“So what’cha think, boys? We ready ta go ta New York City?”
“Like a mare in heat’s ready for a big ole horse dick, Paw!” Dumar assured.
Micky-Mack hauled back and did a magnificent Rebel Yell.
(IV)
Mike nearly shot out of his shoes at the sudden jolt of music from the hi-fi department. The entire store seemed to shake; speakers boomed a cacophonous rap song: “Aye-unky, a bunky cunky!—aye, bee, cee—dunky, Ee-unky, funky!—dee, eee, eff—gunky, a hunky eye-unky!—gee, ayche, eye—”
Hair nearly on end, Mike snapped off the Phillips/Bose surround-sound. Yeah, every now and then some street person would slip into the store, bust open a CD, and play it on one of their demo systems, and this seemed to be the case now.
“Jesus!” he yelled at the suspicious “customer.” “You can’t just come back here and play a CD!”
A woman in an overcoat riddled with Hip Hop buttons looked querulously at the objection. Straggly, off-blond hair with snow-white roots; street-worn flip-flops; and chipped, clover-green fingernails were her most visible signatures. Dark smudges like half-bruises ringed her eyes, and a face as street-worn as the flip-flops beseeched him. “Oh, sorry. I just wanted to hear it first”—she held up the CD case: an African-American with a Lincoln-style top-hat grinned below the letters: UN-lissen-ABULL - JACK DOWN ALFA-BIT!
Great. More of that Hip Hop. But the stuff did sell. Mike was into the Beatles himself. “Octopuses Garden in the Shade,” now there was a song. But Mike’s anger twisted him into a knot. “Come on, lady! You broke open the CD! You’re gonna have to buy it now or I gotta call the cops!”
“Oh, I wanna buy it,” she said in a husky and more than likely meth-roughed voice. “I want to buy it for my man.”
“Terrific. Let’s go to the check-out and you can buy it, and then you can leave.”
“Well…,” the woman hesitated. “Like I said, I wanna buy it but I don’t have the money.”
Mike ground his teeth. This chick looked about two steps short of the homeless shelter; she was probably a street-crazy to boot. He seethed: “If you don’t have money…how are you going to BUY IT?”
The woman smiled brokenly, rose on her tiptoes, and opened her overcoat.
The physical image hit Mike’s face like a fist.
“Come on…”
Ten minutes later, he led her out of the back office to the front door.
“Toodles,” she said and waved the CD. “Thanks.”
“Have a Merry Christmas,” Mike said, catching his breath. Jesus, that there is what you call Snappin’ Pussy. He apprized her coltish legs as she left, and he could’ve sworn he caught a glimmer of semen trickling over her ankle.
Just as the overcoated woman left, the vibrant and probably hyperactive Greeter walked in. (Mike still didn’t know her name.) She cast a leery glance over her shoulder. “Who was that?”
The manager’s heart-rate was still coming down. “Huh? Oh, that… Uh, that was the Logictech rep. I…had to order more trackballs and wireless mouses—er, I guess…mice.”
The Greeter watched the woman stride across the parking lot. “She looks more like a street whore.” Her firm, peach-sized breasts turned to him. “Anyway, I’m back from lunch.”
“Pizza tonight?”
A licentious grin, then after looking to and fro, she brazenly rubbed Mike’s crotch. “Only if I can have sausage on mine.”
“No problem, babe.”
She flinched and whined. “But…Mikey? I still have Christmas shopping to do but I’m on the clock till close. Can I leave early but, you know, stay on the clock anyway, if you know what I mean?”
“Sure, babe. It’s good to be the boss.”
She squealed and kissed him. “Thanks, dreamboat! See ya tonight.” She sailed through the automatic doors and had a reefer in her hand like a magic trick.
Just after the Greeter left, Archie strolled in. He had several Subway bags dangling. “Why’s the Greeter leaving?”
“I cut her loose. Talks too much. But she won’t be talking tonight with my dick stuck in her mouth.”
“Nice guy. Here’s your meatball sub. Foot-longs are still only five dollars. Oh, and please tell me you’ve heard from Veronica.”
“I haven’t heard from Veronica.”
“Well, shit, man. Her car’s still out back. Don’t you think you should call the police?”
“Why? She’s a big girl. Hey, you won’t believe this, but some whore with a killer bod just came in here and did me for a Hip Hop album.”
Archie frowned as he bit into his double-meat Philly Cheese Steak. “You’re right, I don’t believe it. Now, if you’re not going to call the cops, at least call her. Aren’t you even the least bit concerned?”
Mike looked at him, deadpan.
“She could be lying dead in a ravine somewhere.”
“Well, if she is, what good will it do for me to call?” He glanced around. The store was empty. “Look, I’m not taking time out of my busy schedule to call a girl who not only gives the worst head in the world but won’t even fuck me.”
“For fuck’s sake! Would you call her? She could be in trouble. Even a soul-dead cold-hearted selfish prick like you must care a little bit about her.”
Frowning, Mike whipped out his cellphone. “Okay, you want me to call her, I’ll call her.” He dialed, waited, paused, then whispered “Voice mail,” to Archie.
Then: “Veronica, this is Mike. Honey, I’m really worried about you. Your car hasn’t moved, you didn’t show for work, you haven’t called. Please, baby, you’re worrying me to death. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’m gonna call the police. Please, honey. Call me. I’ll be waiting.”
He hung up.
“I don’t believe it,” Archie enthused. “You do care about her!”
Mike nodded. “Of course I do. What kind of a schmuck to you think I am?” but of course he’d made the call to his own busy-signal.
(V)
Quiet day, still. Chilly but calm. Drifts of holiday music piped this way and that. Christmas was in the air.
Case Piece and his “dawgs” bopped down the streets of the town’s seedier environs, their chunk of the shitty world firm in their hands. Case Piece wore a T-shirt depicting George W. Bush injecting heroin. Menduez wore a Scarface shirt that read: ALL DAH TYING WE GETTIN’ FUCKED BY DAT WASP WHORE. Sung wore a jacket whose back was emblazoned with a map of South Korea.
They were selling some smack. Yeah. Case Piece slurped his Cherry Slush, nodding as he appraised the town he was sufficiently corrupting like a small-time cartel honcho. “Fuck, what that ole song be?” and then he sang, “Shit. Goddamn. I want me eggs and spam.”
“That frat, Clase Preece!” Sung approved and bit into one of those Dolly Madison chocolate pies.
“Chit, mang,” Menduez suspected. “Dat ain’t dah fuckin’ song, mang.”
“Whatever.”
Sung attempted a Rap. “Here crum dwoctor dway wiff the Twangeray!”
Case Piece chuckled. “Listen ta Sung, man. Trine ta Rap like a player but he’s from Malaysia or some shit.”
Sung hacked out a bite of pie. “Ko-WEE-ah, man! Fruck Malaysia! They a bunch of wadical extremist frucks with co-wupt government! We in Korea are Buddhist! The weligion of peace!” and this Sung bellowed so hard, the 9mm pistol stuck in his belt behind him almost fell out.