A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  Big Guns pointed to a row of businesses to our left, a long plaza with coffee and print shops, several oriental restaurants and clothing outlets. He said, “Vietnamese own most of those. We used to collect donations from them. But that changed. They claim they can't afford donations now, and hang their heads in shame at the lie. They give it to the Tiger Society now.” He gripped the steering wheel audibly, golden brown hands paling.

  I watched the buildings from the passenger seat, scheming. Shocker reached around the driver's seat and squeezed Big Guns' arm, hard. In a voice laced with we're-about-to-kick-some-ass she said, “We'll just have to change it back.”

  He looked at her in the rear view mirror, showing silver determination. Damn right, he grunted, feeling her energy. The girl-beast had that effect on me, too. She vibrated raw, freaky-quick power. For whatever reason, she made me want to do better. In everything. Once again I felt a blanket of euphoria from getting to work with her.

  “Let's park over there,” I said pointing to a small grassy area behind a gas station. “We can get out and get loose.”

  Big Guns grunted acknowledgment, turned left without a blinker, and we darted through an intersection, low-rider buzzing a 400hp turbo-charged four banger that vibrated our bodies in a very gratifying fashion. We passed BP pumps, the station's windowed front, and turned into the parking spot nearest the rear of the white brick building. We opened the gull wing doors and climbed out, ignoring the teenagers that ogled us and the car.

  I surveyed the area to make sure we could observe without being observed. The gas station was at the end of the plaza, right on the corner of an intersection. The grass behind it was landscaped by concrete curbs, a triangle of lawn with a propane tank and air-compressor in a cage for customers' use. The Prelude was out of sight. We walked around the corner, stood on the grass and studied the coffee shop at the far end of the plaza. I said, “The caffeine dealers get hit first. We wait until they collect from everyone then hit them. Okay?” I looked at Shocker. “They will rough up the owners on general principle. You have to let it happen.”

  “I'll try,” she said, then sighed skeptically. I had a feeling someone was going to have to grab her to keep her from interfering.

  Not going to be me…

  Bobby gripped one of his fists. “So they smack 'em around? Why don't we take 'em out before they start collecting?”

  “We have to win over the people,” I said. “With contrast. Joy is best felt after strife.” I looked at my Viet friend.

  He grunted agreement. “It will be a lesson for everyone. We will be stronger afterwards. It is our way.”

  The waiting sucked. Finally, a gold Acura turned into the plaza and pulled up in front of the coffee shop, blocking several cars from leaving. Three guys got out, Vietnamese gangsters in nice clothes and jewelry, stylish hair, one in a ball cap. Hardcore scowls narrowing their criminal eyes. They gestured and taunted the patrons attempting to leave.

  “The driver stayed in the car. It looks like they are going to rob the place,” Shocker said, teeth bared. I could sense a change beginning to overtake her.

  “They are,” I said, “And we are going to rob the robbers.”

  She gave me an impatient glance. “I don't like this.”

  “We wait.”

  My imperative tone made her eyes narrow at me, I don't like that either.

  The trio of thugs came out of the shop a few minutes later, one of them looking around, the other two holding large cups and pastry boxes they had helped themselves to, laughing, shouting back through the open door in Vietnamese. They got into the car. The Acura's rear tires barked, they drove a short distance to a small restaurant that specialized in oriental food.

  “We should stop this,” Bobby rumbled. Shocker raised her eyebrows at me. When Big Guns grunted exasperation Big Swoll said, “What? I like to eat there.” He shook his huge head. “This isn't right.” He turned to watch our targets.

  The gangsters got back out of the Acura and swaggered into the restaurant. One of them slapped down what looked like a barbequed duck hanging in the picture window. Several patrons could be seen hurriedly getting up from their tables, paying and leaving. The extortionists' loud laughter was cut off as the door closed. The driver bobbed his head, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, the front of the car facing us, sixty yards away.

  Too much time went by. I couldn't see them but knew something bad was happening inside the restaurant. The driver sensed it too, his enthusiastic jamming on pause as he stared anxiously through the duck-less window. Sometimes marks resisted, or the thugs would be overzealous intimidating them. Either way it was unwanted trouble for everyone involved.

  “Just wait,” I reminded myself.

  The door burst open suddenly, some kind of beaded decoration scattering on the sidewalk, broken. A small Asian man in a white apron was shoved outside violently. The three thugs crowded him, walking out, one holding brown paper bags in each arm. The restaurant owner was pleading with them, voice high, rapid. The larger of the thugs slapped him and I had to grab Shocker's arms to hold her back. It felt like grabbing a bag of pythons; she writhed and seethed, on the verge of eruption, dueling for control of her inner fight junkie, shoulders pulsating under my grip.

  The driver waved at his comrades impatiently, constantly checking the mirrors for the D'Iberville PD. The three idiots laughed at the antagonized man, who begged them not to take whatever was in the bags. The biggest of our marks punched the poor guy in his stomach, knocking him to the cement, arms hugging his apron pitifully. An older lady came trotting out the door shrieking in Vietnamese, throwing rolls of bread at the goons tormenting her husband. Biggest Idiot turned and punched her full in the face. She yelped into silence, falling out of sight, inside.

  “Fuck that,” the girl-beast snarled at me and them both. She snatched my hands off her and exploded, sprinting in their direction, brass knuckles appearing on her fists.

  Bobby thundered an excited, “Let's get 'em!”

  Big Guns grunted, turned to prepare the car for a speedy exit.

  I twirled a finger at Big Swoll. “Let's hurry,” I said, lunging into a run.

  I had no idea Shocker could run so goddamn fast. I shouldn't have been surprised, though. She crossed the intersection like Super Frogger, and raced down the sidewalk in front of the businesses faster than belief, legs blurring.

  The driver saw her first. He had no time to shout a warning before she was on them. Biggest Idiot caught the worst of it. She hit him with a right-hand that had all her weight and speed behind it. The brass smack and wail of pain was heard by everyone in the plaza. Shoppers gawked as his arms flew out straight, face distorted in surprised hurt, his butt thumping on an iron drainage cover hard enough to boom like a huge brass drum. That was it for him; he was out of the game, destined for the emergency room. He lay on his back, exhaling to sleep.

  Shocker pivoted-flowed-zeroing in on her next targets. I don't know what made their faces freak out the most: that they were being attacked or that it was a girl doing it. They were lost for time. Shocker closed on them with whistling uppercuts and hooks, her feet and fists in time, shoulders and hips rolling like hydraulic mechanisms. Their arms came up to try and block her assault but were simply too slow and untrained. Her metallic punches found wide open bulls eyes. They went backwards then down, faces split and leaking, one of them knocked into a semi-conscious state by a hook on the chin, neck twisting suddenly, sharply.

  Our boots pounded to a stop in front of the Acura. I put my hands on my waist and complained, “Dammit. You didn't leave anything for us.” The driver gaped at me, at the humongous black dude towering in front of his car. At his friends laid out on the sidewalk. He looked back at the girl-beast, too terrified to make a decision.

  The legendary fighter turned inhuman eyes on me. “Fuck that,” she growled. She turned her attention back to her targets, fists coiled. Is that foam at the corner of her mouth? Her breaths were slow and measured, her f
ocus scary intense. The mark started scrambling backwards, climbing over the man in the apron, desperately trying to put distance between himself and the predator.

  “Oh no you don't,” Bobby told the driver. He grabbed the frightened gangster through the open driver's window and snatched him out of the car, forehead banging hard on the door pillar. The guy's babbling queries turned into a full-throated scream as Big Swoll spun and threw his catch into the restaurant's picture window. It was so incredibly funny because Bobby outweighed the guy by 150 pounds, his enormous upper body effortlessly tossing the thug like a sack of expired dog food. The screaming continued through the exploding glass, silencing as he crashed into whatever broke inside the restaurant. The woman revived at this additional chaos, standing shakily, her shrieking once again echoing out across the plaza.

  “Oops,” Bobby said, wincing. “My bad.” I laughed in delight as his big ass walked up on the sidewalk, helped the aproned man to his feet. Dusted off his back for him. “Sorry about your window.”

  The man looked around wildly, nodding, shook up badly. Still gripping his stomach, he shuffled inside and put an arm around his wife, who kept making very annoying sounds of terror. They stared at us like we weren't real. What planet did you monsters come from? their rounded eyes and trembling lips emoted.

  “It's too late for that,” Bobby told the guy crabbing away from Shocker. The thug grabbed weakly at the front of his waist, pulled up his shirt. The girl-beast calmly stalked him, allowing him to think about what was coming. Her fists clenched in veined glory. Eyes insanely alight. She put a pink Nike Shox on his hand groping for the gun. Pushed down harshly. He garbled something that signified pain.

  Seeing the Shocker was in no shape to give a speech, I stepped up next to her. Pointed and laughed at her victim. “You look fucked up,” I observed. He garbled, eyes agonized. She pushed down harder, crushing more than his hand.

  Ow, my Johnson flinched.

  His fingers widened. She let up and his hands shot out to the sides of his head in surrender. I tisked him. “It isn't your day, pal. Your boss put you in a high-risk job position. You should complain.”

  “I hope you have health insurance,” Bobby said, dragging the guy he had thrown through the window out onto the sidewalk.

  “Who? Why…” Gargle, cough. He rubbed his throat, and I realized he must have caught a punch there.

  I held up a finger. “Shut up. I'll do the talking. You'll listen, or the girl-beast will open your ears for you. Got it?” The Shocker's eyes and nostrils flared at me, Girl-beast??? Fuck that! I ignored her.

  The other gangster gave up crawling away, slumped over in front of a clothing shop, breathing raggedly. I smiled in his direction, very pleased. Looked back at the idiot in front of us. “I want you to pass on a message…”

  VII. A Little Late

  “So I asked him how many girls he was fucking. I was like, you wanna be with me? The other girls have to go,” Blondie told Shocker.

  “You could have said all this without me being here, you know,” I pointed out. And was ignored.

  Shocker grilled her for more gossip. “What did he say? How many?” She glanced at me, a hint of disapproval wrinkling her nose.

  Blondie smiled slyly, looked at me. “He dropped his head like a chump and muttered,” she deepened her voice to imitate me, “ 'Two.' ”

  “Hey, I don't mutter like that.” Again, I was ignored. Bobby and Ace, flanking me on the small couch, were nearly out of breath from laughing. Why is that so funny? I asked her out and she set rules. “Ha! Ha! Fuck both of you.”

  The bastards laughed even harder.

  Shocker gave a “Ha!” that said she knew I was full of crap. “You didn't believe him, of course.”

  “Hell no,” my girl said, sly quirk still on her lips. “There were four or five girls at the gym pretending to work out while competing for his attention. I knew he was fucking them as soon as I walked in the door. Two??? Right. I just stared at him and he finally said, 'Three.' I kept staring, gave him the Yeah Right look.” She demonstrated, bent hand on waist, eyebrows curved in skepticism. “He needed to be honest if he wanted me and he knew it. He got all flustered and shit. Then he growled at me, 'All right! Six, okay?' ”

  She laughed, flipped hair off her shoulders.

  “Six?” Shocker looked at me in disgust. “You pig.”

  “That's Mister President Pig to you, girl-beast freak.”

  She shook her head, looked at Blondie. “You guys met in a gym?” She leaned back in the chair behind the desk. A breeze came in through the shed door, billowing strands of dark hair over her hazel eyes.

  “Yep. I had just got out of jail.” Blondie walked around the drone, heels clicking, composing the story of how we met. I tried to suffer it in silence. “I went to this gym to work off some stress and saw a ripped guy fist dancing on a heavy bag. He looked like bad news, but I thought I could impose my will and maybe turn him into something.” She pushed one shoulder up, smiling behind it, and chortled a sharp feminine sound that made my skin heat up. “Plus, I wanted him to teach me boxing.”

  “Again. I'm right here. I thought girls were supposed to gossip about their men when they weren't present.” I pointed at them. “Observe proper etiquette.”

  I got a “Pfff” from the girl-beast.

  Shocker watched Blondie in suspense. Bobby and Ace tried to pretend they weren't here, though their poorly restrained snickers sort of messed that up. I felt like everyone was riding down on me, and wanted to be somewhere else very badly. Shocker asked, “So he stopped being a whore to be with you?” Blondie nodded in satisfaction. Shocker eyed me, still suspicious, protective of her new friend.

  Oh, that's just wonderful, my subconscious sighed.

  “Why were you in jail?” she asked Blondie.

  My girl gave a brilliant flash of teeth that I couldn't help but return, skin tingling inside the warmth. We were finally done talking about me. I hope. She said, “I had to promote a book.”

  “A book,” Shocker said slowly. She looked at me. “Sex book?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. A novel about a little girl that is murdered by someone in her family. It's good. I read it twice.”

  “A murder mystery,” Blondie confirmed.

  “You're a writer?” Shocker's skepticism was palpable.

  She shrugged. “I wanted to go to school for it, but my parents wouldn't support me. I wrote Leslie's Diary during my senior year of high school. I couldn't get any help publishing it, so I self-published on the Internet. I didn't know shit about marketing novels and couldn't sell very many. But I knew how to market myself.” She unconsciously stepped into a sexy pose. My tongue decided to wet my lips for some reason. She continued. “I needed to get the media's attention, however I could. So I caught an assault charge and went to jail.”

  “Assault?” Ace inquired. “What did you do?”

  She smiled at the fond memory. “I kicked a cop in the face, then sprayed him with his own pepper spray.”

  “My hero,” Bobby rumbled. Shocker and Ace grinned excited agreement. I felt amazed by their enthusiasm over an officer being assaulted.

  Blondie soaked it up, the sexy bad-ass, nearly preening. “The papers printed all kinds of crap, like 'Daughter of Prominent Lawyers in Jail for Assaulting Policeman.' ” She gave an exulted squeal.

  “You have parents?” I said. Then, “You have parents that are lawyers???” No wonder she shares my dislike of attorneys…

  She pretended I hadn't said that. Everyone else glanced at me like I was a complete duffer.

  Blondie said, “I knew my parents wouldn't bond me out after the fight we had. Go to fucking law school? Right. So I did three months in the county, no biggie, a first-time offender.” She pursed her lips, then said, “I had a plan for their ass. I had my girl open a dozen e-mail accounts and contact news reporters. She masqueraded as all sorts of people-Bible thumpers, busy-bodies, housewives, et cetera. These 'concerned citizens' wan
ted to know how violent, potential cop killers were selling books while in jail. They were outraged by the thought of prisoners making money while God-fearing free people had trouble finding jobs. There had just been a story about prisoners with cell phones being on MySpace, so prisoners were a current issue.

  “The jail guards shook me down nearly every day after that. They were pissed about reporters showing up demanding to know how I got a phone, and how I was running a business while I should be being punished for assaulting a law enforcement officer.” She laughed, hand pressed between her boobies. “I found out that a dozen God-fearing citizens, even fictitious ones, can cause a hellacious response from law enforcement, and the media.”

  “I thought you didn't sell any books?” Shocker asked.

  Blondie gave a devious smile. “I wasn't. But they didn't know that. All those thousands of people that saw the story on TV or in the papers didn't know that. All of a sudden hundreds of copies of Leslie's Diary started selling. My parents' name drew a lot of attention, and people in general wanted to see what all the fuss was about. By the time they let me out, I had made over sixty thousand dollars.”

  “Whoa,” Ace said.

  “Nice,” Bobby agreed.

  “Hmm.” Shocker's brows furrowed. She was having trouble accepting Blondie's work as something cool. She maintained an on-the-fence expression and said, “Relatively cheap way to market a book. What did your parents say?”

  “Don't know. We haven't spoken in eleven years.”

  “Hey,” I wanted to know. “When did you get parents?”

  She rolled her eyes. Looked at Shocker. “Anyway. That's how I met Meat-head and got into crime.”