Edward Lee - Header 2

“You might find a carry-case convenient—”

“Ring me up. The best ya got.”

Mike slipped away, ecstatic over the sale. However, Veronica was light-headed now. This is the biggest single sale since I’ve been here! Mike’ll be so happy! Dazed, she got the tripod and the case, rang the additional sale, just as Helton peeled off more of the curiously dated bills, ( which, for those interested, were 1966 Series A notes, signed by then-secretary of the treasury Henry H. Fowler. These were the first $100 bills to bear a watermark).

“Let me help you out with some of this,” she offered.

“Naw, thanks, hon,” and then Helton easily lifted all of his purchases up under his arms. “Wouldn’t think ’a lettin’ a purdy, refined gal such as yerself haul such heavy things.” He paused to look down at her. “Dang, in this bass-ackward world’a ours, meetin’ you’s like a breath’a fresh air.”

“Why…thank you, Helton.”

“You’s shorely the nicest city gal I’se ever meet, and I’se hope you have yerself a dandy Christmas.”

“You do the same, Helton,” she said, now fairly flabbergasted. “You’re a very nice person too.”

Helton turned and huffed for the door. “Ask me? What this world needs is ta be full up with Veronnerkas…”

“Need some help, sir?” Archie asked.

“Out my way, son.”

Mike piped up. “Thank you for shopping at Best Buy, sir, and have a happy holiday!”

Helton frowned and loped out of the store.

The instant the automatic doors closed, Mike raged, “Holy SHIT!”

Archie rushed over. “Veronica! The net profits from that sale’ll cover the store’s overhead for the next month and then some!”

Mike was jumping up and down as if on a springboard. “Un-fuckin’-believable! You just rang ten grand to Grizzly Adams!” He practically slid over on his shoes, then picked Veronica up and swirled her around. “What a saleswomen!”

Veronica’s joy at seeing Mike so exuberant brought tears to her eyes. When he gave her a big wet sloppy kiss right on the mouth, her heart pattered and her sex throbbed just short of instantaneous orgasm.

She hugged him desperately, whispering, “Oh, Mike, you don’t know what it means for me to see you so happy…,” and she knew, then, she knew to the very core of her spirit that Mike loved her with his whole heart…

(III)

The Winnebago rumbled toward the edge of town, its business in Pulaski done for the month. It was the beefy lieutenant Argi who drove the luxuriant vehicle, Paulie in the spacious passenger seat, and Cristo and Dr. Prouty sitting behind. In the vehicle’s rear-most compartment, of course, sat the atrocious and fiendishly rank Melda, who was now taking care of another box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.

When Argi made a wide lefthand turn, he squeezed his crotch for no apparent reason…

“All in a day’s work,” Paulie said, seemingly pleased.

“Yeah, boss,” Cristo accentuated. “Made our monthly drop-off to the gang, got our ashes hauled by that killer-bod whore, and pulled off some dynamite vendetta.”

Argi nodded. “Case Piece wasn’t kiddin’ about his squeeze havin’ a body. Shit, the bod on that hosebag’d make St. Augustine knife-fight ya for it.”

“Gotta hand it to that superfly little punk. That chick is smokin’ hot, even with the wrinkled face. Swear to God, guys, she’s got a body even better than Marshie’s.”

“Aw, damn, speakin’ of your wife”—Argi remembered something—“don’t you want me to drop ya off at her house now that we’re done here?”

Paulie shook his head, and took a bite of a cannoli they’d picked up at a local bakery. “Naw. Forgot to tell ya’s. I sent Marshie to Vegas—”

“Vegas?” Argi remarked. “Man, I love Vegas. The old days, we’d whack guys right and left. Leave their fuckin’ heads in the desert and shit.”

“Yeah. But Marshie, she was so down in the dumps about her father’s birthday, I thought I’d send her on a snappy little vacation. She’s waitin’ for me at the Bellagio—I’ll just grab a flight once we get back to Newark.” Paulie rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, when I tell her we did a special job on the family that whacked her father, she’ll fuck me in a big way.”

“Sounds like a good deal,” Argi commented. “But, damn, boss, what about your kid—you know, the girl? Since we’re here, don’t ya wanna stop by the house and check on her?”

Paulie winced at the suggestion. “‘Becca? Fuck, she ain’t my kid, she’s my step- kid. Got no idea who the father is, probably some redneck ’cos that’s when Marshie got knocked up with the little smart-ass, back in her redneck days before she got her father’s money. Shit, if I stopped by the house, ‘Becca’d probably hit me up for cash. Last time it was fifty bucks to have her fuckin’ bellybutton pierced, and the time before that it was two-fifty for a goddamn tattoo. A fuckin’ butterfly or some shit, right above her ass. Kids these days, they’re all a bunch of selfish little assholes. And it just irks me, ya know?”

“What’s that, boss?” Cristo asked.

“I’ll wind up havin’ to pay for that kid’s college, and it wasn’t even my nut that knocked Marshie up with her. Just burns me up: spendin’ my hard-earned drug-and-porn cash raisin’ some other dude’s nut. Some redneck in a pickup truck gets the nut, I get the tuition.”

“Just ain’t right,” Argi remarked.

“Yeah, but what can I do?” Paulie conceded. “It’s my wife’s kid, and I love my wife.”

“An honorable burden you’ve taken upon yourself, sir,” Dr. Prouty said.

“Fuck…”

Argi stroked his chin. “But, boss, the kid’s just a teenager, ain’t she?”

“Yeah. The little smart-ass is sixteen.”

“And you and the wife give her the run of the house?”

“Naw, we got a servant looks after her.” He slapped his head, wincing further at the displeasure. “Oh, and I fuckin’ forgot! When ‘Becca turned sixteen, what did Paulie have to do? Had to buy the little shit a car! ”

The topic was obviously eroding the boss’s mood, so Argi spoke up, “But, ya know, boss, that whore we fucked with back at the warehouse—Mama Lucretia! What a piece of ass!”

Cristo nodded. “Best fuck I had in a while, maybe even in years. Makes her pussy move kind of like a mouth.”

But the observation seemed to hinder Paulie’s spirit. He stared off…

“Somethin’ botherin’ ya, boss?” Argi asked.

“Indeed,” Dr. Prouty reflected. “Mr. Vinchetti seems to have become disquieted by an errant consideration.”

Cristo leaned his head up front. “Yeah, boss. All of a sudden ya look like someone shot your dog and—shit—you don’t even have a dog.”

“Fuck, fellas,” Paulie replied, eyes narrowed in self-ruminating concern. “I’ll be honest with ya. As hot-lookin’ as that whore was? My dick was harder watchin’ you guys stuff her head in Melda’s cunt than when I was actually fuckin’ her.” He shook his head. “Been thinkin’ about shit like that lately. I mean, all these snuff flicks and torture shit we film for the underground market? I get hard as a rock lookin’ at that sick shit. Startin’ to think maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”

“Naw, boss,” Argi excused. “All men get their dicks up watchin’ flicks of women gettin’ raped, tortured, and murdered. It’s just that no one admits it.”

“Yeah, boss,” Cristo piped up.

But Paulie didn’t seem so sure. “Reminds me of a time long time ago—fuck, I was probably only fifteen. My dad… God rest his soul—”