Hot Scores

by Bud Connell

  I’d have to pull one out of my tail, but I didn’t like what I was thinking.

  20 – Since I Provide Good Shit

  My watch said one o’clock and I needed to get to Miami by two and deliver Naval Girl along with the goods that would get the airplay.

  Fat Baby and Emeril Green were waiting for me in Fat’s office.

  Fat Baby spoke first. “Did you bring it?”

  I tossed the CD on the desk and smiled.

  “Screw that,” Emeril said. “Did you bring the good stuff?”

  “Yeah.” I dug down deep inside my coat and dredged up the big white envelope that I had folded three times. It was thick, and I could barely get it out of my pocket. I handed it to Emeril and he looked inside and grinned all the way across his face.

  “Looks like you scored.” He pushed the envelope over to Fat Baby and Fat opened a small packet, wet his finger and tasted a touch. “You gotcher airplay, this shit is wild.”

  Then I decided to make my test-move. I knew they owned a warehouse and put on all-night parties. “Is there anything else I can help you guys with… if you know what I mean?”

  Emeril leaned in like he was going to give me a stock tip. “Maybe, since you provide good shit.” He leaned in further and whispered. “We’re throwing a little for-profit rave and we need reliable refreshments. We need thirty grand in assorted fireworks.”

  Fat Baby rattled the envelope. “About the same mix as this, plus some XTC. Can you do it?”

  I took a short pause and said, “Yeah, no problem.” I wasn’t sure I could get the stuff; but oh well, what the hell, I plunged in further.

  “Cash now. That’s the only way it works.” I talked like I knew what I was talking about.

  “Pick it up from Fat Baby tomorrow at eleven,” Emeril said, “and bring the stuff with you.”

  Crap in a hand-basket. Now, how the hell was I going to pull that off? I only had one ace and wasn’t sure I could count on it, but I took the shot anyway. I nodded the somber nod of the big-time dope dealer. Thirty-grand cash. Snap, just like that.

  21 – Spearing Foo-Foo Dust

  On the way back over the MacArthur Causeway I retrieved the cell and called Ramon.

  “Yo, Joe. Whassup?”

  “Gotta see you quick.” Cut to the chase. “Available?”

  “For you, yeah. Got my money early?”

  “No. It’s something else.”

  “No more credit, Joe-baby. Not till the first one’s paid.”

  “Can we get together? It’s important.”

  “–Yeah, three o’clock, usual place.”

  “That works.” I snapped the phone shut and bit my lower lip until it almost bled. What the hell was I doing?

  +++

  When I drove up to Ramon’s outdoor office I had like a softball in my stomach, which tightened into a small hard knot and then expanded, all over what I was about to say.

  He hopped in. “Yer late.”

  “I almost didn’t come, I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Sounds like more than spearing a little foo-foo dust for hungry noses.” Ramon sure had a way with words.

  I couldn’t answer right away. I pulled out in traffic and drove about a block with him staring at the side of my head before I had the nerve. “Yeah. More. Lots.”

  His tone went wary, distrustful. “Are you about to stiff me?”

  I had to fake indignant, so I made myself look all huffy. “No, Ramon. If I have to get a cash advance from plastic I’ll pay your ass.”

  “So what izz-it?”

  I had to build up to it to lay it out straight, but the pause lengthened until Ramon took a deep, noisy breath and looked away.

  “Okay, one of my guys wants a thirty-grand care package by four today, he’ll have the cash, and I want to make a few thousand off it. Got it?”

  “Not a problem. A few thousand, no. I’ll pay you what you owe me, but I go along to make the exchange. And no more credit. Is that it?”

  “It’s that.” And here it came. “Plus, I want to start dealing.”

  “Fuck, man, howdya mean? You wanta push in on my action? This is my copping zone. Not a chance, pal.” He was shooting bullets at me with his eyes.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “I want to make a big score quick.”

  “You want to import, you want to be a Barnes man?”

  “I don’t even know what a Barnes man is.”

  “Big dealer, like me but really big. That takes clean green man, and you owe me piggy bank change. So how you gonna come up with hundreds of thousands?”

  “I’m not. I need to make sixty-five grand, quick. In two weeks.”

  “You’re shit out of luck.” Ramon squinted at me like I was some form of unknown fruit. Then he turned away and stared straight ahead at traffic for a couple of lights. “You need way more‘n that to get into the game.” He lit a cigarette and inspected me a long time out of the side of his eyes. “Explain.”

  “The guy’s car I wrecked, I accidentally set fire to his condo and I have to fix ‘em both before he gets back in town.”

  “Dammit, man! You are a frickin’ accident.” He reached up and pulled the seatbelt down and snapped it into place. Then he stared straight ahead and I stayed quiet for a half-mile.

  “Freight agent.”

  “What?” I slowed down to concentrate on what he said.

  “Mule… you become a mule. The big boys need guys who’ll get the goods on shore, or over the border. That’s worth big money. It’s also big trouble if you get caught. Ten to twenty, or worse.”

  “How do I make a contact?”

  He took a deep drag and blew part of it out. “I dunno if it’s a good idea. I’ll have to consult my up-line and get back to you.”

  “Up-line? What is this a fuckin’ multi-level like Amway?

  Nothing was said for two blocks, and then Ramon shook his head. “Joe?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t mess with this shit.”

  I just looked at him. It’s the only time I ever saw Ramon look worried.

  22 – He Licked Her Palm, No Kidding

  “Hey, Fat, get in the back.” Fat Baby opened the door and plopped all four-fifty into my poor little rental. The Toyota sank about six inches and groaned.

  Ramon, ear-ringed, purple-vested and tattooed, twisted around to face Fat in the back seat. “You got the thirty grand on you? Lemme see it.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Ramon twitched and a tic came up like he was trying to blink something out of his eye, or get up nerve to kill somebody.

  “I’m the fuckin’ guy you wanna see, asshole. You want the dope, show me what yer trading for it.”

  Boy, that was the way to blow a deal, but I guess not. Fat Baby looked at me and I nodded. He pulled out an envelope about three inches thick, spread the opening wide and riffled his chubby thumbs across the edges of the C-notes.

  Ramon’s tic went away. “Okay then.” Ramon leaned over and snatched the envelope out of Fat Baby’s hand. “Gimme a tour first.”

  “Huh? Where’s the shit, man?”

  “You’ll get it in a minute.” Ramon patted his chest with both hands. “I never been inside a radio station. Gimme a tour.”

  Fat Baby looked at me again and I shrugged.

  And then Fat shrugged, “Well, okay. But don’t talk to nobody.”

  “Why? I’m not good enough to talk to yer frickin’ disk jockeys? Eat another cheeseburger, fat boy.” Ramon leaned up in the seat and stuffed the cash-filled envelope deep in his pants.

  “Hey, you guys,” I interceded. “Let’s just do a deal and call it a day.”

  “I wanna see the radio station,” Ramon insisted.

  I started to tell him that we’d wait on that one, but Fat caved.

  “Well, okay. But man, you look like a frickin’ pimp.”

  Ramon steamed. I swear I could see it coming out his ears.<
br />
  And you look like a fuckin’ mound of crap from a big fuckin’ elephant. Why don’t you eat six more cheeseburgers?”

  Both guys opened the car doors at the same time. I thought they were gonna roll in the dirt, but they started laughing and slapping each other’s backs. I guess Fat wanted the dope and Ramon hoped Fat wouldn’t sit on him.

  I followed them up the stairs and they were talking like ol’ buddies. Hell, I don’t understand people.

  At the top of the steps Emeril Green was coming down the hall toward us and he waved, but did a double take when he saw Ramon.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Friend of mine,” I said.

  Fat tagged, “He’s got a special delivery.”

  Ramon looked around and started walking toward a bullpen desk where a cutesy girl was pounding away on a keyboard. He yelled over his shoulder. “You promised me a tour first.”

  The brown-skin doll with a turned-up nose and short blond hair looked up. I’d seen Havenetta in here many times before, I think she did Traffic, which is figuring out which commercials go where; that is, whenever Emeril Green wasn’t shagging her in his office.

  “Ramon! Whatchu you doing here, baby?”

  “Sneakin’ up on you, bitch. Howz my favorite li’l dancer?”

  She held out her hand and Ramon took it, turned it over and overtly licked her palm.

  She shivered and squealed and looked down and moved her head from side-to-side. “You’ll always be my first love, you sexy man.”

  It was then that Emeril came into her vision, barreling toward Ramon because, I think, it looked like Ramon was hitting on his doll.

  Anyway, Emeril did a full body blow like a fullback tackle, and pancaked skinny Ramon down on Havenetta’s desktop flat on his back. The two of them slid all the way across and down on the floor, taking the computer and keyboard and all of Havenetta’s traffic crap with them, along with her Diet Dr. Pepper and lit cigarette and Ramon yelling all the way.

  “You crazy fucker!”

  The impact must’ve popped a plastic bag because the special delivery was being delivered.

  A cloud of white dust billowed up around Ramon, and Emeril backed off and looked like he’d been hit in the face with a bag of flour. Polvo blanco and rasta weed and XTC tabs scattered all over the floor and we were all poppin’ birdie powder even if we didn’t want to.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here with that shit!” Emeril yelled louder than Ramon.

  “You ordered it, you dumbass motherfucker, and you’re gonna pay for it.” Ramon pulled himself up using the edge of Havenetta’s desk. “In more ways than one, you’re gonna pay.”

  “You shouldn’ta been messin’ with Havenetta.”

  “I don’t see no ‘Do not trespass’ sign on her round ass, now do I?”

  Emeril looked away ‘cause Ramon had got him. Ramon had no way of knowing that his female friend was Emeril’s fur pie.

  “I’m sorry man. Let me help you get the stuff up.” Emeril started picking up pills while Havenetta was crying in the corner.

  “Help me, hell, you get it up. You bought it.” And with that, Ramon started emptying his pockets; all of them except the one containing the thirty big ones; and pills and weed and foo-foo dust were going everywhere.

  It was the wrong thing to do at that moment, because Mr. Demontavio, the owner of the station, had efforted his considerable bulk up the stairs and had just entered the room as Emeril sacked Ramon.

  Good grief, my life as I knew it, was now officially over, concluded. The end.

  23 – No More Favors, Joe (S-H-Mouse)

  Mr. Demontavio had been known to smoke the occasional golden leaf and Fat Baby supplied him, and he told Fat that it was for medicinal purposes and that it toned down the pain of his arthritis. So I guess that’s the reason he didn’t clean house right then and there.

  But the coke and pills all over the floor was another matter, and Mr. Demontavio pointed at the door and told us not to come back. Thank God, nobody called the cops, because if they did, we’d all be on the way to an orange suit fitting.

  I started the car and pulled out into traffic and stayed silent until I had to have my question answered. “Why did you have to go after Havenetta?”

  “I didn’t.” Ramon let out what sounded like an impatient breath. “The chick used to work for me when I pimped.”

  “She’s a hooker?”

  “She was a hooker, a good one. When she quit, I gave her one last woody and sent her out in the world. She loves me, and she has the cutest little beauty spot you ever seen and buckets the size of grapefruits.”

  Now, normally I would have been paying close attention to descriptions like that but they were just words at this particular time, because I had to start cleaning up things.

  “Ramon, you got their thirty grand. Gimme a break.”

  “Why should I? There’s no tellin’ how much shit I left on the floor. I unloaded more than their delivery when I got hot.”

  “It’s not my fault, Ramon. I didn’t start the fight.” I slowed down my word output. “In fact, this is gonna cost me one of my biggest clients.”

  Ramon looked out the window for a few blocks, and I guess the good ol’ Joe Oaks common sense soaked into him.

  “Okay. You got it. We’re square on the two grand, and I’ll give you another thou because… just because. But I don’t wanna see any more radio stations, and I’m not making no more special deliveries with you.” He looked at me and squeezed his face into a frown. “Yer on yer own.”

  “Are you gonna give me a name, a reference so I can do a carry? I gotta make quick cash.”

  He hesitated and watched traffic for a long block, like he was planning a broadside.

  “Yer a frickin’ non-stop accident. I’ll end up in the ass-end of a cell if I do more with you than a grand a pop.” He looked across the bay at Star Island. “No more deals, no more favors. No, Joe.”

  I figured as much. We didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

  I dumped Ramon at his corner, and when he got out of the Toyota he slammed the door without looking back with his usual reverse step victory signs.

  24 – You Gotta Love a Girl Like Katya

  I sat at the light, tapping the steering wheel and watching Ramon in my rearview mirror. He disappeared into the distance, probably along with my very necessary future merchandise, the dope, the plugola that I needed to buy airplay.

  I turned my attention to the now-stuff to be handled. There was no point in calling Kodi. It was supposed to be a freebee anyway, and I had nothing to tell him. He’d probably already heard about the pileup in the studio, and if I got the airplay from Emeril and Fat it’d be a frickin’ miracle, especially after being told by the station’s owner not to come back.

  The Naval Girl airplay disaster-count was now two for two, and I could probably write off Kodi’s business as a result.

  I was one day closer to the drop-deadline and sixty-three thousand bucks short, plus whatever Katya was charging at the hotel, which reminded me.

  I fished out the cell phone and called her closet, which relayed me to her purse. Thank God I wasn’t there to hear the first six notes of I Could Have Danced All Night, which is what she’s got her cell set to play when she doesn’t answer. I began to question my judgment for phoning, but hell, I needed to be stroked. She answered on the third ring.

  “Joe, darling! I was just thinkin’ about you!”

  “Me, too.”

  “You were thinking about you? Not about me?”

  “No, Katya, I was thinking about you.” I felt like I was in one of those SNL scenes. “Say, can we get together?”

  “After I finish getting my hair and nails done, and a pedicure. You know how you like my toes. I’m at the salon in the hotel. –Uh, Joe?”

  “What?”

  “I hope you don’t mind, I’m charging it to my room. I’m a little short.”

  What the hell’s the difference, sixty-three thou
sand or sixty-three thousand two hundred? “No, Katya, go ahead.”

  “Ooo-o, you’re such a doll! I’ll be ready at six! Gotta go, shampoo girl’s ready for me.” She clicked off.

  You gotta love a girl like Katya, Catherine Lucille. All up front, in more ways than one.

  At least tonight, alone with her, I could turn off the day and build some strength for figuring out how the hell I was going to crack the nut tomorrow.

  But, what I needed was the nutcracker.

  25 – Early Returns & Blinky Eyes

  Katya was ready right on time.

  But we had issues. She had just received a call from one Mr. Darragh Cahoone, and he was coming back a week sooner. And almost as bad, Katya was afraid to be alone with the fire-cleanup boys, one of which she said was eyeing her and winking a lot when doing the estimate.

  “I want to be pure for you, from now on, Joe.” Well, how could I refuse a girl with blinky eyes and a rack that that.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in the morning to get ‘em started. Give me your key again.”

  “Oh, Joe, you’re such a doll!” She stripped her condo key off her chain and handed it to me with dimples. I, of course, melted, again.

  26 – A Lot of Incognito

  I got there early, 7777 Collins Avenue, Penthouse Floor, Number A-1. Here, some yahoo was keeping a woman like Katya—okay, Catherine Lucille—and treating her like a sex slave.

  What kind of little Camelot could I make for myself if I only had the big bucks? I know one thing, I’d make Catherine Lucille happy—make that Katya, I like that better—and I’d make myself a happy man in the process. Why couldn’t I get to the point of affording this whole scene, I kept thinking as I keyed the lock and stepped inside the smoky condo.

  I checked my watch. I had a half-hour before the cleaning guys were supposed to arrive, so I ran the tally and totaled up my assets. I had a few bucks to commit, and I could cover a bunch by maxing out my credit cards, but I’d still be short, and making a quick score with Ramon’s contacts dimmed as a solution.