“I know,” the don cracked. He cupped his hands under the prostitute’s armpits and pushed hard. Highball twitched as if being electrocuted. “I’m mad! When I get mad, I gotta-I gotta vent my frustrations!”
“Come on, Paulie. That ain’t right. She our ‘ho. She got the toppest trick-time bod on the street. Can’t kill her just ’cos you’re mad.” Case Piece dared put his hand on Paulie’s shoulder. “Listen, bro. Fuck this. Let’s go inside so’s you can cool off. Then we’ll think of a way fer you ta get back at these dudes…”
Paulie let the consideration sink in, and, just as Highball was re-entering death throes, he let her head fall out. “Yeah, yeah. I…guess you’re right.”
Highball shuddered on the floor, eyes fit to pop out. When Case Piece pulled the duct tape off her mouth, she lurched, arched her back, screamed, then passed out.
“Come on, Paulie. Let’s get in the crib,” the black man urged. “Get you chilled.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Paulie said desperately, running his fingers back through his hair.
“‘Bye, Case Piece!” Melda said.
Case Piece took one aghast glance at the morbid woman—whose fat-bulged face grinned ludicrously. Drooling, she flapped a fat, dirty hand.
“Uh…yeah,” Case Piece said and ushered Paulie out.
In the warehouse “day room,” Paulie sat on the bedraggled couch, wringing his hands. Argi, Cristo, and Dr. Prouty stood in nervous silence. Case Piece grabbed a soda from the battered fridge and gave it to Paulie. “Here, blood. Have a grape drink. It’ll make ya feel top.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the don replied.
“Sung,” Case Piece directed next. “Turn on some tunes. Let’s jam awhile.”
“Oh, shewer, Clase Preece!” and then the Asian turned on the boom box, which immediately blared, “It’s duh ‘hos and duh bitches, my dick-bag itches, here come Dr. Dre, with the Tangeray and duh motherfuck, duh motherfuck, duh motherfuckin’ AK!”
“Turn that shit off!” Paulie, Argi, and Cristo all yelled at the same time.
Sung turned it off.
“Shit, Paulie,” Case Piece said. “Just trine ta get you mellow. But them redneck dudes? We gotta think of a way for you ta break some bad on ’em.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Paulie sputtered.
“We ain’t been hit that hard in..in, well, ever,” Argi observed.
“Burns me up,” Paulie blistered. “We gotta do somethin’ back to them that makes what they did to ‘Becca look like babies blowing spit-bubbles.”
“Dudes lay disrespezzy on you like that? Just you say the word,” Case Piece offered, “and me’n my dawgs? We help you pop hard trunk on the motherfuckers.”
Paulie winced. “What?”
Argi’s eyes thinned. “Means, I think, he and his guys’ll help us fuck the rednecks over.”
“Oh. Well, no, see,” Paulie explained. “We’re Italian. It’s just the way it is. Whatever piece of work we do, it’s gotta be us that does it.”
“But what are we gonna do?” Cristo pondered.
Paulie rubbed his eyes. “Shit, man. I don’t know. We don’t know anything about these guys.” He looked to Prouty. “Doc. You’re the smart one. How can we get these guys back?”
Dr. Prouty gulped. “Ah, well, sir, let me give the query some consideration—hmm. Well, one possibility, I suppose, is thus: we’ll simply venture to their abode. You may recall, the youngster you remunerated money to in exchange for him delivering the DVD player to this man Helton Tuckton. He did give us what seemed to be serviceable directions to the domicile.”
“Yeah, you’re right! That little redneck kid!”
“And though he implied that the Winnebago was likely too large and cumbersome to safely navigate the road to Mr. Tuckton’s house, did he not declare that it was only a mile’s distance?”
“Yeah!”
Dr. Prouty nodded. “Then we’ll merely dispatch ourselves to the Tuckton residence. If Mr. Tuckton and/or his kin are home, then…” Prouty’s brow shot up.
Paulie grinned through grinding teeth. “We’ll do an action on ’em that’d make the Devil shit his pants!”
“And in the event that no one is present at the time of our arrival”—Prouty shrugged—“then we could, say, set fire to their abode, film it while it’s burning, then email the video file to them.”
Paulie clapped. “Perfect! You’re a genius, Doc!”
“Great thinkin’,” Argi said.
Cristo seemed giddy. “And, man, I love burnin’ houses down. And if any of ’em are there, we can even burn the house with them in it!”
“Yeah!” Paulie’s grim mood swing had reversed. “All right, it’s set. Are we ready? Oh, and Doc? Looks like you get to be camera man again.”
“I’m…exuberant with the opportunity,” Prouty said
Paulie chugged some grape soda. “Aw, yeah! I feel much better now, guys!”
All of the others breathed a sigh of relief.
The prospect now of revenge thrilled Paulie.
“You guys skyin’ up now?”
Paulie winced. “What?”
Argi made a contemplation. “Think he means are we goin’ to do the job tonight, boss.”
“Oh. Well, fuck yeah,” the don confirmed. “Why not? The sooner the better, right?”
“Sure, boss.” Cristo said.
Paulie looked around. “Where’s the other guy, the pepper-belly? Shit, he’s never here.”
Case Piece and Sung exchanged a quick glance. “Oh, my dawg Menduez? He out gettin’ blunky with the monkey, you know, doin’ the dop. You hip to that hop? Walkin’ the scag-man bop’n watchin’ junkies cop. He’s mizzlin’ and Mcdizzlin’ and slingin’ and blingin’ and thrillin’ and spillin’n flippity, frippity frop.”
Paulie spat out a mouthful of grape drink. “What?”
“Don’t’cha know? He’s our toppest slinger, blood. He on the grooves’n bustin’ moves. He’s jackin’ down ’cos he’s top as a crown.”
Argi sighed. “Shit, boss, I think he means the guy’s out takin’ care of business.”
“Right,” Case Piece said.
Paulie shook his head. “You sell any of that smack yet?”
Case Piece cocked a glance. “Fo’ shizzle, my mizzle!”
Paulie spat out more grape drink. “What?”
Argi rubbed his face. “Means, I think, yeah, boss, they sold some smack.”
Case Piece forked his ‘fro. “Shit, Paulie. We slung two keys in two motherfuckin’ days. First key we couldn’t kick out the door fast enough. Mid-bags from Radford, Roanoke, shit, all over, they come’n take it off our hands faster than it take Sung to come.”
“Aw, fruck you, Clase!” Sung laughed.
“Second key we peddled ourselves right here. All’s a sudden the junkies are out. Maybe my man Obama got more’a them stimulus checks mailed ’cos, fuck, last week we couldn’t sell shit’n this week we got more hypes with green in their hands than Florida’s got old people.”
“Well, fuck, that’s great,” Paulie said, but his distraction was evident. He seemed to beam through some inner joy. “Keep sellin’ that smack. Keep, uh, rizzlin’ and McFizzlin’ or whatever the fuck.” He snapped his fingers. “Ready, guys?”