This is the song that I wrote for my blog on
Myspace.com. I wrote it after reading something on another member's
profile that inspired me. What I read was this quote: "Most of us die
with songs still inside us". I decided right then and there that I was
going to write a song, so that someday when I die, I will be able to do
so with the knowledge that I got the chance to get at least one of my
songs out. As luck would have it, this is the song that caught the
attention of another user, by the name of Magdalena Oslizlok. She wrote
a comment underneath it, and I replied to her by email. One thing led
to another, and now we are married. Isn't life funny? Because I wrote
this song, I was able to meet my soulmate. Therefore, I thought it
fitting that it should be the first entry on my writing page. So here
it is, "Salty Rain", the song that changed my life. Enjoy.
Salty Rain
The salty rain is coming,
The thunder's in my heart
I feel the tempest stirring now,
Feel it tear-ing me a-part.
Regret is hard to live with,
So I have to make a change,
Have to put my dreams before my fears,
Have to take hold of those reins.
CHORUS:
[ Relentless, salty rain, heavy with regret, ]
[ Reminds me of the things so wrong I haven't righted yet; ]
[ I feel the rain, I taste the pain, salty on my cheeks, ]
[ I wonder when this pain will end, I haven't slept in weeks. ]
So what am I afraid of?
I just can't rightly say;
Gotta grit my teeth and carry on,
Can't waste another day.
If we live in fear, then we die alone,
And that don't sit right with me;
Gotta plant my feet and make a stand,
Gotta set my troubles free.
CHORUS
When we lose our dreams, we lose ourselves,
Can't let our lives get dull, oh no;
Gotta polish till it gleams, oh yeah,
Cause we got so far to go.
Relentless, salty rain, flowing now so free,
Reminds me of the times now past, of how things used to be;
I feel the rain, and taste the joy, now that I'm back in the race,
I hope this feeling never ends, salty rain run down my face.
Salty rain run down,
Run down,
Run down!
Salty rain run down my face.
The Ballad Of
The Loneliest Princess
I WROTE THIS AS AN ASSIGNMENT
FOR A POETRY CLASS ON MARCH 02, 1999. THE ASSIGNMENT WAS TO GO OUT,
FIND A TABLOID (IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, I CHOSE "THE STAR") AND WRITE
A BALLAD ABOUT ONE OF THE STORIES IN IT. THIS BALLAD IS ABOUT CHELSEA
CLINTON. I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT :)
The
Ballad Of The Loneliest Princess
She’s alone in a tower,
of her father’s design,
In a place that they call
ZAP Hall;
Where 6 knights attend
her, and if need be defend her;
For her would they gladly
give all.
Alone in her room, with
her thoughts of despair,
She’s lost all desire to
fight;
She surrenders to pain,
borne of mis’ry and shame;
Of a wrong that her
father can’t right.
[ Chorus: ]
[ She’s crying for help,
with a silenced voice, ]
[ Her heart’s inner
burden is great; ]
[ It is said that she
spends, no more time with her friends; ]
[ For her grief is too
heavy a weight. ]
Her father, the king, has
fallen from grace,
He strayed much too far
from the path;
Her old, joyful self,
sits alone on the shelf;
A victim of gossip’s cold
wrath.
From court is she absent,
from society hidden,
Fallen from wounds made
by shame;
Her knights can’t defend
her, from judgements they render;
From their jealousy,
envy, and blame.
Chorus
So I bid her to stand,
firm in her purpose,
Do not give up this fight!
In the future, you see, a
queen shall you be;
Wipe despair, like a
tear, from your sight.
You’re not to blame, for
the king’s dishonor,
So flee from this tower’s
thick walls;
Come back to the light,
and re-gain your might;
And give answer to
Destiny’s call.
Chorus
Return to the court, and
embrace your friends,
They’re all there,
waiting to lead you;
Back to the fold, Oh
Prin-cess I’m told;
Your friends back at
Stanford, they need you.
Princess Chelsea, I bid
you, come out of your shell,
Don’t let the chance pass
you by;
In time, so they say, all
the pain goes away;
And your heart forgets
how to cry.
Chorus / End Of Ballad
Tartuffe
Optional Ending (In Couplets)
ANOTHER CLASS ASSIGNMENT:
WRITE THE "ENDING" FOR TARTUFFE, I.E., THE SCENE WHERE TARTUFFE MUST
"FACE THE MUSIC" BEFORE THE KING AND PLEAD HIS CASE.
KING So,
this is Tartuffe, we meet at last, sir knave.
OFFICER [To TARTUFFE]
Bow to thy knee, tell us of thy crimes so grave.
TARTUFFE [To the KING]
Wouldst that I could beg your grace to hear my plea,
Near to my heart was Orgon’s place, as ‘twas his family;
Yet, filled they were with the malady of Greed,
And of strong teachings were they greatly in need;
What I did serv’d not malice, but piety instead,
For the love of money is a love Angels dread;
Thus, ‘twas money I took, and property,
So that un-laden with Greed, God’s Grace would they see;
I would have returned it all, when the sickness abated,
For Grace and Kindness within me are mated.
I knowest thy mind, oh wise and gracious King,
Thy wisdom and judgment to the land doth Justice bring;
But I am caught before my plan is unfolded,
Indeed I deserve by thy Royal Grace to be scolded;
But humbly I beg, deserve I no dungeon, --
KING [To TARTUFFE, angrily]
This nonsense is making me late for my luncheon!
To think on thy crime, and on thy false verbosity,
Shall thee have ample time, here ends this atrocity!
English
Translation: Rocio, a poem by Gabriela Mistral.
THIS IS ANOTHER CLASS
ASSIGNMENT. IT'S MY ATTEMPT AT AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION OF A POEM BY
GABRIELA MISTRAL, WHOSE ORIGINAL POEM WAS IN SPANISH. ENJOY.
Rocio ("Dew")
This was a rose, a rose
Ripe with dew, the wet, soft kiss of the morn,
This was my breast, my breast
With my child, my gift, my son newly born;
She folds up all of her petals,
Draws it near, so safely held tight,
Turns away from the wind,
Lest something so dear be allowed
To slip from her might;
For 'twas granted to her from above,
From the infinite, holy domain;
The task is now hers, to her does it fall,
From breathing must she now refrain.
Her good fortune requires this of her,
Remain still, as still as can be,
Among all the roses, there are certainly none
So completely fulfilled as is she.
Pals
A Short Story by Chris Altnau
WARNING: The following short story contains ADULT LANGUAGE, ADULT
SITUATIONS and VIOLENCE. It is intended for mature readers. If you are
not 18 years of age, or if you are offended by these types of
materials, STOP READING NOW. I have provided a crest button below so
that you can return to the main menu without having to scroll through
the story. Otherwise, scroll down, keep reading, and enjoy this little
film noiresque tale.
I opened the beer and handed it to Tucker. He looked like he needed it, all nervous as Hell, twitchin’ around and shit. He was always this twitchy little fuck, but today he was worse than usual. He had been fidgeting around and whining like a school-girl for the better part of an hour. It was prob’ly that business with Stone. I lit a cigarette, and tossed the pack and the lighter on the coffee table. As I leaned back against the sofa and took that first, best drag, I realized that he was probably going put this shit off on me. I was always solving his problems for him, so why should this time be any different? So I told him to calm the fuck down. If this white boy wanted my help, he was not going to carry on like a little bitch.
“Calm? How the Hell am I supposed to stay calm, bro?” Tucker whined, “I’m into Stone for two points. And you know what he says about people payin’ him back...”
He had a point. Everybody knew. Stone was always saying it. “You either pay him back in cash, or you pay him back in blood.” As I said it, I could not hold back a big-ass smile.
Everyone on the block had heard him say that a thousand times. Only the suckers believed it. Stone was as tough as they come, but as far as I knew, Stone never killed nobody. The worst thing I ever seen him do was break Bobby Franks’ fingers with a hammer; they was smashed up so bad, the doctor was forced to cut ‘em off. What’s the word they use? Ampucate? Well, whatever the doctors call it, I call it Bobby Franks havin’ to learn how to wipe his ass with his left hand. Man, that’s gotta suck. Big time. And I knew that Tucker, being a whiny bitch and all, would be screaming like a girl long before Stone ever touched him. Tucker wasn’t cut out for all that tough-guy shit. All it took with him was a threat.
Tucker was a bully; he picked on old women, mostly. His favorite pastime was what he liked to call “punch and grab”. He would walk up to some old lady in the park with a roll of quarters in his fist; then he would tap the bitch on the shoulder. When she turned around, he would deck her hard. Then he would just yank her purse out of her hands and walk away, while she was still dazed. One time he actually knocked one old lady out cold. But even with weak old ladies, he used a roll of quarters, like he was scared to try it otherwise.
But as bad as it made him look to the rest of us, I got to admit that his style worked, because not one of those bitches ever turned his ass in to the cops. They were all scared to death of him. That’s why I was smiling. The look in his eyes right now must be the same look he got from his park ladies.
“Why you smilin’ man? This is serious. Stone’s gonna’ eat my my lunch when he hears I lost his two points.”
It was his fault, so I let him know it. “You the dumb ass that let Johnny Four-Eyes in on the deal. I told you that boy was stupid.”
“Naw, naw, naw. That ain’t what I remember. You said he was your home boy, man. You said you and him was tight. You said he was down, man.”
“Yeah, he down, but I also remember tellin’ you that he wasn’t good at nothin’ except screwin’ up. I remember telling you specifically not to trust the dude with money. Reason he can’t pay his rent is because he’s always blowin’ it on the horses. He’s Poncho’s favorite little bitch. Poncho says that Johnny’s like money in the bank, a bookie’s dream. He says Johnny hasn’t picked a single winner in over three years. You think I’d trust someone like that to run my shit? Hell no. If you wanna’ play some Nintendo, and throw back some cold ones, Johnny’s your man, he’s down with that. And that’s cool, bro. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. But the instant you start messin’ around with the serious stuff, you better count him out. That boy ain’t got no sense when it comes to business.”
Tucker knew I was right. But the bitch still wouldn’t calm his ass down. “Well, all he had to do was take the money over to Mike’s. Mike don’t live half a block up the fuckin’ street. All he had to do was wait until about 10 or so, when the cops are all busy chasin’ off the hookers, and walk through the back yard of the old Anderson place, show up at Mike’s, and make the trade. I never expected him to try it in broad daylight. I never thought he’d be dumb enough to walk down the sidewalk in plain view, and I sure as Hell never expected him to wave.”
Johnny Four-Eyes was a screw-up. Everyone knew it. The dumb-ass had been carrying half a kilo of coke in a duffle bag in broad daylight, walking down the street on his way back from Mike’s, like it was nothing. A cop car rolled by, and would have kept on going, but the dumb little punk waved as the cop went by. He was trying to act cool, but the cop misread him. Instead of a friendly “how ya doin’” wave, the cop thought Johnny was flagging him down. The cop pulled over to see what he wanted, and the idiot started running. It was all downhill from there. Rumor was that Johnny wasn’t talking, and that would mean at least 10 years. Drug laws were harsh in Arkansas, ever since they started all that “tough on drugs” crap back in ‘94. You could get 20 years easy, even on your first offense, depending on the situation. But at least the bitch knew better than to talk. That was the one screw-up that was unforgivable. People who talked wound up dead, sooner or later; and most of the time, it was sooner.
I chuckled and took a sip of his beer. “Well, the fact is he did, and you the one left holdin’ the bag. You should have never borrowed that kind of money, especially from a guy like Stone. What you know about settin’ up a deal, anyway? This ain’t acid or weed we’re talkin’ about here. You and Johnny were in way over your heads. Instead of borrowing the money and makin’ the deal yourselves, you should have just told Stone about Mike’s offer, and let Stone make the deal, and collected a finder’s fee for your trouble. Stone ain’t got no problems about takin’ care of people who help him out. I bet he would have given you at least half a point for the tip-off. And Johnny’s ass wouldn’t be in jail, and you wouldn’t be sitting here whining to me about how much trouble you’re in with Stone. Somebody need to slap some sense into you.”
I could tell by the look on Tucker’s face that I had just pissed him off good; but he knew I was right, and he kept his mouth shut, so I didn’t say anything. If there was one thing I had to give that boy credit for, it was that he knew his place. He gave me the respect I deserved, and never gave me no lip about nothing, and that’s a hard thing for a gang-banger to do, especially a white boy. White boys, in my experience, always seemed to be on some kind of power trip, like they was 10 feet tall and bulletproof. That’s why so many of them ended up dead. But Tucker was different. I was the leader, and he was the troops, and he realized that; and it was because of that reason right there that I had let his ass into the gang. I knew that Tucker would be loyal, and that’s important, because on the streets, you have to trust your bros with your life. So we beat the fuck out of him for about ten minutes, and when the initiation was over, he was our bro. I pulled my punches, because I recognized how useful someone like Tucker would be. Lucky thing, too, because out of all the south-side Bloods in Little Rock, I hit the hardest. If I hadn’t pulled my punches, he might not have made it in. But I was glad he did. His sense of loyalty made up for his physical weakness. He was down with us, and that was that.
“Ok, little bro,” I told him, “I’m going to get you outta’ this.” And I really meant that, too; while he had been whining, I had already come up with a plan. “We gonna’ steal a car.”
“Just one? We can’t do it with just one, dude. Not unless it’s something sweet, high profile or some shit. And you know how Dozer gets about high profile cars. He don’t pay out so good on high profiles because they’re so hard to fence. All that custom shit lowers the pay-out. What kind of car you talkin’ about?”
“Relax,” I told him. “It ain’t high profile, but it’s sweet. I saw it while I was walking to Wal-Mart yesterday. Some old man, just moved into Old Town, over on Bellchase. From the looks of it, he lives alone. Probably a widower or some shit. Anyway, he drives a late model Beamer. Maybe a ‘97 or ‘98 model, I ain’t sure. Little white one with a sun roof. Old fart gots to be loaded. A car like that is worth what? 40K retail?”
If there was one thing that Tucker was an expert on, it was cars. I knew a little, but Tucker was the man when it came to details. He had all the makes and models memorized. “Well,” he said, “that’s what the upper 3 series goes for brand new. Used, I’d say you’re only looking at about 25, maybe 28 tops. Keep in mind that’s a car dealer’s price. Dozer’s price would be lower, say 18 to 20. That’s if the thing is tip top. I’m talkin’ pristine. And since Dozer only buys at 25 percent, I’d say we could get 5 to 6 points for it, tops. Probably closer to 5. How’s it look?”
I grinned at him, ear to ear. “Sweet, bro. You know how old people treat their cars. Looks like a garage car, from what I saw. Either that, or the old man pampers it. I got a pretty good look at it while the old man was busy yelling at the carpet guy. Either way, I’d call it mint. And for helping you jack it, my price is 2.”
Tucker scratched his head, running through the numbers in his mind. “That sounds more than fair bro, but I need to know the exact make and model. Those numbers I threw out are just guesses. I gotta’ know the details to be sure.”
“Well, I wrote down the numbers. Hope I remembered it right.” I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, and opened it up, calling out the numbers on it. “328-IS. That sound right?”
It was Tucker’s turn to grin. “328 is the top of the series, bro. Now think hard, ‘cause this is important.”
“Ok.” My groove was on. I was hyped.
“Were the headlights open, or glass covered?”
“Covered, man. They was covered.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” If there was one thing I was careful about, it was detail. Details often meant the difference between getting away and getting busted.
Tucker clapped his hands together. “Hot damn, bro, you were right. ‘97 is the first year they covered the headlights. If it’s in as good condition as you say it is, then the prices I told you before are right on the money. Damn, what a great stroke of luck. With the 5 points we get from Dozer, you’ll get your two, Stone can have his two back, and that leaves me a cool grand in the clear. Par-tay time, bro. I can definitely deal with that. Sure wish I had that coke though...”
“Now look, white boy,” I told him, “Don’t go gettin’ your head in the clouds. How much of that shit you think you could’ve dumped on the street before you got caught? The cops would have taken you down instead of Johnny. Either that, or some Crip would have found out what you had, and capped you for it. You need to stay away from all that, man. Like I said, it’s better to let other people take the risks. The profits are smaller, but your ass ain’t gonna’ end up rotting in jail, either. How do you think I got where I am today?”
Tucker chuckled. “So jacking this guy’s Beamer isn’t what you consider a risk?”
Good, I mused, noticing his improved attitude. He seemed to be relaxing a bit. Now we could get down to the business of planning our little break-in. It had always been my policy to plan things with a clam, cool head. Now that Tucker had his confidence back, we could get down to the nitty gritty.
“What was the old man yelling about?” Tucker added.
“Something about the color of the carpet not being light enough. I thought he was gonna’ have a hissy-fit right there on the lawn, bro. He started yelling about being professional and shit. As if. Then when the guy told him to screw off, the old fart started lecturing him about respect. Real nut-job.”
Tucker pulled out his Beretta 92SB 9mm out from under the couch and loaded it. “Respect this, old man,” he said, pretending to point it, as we both began to laugh.
It was almost nine o’clock by the time we made it to Old Town. We snuck quietly over three or four backyard fences, staying out of sight; I kept thinking about all those ninja movies on TV. We didn’t know any martial arts or have any swords and shit, but we knew how to stay out of sight, that was for damn sure.
One thing about Old Town that made break-ins easy was bedtime. Old fucks usually went to bed early, around seven or eight, and their favorite pets were cats and small house dogs and shit, so you almost never had to worry about skipping a fence and finding yourself face to face with an angry German Shepherd or Pit Bull. The thought ran through my mind that no one would ever try this shit in our neighborhood. The people in our part of town trained their dogs to be mean, so most of the time, this backyard bullshit was out of the question.
When we got close to the old man’s house, we sat down for a few minutes in the neighbor’s back yard, watching the old man’s back porch. His neighbors were all in bed, because there were no lights, but the old man’s house still had three lit windows in the back.
“Shit,” I wondered out loud, “Why ain’t that old fuck in bed yet?”
“I don’t know, bro. Maybe he is, and he just left the lights on.”
I cuffed Tucker firmly on the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to knock his hat off. “Man, what’s up wit’ you? You done lost your fuckin’ mind? What have I always told you?”
Tucker retrieved his hat and replied sheepishly, “I know, I know. Wait until all the lights are out. If they ain’t out, we ain’t in.”
“Damn straight, bitch. The instant you forget shit like that, you get busted. You wanna’ be Johnny’s cell mate? I’m sure that motherfucker could use the company.”
Tucker said nothing. Once again, he knew I was right. With the lights out, it was harder for a witness to identify us. And Tucker knew, just like I did, that it was usually easy enough to move around without stumbling, once your eyes got used to the dark. Sometimes, you even got lucky enough to catch moonlight coming through the windows. Shit like that made sneakin’ around easy.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of a car engine from the front of the house. Then we heard two doors slam, and muffled conversation. After that, we heard a quiet knocking.
“Shit, the old man has company.” Tucker said, starting to get edgy.
“Be cool, bro, be cool,” I placed my hand on his shoulder, “We got time. We can wait. They might not stay long.”
Tucker pulled out his gun from his pants and began to check and re-check the clip and the slide. He was nervous. We had not planned on company. We needed to break in, hopefully without being seen, and get the old man’s keys. BMWs were almost impossible to hotwire, especially models made after 1998. With just the old man at home, it was two to one in our favor if he walked in and caught us. But now, two or maybe even three more motherfuckers had shown up. We had no way of knowing for sure how many there were, because we couldn’t see the fucking front from here. All we had to go on were the noises and voices. The only thing we could think of was maybe it was family or some shit. Who the fuck knew? All we knew for sure was that we were going to have to chill for awhile. We both knew better than to rush this shit. It was better to watch and see what was up.
By the time ten thirty rolled around, we knew something was up. The company had not left yet, and two of the back three windows were still lit. Whoever the fuckers were, they were staying the night.
Tucker had gone around to the front about fifteen minutes earlier, to sneak a peak at the car. The Beamer was perfect, according to Tucker. He also said the guys who showed up were in a Lexus SUV. “You know, those cool lookin’ ones, like the one Dozer drives.”
I knew. I knew this shit was beginning to smell funny. The old farts in this part of town drove nice cars, like Crown Victorias and Lincoln Towncars, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder about the Beamer. It almost seemed a little too fancy for this part of town. Of course, old fucks had pretty fat bankrolls sometimes; some of these old people were real misers, all kinds of money and no idea how to spend it.
I smiled as I thought about it. I knew how to spend it. So did the old man, from the looks of it. I relaxed a little bit, and told myself not to worry. Nothing good ever came from second-guessing yourself all the damn time. That’s how dudes got paranoid. Cool head, cool hands, I told myself. One thing at a time.
That was when we heard two car doors slam in front of the house. The sound was followed by the roar of a starting car engine. This was exactly what we had been waiting for. About fucking time.
Tucker ran up to the side of the house and crouched by the air conditioning unit. He came back about a minute later, smiling.
“That was the SUV, bro. It’s gone. He’s alone again.”
I smiled and pulled my pick set out of my pocket. “Now we wait for the lights. Only two more to go.”
At midnight, another light went out. There was only one light left, and it was downstairs, maybe the kitchen. I was still a little nervous, but I went ahead and gave Tucker the green light. I was tired of sitting out in the weeds, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. If the old man was awake, too bad for him. It was time to get the groove on.
Tucker gripped the gun with both hands, the way he had seen cops on TV do it, and stood guard while I picked the lock. The back porch light was still on, but we knew we were cool. None of these old timers would be up at this hour, and everyone in our line of work knew that most people just counted on the lights to scare off burglars. What they didn’t know was that we watched TV too. And we weren’t stupid. Sure, if there was anyone watching, they’d see us, but we knew there wasn’t. We did our homework. We knew we were alone. I smiled as the pick popped the tumbler inside the door-latch with a soft “click”. Tucker covered the door while I gently eased it open. It creaked a little, but not real loud, and I was sure that if I could barely hear it, some half-deaf old fuck probably couldn’t hear it at all.
When we got inside the place, we stopped for a second to let our eyes adjust. I put my picks away and pulled out my little Remington .22 pistol. It wasn’t a powerhouse like Tucker’s, but it was enough to scare the crap out of one little old guy, at least long enough to get what we wanted. Besides, he probably didn’t know the difference anyway. Most people just knew that they didn’t want a cap in their ass, no matter what caliber it was.
I whispered to Tucker that we should try the lit room first. I knew that if the old man was still awake, he’d be in the lit room. Tucker nodded like he agreed, and we began to make our way through the house, in the direction of where the room had to be.
When we got there, we found out it was the kitchen, just like we thought. But no one was there. It looked like the old man had just went to bed and left the light on.
When I heard the sharp “clack-crack” of a shotgun being racked, I knew we were in trouble. I turned around and saw the old man, halfway in the dark hallway, halfway in the kitchen, wearing a blue silk robe, holding a sawed off pump shotgun to the back of Tucker’s head. Tucker was frozen in place, his gun pointing towards the ceiling.
The old man cleared his throat and started to talk. “You better put the piece down boy, if you don’t want your friend’s head splattered all over the floor.”
He spoke again before we could do anything. “Put the guns on safety, and let ‘em drop to the floor.”
We did what the man said. We could both tell that the dude meant business. I think it was the tone of his voice. The kitchen was quiet, except for the low hum of the ice box motor, so we could hear him real good. Up close, the man had a voice that sounded mean and cold. It was not the voice of a scared old man. I realized then how bad we’d done fucked up.
Both me and Tucker did what he said. Our guns hit the floor with a soft clatter. The old man nudged Tucker toward me, and as Tucker began to walk, the old man followed, keeping the gun to his head, stepping fully into the light.
I was face to face with my boy, Tucker. I could see the old man’s face, but Tucker could only see mine. The old man told us to get on our knees, so we did. He told us to lock our fingers together behind our heads, so we did. After that, he let us sweat for a second, facing each other. I could see the old man standing behind Tucker, grinning. He looked like Patrick Stewart would look if he was possessed by Satan. He was bald, and he had these yellow-ass teeth and beady-lookin’ eyes. We were in deep shit.
“Do you little punks have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Satan asked, calmly, as he continued to level the shotgun at Tucker’s head. I was nervous too, because I knew Tucker’s head would not stop the blast. If he shot Tucker, he’d blow my head off, too. Two birds with one stone, or some shit like that.
Tucker gathered his nerve and spoke up. “Calm down, man. This is all just a big mistake...”
“You’re damn right it is,” Satan said. “A pretty fucking big one. If I pull this trigger, it’s sleepy time for you and your little friend here.”
“Look, man, we’re sorry, ok? All we wanted was the car keys. We weren’t gonna kill you man, I swear. We just wanted to steal the car.” Tucker’s voice was trembling a little, but Satan didn’t seem to notice.
It was my turn to speak. “Look, man, my boy be tellin’ you straight. The guns were just a scare tactic man, to cut down on the hero factor. We didn’t wanna’ have to shoot nobody. Fact is, we was desperate, or we wouldn’t be here in the first place. We owe money to a loanshark, a real mean one. His name’s Blackjack. And it ain’t chump change, either. We owe him two grand plus the vig. We figured we could get at least 5 for the car. He gonna’ kill us if we don’t get him his money, man. For real. He always sayin’ you either pay him back in cash, or pay him back in blood. He’s a mean one, man. Straight up, no lie.”
I almost shit myself when I heard Satan’s reply.
“You punks owe Stone two grand?” Satan began to laugh, and I heard the click of the shotgun’s safety button. He took the gun away from Tucker’s head.
“Get up. Come into the living room with me and I’ll pour you some drinks. Is Scotch ok?”
Tucker looked at me, smiling. “Yeah, mister, Scotch is cool by me.”
“Yeah, me too, I guess.” I chimed in. Things were starting to get wierd. But what the fuck? I was just glad we weren’t dead.
Me and Tucker left our guns where they were as we got up off the floor, all the while wondering just what the fuck was going on. There was no way we were gonna’ try anything now, because we both wanted to know exactly what the dude’s connection with Stone was.
“With a little luck,” I said softly to Tucker, as we followed Satan into the living room, “We might make a few important friends.”
Satan sat down in the chair, while me and Tucker sat down across from him on the couch. He motioned to the serving tray on the coffee table in front of us; on the tray, there was a bottle of Scotch and three glasses. Me and Tucker both poured ourselves some booze. We needed it.
Satan leaned the shotgun against his chair, but I could see another gun, a pistol of some kind, in a shoulder-rig beneath his robe. He noticed that I was looking at it, and told me, “Relax, turds. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have offered you a drink. I just want to know what the fuck is going on. Who are you? Tell me your names.”
“I’m Ice Dog. This is my bro, Tucker.” I took a sip of the Scotch. It was real smooth, not like that cheap, watery shit they served at O’Malley’s. “Man, this shit is good, dog.” I told him, waiting to see what he would say next.
“Dog? You have a lot nerve, kid.” His eyes hardened.
I put up my hands. “Yo, man, it ain’t like that. Dog is just slang. It’s what you call your friends. You know, like a pal.”
Satan raised an eyebrow. I could see the wheels turning. “Don’t use that word. Trust me kid, you don’t want to be anyone’s pal. What you want to say is buddy or friend. Never say pal. But relax, I understand what you mean. Dog is what you call your buddies.”
I was curious. “What’s wrong with pal?” I asked.
“The word pal carries with it a negative connotation. Very few people use the word correctly. It was never meant to be used as a term of endearment. It’s meant to be used with sarcasm.”
Tucker scratched his head. “Um, can you repeat that in English?”
I knocked Tucker’s hat off again. “You stupid motherfucker. Let the man talk. Don’t you know anything? Negative means it’s bad, like an insult.”
Satan smiled at Tucker. “Your friend is very perceptive. The word pal is actually Italian slang. It means ‘punk’. In my world, when you tell someone that ‘Mr. so and so’ is your pal, it means that you’re just pretending to be his friend, in order to get something out of him. Sometimes, it goes even farther than that.”
“How far?” I asked, but I kind of guessed what was coming.
Satan smiled at me with his yellow teeth. “Sometimes, it means you plan to kill the guy, after he’s outlived his usefulness.”
Me and Tucker both laughed, trying not to let on how fucking nervous we were. I took another drink of Scotch.
“How do you punks know Stone?”
I decided to answer with a question of my own. “How’d you know I was talking about Stone? I said Blackjack.”
Satan chuckled. “Ok, kid, fair enough. I almost bought the phoney name, but you screwed up when you told me what he liked to say. Only Stone talks that way. I’ve been doing business with him for over 6 months now, and I’ve heard that shit a thousand times. I guess he thinks it makes him sound tough.”
“Shit,” I said, “You’re his business partner? Aw man, I can’t believe this. Look man, if we knew you was in with Stone, we never would have fucked with you. We just tryin’ to do some business too, you know?”
“Yeah,” Tucker added, “We’re just trying to get ourselves out of a jam, dude. One of our buds got pinched with some product before he could unload it, and we got stuck with the check, if you know what I mean.”
Satan looked interested now. “So you two kids borrowed two grand from Stone so you could buy some product, hoping to sell it for a profit. The buy went down OK, but your courier got pinched afterwards, on his way back. Am I right?”
“Yeah, man. straight up.” I said. There was no need to lie to the man. If he was in with Stone, he might know some way we could work it out. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.
“What was the product?”
“Nose candy,” Tucker offered.
“I see,” Satan said. “How much did you buy?”
“Half a kilo.” Tucker replied.
“Who’s your connection for this ‘candy’?” Satan asked.
I felt strange all of a sudden. Nervous and shit. Something was wrong. Satan’s questions were getting too direct.
Before I could stop him, Tucker blurted out, “Big Mike.”
Satan fished the pistol from his shoulder rig, and leveled it at us. It was a Raven .25 caliber automatic. Not the heaviest pistol in the world, but it was enough to do the fuckin’ job. And everyone on the street knew how quiet the little guns were. The gun’s report was about as loud as glass when it shatters. The sound would not be loud enough to carry outside the house. We were fucked.
“Thanks, pal,” Satan said to Tucker.
I opened the beer and handed it to Tucker. He looked like he needed it, all nervous as Hell, twitchin’ around and shit. He was always this twitchy little fuck, but today he was worse than usual. He had been fidgeting around and whining like a school-girl for the better part of an hour. It was prob’ly that business with Stone. I lit a cigarette, and tossed the pack and the lighter on the coffee table. As I leaned back against the sofa and took that first, best drag, I realized that he was probably going put this shit off on me. I was always solving his problems for him, so why should this time be any different? So I told him to calm the fuck down. If this white boy wanted my help, he was not going to carry on like a little bitch.
“Calm? How the Hell am I supposed to stay calm, bro?” Tucker whined, “I’m into Stone for two points. And you know what he says about people payin’ him back...”
He had a point. Everybody knew. Stone was always saying it. “You either pay him back in cash, or you pay him back in blood.” As I said it, I could not hold back a big-ass smile.
Everyone on the block had heard him say that a thousand times. Only the suckers believed it. Stone was as tough as they come, but as far as I knew, Stone never killed nobody. The worst thing I ever seen him do was break Bobby Franks’ fingers with a hammer; they was smashed up so bad, the doctor was forced to cut ‘em off. What’s the word they use? Ampucate? Well, whatever the doctors call it, I call it Bobby Franks havin’ to learn how to wipe his ass with his left hand. Man, that’s gotta suck. Big time. And I knew that Tucker, being a whiny bitch and all, would be screaming like a girl long before Stone ever touched him. Tucker wasn’t cut out for all that tough-guy shit. All it took with him was a threat.
Tucker was a bully; he picked on old women, mostly. His favorite pastime was what he liked to call “punch and grab”. He would walk up to some old lady in the park with a roll of quarters in his fist; then he would tap the bitch on the shoulder. When she turned around, he would deck her hard. Then he would just yank her purse out of her hands and walk away, while she was still dazed. One time he actually knocked one old lady out cold. But even with weak old ladies, he used a roll of quarters, like he was scared to try it otherwise.
But as bad as it made him look to the rest of us, I got to admit that his style worked, because not one of those bitches ever turned his ass in to the cops. They were all scared to death of him. That’s why I was smiling. The look in his eyes right now must be the same look he got from his park ladies.
“Why you smilin’ man? This is serious. Stone’s gonna’ eat my my lunch when he hears I lost his two points.”
It was his fault, so I let him know it. “You the dumb ass that let Johnny Four-Eyes in on the deal. I told you that boy was stupid.”
“Naw, naw, naw. That ain’t what I remember. You said he was your home boy, man. You said you and him was tight. You said he was down, man.”
“Yeah, he down, but I also remember tellin’ you that he wasn’t good at nothin’ except screwin’ up. I remember telling you specifically not to trust the dude with money. Reason he can’t pay his rent is because he’s always blowin’ it on the horses. He’s Poncho’s favorite little bitch. Poncho says that Johnny’s like money in the bank, a bookie’s dream. He says Johnny hasn’t picked a single winner in over three years. You think I’d trust someone like that to run my shit? Hell no. If you wanna’ play some Nintendo, and throw back some cold ones, Johnny’s your man, he’s down with that. And that’s cool, bro. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. But the instant you start messin’ around with the serious stuff, you better count him out. That boy ain’t got no sense when it comes to business.”
Tucker knew I was right. But the bitch still wouldn’t calm his ass down. “Well, all he had to do was take the money over to Mike’s. Mike don’t live half a block up the fuckin’ street. All he had to do was wait until about 10 or so, when the cops are all busy chasin’ off the hookers, and walk through the back yard of the old Anderson place, show up at Mike’s, and make the trade. I never expected him to try it in broad daylight. I never thought he’d be dumb enough to walk down the sidewalk in plain view, and I sure as Hell never expected him to wave.”
Johnny Four-Eyes was a screw-up. Everyone knew it. The dumb-ass had been carrying half a kilo of coke in a duffle bag in broad daylight, walking down the street on his way back from Mike’s, like it was nothing. A cop car rolled by, and would have kept on going, but the dumb little punk waved as the cop went by. He was trying to act cool, but the cop misread him. Instead of a friendly “how ya doin’” wave, the cop thought Johnny was flagging him down. The cop pulled over to see what he wanted, and the idiot started running. It was all downhill from there. Rumor was that Johnny wasn’t talking, and that would mean at least 10 years. Drug laws were harsh in Arkansas, ever since they started all that “tough on drugs” crap back in ‘94. You could get 20 years easy, even on your first offense, depending on the situation. But at least the bitch knew better than to talk. That was the one screw-up that was unforgivable. People who talked wound up dead, sooner or later; and most of the time, it was sooner.
I chuckled and took a sip of his beer. “Well, the fact is he did, and you the one left holdin’ the bag. You should have never borrowed that kind of money, especially from a guy like Stone. What you know about settin’ up a deal, anyway? This ain’t acid or weed we’re talkin’ about here. You and Johnny were in way over your heads. Instead of borrowing the money and makin’ the deal yourselves, you should have just told Stone about Mike’s offer, and let Stone make the deal, and collected a finder’s fee for your trouble. Stone ain’t got no problems about takin’ care of people who help him out. I bet he would have given you at least half a point for the tip-off. And Johnny’s ass wouldn’t be in jail, and you wouldn’t be sitting here whining to me about how much trouble you’re in with Stone. Somebody need to slap some sense into you.”
I could tell by the look on Tucker’s face that I had just pissed him off good; but he knew I was right, and he kept his mouth shut, so I didn’t say anything. If there was one thing I had to give that boy credit for, it was that he knew his place. He gave me the respect I deserved, and never gave me no lip about nothing, and that’s a hard thing for a gang-banger to do, especially a white boy. White boys, in my experience, always seemed to be on some kind of power trip, like they was 10 feet tall and bulletproof. That’s why so many of them ended up dead. But Tucker was different. I was the leader, and he was the troops, and he realized that; and it was because of that reason right there that I had let his ass into the gang. I knew that Tucker would be loyal, and that’s important, because on the streets, you have to trust your bros with your life. So we beat the fuck out of him for about ten minutes, and when the initiation was over, he was our bro. I pulled my punches, because I recognized how useful someone like Tucker would be. Lucky thing, too, because out of all the south-side Bloods in Little Rock, I hit the hardest. If I hadn’t pulled my punches, he might not have made it in. But I was glad he did. His sense of loyalty made up for his physical weakness. He was down with us, and that was that.
“Ok, little bro,” I told him, “I’m going to get you outta’ this.” And I really meant that, too; while he had been whining, I had already come up with a plan. “We gonna’ steal a car.”
“Just one? We can’t do it with just one, dude. Not unless it’s something sweet, high profile or some shit. And you know how Dozer gets about high profile cars. He don’t pay out so good on high profiles because they’re so hard to fence. All that custom shit lowers the pay-out. What kind of car you talkin’ about?”
“Relax,” I told him. “It ain’t high profile, but it’s sweet. I saw it while I was walking to Wal-Mart yesterday. Some old man, just moved into Old Town, over on Bellchase. From the looks of it, he lives alone. Probably a widower or some shit. Anyway, he drives a late model Beamer. Maybe a ‘97 or ‘98 model, I ain’t sure. Little white one with a sun roof. Old fart gots to be loaded. A car like that is worth what? 40K retail?”
If there was one thing that Tucker was an expert on, it was cars. I knew a little, but Tucker was the man when it came to details. He had all the makes and models memorized. “Well,” he said, “that’s what the upper 3 series goes for brand new. Used, I’d say you’re only looking at about 25, maybe 28 tops. Keep in mind that’s a car dealer’s price. Dozer’s price would be lower, say 18 to 20. That’s if the thing is tip top. I’m talkin’ pristine. And since Dozer only buys at 25 percent, I’d say we could get 5 to 6 points for it, tops. Probably closer to 5. How’s it look?”
I grinned at him, ear to ear. “Sweet, bro. You know how old people treat their cars. Looks like a garage car, from what I saw. Either that, or the old man pampers it. I got a pretty good look at it while the old man was busy yelling at the carpet guy. Either way, I’d call it mint. And for helping you jack it, my price is 2.”
Tucker scratched his head, running through the numbers in his mind. “That sounds more than fair bro, but I need to know the exact make and model. Those numbers I threw out are just guesses. I gotta’ know the details to be sure.”
“Well, I wrote down the numbers. Hope I remembered it right.” I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket, and opened it up, calling out the numbers on it. “328-IS. That sound right?”
It was Tucker’s turn to grin. “328 is the top of the series, bro. Now think hard, ‘cause this is important.”
“Ok.” My groove was on. I was hyped.
“Were the headlights open, or glass covered?”
“Covered, man. They was covered.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” If there was one thing I was careful about, it was detail. Details often meant the difference between getting away and getting busted.
Tucker clapped his hands together. “Hot damn, bro, you were right. ‘97 is the first year they covered the headlights. If it’s in as good condition as you say it is, then the prices I told you before are right on the money. Damn, what a great stroke of luck. With the 5 points we get from Dozer, you’ll get your two, Stone can have his two back, and that leaves me a cool grand in the clear. Par-tay time, bro. I can definitely deal with that. Sure wish I had that coke though...”
“Now look, white boy,” I told him, “Don’t go gettin’ your head in the clouds. How much of that shit you think you could’ve dumped on the street before you got caught? The cops would have taken you down instead of Johnny. Either that, or some Crip would have found out what you had, and capped you for it. You need to stay away from all that, man. Like I said, it’s better to let other people take the risks. The profits are smaller, but your ass ain’t gonna’ end up rotting in jail, either. How do you think I got where I am today?”
Tucker chuckled. “So jacking this guy’s Beamer isn’t what you consider a risk?”
Good, I mused, noticing his improved attitude. He seemed to be relaxing a bit. Now we could get down to the business of planning our little break-in. It had always been my policy to plan things with a clam, cool head. Now that Tucker had his confidence back, we could get down to the nitty gritty.
“What was the old man yelling about?” Tucker added.
“Something about the color of the carpet not being light enough. I thought he was gonna’ have a hissy-fit right there on the lawn, bro. He started yelling about being professional and shit. As if. Then when the guy told him to screw off, the old fart started lecturing him about respect. Real nut-job.”
Tucker pulled out his Beretta 92SB 9mm out from under the couch and loaded it. “Respect this, old man,” he said, pretending to point it, as we both began to laugh.
* * *
It was almost nine o’clock by the time we made it to Old Town. We snuck quietly over three or four backyard fences, staying out of sight; I kept thinking about all those ninja movies on TV. We didn’t know any martial arts or have any swords and shit, but we knew how to stay out of sight, that was for damn sure.
One thing about Old Town that made break-ins easy was bedtime. Old fucks usually went to bed early, around seven or eight, and their favorite pets were cats and small house dogs and shit, so you almost never had to worry about skipping a fence and finding yourself face to face with an angry German Shepherd or Pit Bull. The thought ran through my mind that no one would ever try this shit in our neighborhood. The people in our part of town trained their dogs to be mean, so most of the time, this backyard bullshit was out of the question.
When we got close to the old man’s house, we sat down for a few minutes in the neighbor’s back yard, watching the old man’s back porch. His neighbors were all in bed, because there were no lights, but the old man’s house still had three lit windows in the back.
“Shit,” I wondered out loud, “Why ain’t that old fuck in bed yet?”
“I don’t know, bro. Maybe he is, and he just left the lights on.”
I cuffed Tucker firmly on the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to knock his hat off. “Man, what’s up wit’ you? You done lost your fuckin’ mind? What have I always told you?”
Tucker retrieved his hat and replied sheepishly, “I know, I know. Wait until all the lights are out. If they ain’t out, we ain’t in.”
“Damn straight, bitch. The instant you forget shit like that, you get busted. You wanna’ be Johnny’s cell mate? I’m sure that motherfucker could use the company.”
Tucker said nothing. Once again, he knew I was right. With the lights out, it was harder for a witness to identify us. And Tucker knew, just like I did, that it was usually easy enough to move around without stumbling, once your eyes got used to the dark. Sometimes, you even got lucky enough to catch moonlight coming through the windows. Shit like that made sneakin’ around easy.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of a car engine from the front of the house. Then we heard two doors slam, and muffled conversation. After that, we heard a quiet knocking.
“Shit, the old man has company.” Tucker said, starting to get edgy.
“Be cool, bro, be cool,” I placed my hand on his shoulder, “We got time. We can wait. They might not stay long.”
Tucker pulled out his gun from his pants and began to check and re-check the clip and the slide. He was nervous. We had not planned on company. We needed to break in, hopefully without being seen, and get the old man’s keys. BMWs were almost impossible to hotwire, especially models made after 1998. With just the old man at home, it was two to one in our favor if he walked in and caught us. But now, two or maybe even three more motherfuckers had shown up. We had no way of knowing for sure how many there were, because we couldn’t see the fucking front from here. All we had to go on were the noises and voices. The only thing we could think of was maybe it was family or some shit. Who the fuck knew? All we knew for sure was that we were going to have to chill for awhile. We both knew better than to rush this shit. It was better to watch and see what was up.
* * *
By the time ten thirty rolled around, we knew something was up. The company had not left yet, and two of the back three windows were still lit. Whoever the fuckers were, they were staying the night.
Tucker had gone around to the front about fifteen minutes earlier, to sneak a peak at the car. The Beamer was perfect, according to Tucker. He also said the guys who showed up were in a Lexus SUV. “You know, those cool lookin’ ones, like the one Dozer drives.”
I knew. I knew this shit was beginning to smell funny. The old farts in this part of town drove nice cars, like Crown Victorias and Lincoln Towncars, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to wonder about the Beamer. It almost seemed a little too fancy for this part of town. Of course, old fucks had pretty fat bankrolls sometimes; some of these old people were real misers, all kinds of money and no idea how to spend it.
I smiled as I thought about it. I knew how to spend it. So did the old man, from the looks of it. I relaxed a little bit, and told myself not to worry. Nothing good ever came from second-guessing yourself all the damn time. That’s how dudes got paranoid. Cool head, cool hands, I told myself. One thing at a time.
That was when we heard two car doors slam in front of the house. The sound was followed by the roar of a starting car engine. This was exactly what we had been waiting for. About fucking time.
Tucker ran up to the side of the house and crouched by the air conditioning unit. He came back about a minute later, smiling.
“That was the SUV, bro. It’s gone. He’s alone again.”
I smiled and pulled my pick set out of my pocket. “Now we wait for the lights. Only two more to go.”
* * *
At midnight, another light went out. There was only one light left, and it was downstairs, maybe the kitchen. I was still a little nervous, but I went ahead and gave Tucker the green light. I was tired of sitting out in the weeds, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. If the old man was awake, too bad for him. It was time to get the groove on.
Tucker gripped the gun with both hands, the way he had seen cops on TV do it, and stood guard while I picked the lock. The back porch light was still on, but we knew we were cool. None of these old timers would be up at this hour, and everyone in our line of work knew that most people just counted on the lights to scare off burglars. What they didn’t know was that we watched TV too. And we weren’t stupid. Sure, if there was anyone watching, they’d see us, but we knew there wasn’t. We did our homework. We knew we were alone. I smiled as the pick popped the tumbler inside the door-latch with a soft “click”. Tucker covered the door while I gently eased it open. It creaked a little, but not real loud, and I was sure that if I could barely hear it, some half-deaf old fuck probably couldn’t hear it at all.
When we got inside the place, we stopped for a second to let our eyes adjust. I put my picks away and pulled out my little Remington .22 pistol. It wasn’t a powerhouse like Tucker’s, but it was enough to scare the crap out of one little old guy, at least long enough to get what we wanted. Besides, he probably didn’t know the difference anyway. Most people just knew that they didn’t want a cap in their ass, no matter what caliber it was.
I whispered to Tucker that we should try the lit room first. I knew that if the old man was still awake, he’d be in the lit room. Tucker nodded like he agreed, and we began to make our way through the house, in the direction of where the room had to be.
When we got there, we found out it was the kitchen, just like we thought. But no one was there. It looked like the old man had just went to bed and left the light on.
When I heard the sharp “clack-crack” of a shotgun being racked, I knew we were in trouble. I turned around and saw the old man, halfway in the dark hallway, halfway in the kitchen, wearing a blue silk robe, holding a sawed off pump shotgun to the back of Tucker’s head. Tucker was frozen in place, his gun pointing towards the ceiling.
The old man cleared his throat and started to talk. “You better put the piece down boy, if you don’t want your friend’s head splattered all over the floor.”
He spoke again before we could do anything. “Put the guns on safety, and let ‘em drop to the floor.”
We did what the man said. We could both tell that the dude meant business. I think it was the tone of his voice. The kitchen was quiet, except for the low hum of the ice box motor, so we could hear him real good. Up close, the man had a voice that sounded mean and cold. It was not the voice of a scared old man. I realized then how bad we’d done fucked up.
Both me and Tucker did what he said. Our guns hit the floor with a soft clatter. The old man nudged Tucker toward me, and as Tucker began to walk, the old man followed, keeping the gun to his head, stepping fully into the light.
I was face to face with my boy, Tucker. I could see the old man’s face, but Tucker could only see mine. The old man told us to get on our knees, so we did. He told us to lock our fingers together behind our heads, so we did. After that, he let us sweat for a second, facing each other. I could see the old man standing behind Tucker, grinning. He looked like Patrick Stewart would look if he was possessed by Satan. He was bald, and he had these yellow-ass teeth and beady-lookin’ eyes. We were in deep shit.
“Do you little punks have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Satan asked, calmly, as he continued to level the shotgun at Tucker’s head. I was nervous too, because I knew Tucker’s head would not stop the blast. If he shot Tucker, he’d blow my head off, too. Two birds with one stone, or some shit like that.
Tucker gathered his nerve and spoke up. “Calm down, man. This is all just a big mistake...”
“You’re damn right it is,” Satan said. “A pretty fucking big one. If I pull this trigger, it’s sleepy time for you and your little friend here.”
“Look, man, we’re sorry, ok? All we wanted was the car keys. We weren’t gonna kill you man, I swear. We just wanted to steal the car.” Tucker’s voice was trembling a little, but Satan didn’t seem to notice.
It was my turn to speak. “Look, man, my boy be tellin’ you straight. The guns were just a scare tactic man, to cut down on the hero factor. We didn’t wanna’ have to shoot nobody. Fact is, we was desperate, or we wouldn’t be here in the first place. We owe money to a loanshark, a real mean one. His name’s Blackjack. And it ain’t chump change, either. We owe him two grand plus the vig. We figured we could get at least 5 for the car. He gonna’ kill us if we don’t get him his money, man. For real. He always sayin’ you either pay him back in cash, or pay him back in blood. He’s a mean one, man. Straight up, no lie.”
I almost shit myself when I heard Satan’s reply.
“You punks owe Stone two grand?” Satan began to laugh, and I heard the click of the shotgun’s safety button. He took the gun away from Tucker’s head.
“Get up. Come into the living room with me and I’ll pour you some drinks. Is Scotch ok?”
Tucker looked at me, smiling. “Yeah, mister, Scotch is cool by me.”
“Yeah, me too, I guess.” I chimed in. Things were starting to get wierd. But what the fuck? I was just glad we weren’t dead.
Me and Tucker left our guns where they were as we got up off the floor, all the while wondering just what the fuck was going on. There was no way we were gonna’ try anything now, because we both wanted to know exactly what the dude’s connection with Stone was.
“With a little luck,” I said softly to Tucker, as we followed Satan into the living room, “We might make a few important friends.”
* * *
Satan sat down in the chair, while me and Tucker sat down across from him on the couch. He motioned to the serving tray on the coffee table in front of us; on the tray, there was a bottle of Scotch and three glasses. Me and Tucker both poured ourselves some booze. We needed it.
Satan leaned the shotgun against his chair, but I could see another gun, a pistol of some kind, in a shoulder-rig beneath his robe. He noticed that I was looking at it, and told me, “Relax, turds. If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have offered you a drink. I just want to know what the fuck is going on. Who are you? Tell me your names.”
“I’m Ice Dog. This is my bro, Tucker.” I took a sip of the Scotch. It was real smooth, not like that cheap, watery shit they served at O’Malley’s. “Man, this shit is good, dog.” I told him, waiting to see what he would say next.
“Dog? You have a lot nerve, kid.” His eyes hardened.
I put up my hands. “Yo, man, it ain’t like that. Dog is just slang. It’s what you call your friends. You know, like a pal.”
Satan raised an eyebrow. I could see the wheels turning. “Don’t use that word. Trust me kid, you don’t want to be anyone’s pal. What you want to say is buddy or friend. Never say pal. But relax, I understand what you mean. Dog is what you call your buddies.”
I was curious. “What’s wrong with pal?” I asked.
“The word pal carries with it a negative connotation. Very few people use the word correctly. It was never meant to be used as a term of endearment. It’s meant to be used with sarcasm.”
Tucker scratched his head. “Um, can you repeat that in English?”
I knocked Tucker’s hat off again. “You stupid motherfucker. Let the man talk. Don’t you know anything? Negative means it’s bad, like an insult.”
Satan smiled at Tucker. “Your friend is very perceptive. The word pal is actually Italian slang. It means ‘punk’. In my world, when you tell someone that ‘Mr. so and so’ is your pal, it means that you’re just pretending to be his friend, in order to get something out of him. Sometimes, it goes even farther than that.”
“How far?” I asked, but I kind of guessed what was coming.
Satan smiled at me with his yellow teeth. “Sometimes, it means you plan to kill the guy, after he’s outlived his usefulness.”
Me and Tucker both laughed, trying not to let on how fucking nervous we were. I took another drink of Scotch.
“How do you punks know Stone?”
I decided to answer with a question of my own. “How’d you know I was talking about Stone? I said Blackjack.”
Satan chuckled. “Ok, kid, fair enough. I almost bought the phoney name, but you screwed up when you told me what he liked to say. Only Stone talks that way. I’ve been doing business with him for over 6 months now, and I’ve heard that shit a thousand times. I guess he thinks it makes him sound tough.”
“Shit,” I said, “You’re his business partner? Aw man, I can’t believe this. Look man, if we knew you was in with Stone, we never would have fucked with you. We just tryin’ to do some business too, you know?”
“Yeah,” Tucker added, “We’re just trying to get ourselves out of a jam, dude. One of our buds got pinched with some product before he could unload it, and we got stuck with the check, if you know what I mean.”
Satan looked interested now. “So you two kids borrowed two grand from Stone so you could buy some product, hoping to sell it for a profit. The buy went down OK, but your courier got pinched afterwards, on his way back. Am I right?”
“Yeah, man. straight up.” I said. There was no need to lie to the man. If he was in with Stone, he might know some way we could work it out. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.
“What was the product?”
“Nose candy,” Tucker offered.
“I see,” Satan said. “How much did you buy?”
“Half a kilo.” Tucker replied.
“Who’s your connection for this ‘candy’?” Satan asked.
I felt strange all of a sudden. Nervous and shit. Something was wrong. Satan’s questions were getting too direct.
Before I could stop him, Tucker blurted out, “Big Mike.”
Satan fished the pistol from his shoulder rig, and leveled it at us. It was a Raven .25 caliber automatic. Not the heaviest pistol in the world, but it was enough to do the fuckin’ job. And everyone on the street knew how quiet the little guns were. The gun’s report was about as loud as glass when it shatters. The sound would not be loud enough to carry outside the house. We were fucked.
“Thanks, pal,” Satan said to Tucker.