Chapter One
SCREW-UP
Vinny LaFleur sat behind the wheel of a very old Lincoln Continental. It was old but it was rare. It was white and it was in pristine condition. It was his pride and joy.
The engine was idling, just purring as pretty as a big old alley tomcat ready to leap into motion and rip ass. Above him the elevated transit system=s trestlework ruled a cold steel cobwebbing in network to the street. He=d parked next to a pawnshop. He glanced sideways and noticed three globes hanging from a gooseneck bracket over the shop=s door. It freaked him out.
AHockshops took down them hangin= balls a centrey ago,@ he mumbled, Awhen they invented neon signs fer words.@
He half expected the door to open and some gippy ol= dude with a heavy tan overcoat on to step out. Yeah, a crooked smirk on his puss. Have lotsa fuckin= grey wavy hair under a baseball cap. Like on the way to the penthouse. Charmed life of countin= money everyday under his belt. Funds he ripped offa others. Maybe even never been hit, all set to take it with him when he croaks.
Shit, Vinny LaFleur thought, there was worse=n him running >round in the world. Far worse. An= they never do no time.
Big brass balls, size of basketballs. The fringe of light from a street lamp twenty feet away lent a starker aspect to them. Vinny was high which made him concentrate, and as he stared the crazy illusion of seeing a weirdly mutated clump of testes rocked and rioted inside his brain.
He plucked off his own little good-luck cap and scratched his skinhead skull. Damn skull an= crossbones tat up there been itching ta go-ta-hell since th= stopover for steak an= fries at Lenny=s Steakhouse five hours ago down near Baltimore. He grimaced then replaced the cap.
The discomfort made him lose interest in the balls and look at his watch. Five to elevenC and in five minutes the delivery would be a done deal. What a hard life he complained to himself; doing the mule, the one in the open, the one in the middle, the one humping the load. Dodging gangs sumtimes. The law sniffing on one side like rats at a garbage can and the mob itching to kill on the other, each waiting for him to screw-up. Just once. And once was all it took. Sing Sing if he ran out of luck. Buried meat if he ran out, he and what he knew turned inta a piece of crap compacted and tossed inta a Mafia controlled garbage dump out in the middle of nowhere.
He looked to his right again, he couldn=t help himself, to the pawnshop=s symbol of trade. Creepy, like outa a real ol= movie or sumpthin=. Big brass balls. Who dreams them things up anyway, where do screwy things like that come from he wondered.
APawn bossman,@ he mumbled, Ahangin= fuggin= balls up onna hook. Ta git people,@ he going hostile quickly, Ata hock grampy=s gold watch.@
He thrummed the fingers of his right hand atop the Connie=s steering wheel.
Three brass balls, three=s a crowd; three-ball for losers. He powered down the window, poked his head out, and looked up and down the short block for another place to park. He didn=t see any, cursed the >oh-men,= a term Mazy the wacko he was shacking with had been using on him lately, and snugged the window back up.
Four minutes to go now, after fourteen hardass hours from Atlanta, non-stop, >cept for a couple sandwiches and lots a coffee and then finally the ribeye and small pitcher of Bud at Lenny=s.
The block was half-decent, all but deserted. It was actually an avenue, not a street, wider, called Broadway and it ran east-west in Brooklyn. He could jes= make out a bar on the opposite corner a quarter way down from him, the La FieCsumpthin=, doing some light business, music spilling out of it, the window=s red neon word sign combining nicely with the yellow glow shining from inside. A few people partying, having fun.
For a moment LaFleur thought of taking another hit. The tension, now, jes= waitin,= sittingChe felt uptight as a guitar wire close to screaming high C. The running never got to him, it was always the long seconds of loitering at the end of it that strung him out. An= stretched him tight. His fingertips kept fidgeting atop the steering wheel. He wasn=t mindful of it. Beside him on the front seat were two book-size packages tightly wrapped in green plastic, high grade H, plastic explosive for the mind, but in his jacket pocket was a little vial containing a methamphetamine cocaine mixture. In what he considered a brainstorm he called this mix a >double-cheeseburger.= Ever ready for new adventures, he=d just started experimenting with different proportions.
Nowadays, ya ask th= dude ya nagosheate wid in th= chain fer coke ya git meth anyway he had reasoned, ya can never be sure of what=s being pedaled in the market no more half the time. He=d snorted after eating, and he=d been snorting before that, a few jolts outside the car at I-85 rest stops since passing Richmond. He felt pretty good. Pretty spaced. Set for another hit. But he wouldn=t chance that now, uncapping the vial, not in here. Trace amounts of dope inside a car and he=d end up cuffed an= watching a tow truck appear. Watching a wagging tail on th= ass end of a leashed K-9 getting a biscuit. Woof-woof! an= all that good shit. Once a go-round wid those snarlin= fuckers was >nough. No, >specially now, his fingers might shake too much.
The Connie was off limits, he wouldn=t despoil it, it was like a pet virgin to him, pure and sweet and not to be contaminated; not to risk being impounded and lost to him. They weren=t even making them anymore.
|