VEGAS, NAPALM STRIKE…
Sunday, and I’m beat to hell.
Case, missing 13-year-old girl, Missy, went all bad. Drug addicted mother, off-loaded
her to her meth-ravaged daddy, he sold the kid to a deviant ex acid rocker,
Eddie Jett. It all went down bad, the sweet angel was brutally murdered; that’s
another story for another time.
coulda burned down Eddie Jett, but I didn’t, cause death was too good for the
that’s another story, a better story, but just a hint, a blow torch, tin snips,
and wire cutters and desert coyotes were involved, and it was fucking
have the mother, the sick dad and the doc who butchered her on my CAN’T WAIT
looking forward to that.
a butterfly stitch on my eye, a cut lip and multiple welts and bruises covering
my bod, two broken ribs or close, was almost murdered.
I’m kicked back, comfy couch, PJ’s, feet on the coffee table, beer in the
cooler, popcorn ready, my goldfish Stella and Stanley facing the huge LCD flat
screen. Angel and Bijoux, my two golden zipper dogs, my four cats are pumped,
Lebron and the Cavs are going mano-e-mano
against the Kings, can’t wait.
got a bidness thingy with King tomorrow night, and none of this thing tells me
I will be alive after.
being one of my best amigos, a super-stud black guy, who runs the largest gang
over here in the super-dangerous part of N. Las Vegas.
Jane, a Vegas PI/Bounty hunter, Mensa smart, 28-year-old, 5-ft 11, 123 lbs,
YEP, a few eating disorders, white buzz cut blonde, queer girl, hip hugger,
steel boot savage, martial arts expert. I respect guns, their relevant friends,
for they usually fix most problems with the insidious men I deal with, last
wall against the bad guys that abuse women, kids and above all the animals,
that make our lives bearable and beautiful.
kissing, fucking girls, satin skin, velvet cunts, multiple orgasms that make a
girl’s toes curl. Though most of my friends are cops, and men, hard, real and
unusual men, my MO is why fuck a baboon for five minutes, when you can spend
hours with a dolphin girl, cum about a zillion times, then cuddle up, watch a
flick, giggle up, do it all over again until a girl’s blue sapphire eyes, and
all she dreams of, is in nirvana as she falls asleep in her girl friend’s silk-skinned
have the sex drive of a sixteen-year-old Mississippi Pom Pom girl.
My folks died in a car accident when I was 19, some drunk rich Hamptons kid
over there on the east coast, fueled out on coke and E, vaporized them in a
head on. I was left with millions, and a solar black hole in my heart,
especially since this vapid, never-take-responsibility spoiled kid, rolled on
the charge with probation, you know, cause the judge was a frat brother from Harvard
with the puke’s billionaire father.
few months later, I went to Boston, had a gun, my first, got all dolled up, hit
the club, let the mother fucker pick me up. We went back to his crib, I
stripped naked and, then with my new silenced Beretta, I shot him dead.
Pssssst, psssst, psssst.
down the gullet, two in the heart.
was the first gun I had ever owned, and the first man of pure evil I had ever
would be the last.
tortured in so much pain, I moved around the world, Europe, The Middle East,
Africa, Asia, fucking every girl I could find, doing every drug imaginable,
trying to kill myself with sex and drugs in an orgy life.
also educated myself every chance I got, learned languages, hit up museums,
read hundreds of books, until one morning I woke ashamed.
had so much, money, beauty, brains, opportunity and what in the fuck was I
doing drowning in a self-imposed sewer of pity and woe is me.
being beautiful thing, created a fury inside of me. Yeah, it was fun, but it is
a fucking false narrative. Your birthed that way from a lotto pick of genetics.
You did nothing to earn it, get it, and as evolution goes, it lasts an eye
blink of time. A girl spends her life star gazing in the fucking mirror, eating
men’s lives up like a Kansas Wheat threshing combine, self-absorbed, ya end up
with zilch, including a dead heart and soul.
I WHAT’S SUP WITH THAT me.
hit up Vegas, of all places, and got my PI license, gun permit, bought a 5,000
ft upstairs loft, ex-bakery over Chang’s laundry, they’re experts at getting
blood out of my clothes.
decided to become Jane, The Avenger, meaning I would fight blow torch and anvil
for abused women, kids, animals and especially the poor, the ever- growing
legions of the abused, mostly at the hands of men.
there it is, and trust me I’m no Mother Theresa, no Betty Crocker nice girl by
any bullet shot in a wall or any kind of poster role-model girl. I like to
think I have a great heart, I actually care in a lobotomized world of turned-away
glances of the ills perpetrated against the weak.
that’s who I am.
always trying to be a better girl, a nicer girl, often fail, but I am trying.
back to King.
got King legit, almost. He’s almost there.
that run of the Tarot Cards, I found a mega-intelligent, dead-handsome stud
with a great wit. He’s solid and a stand-up guy. Above all, a dude who gives
his word, keeps it, is honorable, and would be there, if I ever needed some
help, 24/7, which he has before.
respect him, of course, for he’s never run whores, hurt kids, women, or dogs.
He has this kinda loco honor system about broads.
to make a long story short, never my strong pin point, I got him, like I said
almost legal. We’re deep into The Market, Futures, Currencies, Derivatives and
the fast food joints and also a laundromat here and there, other stuff I
learned at Wharton.
he’s got one last sit-down with some fucking killers from the Zeta drug cartel.
None of it seems right to me, none of it at all.
a little concerned and that’s got my Zen head worried, for he may a peaked
a little too soon. Meaning I got
the feeling he’s dream in’ a little
too much about retiring. Why, because I don’t want King to be the
main-ingredient in some plate of Carne
Asada at some taco stand in Nuevo Laredo Mexico.
blowing bubbles and looking at some of Stella’s friends with a pair of concrete
stilettos on my cute feet at the bottom of Lake Meade. Which is the whole point
of me internalizing all this crap I have in my head, for It’s my job to always
think I mentioned that before.
I had a sit down with King at a
Starbuck’s he half owns, me owning the other half. Having a partner like King,
well I don’t think a quarter has ever gone missing from the till.
light-hearted and such he said it was his B-day. He also said. “It weren’t
nothin’”, the little soirée we was going to because he’s dealt with these mooches before.
casually mentioned there had never been a glitch before. Except, (I hate that
word) they were a little late with the do, re me, meaning they still owed him a
million in coin, since they reneged on the last shipment of coke.
What in the FUCK was he thinking?
were going to weasel the slag through one of about a thousand tunnels they got
going under the border fence. That always gets tons of chuckles from me.
there had been a delay, another word I hate.
Because one of those fucking Predator Drones the guys at the DEA use was
floating around the night they were going to use the choo-choo train they got
down there below the border, to deliver
King, being in his festive mood, and with the promise, (that always works with
homicidal drug maniacs) that they will refund
his dough tonight, asked me if I could throw
down some reservations, at some glitzy joint eatery on the Strip.
Seeing I know everybody in Vegas,
he wants me
to dress to the nines and take
Carlos, FUCKING PERFECT, and have
some cocktails and vittles with him and King.
it a fancy evening, you know. Eat fine grub, maybe do a spin on the dance
floor, you know at some vampire club like Plumb.
Then later, have a nice sit down and get his money so he can sleep happily
ever after in his new dream world.
course, all the rockets, flares and Hydrogen bombs detonating in my big brain,
tell me that nothing is ever as it seems.
then ask him. “Why not just take Earl?”
being a real asset and the kinda guy that bullets look like they could bounce
off of his gold teeth, might be just what the meeting needed.
He NAWS me, chirps. “Chill
doll, it’s me
B-day, let’s keep it easy, fun, light, it’s his birthday, just tying up this
one last deal.”
his last in my mind.
King, they’re fucking monst…”
all good, Janie.”
says, if he brought 6ft 7, 300 lb Earl, well instantly the monolith, just by
his very presence, might make some folks edgy, a bit un-comfy. He might bend
everybody’s good juju.
because he wants these maniacs to have some eye-candy
for the night, he asks me.
ya Janie, look all dollish tonight? For me?”
no dummy, wants me there for another reason.
just be there. You know, with that secret you’s carry in yer rhinestone clutch,
just in case.
like none of it, but what’s a girl to do, he’s my bud, and well, I just can’t
reluctantly agree, feeling my tiny toes curl in my steel toed boots. I tell him
not to dress just yet.
the years I’ve weaned him from the gangster togs, and now he’s gone all
European, shirts, suits, shoes, and such, I’m not a fashionista diva for
nothing and I have his B-Day gift in the Buick.
on, I have something for you.” I kiss him on the lips, he likes that.
creaming, just waiting to give it to him.
I skipped over to that massive indoor den of inequity mall thingy they got
goin’ down over there at the Venetian. You know Cardin, Lauren, Baroni, Marc
Jacobs, Dolce & Gabanna, Tiffany’s, etc, etc, etc a few days ago.
I had copped him a black Baroni suit. Two
on a Calvin Klein pure white linen shirt, a red Steven Land neck tie, the kind
you can make a Contrast Knot with,
put the cherry on top, I bought him a black pair of Crockett & Jones,
English Half Brogue’s, tie-ups. I topped the Sunday off with a solid gold tie
clasp, with a small 38 on it. I pre-ordered that from Tiffany’s.
I’m only good at tying knots into my boots, and pretty much nada else, I had
the store folks put the stuff in boxes. They tied a lot of colored ribbons on
them and they even made bows. I was grateful for that.
then, if you can believe it, they got this store there that does nothing else
but sell cards, and stuff. They got ‘em for every occasion.
know, birthdays, births, weddings, abortions and even had one for condolences.
know when some insane kid gets jilted
by a cheer leader from the pep squad
and, then decimates about twenty of
his class mates with an AK-47 at the
local high school.
that got me to thinkin’, me being the entrepreneur that I am. How about a card
for fucking, you know.
“Dear June, great fuckin’
just the best. A night to remember. You’re an awesome bitch, amazing piece a
booty. Best and big love. Buster, and all the guys from the Lacrosse team.”
you could do every sport. It seems like a swell idea. I will call Hallmark when
I get home, see if they
was smiling as I slopped the presents right near the tail fins. I saw that my
Mossberg over and under was there, a box of shot gun shells, resting right near
my baseball bat and machete. That’s
stuff that I usually
have at hand just in case bad shit happens.
make a time for the meet. I hop the door of the Buick, fire her up, plug in
some Dr Dre, and hip hop all the way
that brings me to Moi, always a very important thing, especially for tonight.
jettisoned style, I mean that slavery to fashion thing dog years ago. But that
don’t mean I still can’t get it up
when I want to look like a super doll.
I can drop a dime on it at any time.
need to go shopping, because as I mentioned before, a plan is paramount to a
girl thing being a reality. Use what you have, so I need to get sexed out.
mean really, really look solar, do some shopping for some super rags. Just, you
know, props every pro gal with a gun needs at times to make a first impression
stick like epoxy to some guy’s eyeballs.
grab my PI, drivers and gun license and get my American Express Platinum Card.
I turn and jet down the stairs, out the iron security door.
pretty happy, and why not. Me Jane, and that’s a good thing.
fucking traumatized, as six
hours later, I’m lugging all this stuff back, bags, and bags of the stuff into
elite mall was packed with grazing herds of Japanese tourists, cameras
everywhere, Chinese, Taiwanese and European tourists shopping. There were tons
of Saudi women, sans black
sheets shopping, wearing makeup, jewels, clothes, high heels, lip paint, all
the stuff that would get ‘em an ass-stoning back there in The Kingdom.
at the loft, I grab a bottle of Cuervo, sans salt, lime, I throw two shots
down. Adding one more, I take the bottle, adrenaline main lining the alcohol
out of my system as fast as I absorb it. Shopping has traumatized me.
really don’t want to do this tonight, wanted to watch a game 2 Cleveland/Kings
game, what with Lebron being such a stud and all.
being the great leveler,
nerves bending back, calms me a little bit.
have to cowboy up. Though it’s not Wednesday, I need a shower, shave the legs,
pits, make sure my perfect teeth are white, my ragged mop looks nice.
I guess I’m going to wash it, blow it out, and make it all fuzzy and cute. I’m
not in the best of moods, you know,
the madness of shopping tied my brain in knots, but I am coping.
I look over at Stella and Stanley
the tank. They’re reading A Streetcar
Named Desire, which I turn a page on
see Bijoux and Angel, my super pups lazing on the couch. I know they want a
ride in my 59 convertible Buick, and I laugh, for I know when their cruising,
and yapping their saying.
“Look how phat
I am. I got the ride, the dog collar, 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 girls. Gotta scoot, get ready, see
ya in a few.
“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
right, that fucking maniac, drug addled, Absinth struck bad boy Baudelaire
wrote that, and how does he know…”LOOK AT
Vanity, vanity, vanity.
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.
never looked better, long, lean, bod like a whisper. I like being nearly 6 ft,
a real tower of power. 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
black silk jacket on. Normally wouldn’t wear one but, I might need to conceal
my extra Beretta clip. So always thinking ahead is Moi.
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.
a dynamite super friend, gun dealer, named Cindy R. Doll, is a brilliant writer,
tough, sweet, passionate and she’s a God woman. I think about that all the
figure if she likes me, maybe her God will like me too.
my hair kinda looks like Bijous, fluffy, soft, looks like I care.
check out my makeup, which is kinda fun. Eyebrows, hair snow white, hate using
clichés, but that’s them, heavy mascara, blue, black, tints of orange. I kinda
look like a blonde Glenda. She’s a doll Goth girl over at my favorite hangout,
The Bent Club.
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 almost invisible. Of
course, no panties, thinking ahead, you know, might need a last sec
distraction. The pink pearl always works.
have to kick it.
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.
Katy Perry cherry Chap stick there, silencer, Beretta too. I don’t figure I’ll
need an extra clip, but just in case I’m bringin’ one. I giggle, giggle,
no extra make up, no brush, comb, no golden rings,
just a loaded hand gun which is another of my favorite things.
thinking of getting my Mood Ring out
of the card board box that holds my baseball card collection, but nix that
grab my Apple I-Pod, text King that I’m on my way.
I click, click, click, (love the
heels on pine) and move to the steps, take two at a time, then “Damn.” I forgot
to do something, almost always do.
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
and Stanley 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, tap dance back to
the stairs, feeling better. I hope Stella and Stanley are enjoying themselves,
are happy. I sure know I am.
off, JANE, VEGAS PI.
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. 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.
onyx clouds, color of cordite, gun powder grey, last lightning strikes of the
storm, mimicking flames fluming out of the tip of a hand gun barrel. I see the
Vegas neon, a carrousel of colors off there, on the Strip, not far from King’s
palatial crib 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.”
down, Buick is running fine, three inch heels, ankle boots on the shot gun
seat, I’m driving barefoot, toes on the gas-pedal. Lenny Kravitz is speakin’
the truth, exactly how I feel,
moods, lots of moods, I have them all, music to fit every occasion.
take peek-a-boo at the Space Needle
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.
not comfy at all with what is going to go down tonight. 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.
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 fucking last words.
“Don’t worry about
those INJUNS, Colonel
Custer. Indians, what Indians? Just kick back, have a good time.”
EXACTLY. That’s what I’m
“I’m just saying.”
anything for granted in this violent wonder world, and yer dead, case closed,
No, thank you very fucking much.
have too many loved ones depending on me. Bijou, Angel, Stella, Stanley, my
meows, they need me. I need them.
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.
why I opted for eatery Olive over
there at the Bellagio.
the great eateries have landed in the grand hotel/casinos. They’re like a shadow
secret world, service, food, ambience no different than their sisters, brothers
in Berlin, Paris, Rome and London. But, you gotta know someone, which of course
know Mr. owner Todd English over there at Olive.
I also know the cook, and one of my buddies is the super neat French matre de,
Pierre over there.
one of those guys. Sophisticated, classic, a real comfy pro and because I speak
the lingo, and do the kiss thing on
the cheek and am always approachable, (many beautiful bitches are not) well, he
is always filled with smiles whenever Janie lights up his life, with that smile
gave him a ring-a-ding-ling earlier,
for some Rez’s.
dahling’, vas missing zee so, merci me amore, of course, nine tonight, vee are
starving. I haven’t really eaten a decent meal in days.
let’s make it special times and anyhooo, I’m dying to be adored some more.
the fuck not, I almost died trying to save an already dead little angel.
King’s Transformation from gangster to gentlemen/businessman, I, me being the
center of the world, tee hee, dragged
King out of the ghetto.
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 20,000 square foot Spanish Villa off of Desert Inn Dr.
villa was one-point-three mil. It was
two acres of primo earth, and we got the joint for five-fifty five, cash money,
on the barrel head.
because I am a 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 dirty cash came back like a clean whistle.
my buddy at the IRS can fix any
snafus, which I never expect. 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 dude’s ear.
like the flick Prizzi’s Honor.
the Prizzi’s have is forever the Prizzi’s,
especially their coin. In my
burning head, why would this Carlos monster
ever give up one million large, when
a brass cap can erase that debt, in a Scooby-Doo
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.
can already hear two 9 mil pssssts,
pssssts and see the brain matter on the tinted windows.
King, rent a limo, tell Carlos we will meet up at Olive and he better be fucking
had foo-fooed me.
held strong. He acquiesced. So tonight, its limo time and there it is, King’s
hang a left, pulse calm, temples throbbing, that Bangkok itch again. What’s
wrong with this pictureroo?
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
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. Fuck,
the color black. Reminds me of the color when you are restin’
permanent in a lead coffin, for fucking ever.
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 have preferred Rudy, or
Jamal driving, but I didn’t figure bad stuff was gonna go down in transit.
figure the shit will happen, if it does go down, at the payout, at the Mexican
guy’s super sleek, expensive crib at the Tower Condos, where he has a million-dollar
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 King’s main
posse dudes. Jamal is one of King’s Lou’s.
call their lieutenants Lou.
a trusted guy. He’s holding a tech nine, alert, now smiling. We’re buds, loves
Gosh, love seems to be everywhere
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
you are such a stud, lookin’ fine my man.”
at you Janie, you lookin’ all THAT. You goin’ take care a him?”
Jamal, you happy with what’s goin’ down?”
Janie, its fucked up, it’s what it is.”
Lieutenant Vic Garcia, my cop buddy over there at N. 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
I get a nod, bang my chest with my fist, telling him. “No problem Jamal,
nothin’ is gonna happen to our King tonight.”
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.
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
Goth 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
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
walk to the limo, get the door-opening 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, then sluice out of the place, me
wondering if I will ever see Jamal again, alive.
drive is kinda silent, few words, I don’t want to wig out King.
I fucking am.”
prob won’t need it.”
IS THAT RIGHT?
is bantered around between King and I.
JUST FUCKING GREAT.
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.
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 zee
friend of moi.”
there goes my reputation down the drain.
problema, will go the distance for King and I am hoping he is right. I don’t
know. Time will tell. It always does.
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 RV folks grazing all around. Casinos
want their money; all of it.
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 than Biloxi, Trenton, Kansas City, anytime.
of tourists and, then I imagine as if a space saucer just landed, and exiting
are US, these bubble head aliens, oddly beautiful. You know, Avatar, nine-foot
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
they’re muzzle flashes.
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.
smile, THAT SMILE.
takes my hand, kisses it. I throw down some of those brush kisses on the cheek,
do the intro of King and receive Hosannas from Pierre for me simply being ME.
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.
complaints from Moi. I am, for the moment, the axle that the world revolves on.
I’m such an idiot at times.
PLEASE, Jane, just get through
and shut your brain down, for a sec.
So, I get to it.
like Uma Thurmond’s prettier, younger sister, and with our phalange of guards,
Pierre leading the way, King and I holding hands, we cruise through the Casino
then everything gets like, well you know, gets all slow motion and such. I kind
of silence hits the place, you know,
like in the flick Un-forgiven when
William Mony walks through the bar doors 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.
get to Olive finally and enter to the
sound of china, crystal, real silver tinkling and pinging. We drop the security
at the door. The bistro is astonishingly 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
in the same
finally hit the bar, which is festooned with hanging glasses, chrome, teak, all
the bells and whistles, backlit by blue neon, hate that color. The best, best
booze on the planet is racked everywhere.
I gasp, for there he is, Carlos.
And why am I not surprised.
could have picked him out blindfolded at an Isis mass murderer line up, and in
my mind he looks like the lead slicer at the N. Vegas MetroTombs.
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.
to Carlos who’s about five-seven, obviously in his elevator black Cholo
cowboy boots, that without 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.
ahead, remember. Two plans are better than one, three is better than two. I
could go on and on, but I am sure you get the idea.
I am groaning, for he’s got this Tony Montana white suit on, a black shirt and
a white tie.
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.
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
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.
Made YA blink, tee-hee.
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.
of Earl, I wish he was fucking here, man do I ever, but he ain’t.
because seduction is my other weapon, use them all and may need them mas tarde,
I smile all dollish and such, feeling his meat in my
smile more and, then speak his lingo to him, which gets more gold, and we, as
King watches, literally seduce each other. As he oils on, I ooooh and aaaah and call him jefe.
is the word for big fucking shot in
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 anywhere near me. I’m
also thinking that King has lost his fucking mind, trusting one percent of this
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,
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.
into everything, drug trafficking, thank God King is one step away from that
hideous world. The muck moves weapons, pot, meth, ludes, X, dogs, cats, snakes
and tweeters, everything that can make him a buck; especially young girls.
campesino is into people moving, his people. He’s a coyote leading a hundred
sweet, desperate Mexican folks to melting desert deaths. They’re 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, rattlesnake bites, just for
better lives. While their relatives get
jobs as dish washers, gardeners, maids, that’s if every bone in their body
isn’t broken, flying over the wall by catapults, if they live long enough to
even do that.
about three make it because most are scooped up by the Border Patrol. Those
that do make it, end up cleaning house for some fat fuck doctor for the rest of
their lives. No gratitude, no
kindness, no sweetness, as they break tensile
steel backs for the rest of their
lives doing work that no elitist Americano would ever touch.
had this conversation with Lou Garcia before, and I can make bet on the fact
that this Carlos meat is into female
human trafficking. That’s another grift the
lieutenant told me about that just about broke my heart.
drug lords, scour the interior, border too, and then find these fourteen year
old Mexican stunning peasant 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
the doc pumps silicone bags into them. They get ‘em to the beauty parlor, cut
their locks, pluck their eyebrows, blond them out, get ‘em 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
other girls, tricked out, stunners too, get pretty shoes, for the first time,
tart whore clothes, then become border bar girls, fucking ten Americans a day.
Most of the ignorant peasant girls have never been happier, because they’re
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, they’re buried in the desert,
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.
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 sop’s hand to
fall on my naked knees. That didn’t happen, thank god, because I didn’t want to
gun him down in Pierre’s place. It could ruin a good time had by all if I did
of course, was starving, been eating donuts while I was hunting down the
missing girl, and a nervous tummy before what?
I do not know.
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 CAV game, with my animal family.
comes the crystal tulip flutes, bubbly is poured. I can hear its sizzle, hope I
don’t sneeze, and then Carlos, kinda rude, asks Pierre for a Corona as I
heard their peeing in it in Mexico, hope so. Pierre gives me the, are you fucking
kidding me look.
shrug, smile at Carlos, he grins back. His breath smells like a burning tire.
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
Fucking MEN, I’ll never
get it right.
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
trying to keep down what I did eat.
and I shared a scrumptious duo of Pan Roasted Foi gras Steak.
It was decked out with spiced
apple chutney, caramelized shallots, brioche points, amaretto froth, seasoned
with a sprinkle of Balsamic.
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 cipolin onions, which were out of this world.
almost came eating all of it.
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
couldn’t fucking believe it.
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 being such a special piece of arm candy for the night.
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
had a shrimp cocktail, and 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.
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 King’s
was, at least. The fish reminded me of a bigger, blacker, deader Stella, came
with baby artichokes, seasoned vegetable ratatouille, garlic whipped potatoes,
shaved fennel, sweetly graced with a citrus glaze. I think I might of cummed after
the first bite.
guest, of course, had a Char Grilled Rib eye, with ash-roasted fingerling
potatoes, sweet onion jam, Piquillo peppers, a port wine glaze, and of course
set off perfectly with a garlicky broccolini. The last thing the pug needed was
more garlic on his breath.
was quite something seeing the guy chow down. He did use a knife and fork on
the Rib eye, which I am sure many patrons around the restaurant were grateful
for. Now, because I am a smart girl, I kept toasting him, making sure a new
beer was there every five minutes, for the obvious reason. All the while I was pretend
sipping at the Crystal, just to
keep my brains clear. I wanted to stay Seal frosty,
sharp, in a killing mode.
never said much during the dinner, and King and he talked a lot, mostly about bidness.
black pea eyes kept darting at me all the time, to see if I was impressed,
which I smiled that I was. That
seemed to please him, a lot. His hand finally found my knee and I didn’t flick
an eyelash, smiled and raised my white eyebrows. I shook my blond hair like a
whore, laughed like a French Poodle,
knowing if bad became badder down the
line, he might just hesitate before murdering me. You know so he could rape me
later, fist fuck me while he wrapped a plastic bag around my head.
I was sure was coming up next on that menu called life.
I can’t help but not think that I am the main character in one of those Greek
Tragedy thingies, you know like Homer’s Epos “Odyssey”.
Me of course being Odysseus.
hero, cunning, a killer, warrior of the Trojan Wars and the oracles predicting
that he would never see life, home again, thus sending him on a ten-year
journey. A perilous trek through hostile lands, enemies, and I am hoping like
Odysseus I will finally reach Ithaca, alive, intact, which is my beloved loft
over Chang’s laundry. Once there, finding safe those there that love me, as I
not NOW, so I get bright, for the journey is not done. Not done by a fucking NY
the dinner, disguised as Hades, finally ended. I kept expecting King to abort
the entire thing, for you know, what was he thinking? Those warning hairs on my
arms were like a Springer-Spaniels and what the fuck was going on in his cabasa
hit up my brain.
course, Pierre copped for the meal, all of it. You know.
daling’, zee money is no good here, you are zee moonlight of our simple eatery.
Vee love zeee Jane.”
course blushed, hand kisses, cheek kisses, six C notes in his tux pocket, for
him, waiters, solmolaires, from moi, smiles, gratitude, whispers, me
embarrassed for bringing two hundred and fifty pounds of sweating sausage into
he understood, business was business and so we scooted.
I think it was King, wanted to go dancing at the Voo-Doo Lounge. I had bad
Cissy memories from that name.
COME ON. Let’s get it done
so I can get
rid of the acid burning a sink hole in my tummy.
I did one of those backhand things to my forehead, sans white gloves, pretended
I was a southern belle, instead of a gal with a heater in my clutch.
promised much dancing, maybe fucking later and corralled them to the front
door. Once there, I did not see anything that I liked; nothing at all, once out
in front of the joint, was our guy, the limousine, and behind that was a Black
Cadillac Escalade. Loitering there we’re two six-foot, 250-pound thugs,
obviously Zetas, wearing the standard mid-thigh, gangster black leather coats.
guesses what those chest bulges were? I needed only one, as I looked at King,
who was laughing at something clever Carlos had just said, you know like,
I jeeest am going to keel all
bendaho pinche white assholes, as soon as I can.
cruised up to me, still thinking of cocktails, dancing, and I guess showing me
off, spinning on heels around the disco. I grinned in absolute terror,
pretending all happy and such from a conversation that went like this. I said
nothing as he spoke.
on Janie, were kipping to Carlos’s crib.”
OH, REALLY KING?
doll, take care of bidness, get it done, my man wants to make it right.”
IS THAT SO?
finish up some bidness, so we can dance the night away. Come on, we’ll follow
‘em to the Towers Suites, won’t take a minute, let’s go.”
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, I
did not say, but the words were thundering in my head.
in the limo we go, and I sit on my tiny ass, wonderin’ about that extra clip,
King’s hand on my thigh, like buds, nothing sexual, me wondering what I can
say, to advert this madness.
decided to keep my yap shut, me staring at The Towers, super glitzy Condo sky-scraper
just a klick away, me thinking it’s going to be our tombstone and hoping it’s
gotta believe King knows what’s what. I mean he has too. He’s a little drunk,
moi, feeling like I have a cattle prod shoved up my ass. I am amped up, alert
and sipping at the bubbly.
Let’s get it over, one
way or the other.
One mil large, well its nothing, certainly my diamond bod isn’t worth that
much, it is what it is. OK.
prowl into the big circle, park in front of everything that is wrong in Vegas.
Big glitz, sky scraper tower place, lots of empty cribs, 2007 inflated prices
plummeted during that Sub Prime Mortgage Grift. It was the big bubble real
estate float, movie stars, directors, high rollers, directors paid a mil for a
couple of rooms. Great views of the Strip and street hookers, real estate
prices tanked, twenty-cents on the buck, didn’t matter to thugs like Carlos.
got money growing on Marijuana trees, mules lugging in crates of Cocaine. We
park as the black limo parks behind us. I have a plan, a last plan, as I see
those gold smiles.
three of the Zetas have gold teeth.
WELL that’s just fucking
In a chorus of good will we
hit it through the
door, the doorman grinning, valets parking our rides, chauffer parked off to
Fuck, I miss Earl, Jamal and
Rudy too. Where’s
was supposed to be a simple sit down,
easy, casual, Carlos, King, me being the stupid arm candy. Mexicanos like that
in their slut women.
keep peeking through my raccoon ringed eyes at the slabs of meat, King doesn’t
seem laid back. Too laid back.
Up, up, up we
go, elevator music, The Velvet Fog,
little lights blinking floor levels. Each ping,
ping, ping is drilling a bullet hole in my burning mind.
door opens, down the hall we happy people go.
enter the whore house, me last, of course.
just as I imagined, a real rectum of
bad taste, black leather couches, sofas, loungers, chrome everywhere. Slotted
along the bar there are lots of crystal, bottle of booze, huge window facing
the Strip lights, really dramatic, big screen TV, CD, DVDS, stuff, lots of
DVDS. I think of Eddie Jett, wonderin’ if Carlos has a cool collection of SNUFF
movies. I’m sure he’s into that
two feet from the big plate glass, there’s a backless leather bench, a small
coffee table, chrome, black leather, glass top, and there it is, a silver
aluminum Halliburton brief case. There’s always a Halliburton briefcase that
now is separating another comfy little black leather bench, rimmed in chrome.
We take our seats, and everyone is smiling, which sends a forearm shiver into
I am in a completely no-kinda-fuck-around
move to Carlos, squeeze his arm. He leaks a look up and up at me. I smile,
squeeze a bit more, ask him about the powder room, you know like Holly Go
Lightly, almost ask him for a fifty.
giving him all the signs, you know, fucking, sucking and sodomy later if he’s a
good boy. He gets it, gurgles out. “Jest there, me beautiful senorita.”
grin and almost vomit.
tell the boys not to start without me.
Wink, wink at
the body guards. They like me a lot as I lift my boot to a couch arm, hike my
little black dress to the hilt, exposing a hint of my tiny butt, and laser
beamed cunt. That’s other naked little jewel men think that they cannot live
eyes jerked, lascivious glares, I look at the guys, King’s amused. I seem to
blush, straighten and with little clutch in hand, sway into the bathroom, close
the door, slam my back against the door, hyperventilating.
on my knees, breath blasting and me trying to force blood into my brain.
pass, I move to the mirror, want to splash water on my face.
Wake up, get sharp. Get it
together, I berate myself.
mascara masking the fear in my eyes and opaque face, lips. I’m not afraid of
death, never have been. No one gets out alive in the end, but not by these
Not now, not yet, not never.
the toilet, couldn’t pee if I wanted to.
Get ready doll, yep I am, hopin’
ain’t so, so I do.
prime my silenced Beretta, shove it into my back waistband and out the door I
out into the grand living room, see the sit-down. Carlos is sitting on his
bench, coat off, behind him, black leather thigh jackets, the evil giants on
either side of him, Vegas neon twinkling innocently behind them. Thought it was
going to be a fun evening, just an exchange, loot owed, why the muscle?
is sitting on the bench in front of them. The Halliburton is on the plate
glass, me knowing when that damn thing opens there maybe will be a tuna in it,
or a phone book.
know the kind the CIA used whacking those guys in Iraq with, after they water
boarded them, which that ghoul
Rumsfeld, his Dracula buddy Cheney
said wasn’t torture. Unless of course, it was being done to you and, then it is
really is a horrendous thing.
twirl to the bench, light the room with my smile, sit, plant my three-inch
stilettos, wide stance, teasing a hint of cunt, bare legs. There goes the
skirt, eye ticks, the Zetas like us lean, us towering All American blonds.
grins, loving the show this Vegas show
girl always brings. He then chirps.
“Let’s get it on, Carlos buddy, we have dancing to do.”
I can think of is they will be dancing on King’s grave, as then Carlos grins,
that grin, and then the world falls to complete slow mo. I take a deep breath,
as the grease ball’s hands lay on
the aluminum, and two “CLICKS” reverberate through the room.
the Halliburton lid rises, as planned, I uncross my legs, do a little attention
drawing cough, as my heels plant harder on the floor, and my legs part, showing
the solar, naked flare glowing out of my cunt.
Tick, tick, tick.
clock moves as the thugs’ hands hesitate, moving into their coats, their eyes
locked on moi, HER, that pretty
golden bauble between my golden thighs.
distracted, leering too, as the briefcase slaps open to the glass, and there it
is. It’s not a tuna, but lots and lots of newspapers, and everything is closed
down, by my exposed cunt, Carlos’ hand moving behind his back.
is dead, maybe for a sec as King looks at me. I look at him, everybody looking
at my magic pussy
then “Pssssst, Pssssst, Psssst Pssssst,
Psssss,Pssssstt” sizzles through the room, me in a crouch holding my
Beretta with one hand, prefer two,
didn’t have time.
Zip, zip, zip,
six bullet holes in their foreheads, chests, Carlos slammed back onto the
floor, on his side, the lug nuts
behind him dead before they hit the floor. The stunning view of the Vegas
lights is now abolished by blood, brain matter, arterial spray from a throat
shot and shards of skull as they paint the window opaque red.
looks at me, I smile, blow the smoke from my silencer tip. Cute I am as I do an
Annie Oakley twirl with my Beretta and stand. I look at King, with you know, my
usual perfect, ego driven smile, saying silently.
I WAS FUCKING RIGHT!
wanting to rub it in, It’s King’s b-day after all, but a little mirth never
hurts, as I purr.
who’s your daddy now, King?”
grins, looks at me, smiles.
your bitch doll, you are the Bong,
how’d ya know, Janie?”
smile, say something like let’s gab later.
call King over as I move to Carlos and hover over him, Beretta still ready. And
absolutely not wanting any more blood on my hands, or my Marc Jacobs, we might
go dancing later, still want to look pretty. I kick Carlos over.
fucker groans, Psssst, Psssst, two in the forehead, som dude lotso killing.
smiles, I blush.
just as I thought. There’s a 45, military US Marine issue, stuck in the back of
his waistband. The Zetas love those gats.
actually want to Boink King on the
top of his noggin, just for gettin’ US
into this mess.
I don’t. Birthdays should be fun, as he whispers to me. “Geesh, they was goin’
to whack us.”
NO FUCKING KIDDING.
nod to and move to The Muscle, flip their jackets open with the tip of my
silencer, exposing silenced Glocks nesting in their Velcro cages.
looks at me, I look at him. He leans in, grabs me, gang hugs me, a lot. I’m
happy, as he whispers some respect,
gratitude and love to me. Which as the bitch queen of the world that I am,
I accept, for I love hosannas, especially after a job is well done.
away from him, and without any smug, I say.
on the cell, get Jamal, Rudy, some cleaning guys, get ’em here pronto. You
know, mops, buckets, hack saws, some plastic, some golf bags, come on, let’s
snoop. Bet ya there’s some presents in the bedroom.”
I love presents.
nods, I’m in charge, hits up his cell and gets the machine moving as I click
into the bedroom, loving the sound of my stilettos on the faux paux pine floor.
mentioned before, snooping around is one of my fav things.
Let’s see, where do gangsters
Duh, under the fucking bed
OH MY GOD, no
one would ever dream of looking under the bed, which now on my hands and knees
I am about to do as King moseys in.
my skirt hiked around my waist, bare ass shining to the world, I turn my head
and see King staring at my ass. I am complimented, give him a wry stare. He
smiles, shrugs his shoulders, me thinking, because I am so jacked up, I might
give him a birthday fuck later. I will think on that, and there they are, two
aluminum Halliburton brief cases.
Geeesh, I gotta check Halliburton’s
stock on my online Schwab trading account.
I pull them out, stand and slap
them on the
sidles up alongside of me. I wish there were red ribbons on the briefcases, me remembering
those folks at the mall, with the ribbons and cards and all.
Click, Click, Click”
cases are opened, and my goodness that is a lot of hundred dollar bills.
figure a million buckaroos, and OH MY
GOODNESS, there must be about ten kilos of pure Colombian crank in the
other, in sealed plastic bags. Just the kind I am sure Carlos and his buddies
were going to wrap my face with as they gang
raped me and, then murdered me.
looks at the slag, me, the slag.
places his muscled arm around my bare shoulders. We’re really good buds, and
because he knows he’s breathin’ because of me, and I swear I see a tear. I
realize that man it’s time for him to
get out. I mean NOW.
know he’s lost his edge as he whispers, “Shit Janie, I’m sorry, I fucked up,
what was I thinkin’? Fuck baby, what can I say, thank you doll.”
to the fingers, hands clutched, extended, staring at my black beauty. I ditch
the attitude, no one is perfect, were friends, more than that, bro and sis. I
nod, smile and, then whisper, “Are you going to take me dancing, or what the
see real tears, as he smiles, nods, and roars in laughter.
fucking ALL THAT, more, come on, lets scoot, I love ya, you know that, right
baby, lets boogie, I feel like dancing tonight.”
grins. We slap the Halliburton’s closed. King takes the drugs, I take the
doesn’t say a word, he knows I will do good with it.
turn, move out of the bordello, to the door, peek back at the dead, know the
world, MY world, KING’S world
is back in balance.
exit, scoot down the hall, smack the elevator button and see the hall security
video cameras, not a worry in the world. For after King’s crew is done sawing,
packing, sweeping, mopping up the trash, no one will ever know zip, about zip.
of course is how Moi saw it all going down from the get go.
For after all, I am Me, Jane, Vegas PI.
j brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists
them. It's simple for j, for it’s never what you have already written, but what
you are going to write next. Contact info: firstname.lastname@example.org