The Curse

Roz smoked furiously staring through her window down at Duffy Square. A curious specimen had caught her eye: A pimp. A pimp huddled around the corner of the Howard Johnsons on the corner of 46th. Where Brillo works: dishwasher. The pimp had pointed alligator boots, like. Like. Mesh sleeveless shirt. Toothpick twirling in the corner of his mouth. He stood flat against the wall around the corner, and inched slowly to the corner and peeked around onto Broadway and the Hidebeater Block. Roz followed his eyes: Hojo; Kodak store; the Automat; Playland; the Forum—and B-I-N-G-O, Bingo was his name-o. Sandy-haired teen standing suspiciously under the marquee of the Forum. On the marquee: The Legend of Hill House. Pamela Franklin. Roddy McDowell: Planet of the Apes, Night Gallery, Cleopatra. The little shit is standing right up against the wall. Not even trying to be subtle. Fucking rube. No—not sandy. Red. Punk’s got carroty red hair. Whisp of a stache on his lip. Cocky eye. Tight jeans. Helluva bulge. Weird jaw—both square yet pointed. Older than he looks? No trace of a beard on the chin. Hole in the knee of his jeans and wearing chucks. In his hand? Switchblade. Oh yeah. She took a drag. Pimp was putting down roots beside the Hojo. The kid poked his head out, made the scene, and then zipped around into Playland. Netta workin today? Roz craned her neck around to look at the clocks, collared the right one and did the math. X o’clock. Who the fuck knows. She took another drag and returned to peering down at Playland. Dark inside. Always dark inside Playland for some reason, no matter which one. This one. On the Deuce. Just north of here. All dark as X. Where is the little fucker? Can just barely make out—FUCK. Cigarette burned too low and burned her fingers. She dropped it. Don’t want another fire for fuck sake. Sal will have my ass. She snatched up the butt, popped another cigarette—her last—from her case and lit it from the old one. She took a few drags, always the best ones, first couple drags, and blew them up at the blue sky through the glass. Now where is. So dark in. Oh. Oh there, in the Automat. She noticed his red hair through the window of the Automat, leaning his head against the glass and cocking his vision toward 46th Street. Tricky little fucker. She took a drag. The pimp too had disappeared. Where where where. She took another drag. Dollars to donuts he’s inside Howard. Fried clams. Yum. Chocolate Soda. Yes yes. Ha-cha. She licked her lips. Maybe he moved down 46th, can’t see from here. The little redhead cracked the door of the Automat and began to slink down Broadway. She laughed a short bark. Not even a little bit subtle. She watched as he slipped behind the newsstand outside the Kodak store. Moved behind it. Ooh there. There’s the pimp. She saw a flash of him through the glass of Hojo. He had made the little carrot top. This will be good. 

Record ended. 

Fuckers.

Roz flew over to the hifi and flipped the record: Free Jazz. Ornette Coleman. Hysterical horns blared out of the speakers. She cranked the volume knob up. 

The little punk had moved all the way to the end of the newsstand and was peering around the corner, down 46th Street. He looked back behind himself, toward Duffy Square. What started this little drama? 

Poppy Cooper, born in Fort Lee New Jersey, moved to The City in May of 1972. The trees of Washington Square Park were in full bloom, the air fragrant. Spraypainted on the Arch were the words: The Only Dope Worth Shooting Is Nixon. Her dad had been a trumpet player for Buddy Rich. Ditched her with mom as a babe. Ran away from home and hunting down daddy. She hit the park after exiting. No—no wait. Didn’t make it to. As she exited Port Authority she noticed a handsome man in violet pants and a pink blouse. His coat was red and so were his shoes. A strong musk exuded from every inch poured into his snakeskin boots. Pretends he’s never seen someone so beautiful. Who you repped by, darlin? Her face flushes and suddenly conscious of her bony knees. Me? Nobody. I never. Rubs his bottom lip and looks her up and down in disbelief, then looks up and down the avenue, as if he’s gotta snatch her up before some other manager sees her. You ever thoughta modeling at all? You got the figure for it. Not everyone does ya understan. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. Nobody even gave her a second glance back in Jersey. He nods. Oh yes. he says. Oh yes yes indeedy. We could definitely book you. Have you ever been to Paris? he asks. Me? No I never. Poppy had never. She’s never even been to The City until today. What about Rome? he asks. Of course he knows but this is all part of the seduction. You know the drill with Poppy: Poppy had never. The man nods. Oh yes, come with me, I have some calls to make. We got a roster and everythin. Where you stayin? And she thinks. Poppy thinks. I hadn’t, she says, and really she hadn’t. She had thought about so much else, but not that. Don’t you worry honey, we can accomodate. You hungry? Oh yes, she says. I’m famished. He nods. Today you famished, tomorrow you famous. He smiles and a diamond winks from his front tooth. You like steak? he asks. Well, she says, yes yes I do like steak. But isn’t that? He holds up a hand, each hand is decked out in elaborate rings colored gold and silver, stones glitter in the May sunlight. Don’t you worry about a thing, let’s go to Tad’s, you won’t believe your eyes. Poppy has a steak and baked potato. His name, she finds out, is French John. She’ll find out why. That night she smokes reefer for the first time and he takes a few snaps of her to show to the designers. When the reefer kicks in she feels like she’s watching him from behind a gauzy curtain, safe. Someone else is outside doing stuff. She’s safe back here behind the curtain. When he gently pulls down her blouse, already hanging off her shoulders, she barely notices. The next day he gives her a bump of coke to wake her up, explains everyone does it, and by that night she’s nodding off to a bump of junk. A week later and she’s working Eighth. She lives in a railroad flat on West 44th between Tenth and Eleventh with three other girls all owned by French John. By the fall she’s hooked on junk. Christmas Eve she works ten johns in one night, a new record: the last john is a young guy, light red hair, his first time. Paid for by his drunk uncle after a night of frosty pints at an Irish pub nearby. He’s shy at first but Poppy is an old pro by now and has his cock out and stiffening it before he can say Faith and Begorrah. His name is Danny O’Reaordan and he’s in love with Poppy before he blows his spunk across her uvula. He makes his way over the bridge into The City at least once a month after this, hunting Poppy down successfully almost every time, but she is a busy girl so on some occasions he has to angrily agree to another girl, though his encounters with these imposters are at best brusque and at worst lightly violent, as he likes to slap them across the face now and then for the crime of not being Poppy. As the blooms open up in Washington Square again he asks to see her in her off work hours, however few they may be, and takes her on walks through the park. Her eyes are dull and lifeless but he is in love with being in love and thinks love is something unique and holy to him alone thinks his love makes him better and stronger and more real and more good. The flowers in the trees confirm this. The breeze agrees. The blue sky is a present from the universe to him. He and His Girl walk the park and listen to people play saxophones or guitars or trumpets. She might have wondered at one time if the older man playing trumpet was her father, but not anymore. Nothing good happens. There is no good. So how could it be? Even if it was, it wasn’t. Danny flips a dime to the musician and snakes his arm around Poppy’s waist. Soon it will be too much to think about her with other guys. Until now he had been able to kid himself but the reality was sinking in now. Other pens were dipping into her inkwell. He had to save her. He needed to put an end to this. As the spring turns into summer he begins to question Poppy about her manager. Who is he, where does he live? Began to formulate his plan. He needed to off French John. Then she would be free. They could move into a little house together on Staten Island. He buys a switchblade on the Deuce and hunts the pimp down at Tad’s. French John, though, is no fuckin fool and can see the rangy look in the kid’s eye as he enters the steakhouse. French John makes for the john, but instead splits through the kitchen and exits onto 43rd Street. Turns east and circles around to Child’s on the corner of 42nd and Seventh to see if any of the other pimps can give him a hand, but sees Danny, the carrot-topped punk, rushing down the Deuce toward Seventh. Their cat and mouse went on for an hour, working its way steadily north, until here we are now.

Roz licked her lips again and watched Danny finally leave the relative safety of the newsstand and crossed 46th. On the southwest corner he stopped and looked around, then headed west down 46th. No. No I can’t see. Roz moved to the farthest corner of the room and laid her forehead against the glass. He was gone. Fuck. But then, just as all hope was lost, she noticed French John exit through the front door of Howard Johnson’s, onto Broadway. Something in his hand? Yes: also sporting a switchblade. He moved casually, rolling on his steps like a cowboy, and rounded the corner of 46th.

Shit.

She stood back and watched the corner. She took a drag: the last. Cigarette kaput. She crushed it out in the apple ashtray and looked back at the corner: nothing. Shit. Hope French John creams the little fucker. Shitty little rube. But then—French John’s shoes.

Fuck.

        Fucker.

       Push it down. Faded green paint cracked and peeling on the wooden trap door. Inside and down. Shove it down. Down.

      She crossed to a trunk on the other side of the room and lifted it open. She rummaged through a collection of papers. Flyers. Hundreds maybe. She shuffled through the pages. Yes: here we go. Tulpa: playing the Oscar Wilde Room, Saturday February 10th. One Night Only. The night Buggy chipped his tooth and Davis was calling him Alfred E Neuman. She flipped the flyer over to the blank back and laid it out on her table and stared at the blankness of the page. When’s his birthday? When when when. Oh wai—same place. New Years at the Mercer, he kept mentioning it was his birthday. Modern Lovers first and then the Dolls headlined as dawn broke. Erik put his cigarette out on his tongue and then vomited. Oh lordy, yes. But the little shit kept blabbering about his birthday. So: January first. She smoothed out the flyer, then tore the right side of the page away from herself. She turned the page widdershins and tore the next edge of paper away from herself, then turned the page counter-clockwise again and repeated, and then one final time. The flyer now edgeless. She uncapped a magic marker and began to write his name: LEN WATSON: over and over on the left hand side of the page, and then followed with JANUARY 1 over and over on the right hand side of the page. When the page was filled she turned it widdershins again. She wrote on top of the previous writing: LEN YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND AWAY YOU WILL STOP YOU WILL FUCK OFF AND GO AWAY LEN WATSON YOU ARE SCUM AND WILL DISAPPEAR AND FUCK OFF GO AWAY GO THE FUCK AWAY in large letters until it filled the page. She turned the page counter-clockwise a last time and scribbled her autograph across the words on the page. She licked her lips as she cocked her head and looked at the page filled with black scribbles. She swallowed, then folded the page away from herself, then repeated the action five more times until it was too small to fold anymore. Roz picked the small envelope up and dropped it into a small white bowl. She flipped open her zippo and lit the corner. She watched as the folded paper lit slowly from one side to the other like a forest fire spreading across the woods. When it had burned down to ash, she took the bowl and walked it to her toilet. She lifted the lid, emptied the ashes into the water of the bowl—a cigarette butt already floating there—and then touched the flusher. 

        —Go the fuck away, she said as she flushed the toilet.

That's Life

A sharp hard staccato knocking emanated from the door. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. She could hear the sound echo down the hallway outside through the open transom above the door. Mumbled conversation. Men. Another door down the hallway opened. Mrs Portman. Roz tapped the ash from her cigarette into a gold ashtray shaped like an apple and narrowed her eyes at the door.

—NYPD. Open up.

Reality became instantly sharper. Harder. Clearer. A quick mental calculation of her current supply. Roz’s eyes flashed on the open film cannister of amphetamine sitting on the end table beside her. Picking it up, she approached the door.

—All the time that one making trouble in there, she heard Mrs Portman say. When I call the police, nobody comes, so this… I would like to know what this call was about.

—Ma’am, just step back inside your apartment, alright? came a rough deep rumbling voice.

—Loud music at all hours. Some of it I can stand, I like a good tune, but most of it… feh… at all hours. And suspicious characters? Don’t ask. Coming and going at all hours of the day and the night. I said to Sal, I said you gotta get that Pepper girl out of that apartment, because—

—Ma’am, we’re taking care of it. Ok? Then another rapping on the door. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. —Open the door, this is NYPD.

Roz slapped the lid onto the film cannister, then tossed it frisbee-style out the open window directly beside the door. It landed on the roof of the Bowery Savings Bank next door, 40 feet below, exploding open upon impact and spilling A in a cascading arc across the loose gravel. Her stomach dropped at the sight. It pays to save at the Bowery. She pulled back the chain, turned both deadbolts, then opened the door. Two officers stood in the doorway in their short blue sleeves: one wide and round with an expression which combined anger and confusion, as if everything in the world was utterly infuriating, yet lay just outside his realm of comprehension; the other tall and sallow with greying hair, his eyes heavily lidded and somewhat sad, as if the hardest part of his job was simply remaining awake and enduring the ongoing trauma of life itself. Mrs Portman was still visible poking from her doorway, pink plastic rollers crowning her head. Roz leaned against the door jam and smiled, first at Mrs Portman, and then at the police. —Howdy-do, officers, how might I be of assistance? she asked.

—Rosalind Pepper? asked the taller officer. His voice fluttered slightly and matched his weary expression.

—She is. That’s her, officer. said Mrs Portman, stepping out into the hall.

The round officer turned toward her. —Ma’am. was all he said. There was a tone there. He sweated excessively, a dark shadow running from each armpit of his pale blue shirt.

—I musta really hit the bigtime if autograph seekers are comin right to my door. Roz said, winking at Mrs Portman.

—That’s obstruction. said Mrs Portman, stepping out in to the hallway. —Obstruction of justice. 

The round cop turned toward the woman in rollers. —What’re you, a troublemaker? Get the fuck back inside before I book you. The old woman blanched and retreated back inside her apartment. Door still not closed though. Old bat is listening.

The taller officer placed his hand on the door to Roz’s pad and pushed it open. —Miss Pepper, you’re under arrest for the assault of Leland Walker.

—Figures. said Roz.

The round officer turned back toward Roz and pulled out a pair of cuffs. —You got the right to remain silent, he said. The taller officer stepped into her pad and looked around at the surroundings. The round officer snapped the cuffs on Roz’s extended wrists. Their game; their rules. Play the game. —Anything you say can be used in court. You got the right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer, one’ll be appointed for ya. 

The other officer patted her down briefly, her ass, then down her legs. Goosebumps stood up on her arms. —My record is still playin. she said.

—Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.

—Let’s go, said the taller officer, with his hand on her back. He pushed her out in to the hallway. She heard Mrs Portman’s door click closed as they passed by to the elevator.

Their 1968 Plymouth Fury patrol car was parked on 47th Street. One of the officers placed a hand on top of her head then pushed her in to the back seat and slammed the door. As they began to drive downtown the round one looked back at Roz in the rearview mirror. —What this guy do to ya, huh? 

—O, I was just practicing my moves. She mimicked Smokin Joe Frazier with her cuffed dukes and sang —That’s life … that’s what the people say. Riding high in April … shot down in May. But I know … I’m gonna change that tune ... when I’m back … on top in June. Said that’s life, ungh, funky as it may seem … some people get their kicks from steppin on a dream. But I don’t let it get me down, cause this whole world keeps goin round

The Incident on Washington Street

Vinton slowly drove a Checker Marathon taxi north on 8th Avenue, toward 41st Street, eating chop suey with a plastic fork from a paperboard oyster pail squeezed between his thighs. Chopped sewage, that’s what it means. They don’t eat it in China. Chopped sewage, whatever the Chinese cooks could find laying around for the drunk miners, drunk fucks eat anything: chopped sewage. Tastes so fuckin good though. If this is sewage, make the manhole my feedbag. What do they put in it? Fuckin addictive. Clutching the plastic fork in his teeth, he turned the dial on the radio. Almost immediately he stumbled across Melting Pot by Booker T & the MGs on WBLS, about a minute into the groove. Right fuckin on. Wish I knew an organist like this, fucker’s got chops.

A hooker in knee-high red vinyl boots caught Vinton’s eye as she gestured dramatically in conversation on the corner in front of the glaring red and green neon of the Terminal Bar; a chubby balding man in a grey suit stood swaying on the sidewalk listening to her. Could be a fare. The fat fucker looks stewed though, I don’t wanna mop up no barf back there. Vinton slowed down in front of the Hi-Hat Lounge, then pulled over in front of the Exchange Bar next door to the Terminal. The hooker looked over made eye contact with Vinton and nodded: he nodded back: knew it. Still gonna wait to see if that goofball can walk a straight line. If not, I’m peeling. She can find some other chump. He shoveled another forkful of chop suey into his mouth slurping in the sprouts. The hooker slowly moved toward the cab, swaying her hips as she walked. He hasn’t paid yet, this is still part of the seduction. Not sure this cat is up to it. The balding man turned in slow motion then began to follow: Vinton watched him closely. The first step was shaky but he actually didn’t sway too much: tipsy, not stewed. Looks like Uncle fuckin Fester.

The hooker leaned down into the passenger window. ‘Hey stud, you mind—ohhh shit this is my song motherfucker! Crank it up!’ She smacked one hand excitedly; Vinton laughed, coughing a sprout onto the steering wheel. He leaned forward and spun the dial, Hammond organ oozing loudly out onto 8th Avenue. White teeth flashed between purple lipsticked lips as she leaned back in: ‘Honey, you mind if I conduct some business back there?’

‘Long’s I don’t gotta clean nothin up, it’s all yours.’ he said.

‘Natch.’ she said, then turned to the balding suit. ‘C’mon, Huey, shake that ass inta the cab, honey. Cheaper’n a hotel room’ She opened the door, then followed him in. The suit was already breathing heavily. He’s an easy sell half her work is already done for her.

‘Where to?’ Vinton asked, looking back at her in the rearview mirror.

‘Anywhere quiet, shug.’ she said, pulling out a compact and preening into it.

‘How about the meatpacking district?’ he asked. Get a decent fare outta that. If he’s.  If it’s him paying, I could. Don’t wanna fuck her around though. Working girl and all.

‘Sure, baby.’ she said, snapping the compact closed.

‘You paying?’ he asked.

‘Nuh uh baby, I mighta been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, you dig me?’ she laughed. Now that’s a musical laugh. Makes you wanna join in. The suit is paying, could take 9th the whole way, but doubt he’ll notice if I swing around to take 7th all the way down.  Turn at 14th. Nice fare.

‘You got it.’ he said, and flipped the meter down as he pulled out into traffic. He turned right at Forty Deuce: beyond the row of shops, a pimp in a yellow Bond’s suit and some cat with pin-straight flaxen hair and a white blonde mustache screamed at each other under the marquee of the Anco Theater, chest to chest, puffed up like two roosters. Like Erik and Len’s rooster. The hooker in the backseat craned her neck out the open window to watch as they rolled by, then slumped back with a thump as the cab pulled past the Roxy Burlesk. Bizarre Action. ‘Ooh, Knuckles about to carve that mother up.’ she said. ‘That fucker in the Barbie hair don’t know he about to be ventilated, you hear me?’

Vinton looked into the rearview mirror at that yellow suit. Knuckles: the pimp Roz was talking about up at the shooting gallery. Small world. Huey in the backseat leaned back against the seat, breathing loudly. That fucker better not upchuck. Looks like it’d Jimi Hendrix him at this point. ‘He ok?  I don’t want no barf, ya dig?’

‘Huey is a-ok.’ she said, then leaned over toward the suit, rubbing her hand slowly over his crotch. ‘Ain’tcha honey ... huh?’

‘Spiffy,’ the doughy man mumbled, eyes still closed, then let out a long sigh.

‘See?’ she said. ‘He spiffy.’

Vinton laughed, nodding. ‘Right on.’ he said, turning right again at Nedick’s on the corner of 42nd and 7th. His eyes moved to the Hotel National sign, just beyond Forsyth’s dirty book store, behind Nedick’s. There it is. Hotel National. Laid my first there. Rhonda Ball. And boy could she. Built like a brick shithouse. You Keep Me Hangin’ On by Vanilla Fudge playing. That drumming. Sounded like going to war. Duh duhduhduhduh duh duhduhduhduh! Was easy as hell to ball to. Wish Netta could drum like Carmine Appice. Shit, I wish she could drum at all. You really don’t need me. You just. Keep. Me. Hangin. On. All about organs tonight. Those tits of Rhonda’s, shit, goddam. Cling for dear life to those babies. Still to this day, the finest tits I’ve ever seen in person. Even Mooschi’s couldn’t beat them. Wonder whatever happened to Rhonda? Last time I saw her was at the Filmore East. Dancing with that cat in gold lame pants, hands down the front of his crotch. Almost killed me. But balled Roz for the first time later that night. Look how that worked out. Jesus. Her hands down the front of those gold pants.  

Speaking of which.

Vinton’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror where the hooker in the back had her hand inside the doughy suit’s pants, working him. Not sure I wanna see what he’s packing. Half of it must be hidden inside his gut fat. Nauseating. As he watched, the hooker smiled at Vin in the mirror, then pulled out her teeth and bent over the suit’s crotch. False teeth. Huh. Didn’t. Well, it would. It would be a selling point, I guess. That would make for one helluva. Damn. Thought she’d wait until we got to the meatpacking district. She slurped over the suit’s prick as the Booker T song vamped under the soloing organ. A lot of solo organing going on in this cab. How long is this damn song? Vinton was suddenly sharing his jeans with a telephone pole. Damn, the A still running through me I guess. Gives ya a hardon could poke someone’s eye out with. Wonder if they’d notice if I? Fuck, are you some sorta goofball? You wanna crash inta a goddam wall? Just jerk it once they’re outta the car for fuck’s sake.

Melting Pot ended, fading into It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World by James Brown. Vinton turned the volume knob down just slightly. The slurping in the backseat prompted him to turn it back up almost immediately. This one’s fucking good too. Slow, simmering. This is a man’s man’s man’s world, but it wouldn’t be nothin. Nothin. Without a woman or a girl. As the cab approached 14th Street, Vinton watched two cops handcuffing some cat on the sidewalk in front of a pizza joint. He looked for traffic the other way, and peered at the Bickford’s sitting on the north-east corner. Grab a coffee after. He turned right a third time, onto 14th, toward the quiet of the meatpacking district. The area was mostly deserted as the cab approached Washington Street, save for a handful of smoking men decked out in black leather from head to toe.  Vin made a left at Washington and slowed the car to a crawl as he approached 13th Street. He pulled the cab to a stop beneath the iron canopy of Atlas Meats. He left the car running and peered through the windshield at the corner: the 2-story building catty corner to where they parked was nearly identical. The doors were all shuttered closed. The streets were deserted. 

Vinton peered back at her in the rearview mirror. ‘Ok, we’re here. Have at it.’ he said.

She leaned forward. ‘Huey done took a nap in the meantime.’ she said, making eye contact with Vin in the mirror. ‘You smoke grass, shug?’

‘Only in an emergency.’

She laughed once. ‘This count?’

‘You read the papers lady?’

She laughed again. ‘Russians done shot a rocket at Mars.’

‘The revenge of Sputnik.’ he said. She fished around inside her black glittering pocketbook, then pulled out a sizeable joint and waved it behind the plexiglass. He nodded, then turned the ignition off. ‘Not in here, or I’ll never hear the end of it back at the office.’ He waited for her to exit first (in case this was a con) then followed her out. She already had out a small gold colored lighter with a tiny clock in it: thumb clicked it: soft woomph of ignition and she introduced the end of the joint to the flame. After a couple drags she passed it to Vinton. He took a pull, listening to the city: the streets were so quiet that he was certain he could hear water lapping against the Chelsea Piers. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, handing the joint back to her.

She took a drag and held it in, letting the silence stretch. ‘Street name is Ms Love.’ she said, her voice tight. ‘Really it’s Delia.’ she said, handing the joint to him. ‘Or Dee Dee.’

‘Delia.’ he said, rolling it across his tongue. 

‘Or Dee Dee.’ she added.

‘Or Dee Dee.’

‘What do they call you, shug?’

He exhaled and watched the smoke in the light of the castiron lampposts. He could just make out the moon behind a crust of violet clouds. ‘Vinton.’ he said.

Delia nodded. ‘Vincent huh.’

‘No, Vinton.’ he corrected.

‘Like Bobby Vinton.’

‘Like Bobby Vinton.’ he agreed.

They smoked for a minute in silence, then she asked: ‘You think Tricky Dick will go down for any of this shit? Not handing over tapes and shit?’

Vinton laughed as he exhaled. ‘Not a goddam chance.’ he said.

She joined the laughter. ‘Me neither.’ she said, then flicked what was left of the roach into the cobbled street and opened the door to the backseat of the cab. ‘Well, time for Huey’s wakeup call.’ she said to Vinton, wiggling her false teeth at him from between her purple lips, then ducked inside the car. He snorted, shaking his head. She’s got character. That probably goes a long way in that profession too. He climbed into the driver’s seat, easing slowly softly into the creaking vinyl. He turned the radio back on: Marvin Gaye sang: —yee heeeee, let’s get it on. He snorted again, turning into a muffled giggle. That’s a bit on the nose. He caught his own reflection in the rearview, smirking, as he peered briefly at Delia dealing with Huey. This shit has given me the giggles. He exhaled lightly, happily, relaxed. Needed that. Change in luck or something.

‘Well, fuck me.’ he heard from the back. ‘This fucker dead.’ Delia said flatly.

Vin’s body jolted tight in the span of a second. ‘He’s what?’ Jerking his head around, he stared through the plexiglass at Huey. The fat bastard laid with his head tipped back on the seat cushion, his jaw hanging agape deeply into his double chin. ‘Oh my jesus christ.’ he whispered, then licked his lips as he looked past Huey out the back window. Still mostly deserted. Just a couple leather queens back on 14th. ‘Holy jesus fucking christ.’ Why does shit keep fucking up for me? Jesus jesus jesus.

‘Be cool baby.’ she said from beside the rotund corpse.

‘You sure that fucker’s dead?’ 

‘Sure as shit.’

‘Jumped up jesus christ on a pogo stick.’ he whispered, turning to peer down 13th, then to where Washington Street curved south. Empty. Like the Omega Man. I think we’re alone now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.

‘Just be cool baby.’ she said slowly. ‘Don’t sweat it. This ain’t my first rodeo.’

‘Um.’ he said.

‘We just gotta find somewheres to ditch this cat.’

Vinton swallowed. ‘The piers?’

‘They got pigs that patrol the river.’ she said, looking around. ‘Maybe under the elevated tracks there.’ 

He followed her gaze. It was inky black beneath the elevated track of the West Side Line. Right on. ‘Yeah.’ he said, shifting the cab into gear and rolling slowly around the corner then under the elevated tracks. He stopped the car.

‘Think yer gonna hafta help me with this.’ she laughed.

He climbed out of the cab and hotfooted it around to her door. She was rifling through the man’s alligator wallet when Vinton opened it. ‘He got kids.’ she said as she turned her head to squint at a photo. ‘Mm mm mm,’ she said. ‘Slapped by an ugly stick.’ She pulled all the cash from the wallet and quickly counted it. Impressively fast. She’s used to counting greenbacks in haste. She handed Vin half, then slipped the wallet back inside Huey’s jacket.

‘You’re taking this pretty well.’ he said, as he grabbed hold of Huey’s lapels and pulled him toward the sidewalk.

‘You ain’t kiddin.’ she grunted, pushing on Huey from behind. ‘I make a Jackson a week offa this clown. Or did. Shit. This wad helps though, and I didn’t hafta suck much on his sad little prick.’ Something gave and Huey poured out onto the street, his head smacking off the iron curb as he landed. They both winced at the impact. His inert form become one with the street like a discarded ice cream cone. Vinton took a slow leisurely look at the streets around them, Roz had told him many times that acting suspicious is the first step to getting caught, then he casually returned to the driver side door and climbed back inside.  His eye caught the remains of the chop suey on the seat beside him. Ugh. He tossed it from the window as he pulled away. In the rearview mirror it was already difficult to see Huey’s form in the shadow of the elevated line. Could be just a couple trash bags. Hefty. He turned left onto 10th Avenue and noticed a light out of the corner of his eye near the river. Flashlight. Patrolling the piers. ‘Dig it.’ he said to Delia or Dee Dee, motioning with his chin toward the roving flashlight.

‘Toldja.’ was all she said in reply, then pulled out her compact and grimaced into it, picking at her false teeth with a long purple nail. Vinton peered back at the river, watching the pig snooping around until he turned left again at Little West 12th Street.

‘Where can I take you?’ he asked, peering into the rearview mirror as he turned left on to 9th Avenue.

‘Terminal Bar works for me baby.’ she said. Killing Me Softly with His Song blended into the end of Let’s Get it On. They listened in silence as Vinton turned right on 14th and then made his way back north on 8th Avenue. As the cab approached 40th Street she leaned forward. ‘Baby, if you ever lookin for a good time, you know where to find me.’ She winked.

He nodded as he pulled to the curb. ‘Ideally with less corpses’ he said.

She laughed as she opened the door. ‘Livens a Wednesday night up.’ She was enveloped by a group of girls in bubble cuts and plastic boots. Vinton pulled out the cash she handed him and counted it. Hundred and forty clams. Not too bad. Not too bad at all. He shifted into drive again and pulled away from the curb. He couldn’t see Delia amongst the other girls as he peered into the rearview mirror. False teeth.