Bang And Blame

[Rebus]

Dedicated to Southwest Juggalo

Filth collects in dirt places. Nooks. Crannies. Places in the city where employment's lower than low and the only people making money are crack dealers. Then there's people like me. Vultures among the sharks.
George Rosas's office was at the back of a dirty club that catered for spics, playing Los Lobos shit through a tinny speaker system while men and women got sweaty and wished for a red sun to blaze on down instead of flickering neon.
He was a squat man, a whole lotta mean and greed compressed into a lump of greasy flesh wrapped in a tight grey suit complete with a blue tie stained with a red sauce. He looked me over with beady eyes and gave a short nod as if pleased what he saw. I didn't consider myself much of a mean looking SOB but I'd always been told I was. People reckoned it was my eyes. Cold blue and icy one of my old girlfriends had always said, a nice blonde but too much interest in shit poetry like Sylvia Plath and taking acid. Broken pieces of sky shoved into my eye sockets she'd said. I had just grinned and continued to struggle with her bra.
I'd never worked for George before. He had called me after hearing good things from another guy in his business I had done some work for two summers back. Word gets around I guess.
He sat behind his old, scarred desk saying nothing. Music from the club piped through the wall. It was past eleven and the night was young for the clubbers. Not for me. I had been up since seven.
"What is it I can do for you Mr Rosas?" I asked.
He gave me a wolfish smile.
"Simple Mr Mills. I want you to kill a couple of thieves for me. Would that be a problem?"
"I doubt it" I stated.

more later.. Underconstruction.

[Rebus]

ergh minor alterations. Hey I rushed in my enthusiasm
Part Two/finish Thursday. New job tomorrow.

Filth collects in dirt places. Nooks. Crannies. Places in the city where employment's lower than low and the only people making money are crack dealers. Then there's people like me. Vultures among the sharks.
George Rosas's office was at the back of a dirty club that catered for spics, playing Los Lobos shit through a tinny speaker system while men and women got sweaty and wished for a red sun to blaze on down instead of flickering neon.
He was a squat man, a whole lotta mean and greed compressed into a lump of greasy flesh wrapped in a tight grey suit complete with a blue tie stained with a red sauce. He looked me over with beady eyes and gave a short nod as if pleased what he saw. I didn't consider myself much of a mean looking SOB but I'd always been told I was. People reckoned it was my eyes. Pale blue eyes that could be as cold as a harsh Alaskan winter as one of my old girlfriends used to say, she had been a nice shapely blonde but too much interest in shit poetry like Sylvia Plath and taking acid. Broken pieces of sky shoved into my eye sockets she'd said one night. I had just grinned and continued to struggle with her bra.
I'd never worked for George Rosas before. He had called me roundafter hearing good things from a mutual friend that I had done some work for two summers back. Word gets around I guess.
Rosas sat behind his old, scarred desk saying nothing. Music from the club piped through the wall. It was past eleven and the night was young for the clubbers. Not for me. I had been up since seven.
"What is it I can do for you Mr Rosas?" I asked.
He gave me a wolfish smile.
"Simple Mr Mills. I want you to kill a couple of thieves for me. Would that be a problem?"
"I doubt it" I stated.
“My problem is simple Mr Mills,” he explained,” as a salesman I need goods to sell. I sell a lot of goods so I need a large store of stock. Do you see?”
I nodded, biting back that a drooling retard would have understood and he went on.
“A shipment of my stock has gone missing. Whilst being couriered from a location you that don’t need to know someone jumped my messenger, stole his package and then cut his throat. The messenger isn’t important, he’s replaceable but the package isn’t. There was a lot of money vested in the package’s development and creation. It isn’t normal goods. It’s special and would’ve made me and my partners a lot of money.”
“I see.”
“Yes. And you could also make a lot of money if you can return my package,” his voice was a soft purr, enticing me with the old dependable lure of hard cash.
“Why not use one of your own men?” I enquired, shifting in my hard seat, my ass was getting numb.
“Somehow the thieves knew the courier’s route and destination. I don’t know who to trust. You on the other hand I think I can. Louie Perez told me you were a man who could be trusted. You are reliable and dependable and don’t hesitate. That’s what I need Mr Mills. You did a somewhat similar job for him no?”
“Sorta.” I replied. Perez’s best girl had been kidnapped and dragged to a godforsaken backwater Alabama shithole. I had got Perez’s girl back and left two of her brother’s dead and twitching in the desert sands. It had not been a pleasant job but it had paid me well, very well. Perez still let me have free sessions whenever the mood for rubbing my hands over Mexican curves took me.
“If you’re telling me this you must’ve an idea who took your package,” I prompted, leaning forward in my chair, it groaned in protest like a broken old man.
“My brother put out feelers, spread word about my problem. I’m known as a trustworthy man. I never cheat anyone, the dollars always add up and the goods are always what was required. My reputation as a generous, thankful soul to those who help me, “he was laying it on extra thick,” turned up a little something.”
He paused to fill two glasses with tequila that he took from a drawer. As he poured I glanced around the small dingy room that stank of stale sweat and cigar smoke. The desk and two cheap chairs never mind Rosas made for a tight fit. The only other object was a year old calendar tacked to the wall behind Rosas that pictured a snow white blonde posing on a sun kissed beach, her tits thrust at the camera as she smiled a coy smile that was as fake as her breasts. I looked away. Not my type.
George passed me a glass and I tossed back the contents, grimacing.
“Frank got word that one of our boys saw two white men spreading a lot of cash around in one of the tittie bars on the east side. Laughing and drinking about a dead spic. I got Frank,my brother, to nose around. Seems they go by the name of Richie and Joseph Bruce. Small time hoods who in no way coulda had the money they were throwing around without dipping their toes into something big. My package is something big Mr Mills. Very big.”
George drank his glass then refilled both. He raised his own as I picked up mine.
“If there are the men can I depend on you to find my package and treat the bastards like you did them boys that crossed Louie?”
“Yeah I think you can Mr Rosas,” I stated and tossed back the tequila, relishing the burn.