Header 2

“Somethin’ so bad, so off-the-wall gore-show,” Paulie replied, grinning, “that you don’t wanna know. What’cha think, Doc? Ya think I ought to tell Case Piece about the job?”

Prouty cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, if you happen to hold Mr. Piece in any esteem at all, you’d be doing him a service by not telling him.”

Yet, again, the mafiosos laughed.

“Man, you white guys are fucked up,”Case Piece said, “but, shit, that’s cool.” The black man paused. “Wait, Paulie, what the fuck’s any’a this got to do with you guys drivin’ ’round in something half the size of this warehouse?”

“’Cos for this job?” Paulie kept grinning. “We need somethin’ big.”

“Solid,” Case Piece muttered, and even as the narrative becomes more and more muddled, it was clear that Case Piece didn’t want to know.

Dr. Prouty looked behind the beaten couch and alerted the others. “There seems to be a..damsel in distress here.”

Case Piece chuckled. “Oh, that just Highball.”

Prouty touched his chin. “She appears to have suffered a mild contusion of the zygomatic process and upper- right maxilla region.”

“Shit, she got her grill busted for some pain-in-the-ass bitch-city yaw-yaw,” Case Piece corrected.

Paulie winced. “What’s bitch-city yaw-yaw?”

“You know. Yappin’, motor-mouthin’, jib-jabbin’ the way girls do.”

“Oh, you mean, she was whinin’ so she got her clock cleaned.”

“Yeah, Paulie, yeah.”

Paulie peeked behind the couch, where Highball lay out cold. “Christ, man. She looks fuckin’ fifty.”

“Oh, sure, she be a little wore out in the face, but, shit, Paulie, she be our top dro’”

“What?”

“You know. Real dingo, man. Get’cha a ringer in yer dinger, get some motch in yer crotch. Queen’a bitch city, you know, our crownest dawgie drop.”

“What?”

“I think he means she’s the gang whore, boss,” Argi said.

“Oh, but…man,” Paulie continued to observe. “Her face is all wrinkled! She get many johns with a face like that?”

“Shitload, Paulie, ’cos it ain’t the face, it’s the bone-covers, you know, the skin-suit. Highball, she be the boo boo head who got a pwizzle put some sizzle in yo swizzle’n make ya wanna drizzle.”

“Huh?”

“You know, got a pinktown honkie-monkey real boo-ya, uh-huh.”

Paulie frowned.

“Means she’s a good lay, I think,” Argi said.

“Well, fuck,” Paulie said. “Lemme check out the melon-stand, as they say,” and then he reached down to unbutton the girl’s overcoat.

Before the first button could be unfastened, Highball abruptly regained consciousness. She glared at Paulie, then glared at Argi and Cristo, then jumped up, fuming. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off me, you asshole! Nobody touches me unless I say they can! Fuck! Who the fuck are you! You look like a bunch of greaseball, wop, olive-oil goombas!”

All brows rose as silence fell swift as a guillotine blade over the room.

Case Piece cleared his throat. “Highball. You the dopest poo-putt bitch I ever seen. This Mr. Vinchetti and his crew.”

“Fuck them! The fucker was feelin’ me up while I was knocked out!” she yelled.

Case Piece cleared his throat again. “These the dudes I jawwed about earlier. We work for them.”

The silence thickened.

“You mean, you mean,” she stammered. “The guys who…,” and then she cast a terrified glance toward the stump-grinder.

“Yeah. Them dudes. So what you need to do and I mean, like, real split-lickety, is apologize to Mr. Vinchetti and his friends.”

Highball’s blooming eyes beseeched the mafioso. “I-I-I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Several moments ticked by, then, in visible disconcertion, Paulie walked slowly over to Case Piece, inclined his head, and whispered, “Case Piece. Your squeeze just called me an asshole, a greaseball, a wop, and an olive-oil goombah. Nobody calls me that. So you know what that means, right, pal?”

Highball was already screaming as Argi hauled out the stump-grinder. Cristo grappled her and with very little effort abated her screams by the deft application of duct tape across her mouth. Next, he had her pinned to the floor by standing on her shoulders.

Argi pulled a cord, and the stump-grinder revved up, belching exhaust.

“Aw, fuck, Paulie!” Case Piece yelled over the motor-din. “She didn’t know who you was. This a bit… harsh, ain’t it?”

Argi’s preposterously large muscles hefted the grinder’s roaring blade-head by means of the pivot and positioned it right over Highball’s face. The prostitute’s eyes couldn’t have been wider, and she bucked, kicked, and convulsed beneath Cristo in sheer fucking terror.

“Yeah, maybe is it,” Paulie considered. “Besides, the blades on these things are expensive as fuck. Gotta replace ’em every couple of jobs.” He made a cut-throat gesture to Argi who, in turn, shut off the stump- grinder.

“Thanks, Paulie,” Case Piece said, relieved. “I’ll kick her ass myself, and I’ll do a trick-time job, ’cos, serious, Highball, she may fly off at the mouth sometimes, but, shit, I’m tellin’ ya, man. She got uptown bags and a front- door backstop make the Pope shit his pants, and she give gobble-game topper that any boo boo head ever sucked your whip.”

Paulie frowned. “What?”

“I think he means she’s got great tits and pussy and sucks dynamite dick,” Argi said.

“Oh, she do, and you’n your crew can have it any time ya wants.” Case Piece looked to Highball, who remained pinned to the floor. “Right, Highball?”

She wagged her head yes faster than anyone ever had in all of human history.

Paulie sighed. “Case Piece, you don’t get it. I’m Italian. When an Italian is smote by a whore, well…that’s just…” He paused and snapped his fingers at Prouty. “Doc, what am I tryin’ to say?”

“I believe,” the doctor began, “that such a regrettable instance demands satisfaction from which there is no recourse; no manner of apology, for example, exists in any level of acceptability.”

“Yeah,” Paulie said. “So… What are we gonna do about this blondie here with the black roots?”

Argi tapped Paulie’s shoulder, grinned, and pointed outside.

To the Winnebago.

“Argi! You’re a genius!” Paulie celebrated. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He slapped Case Piece on the back. “Come on, my friend. Like it or not, you’re gonna get to see that we got in the Winnie!” and with that, they all filed out of the warehouse, Argi and Cristo carrying the girl.

Dr. Prouty was visibly disturbed, as Case Piece would be in very short order. The black man “peel-eyed” the motor-home quite complimentarily. “Trick fuckin’ ride, Paulie. Fucker must be thirty feet long.” The vehicle gleamed in the December sun. A satellite dish sat on top. Case Piece took a walk around, first, noting the sound of a fan running from the rear of the vehicle, and, second, he saw the large drop-door in vicinity. “Paulie, what this big door here, bro?”

“Aw, we ain’t usin’ it—that’s the elevator.”

“Elevator. The fuck you need that for?”

“Wheelchair,” Cristo said as he and Argi managed the still-convulsant Highball.

“Wheelchair?”