Gambits #4

Didn’t Your Mom Tell You About Girls “Like That?”

In 2016, a seventeen-year-old Mexico City boy suffered a fatal stroke after receiving a hickey from his girlfriend. A pathologist determined the love bite caused a blood clot that traveled to the young dude’s brain

I can’t believe this hasn’t been riffed by every screenwriter and fluffy mystery novelist out there. This is a teen secret agent or a treehouse detective agency YA waiting to happen.

“What happened to Tommy,” Rodrigo asked. It stayed quiet, the wind and the fall leaves brushing against the garage door the only sounds.

Finally Jimmy volunteered, solemnly, “Dead, man. Tommy’s dead.”

“No way!” Rodrigo protested loudly.

“Way,” Becca said, gloomily. “And it was like totally gross how.”

Rod waited, waited a little longer. “Cough, Bec.”

She looked around the circle of friends, sighed heavily. “He and Cindy, uh, Castaneda…” she blushed, hard.

“Yeah?” Rod queried with some push in his voice.

“Yeah…” Becca looked around again, then at the floor. “He, uh…Well, she…” Becca took a deep breath, raised her head and tried to cop some street before saying  “they were deep skiddilypoo in front of her house and she lip branded him, and, and…”

“He got a blood clot from it and it went to his brain,” Jimmy snapped his fingers.  “D.O.A. The dirt nap is scheduled for Thursday after school.”

“Ridicurageous!” Rodrigo was almost in shock. “I saw him at Franco’s like Friday, he was jackin’ on some date he had. It was Cindy Castaneda, she did a fangless vampirella and he’s dead?”

Jimmy looked up from the floor, fiddled with his USB programmable fake Apple watch that told him the time and when to eat lunch, take his allergy meds. “That’s what the cop doc said.”

“There’s gotta be more to it,” Becca said pensively. Becca was always looking for conspiracies, even where there weren’t any. Her dad sold lingerie to department stores and managed all the outlet mall hose and girdle stores, but they all knew he was a secret agent of some kind, and what went on in the back room of the biggest outlet mall store had nothing to do with bras and panties and six packs of B stock pantyhose. She’d pull a Dad, I wanna come next time he was going to Crockett Falls, get on the computer. Cindy Castaneda had been trouble since she’d shown up last summer. Well, trouble, and kind of a, well slut was a bad word. Maybe a prick tease ’cause everybody talked about how hot she was and how she could kiss the shell off a walnut, but nobody was talking about had they done it with her or anything…

Y’all like me all adverbly and commercial with proper tags? I coulda gone on about how cool the garage was, maybe an old B&O stereo with big wooden speakers and no bluetooth, kids like that. But hell, the watch was a stretch for me.

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Dusk in Douala

Douala, Cameroon / Summer 1998

The overgrown, abandoned dirty white two-story cinder block house sat on a deserted street of more houses just like it in the southern Douala ghetto. It’s footprint no more than twelve by twelve. Inside it was hot as hell. Sticky. Close. The floor for the second floor and roof were both missing. Chain-link fence wire and plywood covered the windows, the faded blue plank door off its hinges leaned to the right side of the doorway. A weathered sign featuring a smiling African woman with a gap in her front teeth, her head surrounded by vegetables said someone once ran a market here. Now two Englishmen in wilted white evening clothes, one thirtyish, longish hair, the other maybe forty, clean cut with laser eyes, both running on vanishing patience stood in the sweltering Douala dusk with a large fat man in brown and green military dress, a small, bald, black as midnight accountant type in a bright yellow shirt covered in orange pineapples and a tall, thin vacant eyed blonde man in a black uniform straight out of a Nazi war poster.

“We came unarmed. Colonel,” the younger Anglo said, the fat man’s rank escaping with uncloaked derision. Colonel. General. Why did all the supercilious pissant liberation leadership adopt a military veneer? “You’ve inspected your merchandise. We need our money.”

“As I said, I do not trust him. Nor particularly do I care for your lack of respect, Monsieur Caswell. I ask again. Shoot him for me. To make me happy, and for your insolence. Do so and the money is yours.” The grin full of gold teeth and ego.

“And I say, again, we are not armed. We’re businessmen, Mon Colonel, not gangsters.”

From the older Anglo, “Give him a gun, somebody. Get this farce over with.”

“What then?” Caswell tilted his head to the contingent of three. “I kill you, the one in the monkey suit kills me, they walk with the money and the merchandise?”

“The fat one is a stooge. The other two are decoration. I say Colonel fatass leaves with the money,” he motioned with his hand to Short Baldy and Vacant Eyes. “Has someone waiting to kill these two. Maybe somebody he doesn’t see coming kills him. What they’re sweating now is fatass’s Bogart routine that’s failed. We were supposed to show up cowboy, they talk us into killing each other over the money. Cheap. This has been a cheap sideshow operation since day one.”

Caswell turned to the three. Vacant Eyes now held a Chinese Glock knock-off in his left hand, his forearm rigid at a right angle to his shoulder. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, his forehead, dripped from the tip of his nose. Colonel Clown remained crisp, impervious to the heat, hat fat-arm-clamped to his side. Below the hat he had a revolver in a big, shiny black military holster with a flap secured by a snap. Little Baldy was sweating profusely, staining the leather briefcase he clutched to his chest with both hands.

“He’s right. Somebody give me a gun.” He glanced at his friend. No one moved. He judged his distance to Vacant Eye’s. Half an arm’s length, if that. “Gestapo boy. Gun. NOW, if your boss wants this done. Or you do it. Somebody do something, do it now.

Vacant eyes responded by lifting his gun hand. Caswell grabbed Vacant’s wrist with both hands, jammed the Glock clone up and under Vacant’s chin, pulled the trigger. Vacant Eyes gurgled, sputtered, Cas pushed him away, turned the gun on Colonel Clown fumbling to unflap his holster. He allowed the pistol as shiny and black as the holster to clear before he shot the Colonel in the elbow. He screamed, the pistol hit the ground. The older wilted Anglo snatched it up, leveled it between the Colonel’s eyes.

“I have your women. If, if we’re not at the container in —” The shiny black revolver boomed once, the Colonel backed up, a look of complete, cross-eyed surprise on his face as if trying to focus on the .45 caliber hole above the bridge of his nose. He sat down hard, fell over on top of Vacant Eyes.

“What, Cas? Eh? I was bloody sick of his Casablanca bullshit. ‘Prove to us your loyalty. Shoot heem. I do not trust heem.’ Somebody in this circus act wants us dead. More than they want the merchandise or their money back. Or these clowns were a front and there’re parties involved we haven’t seen.”

“Maybe,” Caswell wiped his forehead with the left sleeve of his white tux. “First though,” he stuck the Glock clone in the short bald man’s ear when he came up from vomiting. “The women?” Baldy nodded rapidly in the affirmative. “Where?” Baldy turned his head, bent, vomited nothing. The Glock followed him, locked to his ear, Caswell upped the pressure, kept the man bent over.

“Please…I have family. The hotel. Your hotel. He sent two men there. Like him.” Baldy pushed dead Vacant Eyes with his foot. Cas backed off.

“Open the briefcase.”

Caswell waited while Baldy fumbled in his pants pocket for a key, got impatient, ripped Baldy’s hand out, stuck his own hand in, came out with a tiny pearl handled .25 automatic and a key ring. The older one lit a black cigarette, exhaled sideways.

“You could just cut his hand off, Cas. He might’ve shot you with the flea gun.”

“Shut up, you’ll scare him. Goddammit what’s that smell…See? You made the little fucker shit himself.”

“That’s fatass or the Aryan wonder boy or both lightening up before they cross the great divide. Baldy’s still alive and unloading topside, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Comedy relief for Africa?”

“I was thinking a signature tune for Visit Cameroon. Forget your cares, leave your brains and empty your bowels in Douala.”

“An instant classic. Teach the world to sing while you’re at it.” Caswell uncuffed the briefcase, tossed it to his partner, mashed the gun back in Baldy’s ear. “Money, or was this little man running his own game?”

“Money.”

“Kiss your family for us.” Caswell spun Baldy, put his foot in the small of his back and shoved him through the opening where the door should have been. They could hear him dry heave his way down the dusty street.

“One of us should have killed him on principle, Cas.”

“We need to know where he goes. I put a couple of locals on whoever left this dump alive.”

“Ah. Altruism with return postage.” He pointed with the Colonel’s shiny revolver. “These two?”

“Fuck them.” Cas peered through the deepening dusk at the bodies, kicked the sole of the Colonel’s gleaming boots. “The locals will pick them clean, pull their teeth, burn the bodies. Elise and Ori?”

“Customary for them I say there’s two more dead liberation fighters. Most likely in a commercial laundry hamper in the hotel basement.” He crushed his cigarette out on a wall. “Discharged, I’m sure, with a good deal more finesse than we put up. Who were the locals supposed to report to if we didn’t walk out of here?”

“A note at the hotel, a scrambled cold phone to the Oxford drop for Dunning.”

“One of these days somebody’s going to have to kill Richard Dunning.”

“Don’t tell anyone you’re on the way or he’ll hear about it somehow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gambits #3

The Deep Bubbly Goodbye

Approximately two dozen people are killed every year by champagne corks. Most at weddings.

There’s everything from legacy money to life insurance mixed up in there with greed, jealousy, revenge and conspiracy.

I’d hate to see Korbel’s liability premiums.

Looney Lunes #150

Great Balls of Fire

Levi’s, way back when, originally had a rivet to keep the crotch seams from splitting. It was removed when the gold miners and cowboys suffered blistered genitalia after standing too close to their campfires.

I don’t want to picture the damage done by that rivet after a long day in the saddle.

Gambits #2

Gambit – an opening move, a  suggestion.

Truth is stranger than fiction

Before you jump off the deep end and write some drunkenly adverb laden formulaic glossy crap or fan fic a riveting sequel to A Century of Sand Dredging in the Bristol Channel: Volume Two by (published!!) Author Peter Gosson, try this on –

Christmas Eve, 1945, Virginia. George and Jennie Sodder’s home caught fire, forcing the family to evacuate. Five of the couple’s nine children were thought to be trapped in the home. A search following the fire revealed no human remains in the charcoal and ash. To this day no one knows what happened to those five kids.

That one is so loaded…UFOs to a reduction in Christmas stocking overhead. Get on it.

Looney Lunes # 149

Education TwoFer – You get what you pay for

Free English Lunguage Programs (ESL)
Wednesdays 7:30 PMSign in front of Community Center, Plano, Texas

Your the best teacher ever!Card given to volunteer English Professor of same program

I know it’s Tuesday. I have the flu.

THG 3 – CH 21 – Black Lipstick Pt 4

Mid-July, 1979 / Train Between Nottingham and Cambrdge, UK

Deanna fingered interlocking circles on the fogged train window, let a half smile break through. She could hear Jax saying from the driver’s seat of his stupid, precious car, “D, why do you do that to my windows?” For some attention, maybe, or just to piss you off, Mister Clean. If he was for real in the seat next to her he would lean over, squeeze her knee where it tickled and pretend to look out her window, wet kiss her nose or ear to piss her off, wipe off the circles and say, “Trains, Collings. What a concept.” Yeah, Mister half dead and lost, they are. And they go everywhere. She tried to hear what he’d say to that. “Everywhere? I don’t care about everywhere, but do they have lots of tunnels? Trains and tunnels, you know, because –” he’d do that thing poking his finger through a hole made with his thumb and forefinger. She’d have smacked his arm at the grin and ‘you know.’ She tried to hear what he’d say to Ms. Pollyanna Perfect Deanna Collings losing however many days…

She elbowed the Army jacket next to her, where Jackson should have been. “Alvy, what day is it?”

“Huh?” The olive drab jacket roused, more from boredom than sleep.

Day, Alvy. What day is it?”

“Christ, D’anna. Monday.”

“God…” She kept her gaze out the window, counted silently on her fingers. Friday night, Saturday…Sunday. Where’d that one go? Now it was Monday. Afternoon sometime. Cloudy, cool. Well, pushing 70. Hot by English standards.

“Who called you?”

“Morton.” Alvy yawned, rounded himself into a stretch in the seat.

“The beanpole with the moles? His name’s Morton? I thought it was Fish or something.”

“Fizz. Fizzy Piss. They call him that because he can pee on anything, pavement even, and it still bubbles like soapy water or –”

“Just what I needed to hear. He’s an architect. Was an architect, right? Quit to get rich screaming bullshit at skinheads? And none of them are really named Quiqley? Now that you say it, Fizzy, I heard it I think, at the party thing…”

“I wasn’t there.”

“No, you weren’t.” Did he have to wrap everything he said in mope? “What happened?”

“After the fight at the club or before?”

“Fight?”

“Go on, D’anna.”

Okay, be that way. Someone would tell her. “What was in those pills?”

Tablets. Different ones, different things.”

“The blue one?” Dumbass.

“Special blend. Some Ketamine, Ritalin, pheno.”

“Can you tell me what that means without a chemistry lesson?”

“Ketamine is a dissociative anesthetic. Ritalin to keep you awake. The pheno and Ketamine react to –”

“I said no –”

“It’s a speedball with psychedelic properties, okay?”

The woman in front of them, the one who’d moved when Deanna sat by her to avoid Alvy, turned to look at them.

“Excuse him. He talks too loud. To impress people.” The woman gave them a church lady look, turned back around.

The speedball psychedelic explained Friday. The endless car ride with five girls stuffed like sardines in a small car some friend of Feeb’s was driving. They laughed for hours. Driving sideroads too trashed to be on the A1, headed for someplace outside Nottingham. They went through Peterborough, all of them making burrowed Peter jokes. They got lost in Blid something Bottoms, all got out to pee, obsessed with the thought of bottoms. Deanna discovered tripping and personal plumbing and bathroom business was hilarious and impossible. They made it to a house in Nottinghamshire somewhere. A big house. Ancient looking outside, completely modern inside. An old man, tall, creamy hair, ascot…ponytail. A butler. No, an actor who looked like a butler, but he owned the place. “Welcome,” followed by some kind of arts and enlightenment, creative and enlightened people junk. She’d laughed. He remained an overdressed mannequin, offered her a tall glass.

“A drink? Champagne?” Okay. One won’t kill me.

“What’s upstairs?” What did he say?

“The stairs, yes, by all means.” Toasted her with some sexist garbage, clinked her glass with “Stairway to Heaven vintage.” He’d smiled with one side of his mouth, the other side frozen, like the eye above it. The music was so loud, the fireplace huge, everything too much. She took the stairs two at a time, stood on the second-floor landing. It was quieter.  Through a door off the hall some people offered her a seat with them on a satin pillow the size of a living room rug. There were guitars and weird shakers and bongos scattered around. No one was playing them. The forest of incense sticks put out so many smells it was a perfume counter on fire. The satin pillow people chanted nonsense and passed a fat candle around. A strange candle that left a neon trail in its wake, the smoke curling along with the incense into morphing faces on their way to a disappearing ceiling. Neon tracer candle passing and murmuring, and they all wanted to touch her forehead.

No.

Back to the stairs. No! The fucking wooden staircase had turned into a river of chocolate, the bannister, when she grabbed it at first a feathery boa, next the real thing. Did she go all the way down the liquid fudge slide on her butt? She wasn’t covered in chocolate, but she was downstairs, the snake had turned into another glass of champagne. People were laughing, the lyrics to the too loud music running out their ears. God. Talking with your ears. Not fucking funny, people! Outside. Outside. Feeb! Thank God, Feeb! Feeb’s eyes. She was dead. Oh, shit. Dead. Outside somewhere, on a cement bench by a naked white guy built like a jock. He had curly hair, a tiny little dick surrounded by the same, and he was peeing in a jar. Get a life, dude. Really. Feeb! You’re dead! Did he do this? Blood, running from Feeb’s eyes. That was it.

She’d told that story, what had happened to Feeb, when Skinny Moles pulled her from a pile of intertwined bodies wrapped in canvas and straw. He’d said, “All the wiser we are for damage done to young Apollo pissing.” Told her not to worry, the rest would come back in a couple of days. The pile she’d come from. More dead people? The stench of the bodies. Overpowering. She’d complained, he’d snarled, said it was as much her as the rest. She shed the oversized denim jacket of unknown origin. It hadn’t helped much with reducing the smell, and it was cold, so she kept it. Wrapped herself back in a potpourri of stale cigarette smoke, incense, alcohol, urine, vomit, sex. She felt like a frat party’s worth of dirty underwear with feet. None of the stink really hers, she hoped. And woodsmoke.

Woodsmoke! Saturday had been the philosophical bonfire where everyone wanted to shag – what a fucking word, shag – they all wanted to fuck. Not make love, fuck. Nasty, careless fucking. With anyone and everyone else, regardless of gender boundaries or how dysfunctional their bodies were from drugs. She’d gone on a rampage about women protecting themselves, like a wild woman version of her mother with the condom and cucumber. The “Fiery cunt from Cambridge  preaching the sanctity of the vagina,” Fishy Piss had told her. She’d gone around unplugging, mid coitus, the ones who could figure it out until someone dragged her off to the house. She had more of the old butler man’s champagne and Sunday vanished.

On the drive to Nottingham station Morton or Fish or Fizz or whoever had called her a stagnant bit of Cambridge good girl who needed to find something to believe in besides her twat. If she had to know what happened, fine. He lit a smelly Russian cigarette, told her she’d been out, of her own and everyone else’s misery, somewhere in the woods for twenty-four hours before she was found and tossed on the pile in the barn with the rest of the passed-out party casualties. His last words to her before slowing down and opening the van door were “You go on about being a good girl with broken girl looks, pretending, with your golden twat and a pole up your arse. See what it gets you.” She was out on the sidewalk, the old van rounding a corner before she could respond.

“Alvy? Who called you?”

“Morton. I said, didn’t I? Rang me at half gone noon. Said you were a right solid pain in his arse, dumped on him as you were by me, and I had to come make you disappear from his life. I said you were none of mine, he said bollocks. Said I’d have to take the train. He said be quick about it. The train’s three bloody hours I said.He blew a sigh out his nose. “That was pissing petrol on his fire.”

“Great. He must have waited to wake me up. Twenty minutes from the barn to the sidewalk and there you were. Who bought my ticket?”

“D’anna, it’s not, it doesn’t…What is, and does, is we’ve missed Monday. My supers, the study committee, the advisors – we’ll say we caught something, ate something. I’ll think of –”

“Something? You do that.” She curled into the train wall, pulled the stinky jacket tighter. “And then explain away what the fuck you were doing with that bag of crazy pills while you’re at it.”

“That’s…It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is. ‘Here Danna, you might like this one.’ And it’s three fucking days later and I’ve seen all kinds of crazy shit happen and, and, ohhh no!” She reached, grabbed his jacket. “Feeb’s dead. And that old man’s hair ate his head…”

The old woman turned again, scowled deep and long. They waited for her to have enough.

“Feeb’s at work. Saw her yesterday.” He stretched again. “She’s how you got out of the club alive. She’s the one left you in Nottingham wood.” He hrumphed further down in the seat. “She should be on this bloody train, not me.”

“Really? She’s not…Dead? Or anything?”

“She’s something, but not dead.”

In the window she saw Feeb’s eyes again. They ran down her face in a black river of moonlight blood, her mouth open, her teeth stained black with it. How was she alive?

“What about the old butler?”

“Fizz says Krysanthe is still with us and all, as nothing ate his head. He was well done with Fizz and Feeb and the whole lot of them for having you out to one of his expansionist happenings. Says you ought to be caged.”

“His face. That thing on his face was mocking me when we were talking. He’d say something, and I’d say something back. Then it would ‘Nyah Nyah’ me, repeat what I said. I slapped it and it went crazy. I saw it. His hair got all mad about it and ate his head. Really, I mean it. I saw it, Alvy.”

He let that sit for a long ten seconds, didn’t bother to look at her. “Some people shouldn’t do drugs.”

“If that was about me, I know a guy who said the same thing. He said I was wound too tight and a good hit of windowpane would probably cure me if it didn’t kill me, but he didn’t want to be around to co-pilot.” Jax kept all that, that part of himWhere did he keep it? She’d never seen him really out of it except a couple of times. His thing was pot, mostly. But he knew about all of it, said it was everywhere. “More bad shit around where music happens than you can imagine, D.” Her brother had said the same thing about college and pro football. Maybe that was why he and Jax got along, the two un-likelies. They’d both said, “Keep your head down, do your thing, stay out of it.” She finally hadn’t kept her head down, and they were right. Wow. How could that be? Jax and Doug. They were, were…Guys. And they got it?

She gave a couple of the window circles eyes and angry eyebrows, thinking about the concert. More like hours of horrid noise in public. Did Jax know about Punk? He’d never said. He did do that stupid egg beater thing on the piano for that stupid whore dance major. He knew about Classical, that was pretty weird, because he’d talk about it, when he talked, with the same sort of vocabulary she used for lit, but he was in music school. He knew all about Oldies and Radio Rock, made her listen to ‘Prog’ sometimes which was just too much. Poetry could be outside, but songs were supposed to be songs. Songs you could dance to. Weren’t they? And the Blues. She liked the old ones by black guys best. Jax said they were “honest,” not written for white kids and Billboard. His favorite stuff, he told her early on and she wasn’t supposed to tell, was Standards and ‘Torch Songs’. He’d hooked her with those. The dreamy sounds…

He could sit in Amanda’s office with Amanda and Alix and Amber the Lady Godiva California hippie turned lawyer and they’d talk about all kinds of music. He’d make fun of Amanda’s folky stuff, but he and Amber would play folk songs for her until they’d make a joke out of one and Amanda would say “Enough” in that way she had. There was something he’d play on the piano for Amanda, the same as he did “Summertime” for her mom. And they both got that same way about him and “their” songs that made her jealous. They’d get all wispy over them, and he’d have to say something to make them laugh. Amber said it was because he could make the colored bubbles come. Like that was some sort of magic. But Amber said it so off hand, like everybody saw the bubbles and understood. Colored bubbles was nutso, and Deanna’d said as much. What was Jax, anyway? Some kind of, of,

“What did you call that stuff? Ketta whatsit?”

“Ketamine? A dissociative anesthetic.” He saw her face, wanting to ask but not wanting to look stupid. “The pharmacologic point is you get so doodled by it you don’t know you hurt.”

She leaned back into the window, her hair obliterating most of her window art. She drew a smile on the lone remaining crooked circle. “So maybe some people, or love even, could be like that, huh? That Ketamine stuff?”