SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #26

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #26

JUICE

NEVADA

“I can’t have you running around the country like you’re Genghis fucking Khan,” yelled Banks as he ran into Derek’s bedroom.

Derek was curled up against Jasmine’s naked backside.

“What the hell are you talking about, Jerry?” Derek groaned.

You know very goddamn well what I’m talking about. Jasmine, get your ass dressed and hit the bricks. I’ve got business to discuss here with lover boy.”

The gorgeous hooker rolled over and kissed Derek. “See you tonight, babe.”

She got out of the bed, gathered up her clothes, and walked stark naked out of the room while smiling sweetly at Banks.

Banks closed the door. “First of all, you smoked that recruiter in an adult book store of all places. Jesus Christ, Derek, why not a gay bath house? It took some slick maneuvering from our media department to get that covered up. You were supposed to make it look like a street crime.”

“Jerry, I had that guy under surveillance the whole time I was in Omaha. He went straight to work in the morning and straight home at night. The only place he diverted from in his routine was when he went to the bookstore. I had no choice. I sure as shit wasn’t going to do him at home. He had a wife and kid there.”

“I can buy that one. But I can’t buy what happened in Missouri. That was total unprofessional bullshit.”

“What the hell are you talking about, man? That jarhead got blown to hell and back. They’ll probably find pieces of him in St. Louis two years from now.”

“You shot the propane tank to set off the explosion. What the hell happened to the C-4 you were supposed to use?”

“He showed up unexpectedly with some dependent bimbo. I had to bust ass out the backdoor. As soon as he saw someone had been inside, he grabbed the phone and was going to call someone. I didn’t want him to have a chance to bring in reinforcements.”

“What happened to the C-4?”

“I left it inside the trailer when I bailed out, it went up in the blast.” Bullshit number one. He had given it to Pitre.

“You didn’t find any dope in the trailer?”

“None.”

“Guns?

“Zilch.”

Banks paused. “Cash?”

“I didn’t have enough time to shake the place down real good before he rolled up, Jerry. But the place seemed clean.”

Bullshit number two. The box had held 36,000 dollars in twenties and fifties, with some hundreds thrown in. He and Pitre had split the booty right down the middle.

Banks blew out a breath and sat down on the side of the bed. “I guess there’s been no real harm done. The Marine’s whore is currently in the women’s unit of the mental ward at some hospital in St. Louis, babbling and drooling like an idiot. No one is going to believe shit from her even if she did see anything. The Marines at the base are in mourning for the dirt bag so it looks like we’ll get away clean.”

He stood up and stared down at Derek. “But that cowboy shit you pulled in Springfield. What the fuck was that all about? You kill two street punks in a Chinese restaurant over a stick up? The waitress gave a better description to the local law of you two dumb shits than your mothers could have given them. I just thank the good lord

above that you were smart enough to head for Tulsa instead the Springfield flight facility. The cops would have nailed your asses there as sure as there

is shit in a goat.”

“Jerry, our hands were tied. Christ, one of the guys actually tried to stick us up. If we had let it go on I think they would have killed everyone in the place, including us. The simple fact is that those two fucksticks wrote a check that their ass couldn’t cash. I’m sure as shit not going to sit there and let some punk take me out just because some government bullshit might be found out.”

Banks had his hands in is back pockets and was staring down at the floor. He stood there for a good minute before he spoke.

“Just don’t make a habit of it. Remember your sorry ass gets busted pulling some stupid shit and my ass is in the frying pan along with yours. OK? Now, I'm going to give you a week or so for some R and R before you take off for the job in Orlando. You’ve done good so far, Derek. I’m planning on flying you in and out on a commercial flight to Orlando. You’ve earned the trust and using our military flights to often for this shit can sometimes stir up some suspicion, usually with officer types. I have to rework the schedule anyway. We’ve had a change in plans. And I have some personal issues to take care of.”

“What’s that?”

“The personal shit is my business. But the subject in the security prison in Minnesota broke out two nights ago. Used a can of hair spray or deodorant to melt a hole through the security glass. We’ve lost total contact on him. Soon as we locate his whereabouts we’ll probably sic you on his butt, but for now plan on Orlando, the pervert in San Diego, and then wrap it up with the hit in Oak Park prison. Then it’ll be home free for you if we can’t trace the escapee.”

“Can I leave the base? Maybe go into Vegas?”

Banks shook his head. “Not yet. Sorry. It’s just too hot right now. You and your army buddy are out on the wire right now. Local cops could have a description, I don’t know. You’ll just have to party down here. It doesn’t seem like that bothers you too much. You and Jasmine seem to hit it off pretty well. I’ll make sure we get some party favors brought over. Coast Guard has had some major Colombian busts recently. Should be some quality smoke and blow over in the party closet.”

Derek sighed. “All right, Jerry. But I could use some time out of here. I think I’ve earned it.”

Banks headed out the door. “I’ll work on it. Oh, by the way,” Banks turned around. “Watch any pillow talk you have with Jasmine. Remember she’s a pro, not your lover. Do not discuss anything remotely related to the missions. She is not involved in our operation in any way, shape, or from. She’s just a hooker. Got that?”

Banks shut the door. Derek lay back down and stared up the ceiling. Three to go and he’d be out of this. Not totally free, but relatively close. He could be rotting in the joint. He was getting more freedom on the job though. They were starting to trust him. The opportunity would be there for him to spit the bit and run if he so desired. But then what? These government assholes obviously had the resources to track him down and without a doubt they would kill him if that happened. He still had to worry about Dawn and Billy. What the Feds might do to them if he took off?

Might be better just to do the three hits and take the offer and be done with it. Cut his losses. And there was something else he had to admit. When he was on the job.

Stalking.

Tracking.

The hit.

He loved the feeling it gave him.

The rush.

The juice.

Ed “Cool Breeze” Byrd had come to believe that he was a major player in the street scene of downtown Orlando. Although he didn’t have a string of whores like some pimps, he did have one at least that was a start.

Even if she wasn’t the smartest bitch to ever walk down the street. He had a good side business going on selling quarters, halves, and ounces of weed to the tourists who were in town to see Walt and the Mouse, and the college kids who were here to get laid and to get fucked up. Ed had even pimped himself out a few times to some white college bitches from some backwater town up north who had wanted to see what a black stud like himself was like in the sack. He hadn’t disappointed. He thought anyway.

He had struck gold though with the blackmail scheme. Orlando was not only a tourist town but it was also a Navy town. There was a boot camp here and Florida was full of bases. It brought in sailors and officers alike. And white boys are no different than white bitches. Them white boys want to see what that black trim is all about. That’s where Cool Breeze came in.

Breeze had his whore, Belinda, dumb as a stump but still a damn fine looking girl, pick up unsuspecting sailors and take them to the Pink Fox motel, which is where Cool Breeze had greased the hand of the manager with a three hundred dollar monthly payment and a weekly blow job from Belinda, to allow Breeze to install a two way mirror in one of the rooms. Once the john was brought into the room and started getting in on with Belinda, Breeze would either photograph or videotape the session, which he would sell to the underground porno trade.

Depending on the john, Breeze would then quite often bust into the room with his .45 drawn and blackmail the john right out of his wallet and any expensive jewelry he might have.

Twice it had gone wrong. One white boy, a weight lifter type, had actually jumped up and charged the Breeze Man. Breeze, while backpedaling in fright, had fired off an accidental round which caught the lifter square in the chest.

The second time the boy had like a religious fit or something when Breeze had busted in and started screaming about what his momma would do if she ever found out he had been tapping a black woman. Breeze had to stick him with his blade to shut him up. He couldn’t shoot him. Otto, the motel manager, had almost kicked Breeze out after the time he had shot the cracker with his piece.

Breeze also had to rent one of

those cleaning vacuums you get at the grocery store to clean the carpet in the room after that one.

He had dumped both bodies in a dumpster. Once behind a Shoneys, because they were racist bastards. And the other one behind a McDonalds, because once he had gone into one to use their can and the manager had forced him to buy something first. Plus, he hated their fucking fries.

He never knew if the bodies were ever found. Breeze wasn’t big on the news or reading papers. But with two other marks he had hit the jackpot.

Breeze was behind the mirror one slow Thursday night when Belinda brought in a john and Breeze almost passed out in excitement when he saw who it was. It was the goddamn XO of the naval training facility, the same prick that had signed off on Cool Breeze’s very own bad conduct discharge.

Breeze had enlisted in Detroit and hadn’t done well enough on the entrance exam to get a school guaranteed to him. So after boot camp, which took him thirteen weeks, instead of the normal nine, Breeze had to stay in Orlando for on the job training before he was to be assigned a ship. Where most likely his assignments would be the chipping and sanding of paint and the cleaning of shitters.

While in this rigorous training phase of his career, Breeze had taken it upon himself to expose his crank to a female recruit and had invited her to feast upon it.

He had been arrested, given a court martial, and discharged within a week. He remained in Orlando because he enjoyed the climate much more than Detroit. And in Detroit there were about two hundred people who wanted Breeze either dead or very hurt.

The man who was now humping Belinda wildly was the same asshole who had had Breeze drummed out of the service, calling Breeze a “disgusting piece of crap’” and a “disgrace to the uniform.”

Breeze now had in his possession the around the world event of the officer and Belinda, and he received a six hundred dollar a month retainer to make sure that no one ever would see the tape.

His second monthly payment came from another officer. This one was an ensign but a female. She had paid Belinda a hundred dollars to eat her pussy and had gotten so worked up that she had returned the favor. She paid Breeze five hundred a month to keep the video out of sight, but he had also sold the video to his underground buddies. No one was the wiser.

So all in all, the Breeze should have been a happy camper but wasn’t. He was in fact, a nervous wreck. He was standing on the street, about a half a block from his digs, a fifth floor walkup, in front of his favorite bar and grill, The Bearded Clam, with Belinda, and Breeze felt like he could shit cream corn at any minute.

What had happened last night had fucking freaked him. Scared the absolute shit out of him.

He had been behind the mirror when the door to the adjoining room had opened and Brenda came in with this big, football playing, weightlifting type. He had a military haircut but it almost looked like he was trying to grown one of those Mohawk looking things that those Sid Vicious guys use to wear around Detroit. More like that wrestler, the one in The Road Warriors, he used to watch them on Ted Turner’s superstation, it looked more like that.

But the guy was fucking big, he was almost scary looking, and he had freaky fucking eyes.

Breeze decided to let this one pass. He was trouble.

Brenda had given the dude a half and half and after the Warrior had gotten done with the second half, the guy had gotten up, ripped off his rubber and thrown it at Breeze’s mirror. It had stuck right in front of Breeze’s face, and then the freak had grinned right at the mirror and did one of those finger/gun cocking things.

He paid Belinda, had gotten dressed, and then walked out. Breeze was freaked beyond belief.

Belinda had to have told the guy. How the hell else would he have known? He was standing in front of the Clam, holding onto Belinda by both arms, and screaming so loud at her that her face was speckled with Breeze’s spit. He didn’t give a shit if anyone heard. HOW THE HELL DID THAT GUY KNOW?

Derek was grinning as he watched the couple through his binoculars. He was sitting on a chair in front of a window in Ed “Cool Breeze” Byrd’s apartment. The apartment had a cheap dead bolt purchased at WalMart. It had been a cinch to pick. The door was such a piece of shit he could have kicked it off the hinges if he had wanted to but he was afraid of waking up the neighbors. The apartment was one of those ancient old dumps that had been built in the 1950s, had a grace period of a decade or so, then went straight down the crapper, until a few years ago when it became trendy to fix up old crack and whorehouses and then rent them out at upscale prices.

Byrd was the only black that Derek had seen in the building. Probably made the yuppies feel good living among the common folk. The neighborhood hadn’t quite caught up. It was still littered with hookers, tattoo parlors, adult book stores, and pawn shops, but it too was becoming a trendy place to go slumming in for an evening.

Looking up and down the street you could see a Mercedes Benz parked in front of a strip club, or a BMW in the parking lot of a skinflick theater.

Derek gazed around the apartment. It was decorated in a 70s kind of decor, like a cross between Shaft and All in the Family. He looked back down onto the street, Breeze was still reaming out his hooker.

It didn’t take much to shake the place down, it was really just a big studio apartment with a separate bathroom. It even had one of those old Murphy style beds.

Breeze had one of those huge, ancient stereo systems set up on a big book case. When Derek opened the cabinet he immediately found what he was looking for. A stack of videotapes and they were even labeled. The still photos that he had taken were wrapped with rubber bands and had the date and time when they were taken. Holy shit, was this guy anal or just plain stupid?

Derek slipped them into the gym bag he always carried on his gigs.

This job had really been a vacation, it would have been fun to have brought along Jasmine. The driver assigned to him had picked him up at the airport and had stayed out of Derek’s way. He did what Derek told him and didn’t seem to want to get involved in any needless conversations, more importantly, he didn’t seem too anxious to know what Derek was doing or was involved in.

After Derek located Breeze, who had extreme nocturnal habits due to his occupation as a pimp, Derek spent his days on the beach and nights tailing Breeze.

The man disgusted Derek. He was a bottom feeder of the worst sort. The third night he had done something really stupid. He had snorted up a few lines of Peruvian flake and had picked up Breeze’s whore, took her back to the room and laid the coals to her, all the while hoping Breeze would jump him so that he could beat him to death with his bare hands. The chick was hot but that had been really fucking stupid. Gotta be more professional.

Derek fanned through some still photos in the gym bag. There he was getting reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned in bright Kodak color. He stuck the packet in his pocket and continued searching the apartment. In a wooden cigar box on top of the television was an ounce of some pot that smelled like it came right out of the personal stash of the King of Thailand.

That also went into his pocket, but he took the single joint that was in the box and fired it up as he continued his search.

He wandered into the bathroom as he puffed away. Boy was this some sweet tasting bud. The buzz was coming on fast and strong. Derek grabbed the top of the toilet tank and lifted it up. Bingo! Floating inside the tank was a bank of cash inside a couple of zip lock bags.

He pulled the cash out of the bags, in typical Byrd style it was broken up in twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The hundreds he popped into his pocket and the rest went into the gym bag.

Derek finished the joint and dropped it sizzling into the bowl. A quick check of the window showed Mr. Breeze still in front of the bar. Derek gave a thought about burning another joint while he waited for the pimp to come home but decided against it, remembering his boneheaded move from the night before.

He opened up a kitchen closet door and saw a long object wrapped in a cloth stuck behind some brooms and mops.

Son of a bitch! It was the most awesome rifle Derek had ever seen.

The fucking thing looked just looked deadly. Derek pulled back the bolt. It was loaded. Holy shit! This was an AK-47, a Russian made assault rifle.

Where had a total shitbag like Cool Breeze Byrd gotten his hands on a piece like this?

The “shitbag” had stolen it out of the Jeep of a retired Green Beret, drunk on his ass, while he had been screwing Belinda.

Breeze had shelled out a couple of hundred bucks to a gunsmith to strip the weapon down completely and give it a total overhaul and cleaning. The weapon looked like it had just rolled off the factory floor in Stalingrad.

Derek started to giggle. Wouldn’t it be a kick in the ass to pop Cool Breeze at long range with his own weapon? Right in downtown Orlando? He slid the chair back over in front of the window and sighted the rifle in on Cool Breeze’s head. He was still bitching and raising hell with Belinda.

The neon lights of the bar lit up the couple like it was daylight.

Here I am in the book depository, thought Derek. Dallas. Here comes Kennedy. I’m Oswald. Lee mother Harvey fucking Oswald.

Just playing around here, he said to himself. It would be totally crazy to waste him from here. Just goofing around. Stick to the plan. I’ll take him out when gets back to the apartment.

“Bitch, you had to have known! That cracker motherfucker threw his scumbag right against my mirror after he be done fucking you! Then he smiled right at me! How the fuck else would have known less you told him,

bitch? Huh?”

“Breeze, why would I tell him, huh? He just be another trick.That’s all. He was just crazy. Just acting crazy. All coked up and acting up. He didn’t know you was there. Dude was probably on them steroids or

something. He scared me.”

Belinda was close to tears.

“Maybe he a fucking cop, bitch. You ever think of that? Maybe you want to get out the business and ready to punk out the Breeze.”

He slapped Belinda across mouth. A man walking past the two stopped. “Hey! Knock that shit off.” He took a step towards Cool Breeze.

Byrd reached into his jacket and snapped out his switchblade.

“You want to be a man, asshole? Get in my affairs?” The man put his hands up in the air and backed down the street. “That’s what I fucking thought,” Breeze screamed down the street.

He turned back to Belinda who was wiping the blood from her mouth with a handkerchief.

“I’m going to the crib and to get me a beer and something to smoke. Clean your ass up and get to work.” Breeze began his practiced pimp roll down the sidewalk. He stopped suddenly as he glanced up at his apartment window which was easily visible from the street.

“What the in the fu....” The top of Cool Breeze’s head vaporized in a Bloody Mary mist. He fell straight back against a parking meter and sat there like he had just had one too many to drink.

Belinda put both hands to her mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed until she collapsed to her hands and knees and vomited her Popeye’s Fried Chicken onto the sidewalk.

Derek jumped back from the window. “Yes,” he yelled, “what a shot, what a fucking shot!”

Derek gave it a quick rub down with a dish towel and threw the rifle onto the couch, grabbed his bag, and busted ass out the door. He went down the stairs five at a time and came out in the back alley, where his trusted driver sat waiting.