us neutralize the Two-Eleven. You are to give this team any assistance they need.”

  Still no response. Big Guns introduced us. “This is Razor. He's running the operation. And this is Blondie, Shocker and Ace. All very capable people. They have Anh Long's blessing. You must aid them and stay out of sight. The Dragon Family is behind the scenes on this one, for reasons you already know.”

  Loc stared, unaffected by the information, boat lifting from the excited waves chopping against it. He seemed to be part of the vessel, in perfect balance, able to anticipate the moving deck instinctively.

  “Let's go. I don't think he wants to be bothered,” Blondie said.

  “He doesn't look like he understands,” Shocker commented. “Are you sure about this guy?”

  Big Guns looked at Loc warily. “Yeah. I'm sure. He understands. That's just how he is. Come on.” He started walking back to the cars.

  “Wait a fucking minute,” I said, gesturing at the paranoid lunatic on the boat. “We need rifle support. Anh Long promised us his guy. Is he going to take care of business or not?”

  “He will. In his own way. Come on. Let's go before we make him uncomfortable.”

  “Make him uncomfortable?” Blondie muttered, taking my arm.

  I took one last look at Loc. He could hear our complaints, yet made no effort to communicate about any of it. The bastard just stared with those killer's eyes, mute.

  We stood by the cars, all of us disappointed, a little uncertain now. But I had an idea to reinvigorate our team spirit. I looked around at everyone and gave my #1 Mr. Bullshit grin. “We are a sword that will defend the innocent,” I intoned. Blondie rolled her eyes. Everyone else smiled. “But we are a new sword, untested in battle. Steel gets stronger through the forging process. What do you say we lunge point first into the fire?”

  Shocker cracked her knuckles. “About time.” Ace put a hand on her shoulder, face firmly resolved.

  Big Guns' eyes danced. He gave a sly smile and said, “You guys ever been to a dog fight?”

  * * *

  The east end of Biloxi had an interesting clash of denizens. Whites, Asians, African-Americans and Mexicans worked in the small businesses, shops and gas stations spanning the area cornered by Highway 90 and the Biloxi Bay. They enjoyed free drinks and entertainment while gambling their earnings at the casinos lining the water. Residential neighborhoods were jotted on the map in the mix of it all. The houses were mostly medium sized, not too close together, all of them on stilts. They were owned by working-class folks with mortgages, child support and soccer games to attend. The 'hood we drove into was at least half Vietnamese.

  Big Guns and Ace were in the Prelude behind us, Shocker driving the Scion like a go-cart through the narrow two-lane streets. “We'll stop here,” Big Guns said in my earpiece, a near-invisible Bluetooth device. “You guys just pull up to the house like you were invited. Tell them Tran sent you.”

  “I got it.” I repeated it to the girls, who opted to go without earpieces since all the attention will be on them. We had gone over this twice already at our apartment. The plan to get in, conceptualized by yours truly, was great, but not everyone was pleased. Shocker's disgruntled eyes and tight jaw said she didn't like the skin-tight dress and hooker role she had to play. The girls were prostitutes, and I was their pimp. We were going to crash the 211's clubhouse in a most unconventional way: Highly Trained Boxers vs. Rooty Poot Never Had a Real Job Gangsters.

  In my over-confident mind, they didn't have a chance. And for some reason that should be disturbing but isn't, I'm not afraid of attacking someone that's packing a weapon. I've seen firsthand that both of these gorgeous warriors share the same commitment to the fight game.

  This was going to be a lot of fun.

  The green Honda turned on the street behind our destination, their job to aid in tech support and, only if absolutely necessary, back us up. We parked in front of a nice home of sky blue vinyl siding, grass too long, dry from the summer heat that had evaporated the storm as if it had never happened. The driveway and side yard were packed with cars. White, red and champagne colored Acuras, several wildly painted and bodied Hondas on big wheels and no ground clearance. A party was in progress, and we had our party masks on.

  “Hookers? Really Razor? Great plan, Mister President,” Shocker sassed, blowing out a breath.

  I pushed my shoulders back, straightened my collar, a blue and silver Nautica button-up. “President, bitch.”

  She mugged me in the rear view mirror, eyes narrowed.
>
  Blondie got out, heels ticking on the street. She smoothed her dark green leather skirt, pushed up her boobies in a matching tight vest, bronzed shoulders glowing in the sun. Hair blinding platinum. Dark sunglasses over a wicked smile. She loved role planning, and it's been a couple of years since she's been able to play a hooker. I could sense her excitement acutely. She told Shocker, “Just pretend like you're Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

  Shocker looked at her over the roof, uncomfortable in the pale red, nearly pink silk dress that made her curves jump out in all directions. He dark brown hair fell around her shoulders in thick, shiny locks, a quick Come Hither style that couldn't fail to turn heads. Her makeup was perfectly matched to her skin, facial shape, hair and dress color. I had no idea she could get so dolled up. She looked great. She growled, “I'm a fighter, not an actress.” But she sighed resignedly, flipped her hair in annoyance, unaccustomed to anything but a ponytail, and locked the car with the fob. Stuffed the keys in her handbag.

  I noticed her left arm looked tiny without the compression sleeve, her right substantially larger. A mechanic's arm, I deduced. No wonder her overhand-right feels like it's thrown by a man.

  Four young Viet thugs walked out to challenge us white folks. They wore baggy slacks and colorful designer shirts, big jewelry on necks, ears, wrists. An eyebrow or two pierced. They looked relatively dangerous, especially the one with the gun poking out of his waistband. The smallest of them spoke up, surprising me with his authoritative tone. “Who are you? You're not welcome here.”

  I put my arms around my hookers and squeezed them close, grinning like a car salesman. “Tran sent us. Thought you guys might enjoy a little flavor at your Sausage Fest.”

  “We have women,” Little Guy said. “And we don't pay for them.” His companions scowled agreement, apparently offended that I'd insinuate they had to pay for some booty.

  Blondie patted my chest, walked over to the men and pulled down her shades, a dominatrix eyeing her next submissives. She purred, “Ooh, such aggression radiating from your hard little bodies. I could do a lot with that.” Her heels knocked in front of them, their eyes unable to not look at her perfect legs and butt. Little Guy licked his lips. Like a lioness spotting the weakest of the herd Blondie turned on him, her energy magnetic, sucking in his will. She towered over him, tan boobies peeking out of her vest, right in his face. “I bet you've never had a woman before, have you? You said you 'have women,' but they're just girls, aren't they?”

  She stroked a finger under his chin, brushed his forearm, making his face glow and arm hair stand erect, touching areas she knew connected to parts of the brain associated with trust and reward. He moaned slightly, intoxicated by her appearance, voice and scent. She leaned down and breathed her sweet breath in Little Guy's face, voice husky, in full Seduction mode. “You want me?”

  “Mmm-uhm,” he answered, face flushed with disorientation. He eased a hand in his pocket, grabbing his hardened dick to keep it from poking his pants out. I literally bit my tongue to fight laughter. She did that to me all the time. I was no stranger to pocket pool.

  “We'll see you boys inside,” Blondie said in a tone that was more imperative than declarative. She gave Little Guy's butt a pinch, pushed them out of the way, and I took my hookers' hands, smiling, Blondie leading us up the cement path that accessed the porch and front door.

  The living room was dark, two couches and three chairs overfilled with teenage couples, all of them Vietnamese, girls sitting or lying on their current boyfriends, hip-hop casual the dress flavor for their clique. Techno trance laced the marijuana clouded air with wild cadences of sound, drums and trippy electronica tweaking senses as a hot-voiced female sang in an Asian tongue I didn't understand.

  The little Viet hotties in the room saw Blondie and Shocker and stiffened. Their petite, cute faces made all range of emotions, mouths open in brow-furrowing envy at their legs, shoulders, long gorgeous hair and bangin' outfits. Their statuesque height. I looked at them and mimed their expressions, squeezing the source of their awe. Blondie and Shocker both pinched the motherfuck out of my hands, so I let go of their asses, smiled away the pain.

  You'll pay for that later, my Johnson shrunk in dismay.

  One of the men sitting by the hallway jumped up and ran out of the room. By the look on his face and most everyone else in the room, I'd say he was peaking on some quality ecstasy and his stomach was in rebellion. I looked at the front door as Shocker was about to close it. The guys Blondie worked her magic on had shook off the spell and were following us into the house. Good. We need them all in the same place.

  In the kitchen an older Vietnamese woman cooked a large stir-fry meal on some kind of gas stove, pans on every burner. Bowls and long spoons took up the small counter to her left. We walked past her and she yammered something that had a greeting/excuse me inflection. An open door showed a garage with a pool table, two dozen people packed around it, stacks of cash and random jewelry on the green felt as dice rolled and the gamblers crowed. Rap music pumped from surround-sound speakers.

  “Cause we smoke that Kush / and we ball like swush,” Lil' Wayne flowed. The men were laughing uproariously at one man's antics over losing, a dramatic, drunken, funny show as only Asian men can do.

  A stuttering hush came over them when they noticed the world-class ass walk into the room.

  Blondie took point, put a hand on her poked out hip, weight on one stiletto. She pulled her shades low so she could look down her nose at everyone, assume a position of authority. They instinctively recognized her alpha status and couldn't help reacting to it. She controlled the room with her presence. “The enemy is in the house,” her sultry voice purred, announcing the literal truth while making her audience feel sexy.

  A few nervous laughs, one guy tittering like a drunk bimbo. My greasy car salesman smile stayed in place with no effort. Shocker just stood there, in neither Hooker nor Seductress mode, though still managed to emanate Boss Bitch. Men were eyeing her with wary lust and awe as well.

  Blondie pushed her glasses up, then took her time walking around the table, rubbing her hands suggestively along guys' stomachs, pulling their shirts up slightly in front or back. Tousling their hair with playful feminine sounds. Every single one she touched reached for her. She moved through their groping hands with practiced ease while the girlfriends squawked like adorable, pissed off chipmunks. Shocker watched my girl with a grudging admiration.

  Blondie: 2. Shocker: 1

  Most of the guys were in their early twenties. All were seasoned in gangster life. That meant they would fight with or without weapons. So far, Blondie had found two more guns, making it three known on the men. No telling how many were in the house. If things went as planned, our enemy wouldn't get a chance to arm themselves.

  Blondie made her way along the dice game to the last guy, rubbing his shoulders, brushing the front of his waist with the back of her hand, the outline of an automatic briefly forming on his rayon shirt. Four guns, I considered. Wonder how many are at the fight ring???

  I turned to look at the ends of the garage. The bay door was wide open on the driveway thirty feet away, shelves with boxes lining the walls, lawn equipment circling a riding mower in front of two tricked Acuras. My head spun to look at the other end. A door was open onto the backyard. A wide, green lawn and chain link fence looked picturesque through the frame. Blondie indicated that her charms were inseminated in the men and we could move on to the next group.

  We walked outside. The sun was warm and the air was loud. Bass thundered from woofers on the patio deck, fast, hard-core rap that encouraged everyone to push a motherfucker, hit a motherfucker.

  Ah… LOVE it when the music fits the scene!

  “We see you,” Big Guns said in my ear. I glanced around, beyond the fence. Houses flanked us. The one behind had a large shed on the far side of its yard, fifty yards away. Several fig trees provided cover for Big Guns and Ace, who crouched among the thick foliage with an EMP emitter,
a device about the size of a large boom box. It transmitted powerful electromagnetic pulses out of its plastic, rectangular antenna. What looked like golf ball-type dimples textured its face. With a rechargeable 24 volt cell, it only weighed twelve pounds. My girl built it to shut down cars, computers, cell phones - police stations-anything electronically dependent. They're easier to construct than you'd think. You can't imagine how handy the thing was when we were crooks.

  “Turn it on in ten second intervals when the action starts,” I murmured. That would kill their phones and cars, while allowing us to communicate every sixth of a minute if we needed to. They wouldn't be able to call any backup, or flee from us in their cars. We had to take care of business before they realized they were trapped; people fight much harder when they see they have no escape. But I wasn't worried about blundering. I have experience attacking crowds like this. And the girls had a special treat up their skirts for them.

  The dog fight looked much like the cock fight we had seen earlier, only the ring was four feet tall and there were no children or older people present. The thugs emoted their pleasure or frustration in a mix of English and Vietnamese. Two white girls, both petite brunettes in jeans and bikini tops, stood out among them, long-lashed eyes widening at the show stopping hookers encroaching on their territory. Blondie and Shocker ignored their baleful looks, focusing on the guys that screamed raucously around the snarling dogs in the ring, two red-nose pitbulls tearing at each other's necks, legs and haunches in wet brown dirt.

  The brutality of the animals had ignited all sorts of special primal feelings in the men, warrior genes demanding for the tribe to hunt, kill, feel pleasure at dominating lesser animals. They cheered for blood, for money and status, excited anxiously and carnally. The atmosphere was more raw than the cock fight had been, of more consequence. The morally conscious would say this exciting action was wrong, even more so than the cock fighting. Dogs are man's best friend, bluh, bluh, while we eat chicken. However you want to use cultural or religious values to justify your eating or fighting of other species is your business. I have no moral ambiguity on the issue. Animals share equal rights in my eyes. I eat chicken, and I'll eat your dog if you get me mad enough.