Tuesday, April 24, 2018

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #29

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #29





BATFISH
LOS ANGELES
I paid cash for my ticket and caught the first flight out to San Diego. Shitting nickels and dimes when I got off the plane because I was sure that the cops would be waiting for me at the gate. But not a soul.

Since car rental companies don’t like their autos driven into Mexico, I didn’t tell them that I was headed there. I jumped into my little Toyota and headed for Ensenada, where I would spend the next two weeks just laying low and on the beach. 

Every morning I would go to a restaurant that catered to expatriates and would pore over the west coat newspapers searching for anything out of the ordinary. But there was nothing.

Finally, on the fifteenth day I was there I got the balls up to call Zak. The phone rang a couple of times but it sounded funny and then it made a noise like it was being transferred. Mexican phones are notoriously famous for being fucked up so I didn’t give it a second thought until the phone picked up.

Whoever picked it up didn’t say anything. Then I heard a dog barking. Slamming down the phone I took off for my room, packed my bag, and headed back up the coast to San Diego. How long does it take to trace a phone call? I had no idea.

Stopping in Tijuana I went into a cantina and bought a beer and got a ton of change and went to the back to place another call.

This time to Tom’s little love shack up in the mountains. When Tom answered the phone and heard it was me he started to immediately freak out.

“Zak’s dead, man. They found him hanging naked in his locker. He had speaker wire around his neck. There was a bunch of gay fuck books lying at his feet. They’re saying he was doing some sort of weird sex thing and it went wrong. And they found a whole bunch of drugs in the room. Ounces of heroin and cocaine in both of your lockers. Both the fucking cops and NIS are after you, man. Rose has disappeared and they’re saying that you had something to do with it. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on?”

By now Tom was hysterical and was practically screaming. Kill the guy. Hang him up so that it looks like it was sex related. Plant drugs on the scene. All designed to cause embarrassment to the victim’s family so they don’t cause a stink. The mark of the military assassin.

Also way out of Leon's league. He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel. Someone else was involved in this one. I laid my head against the glass of the phone booth.

“Don’t believe a word they say, Tom. Maybe I’ll see you some day and I’ll be able to tell you the whole story. Take care of that woman of yours. And Tom? Stay away from all of this.”

I laid the receiver down in its cradle gently and walked back to the bar. Ten Carta Blancas later I was ready to move on.

As I walked back to my car I was stopped by a young boy who asked if I wanted my picture taken and super imposed on to a painting of The Last Supper. And for some stupid fucking reason I did. It was really quite a work of art. Maybe I should send it to my relatives for Christmas. I was sitting next to Christ himself, with my arm around him, while I was drinking a can of Budweiser.

While I was waiting on my portrait the kid’s sister kept hitting on me while she supplied me with more cervaze. She was very pretty in the face but enormous in the body. There was a cathouse on the floor above the studio and she was on her break.

Realizing that I was too bombed to attempt the drive to San Diego, I took her up on the offer and spent the night there. Zak had been right. It was just like a warm pile of bread dough.

The next morning I threw my portrait of me and old J. C. in the back seat and headed up the coast.

For close to two years I lived in Los Angeles on the top floor of this old warehouse. Just a mattress on the floor. The guy who I worked for owned it. It sat behind this huge night club called “The Slippery Tit” which he also owned. Gus was the name of my boss and he was quite the entrepreneur. Beside the bar, he ran a pro wrestling and roller derby school, and shot low budget porno movies in the warehouse. He also was a part owner of several porno and peep show shops in the county.

I was a bouncer/bar tender at the bar, assistant wrestling coach (I let guys pick me and body slam me or hit me in the head with a folding chair), and light and camera man for the porno movies.

On occasion, several other bouncers and I earned extra dough by strong arming people who owed Gus money.

The Black Dahlia case seemed to have had a lasting impression on my employer. Do you remember that murder? Way back in the late 40s the cops found this chick cut in half on a vacant lot. No blood or anything. Real fucking creepy. Lots of movies and books were done about it. That shit happens practically on a weekly basis in Los Angeles, so I have no idea why so many people are obsessed over a murder that happened in 1940’s. But that’s L. A.

Anyway, Gus had his office just decorated from floor to ceiling with photos of this broad, bookcases full of books about her, and he even owned a couple of vintage porno movies that she had starred in. Mostly lesbian crap. I guess her plumbing wouldn’t accept the male unit because of some birth defect, according to Gus.

Half of Gus’s films that he made always had an “actress” dressed up just like Elizabeth Short. That was the dead broad’s name. Thing about it is, I have a hunch that Gus was involved in it. When I was in L.A., Gus must have been in his mid 70s, the murder was in the late 40’s. He would have been about the right age. He had a real weird buddy, Wally, that was into this chick, too. Those two were always talking about her and trading shit about the case. Some local news reporter thought that Wally had been the one who did it and Wally loved that. I heard the old loon died in a flophouse fire not too long ago. Drunk and smoking in bed.

I had got the job after a week or so of bumming around L. A.

After I had talked to Tom, I drove to the airport in San Diego and caught a flight there. I looked up Regina, the dental tech whose husband went bugshit and shot up their house. She was in the phone book her that I had something that might be of interest to her. She picked me up at the motel I was staying at in Venice Beach and was shocked to say the least when I gave her the file which more than highlighted her affair with the sleazy commander.

Her father who was an labor attorney, had some rather interesting connections on the east coast, some guys with names like Guido and Sal, and she was planning on forwarding the information to them.

She was making ends meet by working for a dentist during the daymmand exotic dancing at night. She had also given up men and was living with a female biker who looked like Sonny Liston, who made me feel very unwelcome.

Strippers tend to make the sex industry circuit in L. And she turned me on to working with Gus. Said that for being a complete slime ball he wasn’t bad to work for. That was a good enough reference for me.

I bought a book on how to change your identity out of this catalog from this weird company up in Washington State named Loompanics, LTD. It had all sorts of crazy books in it like “How To Make Meth Amphetamine For Fun And Profit” and “How to Kill People and Then Fake Your Own Death.” Sounds goofy but it sure helped out in my situation. I wound up with a California drivers license, birth certificate, Social Security card, and video rental card.

I mailed my real identification to my sister along with the Morrison/Elvis files and film rolls from the Admiral’s house.

Appearance wise, I just shaved my head, got my ear pierced and wore a big hoop ear ring, and grew a goatee. I had access to a gym since I worked and lived in a wrestling school, so I continued to pump iron and do steroids. Within the year I had put on roughly forty pounds of muscle. I didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to the scrawny little fucker who had left
Albert Lea, Minnesota to join the Navy so(what seemed like) many years ago.

I still went to a local newsstand every couple of days to buy a Honolulu newspaper to check out if anything had ever been reported but never saw shit. I even bought a couple issues of the Navy propaganda rag Navy Times, but likewise, not a thing.

Gus’s porno business didn’t attract what you would call real quality adult film stars. He dealt mainly with heroin addicts who needed some fix money, Midwestern runaways, a midget husband and wife team, couple of the roller derby clique, and every great once in a while an old burned out formerly famous “star” would stop in to make a quick buck.

That’s where my path would cross with Jon.Jon had once been a hugely successful porn star. He had zero looks, a scrawny drugged out looking frame, and couldn’t act even by adult movies standards. But he had an enormous dick. The guy had made thousands of short adult “loops” and longer films but had pissed it all away on booze and crack cocaine. Rumor had it (Jon liked to keep this one spreading) that a very famous singer and actress had once paid Jon big bucks to snort a line of coke off his giant root. He was no longer welcome on any of the mainstream adult sets due to his erratic behavior, inability to get hard on demand, and known ties to the flourishing crack industry. But on occasion for pin money he would make a gay flick or play the heavy in a hard core S&M movie.

Gus signed him on to mainly make appearances at his club, autograph video boxes at dirty book stores, and attempt to make a movie with him once in a while if he could get it halfway up. I don’t know how many nights we all stood around setting up the lights and cameras while Jon would be laying on a bed on the set with two young ladies straight off the farm in Wisconsin, who would be giving it the old college try and attempt to get Jon’s massive stinger to get up and go. Nine out ten times, Gus would freak out and start ranting and raving about all the money that was being wasted on this quality feature and it inevitably would turn into basically a lesbian shot with Jon just kind of rolling around in the middle and getting in the way.

Once Gus tried to make a porno related Black Dahlia murder film with Jon in the role of the murderer. Jon had been out partying the night before and was horribly hung-over. He couldn’t get it up as usual, but what really pissed Gus off was the grand finale. Since we didn’t have any real bodies to cut up like the real murderer had, we had to settle for a store mannequin. It took every bit of strength that Jon had to saw half way through the plastic and then he ruined the whole shot by barfing all over the dummy.

But people recognized him like he was an academy award winner. He came along with us one night to the fights at the Olympic Auditorium, which is a sleazier joint than some of the places Jon made his films in, and we practically had to fend people off of the guy. Both men and women were all over him. Wanting his autograph and maybe a shot at his massive manhood.

My own sister wasn’t even immune to his legendary status. On one of my rare phone calls to Minnesota I had mentioned Jon. I had to send an autographed photo of the bastard in the mail to her within two days after telling her I knew him.

He wasn’t all bad though. When one of the bouncers got married, Jon managed to recruit some of the old female stars from his heyday to the bachelor party. It was held at an incredibly filthy adult motel on Sunset Strip. Jumping Jesus, what a night! A punch was made in a fifty gallon garbage can (clean) with cold duck champagne, beer, and a hundred hits of quality speed.

The night clerk came down to complain about the noise at four in the morning and wound up screwing the porn star he had once jerked off to as a teenager. It was great fun.

I was working the door one night at the club when Jon came out to catch some fresh air. Gus had booked a private ladies stag party and Jon was the main attraction. He had lost a lot of weight from all the crack and he looked bizarre as well as idiotic up on the stage. Shaking his money maker in this g-string that didn’t come close to covering up his once great python of love.

Gus had been concerned that he wouldn’t show up. Jon had been acting real nervous lately and a week or so ago had shown up with a black eye and a nasty looking gash on his chin.

“Got a proposition for you, my man.” Jon always tried to talk like a high rolling pimp. Kind of hissing out the words.

“And what would that be Jon?”

Looking out of the corner of my eye at the Los Angeles Laker shorts that he was wearing. No shirt or shoes.Just these shorts that must have been two sizes too big for him. He looked like Bill Walton with an eating disorder.

“I got these assholes up in the hills that owe me some serious jack for some rock that I fronted them. Not a thing really. A couple of little dipshits. Shouldn’t be problem for a man of your stature.”

As he grinned at me I cringed. His teeth looked like little baked beans and the breath coming out of his maw wasn’t much better than the sight of those teeth.

“If it’s not a thing why do I need to be there?” Sarcasm all over that one.

He didn’t come close to noticing.

“Pure precautionary measures, bro. Tell you what. I’ll double your fee that Gus gives you.”

I sure wasn’t making anything that night on tips with this private stag going on. How hard could it be roughing up a couple of crack heads?

“Oh what the fuck. When do you want to do it?”

“Tonight. Soon as I get done making these babes cream in their panties.” The dumb shit walked back into the club wiggling his tongue at me like a snake.

It was about enough to make you want to give up sex.

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #28

SCREAMING BATFISH BLUES #28




JUICE
VEGAS
The tires of the jet hitting the tarmac at Las Vegas airport woke Derek from his slumber. After Orlando had come the retired chief in San Diego with the unhealthy interest in children.

It had been the easiest one yet and also the most pathetic. The man hadn’t given an ounce of effort to save his own life.

Tough shit, thought Derek. One more to go and he’d be a semi-free man.Banks had been unable to locate the escapee from the security hospital so it looked like the prison hit would be the last one for him. If Banks was a man of his word, that is.

He followed the tourists departing from the plane down the ramp. He was surprised to see Jasmine, and not Banks, waiting for him as he came out into the lobby.

She looked fantastic in a black leather mini skirt and a matching tube top. She was wearing her black spike heels. Her blond hair was loose and tumbling down across her tanned shoulders and breasts. All the men seemed to be leering at her.

“There’s my cowboy.” She wrapped her arms around Derek and jammed her tongue into his mouth. Derek was wearing tight shorts and was worried for a second that the other passengers may see his instant woody.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Banks?” Derek had never seen Jasmine outside of the base compound.

“Well, that’s one hell of a way to say hi. Are you telling me you’d rather see Banks standing here dressed up like this than me?” She gave her knockout smile. Her teeth had to be capped. They were so white and perfect. This broad could be on toothpaste or a beer commercial, take your pick. She was red hot.

“Shit, no. It’s just I wasn’t expecting to see you. Usually it’s Banks and he’s all freaked out about something,” he slipped his hand around her waist, “it’s just a nice surprise, that’s all.”

They started through the terminal. “Banks got a call two nights ago. His father had been real sick recently and the call was from his sister who had been taking care of him. He had lapsed into a coma and died. Had some kind of bone cancer. Banks left right away. He told me to pick you up and give you a couple of nights on the town. He said you deserved time off and that he had been riding you pretty hard.”

“So that’s why he’s been so moody lately,” said Derek.

“You got it. I’ve know him for almost four years and I’ve never seen him as low as he’s been recently. He didn’t want to talk about it. That guy’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Keeps everything bottled up.”

Derek reached down and picked up his bag up off of the carousel.

“So where to?”

Jasmine hooked her arm through his. “I’ve got us reservations at Caesar’s Palace.”

For three days and three nights, Derek and Jasmine were as close to being a married couple as anyone could be. They spent their days by pool. Nights at the casinos and shows. And the late nights screwing like two teenagers. Derek had never seen such passion in her. It was almost like he wasn’t a john and she wasn’t a hooker. Well, he didn’t even want to think about it. He knew what the situation was. It was hard though not to get his feelings involved.

The afternoon of their last day at the hotel, Derek was lying on the bed watching a ball game and Jasmine had gone out to do some shopping.

When she came back to the room she dropped an envelope on his chest.

“What’s this?”

“A little surprise.”

Derek opened the little envelope. Inside were two tickets to the Roberto Duran fight that was being held that night in the sports pavilion of the hotel. It had been sold out for weeks.

“Jesus Christ, Jasmine. Where did you get these? I was so pissed when I went to the box office and saw they were sold out! Man, I love Duran.”

He grabbed her and pulled her down onto the bed. “I know you do. So I went to a scalper that I do business with every once in a while. He still had a couple.”

Derek felt something stir in him. Jealousy? “You didn’t have to? I mean. Well, you know.”

“Derek,” she laughed, “I think you’re jealous. I like that. But no, I didn’t screw him. He was more than happy to take cash instead of trade. I think he might like guys.”

Derek jumped off the bed. “Well, goddamn woman, let me get dressed and take you to dinner so we can get our asses down to the fights.”

Jasmine couldn’t believe it. This big hulking man was as excited as a little kid.

They burned two joints of the weed that Derek had lifted from the pimp in Orlando as they got ready. That primed them for the steak and lobster dinners they both ordered and then washed down with three bottles of champagne. On the way to the fight, Jasmine broke out the Peruvian flake and they snorted the long lines of the devil’s dandruff on her compact mirror.

At the fight they pounded down tall cups of draft beer, wolfed down hot dogs, and screamed and yelled as a still not over the hill Duran had pounded his Midwestern journeyman opponent around the ring. He
couldn’t score a knockout but won a lopsided decision. When they walked out of the arena and stopped at a booth to buy a Duran T-shirt, it gave Derek great pleasure to see all the other men standing around and ogling Jasmine.

They went back to the room and Derek ordered up another bottle of champagne and rolled up a joint as Jasmine changed for bed. She came out of the bathroom in a see through black teddy, garter belt with black nylons, and matching crotch less panties. Derek felt his jaw drop open.

“Holy Christ, Jasmine, you’re incredible.”

She sat down next to him and took the joint out of his hand. She took a long toke. “I wanted tonight to be special.” They didn’t fuck. They made love. It was the first time Derek had ever noticed the difference. It went on for seemingly hours. To Derek it almost seemed like a beautiful hallucination. Exhausted they dropped off to sleep in each others arms.

It was Jasmine on the phone that woke him. His eyes slowly opened to take a glance at the clock. The red digits red 3:08.

Jasmine’s voice had slipped into an Arkansas drawl. “Mother.... Mother Kirkland, please. I know it’s late but I need to talk to him. Please. I know it’s not the right time but I really need to talk to him.”

Jasmine was crying. He heard her put the phone down and snort another line. She picked up the phone and started in again.

“Mother Kirkland, I need talk to my baby, please, just for a second, I need to hear his voice, just for a minute, please, just a minute.”

Kirkland. The name struck hard in Derek’s alcohol and coke soaked brain. Where had he heard that name before? Kirkland.

“You wicked old bitch. It’s just like you to throw that in my face. Like it was all my fault. What about your precious little baby? He’s the one that got us into this shit. What? Please don’t. Mother Kirkland! Mother Kirkland!

Shit!” Jasmine slammed the phone down. Derek heard another line being snorted up and then the sound of champagne being poured. Jasmine got up and staggered into the bathroom.

Through the closed door he could hear her crying. Kirkland. Mark Kirkland? He was an inmate at Leavenworth just down the cell block from Derek. That was the only Kirkland that Derek could remember. He was what other inmates and staff called a “bug.” An inmate who had lost or was starting to lose his mind.

Kirkland would smear his shit on the walls, get naked and jack off, and on more than one occasion had mixed up a “cocktail’, a mixture of urine and feces, which he would then throw at a guard. This would bring a response from the cell extraction team and a visit to the hole for Kirkland, along with an asskicking.

The first night he had spent with Jasmine came back to mind. His first night out of the joint and at the compound. Guinness and cocaine. A beautiful hooker at his beck and call. He was only human. He had partied down hard and had torn Jasmine up. They had been laying, there had been a little pillow talk. But what was it she had said? Do you remember an inmate named...?

That’s what she had said!

But Kirkland? Did she say Kirkland?

Mark Kirkland? He had had a blackout that night, that was for damn sure, but some of it was coming back.

Damn, he had cottonmouth! Derek climbed out of the bed and padded over to the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of mineral water, slamming it down in four big swallows. He let out an enormous belch as he crawled back into bed.

Jasmine came out of the bathroom. She had gotten out of her porn star pajamas and had put on one of the hotel bathrobes. She had a wet wash rag and was wiping it over her face. It was the worst shape Derek had ever seen her in.

She gave him a grim smile. “God, you can be such a pig sometimes. I think that’s one thing I won’t miss about you.”

Derek was laid out on his back with two pillows under his head. He didn’t answer her. Jasmine turned her face away and stared at the muted television. The pay per view porn flicks had been running during their
lovemaking sessions, but now an old W. C. Fields movie was on. The drunken old bastard was reeling around on the screen.

She sighed. “How much did you hear?”

“I don’t know, probably most of it.”

She turned to look at him. “Did you know who I was talking about?”

“Kirkland? The only Kirkland I’ve ever known was locked up in the joint with me. Mark Kirkland. Is that who you were asking me about that first night?”

Jasmine nodded and turned away again. “He’s my husband,” she whispered.

“Your husband? What the hell are you talking about?”

She sat at the foot of the bed and rambled on in a monotone voice.

“Mark was a naval officer and we were stationed up in Washington State. He had a six month tour of duty over in Bangkok. We were both into the party life and Mark used to send me home pot every once in a while. Just for partying, I never sold anything. Then he met this connection who could get this incredible heroin at a dirt cheap price. Before I knew it, he was sending me home pounds and even kilos in the mail. I turned it over to a dealer friend of ours in Seattle and we were making a fucking killing. Went on for almost four months, and then just before Marks rotation was about over it all fell apart. NIS busted us and Banks stepped in to save the day. He offered Mark the same kind of deal you got, only Mark didn’t have the guts for it. He did one mission and something went wrong. Banks had him shipped first to Portsmouth and then when that shut down, he went to Leavenworth.”

She turned around and glared at Derek. “Then Banks turned me out. First it was just for you guys to use me as a sex toy. Then he got greedy and started me working the hotels and casinos.”

Derek sat up. “Why? What’s he holding over you?”

“He told me that if I didn’t, he’d have Mark killed in prison. But that first he’d make sure that he was good and gang raped. Banks is a sick, twisted son of a bitch.”

“Shit, Jasmine. I thought that you chose to become a pro,” said Derek lamely.

“Jesus Christ, Derek. Don’t be stupid. No woman chooses to be a fucking hooker. It’s not a career choice or something you go to college for. Something horrible happens in your life and it just happens. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve been forced to do.”

Jasmine suddenly doubled over like she was stricken with stomach cramps as she grabbed at her hair and began to rock back and forth.

Derek got out of bed and slipped on his pants. He went over and sat down by Jasmine and wrapped his arms around her.

“God, I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.”

“They’ll take my baby away from me, Derek. I have to keep doing this or they’ll take away Eric.”

“You have a son?”

Jasmine sat up and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“He’s with Mark’s mother in Little Rock.. She demands that she be called “Mother Kirkland.” Banks told me that he’ll take him away and put him in a group home if I ever think about leaving or telling any of you what’s really going on. Mother Kirkland blames me for all of this. It’s up to her if I can even talk to Eric on the phone.”

Derek felt a chill like a frozen snake had crawled up his ass and was burrowing up his spine.

“What do you mean any of us?”

She sat up and stared at Derek. “Honey, I don’t know how many of you Banks has had me keep happy.”

She stood and walked over to the window as she wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold.

“Sooner or later, it happens.”

“What happens,” Derek squeaked out.

“They never come back.”

Derek shot to his feet. “I knew that motherfucker would sell me out,” he screamed. He ran over and began to stuff his clothes into his bag.

He was panicking big time. “I’ll tell you one goddamn thing. That bastard will have to hunt me down and put a bullet in my head. I’m sure as shit not going to stick around and just let it happen.”

Jasmine ran over and grabbed Derek by the arm. “Derek, you can’t leave. Banks will know that I told you. He’ll kill Mark and take Eric away. Please don’t do this to me.”

“Mark is gone, Jasmine. Not physically, but in his mind. The last time I saw the guy he was smearing shit all over the walls. If he ever gets out, you won’t know who he is.”

“That may be true, Derek, but they’re all I have. He and Eric are all I have. Please, please don’t take this away from me. Banks is an animal, he’ll do it.”

Derek threw down his bag. “And what should I do, Jasmine? Stay here and let myself get whacked? Is that what you want? Is this all been a charade for you? You and me. I’m not going to bullshit you. The longer I’m with you, the more I can’t get you out of my mind. The last three days with you have been about the best of my life. And I thought you might feel the same,” he kicked the bag across the room, “what a dumbass I’ve been.”

He felt her hands on his shoulders. “With the others it never meant anything. It’s all always been different with you. You know that.”

He turned around and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Then let’s take off. You and me. If Banks come after us, fuck it, I’ll take him out. I’ve got cash. We can leave the country.”

Tears were streaming down Jasmine’s face. “I can’t Derek. I just can’t. I can’t lose my baby.” She hugged him. “But if I could leave, I would want it to be with you,” she whispered in his ear.

Derek felt so tired he thought he could collapse. “OK, Jasmine, OK. I’ll stay until I get briefed for the next mission and then make my break.”

He lifted her chin up so she was looking at him. “Can I trust you? Or is everything I tell you going straight back to Banks?”

She nodded “You know you can trust me. Always.”

“So what’s your real name then? Not too many girls from Arkansas are named Jasmine.”

“Rachel. My real name is Rachel. Rachel Brown Kirkland.”

Derek walked over and scooped up a handful of slot machine change. “OK, then, Rachel Brown Kirkland. I have to go down to the lobby to use a pay phone.”

“I’ll see you when you get back,” she paused, “Jake Morrow.”