Edward Lee - Header 2

“We don’t really know him, but he works for one of our middle-men.” Paulie ground his teeth. “And I’ll bet they’re all in on it. How could they not know?”

“Can’t imagine, boss,” Argi agreed. “Looks like they been pullin’ the wool over our eyes.”

Paulie stomped a foot. “Well I won’t have that shit! I won’t have a guy on my payroll killin’ puppies! ”

Helton stepped up. “Just let me ask you sumpthin’, Paulie. If’n you know who this varmint is, you know how to find him?”

“Fuck, yes! The motherfucker coops in my warehouse three blocks away!”

Helton drew on a contemplation. “Well I cannot abide the idea of a puppy-killer bein’ that close but not doin’ nothin’ ’bout it, and I’se mean I would bend over dag backwards fer the chance ta wear him out. ”

“You ain’t the only one, Helton.”

“So…what we gonna do ’bout this here…per-dicker-mint?”

Silence dropped. All four men exchanged glances.

Helton took another step. “We’se can keep on fightin’ here, or…we can have ourselfs a time out, put our feud on hold, and all of us go to this warehouse’a yers and put a world’a hurt on this fella.”

Paulie eyed Helton.

“What about it, boss?” Argi asked. “Might be fun.”

Another pause, then Paulie said, “All right, Helton. Time out. We go whack these guys, then  we get back to our shit. But”—he held up a finger—“no tricks. Deal?”

“Shore, Paulie.”

Paulie eyed the bigger man, chin stuck out. “Swear on your dead mother’s soul.”

Helton frowned. “All right. I’se swear on my dead Maw’s soul, there’ll be no tricks out’a us.”

“Good.”

Helton stroked his beard. “But now you gotta swear on your dead maw’s soul.”

“Fair enough. I swear on my dead mother’s soul—no tricks out of us either.”

Helton stared Paulie down. “And just so’s you remember, a man who ain’t worth his word ain’t worth shit.”

“You don’t need to tell me that!”

“All right, then. Enough’a this bickerin’. Let’s get on with this.”

Paulie nodded. “Get in your truck and follow us…”

(VIII)

“Have yourselves a merry little Christmas,” someone crooned from the radio. Case Piece frowned up from the work table. Had someone changed his station? Then he frowned down at the task piled before them: a heap of raw, high-grade white heroin; and it was into innumerable one-by-one inch plastic mini-baggies that he and Sung were gingerly spooning in single-hit allotments of the potent narcotic. Case Piece shook his head. “Baggin’ skag is a pain in the ass —you hear my sass? I got too much class for this manual fuckin’ labor, man.”

“Aw, fruck,” Sung complained, wielding a tiny spoon. “This prain in the ass, all right, Crase! Too brad Highball reft.”

“Yeah.” Case Piece got up, struck a pose, then began to strut. “I’m stylin’ and pro filin’ , blood. I’m whilin’ and de filin’ —shit! I’m bustin’ and I’m gustin’—‘ho!—baggin’ skag I gotta think —huh!—so I need me another grape drink!”

“Dram good, Clase!”

“Uh-huh.” Case piece opened the refrigerator… “Bummer, man! We all out’a grape drink!”

“There’s mrore in the brack fridge.”

“Cool. See, I go ape without my grape …drink.” Case Piece strode past sundry boxes and junk, then bopped down the dark hall. In one of the back rooms, he opened the fridge, reached for a soda drink, but then—

konk!

—fell face-first into the floor.

He saw proverbial stars, and felt as though he were rocking back and forth like someone on a raft. The surprise blow to the back of the skull seemingly ballooned his head. A wavering state of semi-consciousness claimed him, to the extent that he knew only that something was amiss but could not frame words in thought. He heard, for instance, a heavily dialected voice say, “Dang, Paw. Lookit all the hair on this fella. We seed him a’fore, didn’t we?”

And another voice, huskier: “That we did, son. Out yonder on the street. And that hair-do’a his, I think it’s what they used ta call a Afro.”

Case Piece was unable to assign meaning to any of the words. His cheek rubbed the floor then, as his ankles were grabbed and he was hauled out of the room.

“Fruck, fruck, guys!” Sung blubbered in the front room. He churned in a cocoon of ropes as Paulie stood over him. “Ree your bruds, Prawlie!” the Asian pleaded. “You our twop-dwawer dude!”

“My ass,” replied the don. “You guys are killin’ puppies here. No one who works for me kills puppies. No one. ”

“No, no, Prawlie! It ruz Menduenz!”

“Yeah?” Paulie tapped his foot, then looked up with a grin, when Helton dragged Case Piece into the room. “Good job, Helton.”

Helton dropped the drug dealer’s ankles, frowned errantly at the fact that the man’s jeans were halfway down his fucking ass, leaving striped boxer shorts pulled up over his navel. Helton propped him up limp in the corner.

“Is he dead?” Paulie asked.

“Naw. All’s I give him is a little knuckle shampoo. Be another minute’re two ‘fore he wakes full up.”

Case Piece’s eyelids fluttered above a hung-open mouth. His head lolled, but he remained three-quarters unconscious.

“Dumar’s lookin’ fer the other ‘un.” Helton said. He looked to Sung. “So what we got here?”

“Just a bagman. Fucker’s name is Sung or some shit. Some Chinese name—”

“Kow-EEE-ah, Prawlie!” Sung objected even his not-looking-very-good predicament.

“Whatever.”

“Looks more like a puppy- killer ta me—”

No, no, mran! I srare. Crase Preece and me, ree never hurt puppies!”

Just then, the door swung open, and in lumbered Argi, with his ruptured and now-nearly-grapefruit-sized testicle exposed, that—

And the stump-grinder.

“Need some help there, fella?” Helton offered.

“Yeah, sure, if ya don’t mind,” the beefy lieutenant said. “This fucker’s heavy even for a portable. Comin’ in I bumped my sore nut on the guide bar— man, that hurt.”

“I’ll bet it did, fella, I’ll bet it did,” and then Helton rendered assistance in positioning the awkward machine properly. Its pivot left the grind-wheel several inches over Sung’s face.

Sung shrieked prayers in Korean.

“Hey.” Paulie tapped Sung’s shoulder with a shoe-tip. “Where’s that guy think’s he’s Scarface?”

“I dron’t know, Prawlie! Ree haven’t sreen him all day! I’m not rying!”

Paulie contemplated the response. “Argi?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Start ‘er up.”

A cord was yanked, then the 5-horse-power engine came to chugging life. Argi grasped the guide bars, jiggling from the vibration. He squeezed the throttle on the handle several times, like some asshole showing off on a motorcycle.

Sung screamed so loud he could actually be heard over the motor’s terrifying din. At high-rev, the machine sounded like a chainsaw…

…only worse.

Then the throttle receded.

“Where’s the Scarface guy?” Paulie demanded. “What’s his name? Menudo?”

“Menduez, boss,” Argi corrected.

“Right. Where is he?”

As the grind-wheel blurred only inches from Sung’s face, his eyes seemed larger than his sockets. “Prawlie, I srare to Grod! I don’t know! And ree never kill no puppies! It was him! Only him!”