mine. She. He came weaponized, soaked in DMT and sporting sharp
silk tux, plenty of bimbo arm-flesh and a wad thick as it was
silver-clipped. Like the 357-S&W he left in the BMW glove-box.
It’s loaded too. Make you a legend, make him stink, make his kill.
One, two three. Anything can happen afterwards.
Odd-job men come
cheap: jackals. A lion he was … a lion, a dragon and a snake. How
sharply, how harsh would his high, steel-feathered wings strike and
the powerful crumble to smouldering ash. Ears roar noise of a muffled seashore and
eyes misted wet, glazed red by second sight … sweat running from his lip. Common reality blurred.
“To the left bone-breaker and to the right I will slay ...”
“Pleasure to have
you join us sir,” croons the doorman. A $10er exchanges hands,
like us was a kind of winter, low-country vegetable.
“Campy, ya feelin’
Okey,” lisped the frail beside him. Her face came up like
swamp-mist in purple Charleston sunset. How she needed his arm and
his weight and …
Way to the front, a
tired crooner and piano-man hold an audience of losers. Usually
there’s a bamboo curtain. The attorneys head snaps up. Brass door
and doorman behind them. Casinos muffled rumble spread wide and
handsome. A stiff-backed security-man hovering … must be with slim
waist, Armani three-piece and a bulge under his left shoulder.
A thin, crotchless
cigarette-girl approaches. Camp shakes the last Pell Mell from
empty, she lights it before his own bimbo can sneeze, tits and snatch
pressed like a steam-iron against him. He paws a fresh pack of
straight Reds … leave another $10er. What he sees! Fishy
swirls of red and blue, fuck your mind up my mind too. Feels the
air wipe his forehead dry. “Davidson knows aire conditioning if he
doesn’t know a thing.” Those are his first spoken words inside
Sauls Trad Street casino. He cautions a reservoir of silence behind
them. For Saul. And for her.
tonight, hum Campy,” sez his Friday night booty-call. “That’s
what ya said, bets before ets and I’m hungry as a kitten.” A
violet light glowing CHOPS AND STEAKS marks a dim side door and it’s
tux-topped leather-skirted female guardian. You can’t just walk
in, but a stylish if antique couple is doing just that. Woman buried
in sequined gown flowing about her ankles, and the gent - - white
bunny-suite and straw Panama. They just got off the Titanic,
Campy mutters. He knows everyone in Charleston worth knowing, but
he doesn’t recognize them.
He snarls at the
gatekeeper. Usta be mine, his brain races after a bare
willing ass now covered in cowhide. Gatekeeper preens over the
couple and her awed giggle escapes ...”Ms PEEPERS! ...” while
passing them into candel-flooded dining.
Bitch acts like a
sheep, not a wolf! Now she bleats … once a granted, tenured
rising academic star at a local college … Fregeian SEMIOTICS …
till a whites-only frat cracked her computer, exposing grading
rackets make Molly Hatchet Mother Teresa! Roundheels was fucking
half-the 70-IQ basketball team … and marching a string of Aces into
her grade-book. Just like she did to him, turned-on all the niggars
“She could loose
ten pounds,” snips his arm-candy. Bitch eyes them, mind-reading,
snarks at his hidden , shyster success. The attorney knows this and
purposeful failed a dinner-table RCVP! Later, before the drama
he’d punch right through her bawd, gate.keeper pretensions …
hungry … mebby.” Let the bitch complain who wants to fuck a full
She whines. “Gotta
have flounder and glazed potatoes.” Glazed as his eyes. He
patted his wallet, sucked deep on the fuming Red and blinked twice
in her face. Bimbo still had tits and ass worth using , but hadn’t
been a kitten for 20 years. She appreciated his attention … his
wife did not, but for how long he can’t remember. Get’s ya
And casino shill
busts through his reverie like teen boners pop cherries. “Easy
eight now come...come...come … place yer bets ladies and
gentlemen, plaaaace yer bets.” Stickman pimping his craps table.
It’s crap; the bimbo loves playing the Field …. 3 and 11 ….
what-the-fuck! Dice roll … lots of dice roll on many tables. He
At the nearest table
a dearly sings out. “Fresh cards, a new shuffle and lots a’
yards I gotta feelin’ ...” Call of the casino. Barker pleading
rings from a dozen tables. They pass two, a Herrn nods approval and
they slide off cheap carpet onto oak floors and a velvet ringed
Loud voice. Toothy smile covering frown. Then a whisper nobody can
hear. “ Time for a break, Joey. You been givin’ the house away
last ten minutes! Judy Booty gonna handle the next 100 deals.”
“But, I just ...”
“Move your fuckin’
ass boinko … ‘less I call a Herrn or flippin’ burgers not
plastic cards got that appeal to yer tired ass ! Too much standin’
causes heart attacks.” Sauls dealers never have heart attacks,
thought the pit-boss, not on the casinos time!
“Okey boss Okey
I’m fast as dash …” hectored eyes hesitate at the tables
players now uncertain. Chip stacks move in and out. “With players
watching just don’t make me look bad.” A few shuffle steps and a
mauve curtain takes him in. Vanished.
New flesh. New game.
Old pander. “How ya doin’ fans and fannies,” says the trim,
stacked blonde. Long arms though, long and nimble fingers that been
everywhere! Ruffle and shuffle of triple decks. Dealer once a
beauty: cold eye beauty surveys her table with eyes hot and
malicious and pandering all at once. “Okey sunny and honey I see
yer hot for the trots … game for fame …” She looks above. “I
see ya watchin’ .” Every wall has a pair, the 120-inch hi-def
plasma screens they draw players eyes, wallets and cut table rake!
Saul has always
shared 5% of table profit with his crew. She banged him twice just
for thanks, and has learned a patter, for the broadcasts are not
actually real-time. “Trotters are late tonight, cause a’ mud!
Pocono Downs won’t start their evening races till 9-PM . It’s
8:15-PM now. Shoe is rue, gates abate ...” She scatters a deck and
mixes … then shuffles them back into the shoe. “I’m ready ta
trot … got any riders?”
Booty,” snaps Max the pit-boss!
“Don’t EVER call me Maxie!”
Was a thing they
had, like him banging her every Thursday night after shift-change.
“Okey alright boss! Cards gonna fly. Heh, you on the right.
Whatcha smirking punk I got a better rack than that bimbo standing
behind. She gotta lean on yer or what? Gotta gun in yer pocket
readt ta fire? Just kiddin , lady just kiddin … Sure, here, have
one a’ my Camel straights. Smooth burn for the right gent that’s
me … Show more too if I bend a bit so …. CUT … ONE
FOR THE HOLE … place yer bets ladies and gentlemen plaaaace yer
Chubby face lawyer
sits last on-the-left. Some blackjack book told him to do that. “I
feel lucky - - gonna bet yards till the kookoo crows.” Booty flips
plastic. Cards scatter …
“Pair a’ 10s
Reeva, against a dealers five. Dealers gonna bust no matter what I
do; I’m gonna slit!”
“Two is twelve
stand and five is fifteen stand. Queen … and nine dealer busts.
Damn I’m fast. That’s a quick $200 on the first hand. Others
see, they played conservative and 3 of 4 lost! I gotta clue it’s
my game and my night.”
Chips stack. “Leave
it at $100? Sure I will … 7 against her Nine. Hit what else?” A
that’s 18. I’ll stand on that she goona go down like a $10
Slap slap … “Four
and … and nine Booty bust again ! Chip tops chip. What a fat night
this gonna be!”
The table purrs
packed tight with six other players, beside him a black-lipstick
goth ice-cold with sharp elbows, three other women, a suited swell
and a fat-man. The lawyer settles in. Goth shows a lotta thigh and
Camp catches the fish. “What’s next? Everybody gotta get a hook …
some got better hooks than others. 12 against six … “Stand.
Damme ...” Booty Ace rule.
15 against dealers
four. It’s a hit … but the lawyer thinks not tonight and stands.
“Yip yip two Jacks and Ms Booty goes down again. Kinda like that
action huh,” he smiles evil cross to the dealer.
Wound & bound
for three bill$ he wouldn’t last five minutes she thinks. 17
against a queen. “Sure loss,” thinks the lawyer. But 5 &
queen busts her flat as a cheerleader lay on a band-bus. “My night,
ya all gotta figure my night! Up a fat five hundred and haven’t had
my first comp.”
Doubles up for a
soft 17. Dealer busts 9-7-6. Flush!
martini - - TR and onions. Dry, very dry!” He shrugs off the blonde
and ruffles his stack of $800 won ceramic chips beside the grand he
come with. Can’t fault Davidsons casino for using cheap chips,
like the Alabama Cherokee joints. Players notice a winner. He yips:
“Reeva, cunt get useful beside showing the boob-job. Cost me
plenty! Get the damned waitress will ya?”
She bites a curse,
moves … alone now his eyes flit and cards flip; plastic swears:
black A-J! The Attorney pounds the table and exclaims. “Blackjack!”
Blood rushes, a knee brushes his … he squeezes the goths smooth
skin. “Stud! Tell me whose table-stud now!” Hi-five! Comps come
easy when ya win, the goth bimbo beside nipples swollen against
shear silk bustier, his hand roams inside the short slit skirt as
her knees fall apart. She’s wet easy and presses swollen hot lips
into his finger-tips. What a three-some she’ll make bet she eats
pussy like a seal. Make sex waves.
goes down to the sea-of-love in ceramic ships. Players attention
wains also, with the randy three-boiling beside the cards. Mom and
pop drop bets from $10 to $5, the one counter won’t hit against a
4 or 5 and the sniffling rheumy eyed vet refuses to split 7s and 8s
- - lousy cards , but which pairs tonight he seems to own.
Losing money hurts,
like losing the life of your own child. “Andrew, change dealers
again after our first three lost hands!” Angular face and a nose
Hannibal would understand pawl to the computer screen, Saul Davidson
… Saul and his casino float a different sea. “Is he clean?”
scanners mark a ceramic krak-pipe in his breast pocket. Shall we
“If we bounced
every cocaine-nose in Charleston law, then jaywalking cases get
tried in Myrtle Beach. We’ll take their money on Courthouse rules.
Andrew smirks and returns to his computer screen. The tables, Andrew
remembers have had five such blackjack losing-strings this week. He
has learned not to annoy his employer with facts Saul knows. “Is
Camp a talent?”
“Only if he buys
“Our chips and
shoe are honest!” American made also .. Saul likes that! Andrew
considers, the lawyers luck threatens nothing, unless he’s part of
a counting team --- and Andrew has never allowed a counting team to
break in. Consecutive re-wires attention on a slaw night, and
tempts other players to bet more and more quickly! Parkinsons rule
of small numbers. And lose quickly as they must. House rake is 1.5%
averaged over any month and the gods of fate will not have it
otherwise … super-deterministic … unless the casino forbid
doubling-down on soft-16 ! Andrew lights a PellMell Red and blows a
thin stream of high-brass smoke into the air-filtering duct above
“Make the dealer
change as I decided. Sarah … Sarah come with me ...”
Alone with two
quants, Andrew relaxes into his chrome and latex web. The fat quant
drools: “Suppose mark and his big-eye bimbo share lasers? “Maybe
we need to limit doubling on soft-hands!”
Damn! And suppose
alien mind-warp appears, Andrew did not say. He does say. “Sturmer,
please have a stroll past that table. Yeah, now, but no piece
required. Just a precaution.” Low class maneuver, that soft-double
retreat. It limits risk for the optimistic large bettor, and
vouyre rush for other players. Cheap and short sighted, a business
move fit only for Alabama and Atlantic City peons. All low-class
crap, but Saul writes his checks and wants him to cowboy this steer.
“Drinks delivered,” he snips into his mic. “Okey watchers ….
marks back at the table, playing yards. Here comes the 1st
against the dealers nine. Hit! Bust no shit Dick Tracy, but lots a
little numbers … 13 against four I’m gonna stand. Damn she made
nineteen … 11 against her Jack … gotta double down crap the A and
she pulls a couple 4s … what is this the deck from pissville?”
Head steams. “Crappo on three straight losing hands … heh boss,
pitboss yagotta newe set a’ dekks? Yeah you mother does it too …
but she bends over … ”
double-scotch drain; groaning surface felt grinds plastic as
dealer plays Ace-Jack of diamonds against turds. Next 17 against
twenty; Decks born bad. Table slot patched to a strong-box below
eats the lost chips; usta be mine. Campy gags ... “I ain’t born
yesterday” ... stubs his fag into red gristle, pushes away from
the table and leaving his bimbo as chip-warden saunters uneasy
toward a far plush corner and the aging crooner. Goth babe might be
21. She bets $50, finishes the next hand with dealers bust and
Discrete and cosy
for new lovers. Dark microfib loungers deep and fuzzy built-for-two
leaning across a crib table walnut thin - - Saul bought a dozen from
Lebanese guilds in debt to Hezbollah tree-cutters. Camp and the
goth-babe are all over. Yards below … as the micro-theatric slopes
… Crooner groans a love song his hair-band made famous 20 years
before. He’s got throat cancer from weed and can’t go hi-pitch ,
but lip-sink can. She spills all over coming once on Camps finger
before he gets there.
He has her nipple
out, hard and willing. A short-cut hi-yellow waitress comes and
goes. Invited , she pinches the goths raw pink button wickedly
with a pleasure slow and vicious. Her tight proud ass is wet too.
“That’s a stairway ta heaven I didn’t expect,” goth gasps
knees trembling when her teeth remove from the lawyers wrist.
They bang tumblers
and GlenLivits vanish. Lawyer waffles. Strokes her face. “Pale
frail … I figured you for the quick kind, give-N-go. I like to
watch!” A well-dressed German tourist walks by … Campy knows
German engineers believe in logic. This one is deaf, cause his
ear-bud is whistling. Campy hears high-pitch notes, like mockingbird
trills. Always has. Watt high!
She clenches, her
lips making a silver smear on his cheek. “How did I know that? Can
you get rid of the square - - blonds don’t punch my ticket - - bet
the waitress takes a dare and eats like a chocolate eclaire !” She
feels the ceramic bulge in his vest. “Got smoky thrills for a
lady?” Singer’s into the bands big-bang hit wowsing wrinkled
females and not a tourist in site. “I’m so creamy ...” Goths
hand hovers .
Lawyer leaps away
from her. “Don’t get so personal, bitch. I ain’t spread knees
yet, not like I’m gonna so ya got no rights to poke around. Stuff
not yer business.” From a ceiling fixture, low light camera and
hi-gain mic grind away; see and hear everything. AI clues on perv,
and pushes these out frames to a casino watcher. Prolly debating …
but they have been quiet … discrete. Davidson causes betting
patrons no trouble doesn’t trouble him. He runs a tight ship ;
Campy counts on that, he counts by millions of prime units slipping
from one dimensional edge to the next.
“He gonna bang her
“He’s back and
forth … mebby, if the band plays loud.”
“No, if the
couple stays dim. What the fuck!”
crimped-card problem at number-2 Texas-Hold-Em table … big run and
no fun one guy talks about a gun” - - chuckle chuckle - - “Have
a look ...” both men turn ...
Camp and goth are
invisible. Sharp little teeth showing she lurches toward him like
a kif-boned honey badger. “Wanna play get me hard … hard to get
?” Bellied up to him he slaps her tit so hard the snap on her bra
breaks spilling cleavage like Jonestowns flood.
face flushes blush. “Oh ya wanna play rough? I like a man who knows
the hard side ; gives what he takes, but more. “She slaps his face,
a quick stinging slap and pulls his mouth into her breasts. Grunt.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
he snarls smashfacing her tumbledown over the lounger legs aspray
and leaps a sprinters stride for the glowing rolling majestic orange
forest of twitterbirds flocking across the room from gatekeepers mouth.
Gatekeepers revenge! A dentists delights smooth lips no longer , bitch vixen.
Her image spews long-fang curved ivory incisors, smoky mirror
vampire tools nothing like badger sawteeth and screaming Campy
races for the felt rope castle that holds her.
A tall man appears
in front of him holding a tray of canapes and Campy runs him down,
head-butt to the nose, knee to the gut, steel-toed leather tromping
his glass jaw. Well now he couldn’t wait could he? One-of-three
no-limit Texas-holdem tables display six Colt-44 cowboy revolvers.
Each man has killed, yet noone distract him as he rushes by their
six piles of $1000 bills.
A black Stetsoned ranger-guy does look up to curse. "Hells bitch waitin'
straight ahead!" Bustlung, asshole Campy thinks violence never distracts
serious men. Could'a taught the gatekeeper bitch a lesson.
over a waitress carrying party-hearty Singapore Slings ... krushed kommiz now. Like
high-school wrestling class ... tumble to recover no waste as goth-cloth no
longer covered his trail. Broke teeth when she hit the floor Campy grins ...
she was demanding and commanding and landing on his trail, making his
legend a grail not not not a bloodbath. But, he’d have the last laugh.
...” echoes across the magic forest usta be mine he’s clapped the
ceramo-plastic GLOCK 2-barrel 45-cal derringer between his teeth so
his hands can fight … smash a face - - knock-over a waddler - -
elbow to the eye a CCer who’s 38-cal bullets hit the ceiling and
"Jackson," rumbles the plush-muffled storm sound .. you, Jackson ..."
from the dining port a room a world of renown sound: what-the-fuck
a talking roast duck he never got there!
Screams and all all
all … trips and falls what a ball and rolls over up again running
for the bitch that has ducked under her velvet chains usta be quiet
standing still, but no longer. Tell me. Honest! Which DMT hero
would ever hear the southron basso chant “drop the weapon,
How can you stay
alive shouts eternity? It ain’t even an order. Campy thinks it’s
a message from the DMT cause he’s got the ceramic barrel and
red-head GLOCK bead-eye sighted just below the gatekeepers blonde
hair and he thinks two shots in the forehead will make her his
But DeLeons voice
yanked him around. I don't think another man could have queered his
determination so sharply. One of the eyes meant only for her found
the detective and one of the GLOCK derringer barrels meant for her redirected
into the brim of DeLeons white straw Panama hat. Not every man
wears his hat-brim so high, that a grass-cutting furrow of hair was the only
mark that 90-grain hollow-point left on the detectives head.
Well enough - - bullets
fly and heads continue to imagine ... even the DMT-rushed and corroded
head of lawyer Camp following white plumes of gun-barrel debris till
two 40-cal police-issue hollow-points blew the top off his DMT forest.
happens so fast he sees orange from white brain slop scattered
here to eternity, but has only hurt hurt hurt no strength to pull
twice a trigger no longer attached to a finger. “Oh fuck usta be
mine,” his body intelligence or a blurt of gas manages to shout
before all emptiness reigns.
Can ya dig it Joey? Can ya mine that Quantum chaoes Henry
cause cause cause it never was ... being measured so collapsed
like a limp body that wave function that usta be mine. Christ the heat!
Players and eaters have all been limoed north-of-the-Cooper, to a
Shem-Creek Negro speakeasy financed and protected by Davidson. Brightly
Lit, Sauls casino crowds with another class of gambler. Inspector
Morraine and his blue-fox were first to the scene; Nicky had two words
for them .. or three and they found another grift.
One of Sauls Herrn
has tossed a 3-A poncho over Ms Peepers and with two other wives hustled
into a well-armoured limo already cruising randomly along Lockwood
Blvd. Four whites in biohazard suits suck bloody slop from rugs into
glass vials ... vials already scheduled for the GC/MS at City Station lab.
Carpetiers in orange and tan stand ready to measure, cut and replace the
thick persian-rug flooring.
DeLeon without mercy. "Get their statements, gawdammit. I'll be on IAL after
tonight so don't slack-off now. I don't care if ya ride-the-wagon with them."
An ambulance carts off two wounded patrons; Sauls suite at Med U. awaits.
tourney has moved to a back room. Near the performance theater
photos are being taken. "Slugs .. find 'em! Two .. three ... four ...
yes Sergent use the stud-finder if ya can't see the holes!" Nicky directs
forensic search for three slugs buried into the casino ferro-cement
ceiling. Two other officers hold the gatekeeper and dealer in Sauls
office while detectives grill, statements recorded and shysters called in to
smooth over the thrill.
Nicky has come up thru
the marbled maze into Sauls office. Through glass viewports He looks down
at the chaos casino floor and twice at Sauls lawyer and chief security Herrn.
Looks and scowls. Sips deep into an old bourbon. "How stupid , this mess
to make City Councilmen think! You aren't here and they aren't
there ... way it's supposed
Side by side, the three men shuffle. Saul says. "We know that."
Saul … three chances to stop this folly. 0-for-three as I see
“We know that.”
sensors, Saul. That Glock derringer has manganese diffused into the
“We know that.”
“Wine bottles cork wine,
but not always. The same Wappo Cut trawlers bring in your redfish also traffic the DMT."
“Say nothing Mr Davidson. The copper wants a free ride
"Please attorney, stop with the kitch. There's blood on my floor ..."
"Considered a new sommelier?"
Davidson, peacefully eyeing Andrew and Herr Sturmer. "Warped wood or short shoes ... St Paul tells us
vigilance is never enough. We know that."
The detectives Italian leather shoes
clipped a short path near Sauls mahogany table. “Campy had no business
anywhere near your casino. He boiled, a shyster set to explode: two weeks ago he was
disbarred for assaulting a client in Judge Rheems courtroom. His own client!”
“We know that.”
Nicky finishes sour-mash
Cobbs Creek with a casual slow pull, lights the Camel straight and
blows long thin streamers toward casino glass viewports. “Rock shrimp could
a’ been fresher. Ms Peepers suggested I have words with
the Chef. Net-to-grill is a simple courtesy to diners ... Eve has an impatient
eye for culinary error.”
I snatch the gold
cigarette case from my tux pocket, spoon a Red to the detective
and light his and mine. Smooth Virginia blend forms thin streams
of smoke circling the space between us and a Herrn coughs. Hitler
was an ecologist Sarah tells me. I meet the detectives eye. “Our executive
chef has advised flounder for a charity buffet we’re sponsoring
next Sunday. Lead singer for The Magpies will provide the
entertainment and Ms Peepers approves. We know that!”