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The Last Meal of Laughing Boy Reilly-Fiction by Jason Butkowski
Miss Pearl-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Vegas, Napalm Strike-Fiction by j. brooke
Favorites-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Salton Sea-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
We Must Never Find Out-Fiction by Sam Graham
Collateral Damage-Fiction by Jim Farren
Radiant Night-Fiction byPauline Duchesneau
Late Returns-Fiction by P. K. Augustyn
Bad Influences-Fiction by Marci McKim
Where My Fathers-Fiction by Willie Smith
Nothing I Could Do-Fiction by Brian J. Smith
The Magician-Flash Fiction by Jon Park
Sky Toucher-Falsh Fiction by Jerry Vilhotti
Dark Morning-Flash Fiction by M. G. Allen
What Might Happen in Vegas-Flash Fiction by Bill Baber
San Mateo County Easter Egg Hunt-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Doing Some Resaearch-Poem by Roy Dorman
A Lack of Rain-Poem by Michael Keshigian
In Traffic-Poem by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Distinguished Souls-Poem by J. J. Campbell
The Ghosts of Murdered Children-Poem by J. J. Campbell
Digging Season-Poem by Christopher Hivner
Sometimes the Light is My Enemy-Poem by Christopher Hivner
Char-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Gone Feral-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Rat Tamer-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Imaginary Hedgehogs-Poem by Michelle Hartman
I Knew Him when He was Six-Poem by Michelle Hartman
A Reason for Everything-Poem by Michelle Hartman
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

vegasnapalmstrike.jpg
Art by L. A. Barlow © 2018

VEGAS, NAPALM STRIKE…

j. brooke

It’s Sunday, and I’m beat to hell.

Last 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.

I coulda burned down Eddie Jett, but I didn’t, cause death was too good for the fuck.

Anyhooo, 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 beautiful.

Last on that.

I have the mother, the sick dad and the doc who butchered her on my CAN’T WAIT LIST.

I’m looking forward to that.

Got 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.

So, 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.

I got a bidness thingy with King tomorrow night, and none of this thing tells me I will be alive after.

King, 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.

OH, MOI?

I’m 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.

Love 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 arms.

I have the sex drive of a sixteen-year-old Mississippi Pom Pom girl.

MY BAD.

Anyhooo, 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.

A 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.

One down the gullet, two in the heart.

It was the first gun I had ever owned, and the first man of pure evil I had ever killed.

Neither would be the last.

After, 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.

I also educated myself every chance I got, learned languages, hit up museums, read hundreds of books, until one morning I woke ashamed.

I 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.

The 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.

So, I WHAT’S SUP WITH THAT me.

I 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.

I 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.

So, 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.

So that’s who I am.

I’m always trying to be a better girl, a nicer girl, often fail, but I am trying.

Anyhow, back to King.

I got King legit, almost. He’s almost there.

In 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.

I respect him, of course, for he’s never run whores, hurt kids, women, or dogs. He has this kinda loco honor system about broads.

OK, 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.

Tonight, 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.

I’m 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.

And Moi 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 plan ahead.

I think I mentioned that before.

So, 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. 

Real 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.

He 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?

They 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.

Seems 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 the slag.

So, 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.

Make 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.

Of course, all the rockets, flares and Hydrogen bombs detonating in my big brain, tell me that nothing is ever as it seems.

I then ask him. “Why not just take Earl?”

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.”

Maybe, his last in my mind.

“But King, they’re fucking monst…”

“It’s all good, Janie.”

He 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.

So, because he wants these maniacs to have some eye-candy for the night, he asks me.

“Can ya Janie, look all dollish tonight? For me?”

King, no dummy, wants me there for another reason.

Janie, just be there. You know, with that secret you’s carry in yer rhinestone clutch, just in case.

I like none of it, but what’s a girl to do, he’s my bud, and well, I just can’t say no.

I reluctantly agree, feeling my tiny toes curl in my steel toed boots. I tell him not to dress just yet.

Over 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.

“Come on, I have something for you.” I kiss him on the lips, he likes that.

I’m creaming, just waiting to give it to him.

Earlier 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.

Then, I had copped him a black Baroni suit. Two gees baby.

Added on a Calvin Klein pure white linen shirt, a red Steven Land neck tie, the kind you can make a Contrast Knot with, very chic.

To 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.

Since 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.

And, 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.

You know, birthdays, births, weddings, abortions and even had one for condolences.

You 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.

And that got me to thinkin’, me being the entrepreneur that I am. How about a card for fucking, you know.

“Dear June, great fuckin’ last night, 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.

Heck, you could do every sport. It seems like a swell idea. I will call Hallmark when I get home, see if they bite.

King 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.

I 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 home.

So that brings me to Moi, always a very important thing, especially for tonight.

I 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.

Which I can drop a dime on it at any time.

I 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.

I 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.

I 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.

“CLANG.” It locks.

I’m pretty happy, and why not. Me Jane, and that’s a good thing.

 “YIIISH.” I’m fucking traumatized, as six hours later, I’m lugging all this stuff back, bags, and bags of the stuff into my loft.

The 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.

Back 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.

I 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.

 “GULP.” Tequila, being the great leveler, nerves bending back, calms me a little bit.

I 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.

So, 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 swimming in the tank. They’re reading A Streetcar Named Desire, which I turn a page on every day.

I 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.

“Yelp, Yelp. Yelp.”

 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 face”….…

That’s right, that fucking maniac, drug addled, Absinth struck bad boy Baudelaire wrote that, and how does he know…”LOOK AT ME.”

Vanity, vanity, vanity.

But, 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.

Legs 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 & Gabbana 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.

No 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.

Have 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 time.

I figure if she likes me, maybe her God will like me too.

Don’t know.

Anyhoo, my hair kinda looks like Bijous, fluffy, soft, looks like I care.

I 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.

See, 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.

OK, have to kick it.

I 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.

OK, 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.

Am thinking of getting my Mood Ring out of the card board box that holds my baseball card collection, but nix that idea.

I grab my Apple I-Pod, text King that I’m on my way.

I click, click, click, (love the sound of heels on pine) and move to the steps, take two at a time, then “Damn.” I forgot to do something, almost always do.

So, 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 less fingernail.

Stella 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.

Signing 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. 

Dusk, 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.”

Top 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.

I take peek-a-boo at the Space Needle casino.

It’s 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.

I’m 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.

Because 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 talking about.

“I’m just saying.”

Take anything for granted in this violent wonder world, and yer dead, case closed, story over.

No, thank you very fucking much.

I have too many loved ones depending on me. Bijou, Angel, Stella, Stanley, my meows, they need me. I need them.

Now 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.

That’s why I opted for eatery Olive over there at the Bellagio.

All 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 I do.

I 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.

He’s 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 of hers.

I gave him a ring-a-ding-ling earlier, for some Rez’s.

“Jane dahling’, vas missing zee so, merci me amore, of course, nine tonight, vee are honored.”

I’m starving. I haven’t really eaten a decent meal in days.

So, let’s make it special times and anyhooo, I’m dying to be adored some more.

Why the fuck not, I almost died trying to save an already dead little angel.

DURING King’s Transformation from gangster to gentlemen/businessman, I, me being the center of the world, tee hee, dragged King out of the ghetto.

Why?

Because 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.

The 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.

Now, 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.

Anyhooo, 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.

It’s like the flick Prizzi’s Honor.

What 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 minute.

Chit-chatted King up earlier, just checkin’ facts. I had to groan. I couldn’t believe my ears. King wanted all of us to drive over there, Jamal, one of his lieutenants driving his bullet-proof black Caddie Escalade.

NOPE, SORRY.

I can already hear two 9 mil pssssts, pssssts and see the brain matter on the tinted windows.

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

King had foo-fooed me.

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

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

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

Gate open, pull in, circle drive, cruise past the Yosemite Park that came with the crib. Park, there’s King’s Black Escalade, a Black 364 Beemer, black Hummer. Fuck, the color black.  Reminds me of the color when you are restin’ permanent in a lead coffin, for fucking ever.

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

I 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 crib set.

Anyhooo, grab my Marc Jacobs ankle boots, slip them on, six-foot two, grab my gun clutch and open the door. Practicing being lady like, I step out, slip on my jacket, feeling beautiful, sexy, pretty, slutty, edgy, aware. I get a big smile from Jamal. He’s this tall, black dynamite looking kid, who is one of King’s main posse dudes. Jamal is one of King’s Lou’s.

Cops call their lieutenants Lou.

Jamal’s a trusted guy. He’s holding a tech nine, alert, now smiling. We’re buds, loves me too.

Gosh, love seems to be everywhere tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

“YEAH, it is.”

Like 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 people.

So, I get a nod, bang my chest with my fist, telling him. “No problem Jamal, nothin’ is gonna happen to our King tonight.”

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

Were eye to eye, he takes my hands, does some stellar gazing from the tip of my pointed toe heels, then way, way up my legs. That’s a long way I assure you. I have my gold Latina cross on a thin chain as he looks at my new makeup styled-out face. Which I mentioned is so featureless, wheaten lips, except for my Glenda 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 see.

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

We walk to the limo, get the door-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.

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

Yer packin’ Jane?

“Yes, I fucking am.”

“Ya prob won’t need it.”

IS THAT RIGHT?

Trust is bantered around between King and I.

JUST FUCKING GREAT.

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

Already gave Pierre a honk, told him about this Carlos. I can’t wait to see this piece of work. Pierre said, “No problem Mademoiselle Jane, zee friend of zee, is zee friend of moi.”

Great, there goes my reputation down the drain.

No problema, will go the distance for King and I am hoping he is right. I don’t know. Time will tell. It always does.

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

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

Lots 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 blue people.

As the driver springs the door, I step out, a zillion yards of legs, followed by King. A hush, along with jaw drops stun the tourists that are gawking at Moi, hopefully. I literally see cell phone flashes detonate all around us that make me tick my hand on my clutch, thinking they’re muzzle flashes.

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

I smile, THAT SMILE.

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

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

No complaints from Moi. I am, for the moment, the axle that the world revolves on.

LOL. I’m such an idiot at times.

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

 So, I get to it.

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Feeling 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

And, 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.

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

We 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.

I 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.

I do the kiss-cheek thing with Pierre and tell him to hang for a sec. He bows. I love to be bowed at. I hand him my black blazer, and of course that cements every stare in the joint at me. I am not surprised, but I am Jane and don’t take it seriously. That’s not saying that I don’t dig it. I still love the fact that I can turn multiple eyeballs, just because I’m me.

Back to Carlos who’s about five-seven, obviously in his elevator black Cholo cowboy boots, that 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.

Plan 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.

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

REALLY.

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

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

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

I smile.

Made YA blink, tee-hee.

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

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

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

I 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.

That is the word for big fucking shot in Mexican.

As the spud tells me what a big PLAYA he is, how phat he is with money I’m wonderin’ if I can get my tuna tartar down with him anywhere near me. I’m also thinking that King has lost his fucking mind, trusting one percent of this monster.

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

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

He’s 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.

The 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.

Then 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.

I’ve 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.

The 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 border towns.

Then 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 sheet.

The 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, fucking forever.

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

He set us down in this leather booth, me not in the middle, I don’t like being in a cage. Carlos sat between King and me. I was waiting for the 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 that.

I, of course, was starving, been eating donuts while I was hunting down the missing girl, and a nervous tummy before what?

What? I do not know.

Then, and presto-chango, there’s a waiter and Pierre, like a hawk in his tux is standing at attention next to him. Next to Pierre there’s a silver tureen, ice chips, and a bottle of Crystal chilling in it. Something I wish I was doing at home watching the CAV game, with my animal family.

Out 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 groan. 

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

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

Fucking MEN, I’ll never get it right.

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

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

King and I shared a scrumptious duo of Pan Roasted Foi gras Steak.

YUMMY.

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

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

I almost came eating all of it.

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

BUT REALLY, is this what King wanted?

I couldn’t fucking believe it.

He seemed to be enjoying himself, so not wanting to put the screwy on HIS night I pretended that Carlos was Javier Bardin. I rodeoed up, and tried to enjoy my meal, that’s the least I could do for my black stud, me being such a special piece of arm candy for the night.

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

Carlos had a shrimp cocktail, 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.

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

Our 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.

It 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.

I never said much during the dinner, and King and he talked a lot, mostly about bidness.

Carlos’ 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.

Which I was sure was coming up next on that menu called life.

Anyhooo, 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.

The 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 love them.

But not NOW, so I get bright, for the journey is not done. Not done by a fucking NY minute.

Focus. OK.

Sooo, 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.

NADA. Obviously.

Of course, Pierre copped for the meal, all of it. You know.

“Jane daling’, zee money is no good here, you are zee moonlight of our simple eatery. Vee love zeee Jane.”

I of 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 his chateau.

But he understood, business was business and so we scooted.

King, 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.

So, 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.

I 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 the door.

Parked 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.

Three 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 of you bendaho pinche white assholes, as soon as I can.

NOT.

King 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.

“Come on Janie, were kipping to Carlos’s crib.”

OH, REALLY KING?

Yeah doll, take care of bidness, get it done, my man wants to make it right.”

IS THAT SO?

“Yeah, 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.

SO, 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.

I 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 not.

I 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.

We 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.

They 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.

All three of the Zetas have gold teeth.

WELL that’s just fucking SWELL.

 In a chorus of good will we hit it through the door, the doorman grinning, valets parking our rides, chauffer parked off to the side.

Fuck, I miss Earl, Jamal and Rudy too. Where’s the love?

It 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.

I 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.

“CA-CHING.”

The door opens, down the hall we happy people go.

We enter the whore house, me last, of course.

It’s 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 too.

About 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 my cunt.

I am in a completely no-kinda-fuck-around mood.

I 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.

I’m 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.”

I grin and almost vomit.

I 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 without…

All 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.

Hands on my knees, breath blasting and me trying to force blood into my brain.

Moments pass, I move to the mirror, want to splash water on my face.

Wake up, get sharp. Get it fucking together, I berate myself.

Black 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 ghouls.

Not now, not yet, not never.

Flush the toilet, couldn’t pee if I wanted to.

Get ready doll, yep I am, hopin’ it ain’t so, so I do.

“CLICK.”

I prime my silenced Beretta, shove it into my back waistband and out the door I go

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Walk 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?

King 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.

You 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 horrific torture. 

Drowning really is a horrendous thing.

I 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.

King 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.”

DANCING. REALLY?

All 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.

As 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.

The 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.

Carlos 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.

“Tick, Tick, Tick.”

Time is dead, maybe for a sec as King looks at me. I look at him, everybody looking at my magic pussy

And 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.

King 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! LOOK! 

Not wanting to rub it in, It’s King’s b-day after all, but a little mirth never hurts, as I purr.

“Well, who’s your daddy now, King?”

King grins, looks at me, smiles.

“I’m your bitch doll, you are the Bong, how’d ya know, Janie?”

I smile, say something like let’s gab later.

I 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.

The fucker groans, Psssst, Psssst, two in the forehead, som dude lotso killing.

Link smiles, I blush.

BINGO, just as I thought. There’s a 45, military US Marine issue, stuck in the back of his waistband. The Zetas love those gats.

I actually want to Boink King on the top of his noggin, just for gettin’ US into this mess.

But I don’t. Birthdays should be fun, as he whispers to me. “Geesh, they was goin’ to whack us.”

NO FUCKING KIDDING.

I 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.

King 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.

I break away from him, and without any smug, I say.

“Get 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.

King 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.

As mentioned before, snooping around is one of my fav things.

Let’s see, where do gangsters keep their slag?

Duh, under the fucking bed of course.

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.

With 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 bed.

King 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, Click”

Both cases are opened, and my goodness that is a lot of hundred dollar bills.

I 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.

King looks at the slag, me, the slag.

He 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.

I 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.”

I go 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 fuck?”

I see real tears, as he smiles, nods, and roars in laughter.

“Your fucking ALL THAT, more, come on, lets scoot, I love ya, you know that, right Janie?”

“Ditto baby, lets boogie, I feel like dancing tonight.”

He grins. We slap the Halliburton’s closed. King takes the drugs, I take the money.

He doesn’t say a word, he knows I will do good with it.

We 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.

We 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.

Which 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: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com






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