New Title 1 (25 page)

Helton frowned at the tiny phone. “Well, yeah. He’s the
only
one ta call us on it.”

“Then highlight the number and push the call button.”
How can people be so OBLIVIOUS!
she thought. “Here.
I’ll
call him,” and she took the phone from Helton’s huge hand, hit the number of the last call, and listened.

“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered. A Jersey accent.

“I’d like to speak to Paulie, please,” Veronica said.

“Who the
fuck
 is this? You Tuckton’s whore or somethin’?”

Veronica
hated
foul language. “My name’s Veronica. I’m calling on behalf of a man named Helton—”

“You fuckin’ asshole! What’d’ya want!”

Appalled, Veronica covered the mouth-piece and whispered, “He’s very rude. He called me an asshole, and he doesn’t even
know
me!” She resumed the call. “I’d just like to talk to Paulie—”

“He’s asleep!”

“Well, I have an email for you. Do you have internet access?”

“Of course, you stupid broad! We’re in the
Mob!
We got dozens of blinded email accounts,” the man bellowed.

“Would you please stop yelling!” she shrilled in response. “I’m trying to give you information! Get a pen and piece of paper, please!”

A moment passed, then, “All right, I got it! Now what the fuck do you want?”

Veronica grew infuriated.
The nerve of some people!
“Go to AOL-dot-com, click the guest box. I’ve created a screen name for you on my account. Got it so far?”

“Yeah! Who the
fuck
are you!”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Your screen name is Pauliecrimeguy and your password is your cellphone number.”

A pause. “What the
fuck
is this all about!”

“I’ve sent you an attachment from Helton,” she continued, tempering herself. “Go to your in-box and download the attachment.”

“What’s the attachment!”

“A digital video file—”

click

The connection severed. “He hung up!” Veronica snapped. “That was the
rudest
man!”

But Helton seemed concerned. “So’s…how do we know he got the movin’ picture?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll get it, all right. And I have a funny feeling that when he does…” Veronica gulped. “He’ll be calling you back real fast…”

««—»»

Helton took her into the back of the truck and re-cuffed her wrist to the table. “Howdy, Miss Veronnerka!” the younger man said. He was wiping the floor with paper towels. The smile on his face couldn’t have been broader. “So’s Unc Helton tolt me you figgered some fancified way’a sendin’ our movin’ picture to Paulie.”

“Yes,” came her glum response. “Over the internet—”

“Dangest thing, tek-nollergy,” Helton said in stifled awe. “She had this here li’l ‘puter box that
sent
the movin’ picture ta Paulie, and it didn’t even have no
wires
on it.”

“No wires?” Micky-Mack asked, bewildered. “How’s can that
be?
”

“Just…don’t worry about it,” Veronica told them. “It’s
magic.
”

“Wow!”

When the blond one finished wiping up the floor, he exhaled some aspect of relief and—

Oh for goodness sake!

—rubbed his crotch.

“I’ll tell ya, Unc. That there was fer shore the finest nut I’se ever h—”

Helton pointed his finger. “Quiet.” Then he looked down at something, grit his teeth, and—

SMACK!

—laid an opened palm across Micky-Mack’s head.

“Holy
fuck,
 Unc Helton! What’cha keep smackin’ me fer!” the man wailed, a hand to his temple.

“I done tolt ya to clean this place
up!
We cain’t have Veronnerka seein’ anythin’ that’ll be upsettin’ to her!” Helton grabbed some paper towels, then knelt before the power drill, which lay on the metal floor.

Veronica caught
one
glimpse…

One was sufficient.

A strange hollow cylinder stuck out of the end of the drill, a cylinder rimmed with
saw-teeth.
Blood dripped off of it. Helton very quickly wiped it up.

I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know…
She tried to remain naive. “Where’s the other man? The dark-haired one?”

“My son, Dumar,” Helton answered.

“Yeah,” Micky-Mack piped up. He was
still
rubbing his crotch. “Dumar, he’ll be back in a sec. Hadda git rid’a the b—”

SMACK!

“Gawd DAMN, Unc! That fuckin’
hurt!
”

“Next time I’se just might bust my hand on that thick head’a yers, boy. Just
keep yer mouth SHUT.
” He pulled something from a plastic bag. “Here, Veronnerka. Have some…” He squinted at a small snack bag. “Veggie Chips, whatever the hail they is.”

She looked aghast at the offered bag. “I don’t
want
Veggie Chips, Helton! I want to go home! I want to be with
Mike!
”

Helton chuckled huskily. “Aw, that silly fella, ya mean. Hon, that cocky boy ain’t good enough fer
you.
”

Micky-Mack cracked a smile. “Sound like she all mushy in
looooove…
”

Veronica was about to wail another objection; however—

The cellphone rang.

Helton and Micky-Mack tensed up.

“That’s
got
to be Paulie,” Veronica said.

Helton looked uncomprehending at the tiny phone. “Shee-it! I’se fergot how ta answer it!”

“Helton, just open the phone!” Veronica snapped.

Clumsily, the man did so. He put it to his ear. “Hello?”

At this distance, Veronica could decipher nothing, but she was aware of a very irate squawk coming from the cellphone. “Yeah?” Helton said, amused. “Well I just think that’s dandy, ya snake-shit-eatin’ city fuck…”

More squawking, then Helton said, “Well then bring it on, buster ’cos you snot-nose uppity city types gots
no idea
who yer messin’ with…” Then he hung up.

“Was that Paulie, Unc?”

“Shore as shit was, and he’s more riled than a pitbull with a ball-bag full’a ticks, he is!” Helton leaned hugely over and kissed Veronica on the cheek. “Veronnerka? You’s a flat-out
genius!
”

“So Paulie saw your
movin’ picture,
” she deduced.

“Oh yeah he did—”

“EEEEEEEE-ha!” Micky-Mack rejoiced, and then Dumar came in through the back, and when he was informed of the news…

“EEEEEEEE-ha!”

The three whooped, jumping up and down, high-fiving. The truck rocked from the impact of their booted feet.

Helton roared, “And ya knows what that city faggot
tolt
me? Tolt me he was goin’ ta
all at WAR
with us!”

More high-fiving and raucous hoots.

“He wants war, Paw! We’ll
show
that fucker war!”

Helton was so happy his face was turning pink. “This calls fer a cellar-bay-shun!” and then he extracted a liquor bottle from another bag. “Whatever cheap-ass rotgut swill
this
is, it don’t matter ’cos we stolt if from him!” Helton passed the bottle around. The label read JOHNNY WALKER BLUE - 40-YEAR.

But Veronica just seemed to sit and spin in this ever-increasing kaleidoscope of madness. “Helton!” she barked.

“Yeah, hon? Oh, you wanna nip?”

“I don’t want a nip! You said if I got the movie to Paulie, you’d let me go!”

He looked down in all sincerity. “Aw, hon. I’se already
tolt
ya we’ll let ya go…” and then his brows inched up. “Just…not any time soon. We’se just
started
gettin’ our revenge ‘gainst Paulie, and we’se gonna need ya fer a spell, fer yer exper-
teese.
” He laughed. “We’se gonna need you ta send
lots
more movin’ pictures ta Paulie!”

Veronica began to cry.

“There, there, hon. Don’t be upset.” The crinkly bag was offered again. “Here. Have some…Veggie Chips. They’ll perk ya
right
up.”

— | — | —

Chapter 8

(I)

The three of them walked down Clag Street—Case Piece, Menduez, and Sung—Case Piece with his antiquated “boom box” on his shoulder. He was
jammin’,
and what he was jammin’
to
was the brand-new CD by PREE-postur-ISS, which was especially appropriate since it featured Hip Hop Christmas songs. “Dig it, my dawgs,” he said, bopping along. He upped the volume:

“Rudolf the motherfuckin’ reindeer, had a motherfuckin’ shiny nose, and if you ever motherfuckin’ saw it, you would say it motherfuckin’ glows. All of the other motherfuckin’ reindeers, used to laugh and call him motherfuckin’ names. They never let poor Rudolf join in any goddamn motherfuckin’ reindeer games…”

“Turn that
shit
off!” bellowed an old woman on her doorstep. The gang turned to glare but resumed walking when they spied the 12-gauge in the woman’s hands. Case Piece turned off the music.

“Shit. Motherfuckin’ old white bitch ain’t got no Christmas spirit,” Case Piece complained.

“Yeah!” Sung agreed. “No Kwissmas spiwit at all!”

“I take a giant
chit
in her yard tonight, mang,” Menduez promised.

“Fuck ’em.” Case Piece thumbs-upped. “We ain’t gonna let no motherfucker crimp our motherfuckin’ joy, uh-uh.”

The moon glazed the old street, painting cracker-box houses. Christmas lights blinked in alternate windows, and from one scrubby yard, a plastic snowman waved. Ahead, a pair of sneakers dangled on some power lines. “Chit, yeah, mang. Tying ta sell more smack,” Menduez said, observing the dilapidated shadow at the phone pole.

“Sling it, bro.”

“Yeah, bwo!”

The skinny Caucasian female addict teetered forward with hollow eyes and a proffered $20 bill. Her arms looked like bones painted the color of lard, but with needle-tracks like lines of black pepper. Menduez slapped the heroin baggie into her hand, then, like a card trick, the $20 was in his own hand. “Chew only buy smack from us, right, woomahn?”

“Oh, yeah, man,” the stick-girl affirmed. Her clothes were rotten.

“Chew don’t
never
buy from no fuckin’ cowboys, right? ’cos, if chew do?” Menduez shook his head. “Chew wind up
fucked
.”