the lights of LA pale it. I walk into the Super 8. No one at the check in. I take the elevator and swipe the card that lets me into the room. Largo is lay on his bed fully clothed watching TV. A film is on the screen.
What's this about?
I rip open the paper bag and go into the bathroom, grab 2 glasses I assume are for toothbrushes and pour 2 fingers of bourbon into each glass. I hand one to Largo. He tells me.
It's an Australian movie about 3 brothers. One's a real asshole, fucking nut loon, the others done a deal to kill him to save the last younger kid brother.
Sounds a bit complicated.
I lay on the other bed, rest the tumbler glass on my stomach, reach beneath the small of my back and pull out the uncomfortable hunk of metal from my waistband and place it on the nightstand. Largo props himself onto his elbow not taking his eyes off the screen. He sips the JD. I lay and watch the movie. It's all heat haze, yellow sand and black natives. Looks hot. A desert. Set in the 1800's I guess. Largo is enjoying the story.
The rifle is mounted. Locked and loaded. Perched on the breakfast table. Largo sips. I lie still. The glass on my belly rises and falls with my breath. Rises and falls. Rises and falls.
The older brother in the movie, the fucking nut loon, is holed up in some canyon. I check my watch. Prop myself up. Sip the JD. It's warm and burns my throat. I dream of politics, business, crime. I dream of New Jersey and the man with the ice blue eyes. I can see his body. His mouth gaping lifeless. I check my watch.
I go to the window behind the net curtain standing beside the rifle. The black guy with the red vest was right, the line was growing. Men and women. Boys and girls outside Dune. Dressed for effect, talk and laugh. How many will make it through this night unchanged? Probably most. But not all. Some will meet a person they will spend many happy hours with. Some will meet someone who will make their life a dirty desolate tale of stalled ambition and lonely desperation. It could be attraction. It could be a deal. It could be a favor. I turn my mind back inside. Back to politics, business, crime. I am disengaging. Moving away. Distancing myself by increments from everything around me. Turning inside. Moving away from any form of emotional contact. I can feel the effect the mind has on the body. I can feel the chill of the A/C and the warmth of the JD but feel nothing else. Maybe, just maybe, a tiny amount of loathing for what I have become. For what I have done to my mother. For actions that brought death to my sister. Sister. Carly. Little Carly. The thought springs a trigger that brings the Rage. My heart beats faster. I now do not feel the A/C or the JD. I don't feel anything but the rage. I check my watch. Tell Largo.
Turn that shit off. We go now.
But it's getting good.
We fucking go now.
I snatch the remote and hit the red button. Largo creaks his old bones off the bed and stretches. I say.
We clear on the signal?
Yeah.
You don't go or do a thing until I give the signal.
Yeah. I know.
I look at Largo. Now I don't see an old friend. An old mentor. I see a stupid old cunt who is almost useless to me. He can handle the rifle and keep my back in case one of these kids fancies a shot at the title. But that's it. Period.
He sees that look on my face. He's seen it before. It's the Rage. I suppose when a heroin addict hits up his face takes on a stupor. When the Rage comes over me, my demeanor, my exterior alters. I need it. It is the thing that has defined my life. It is my curse.
DIRTY TERRY AND BLACK WHITEY
I grab my piece and head out the door. The corridor is empty. I check both ways. I take the stairs. They are dirty. I can hear someone in the stairwell above me. I trot down creating distance.
I'm on the street. Sounds are magnified. It's a cacophony of crashing sounds. Music. Voices. Yelling. Traffic. Cars. Motorcycles. A drum beat. A bass beat. Helicopter. Argument. A plea for spare change. A plea
What's this about?
I rip open the paper bag and go into the bathroom, grab 2 glasses I assume are for toothbrushes and pour 2 fingers of bourbon into each glass. I hand one to Largo. He tells me.
It's an Australian movie about 3 brothers. One's a real asshole, fucking nut loon, the others done a deal to kill him to save the last younger kid brother.
Sounds a bit complicated.
I lay on the other bed, rest the tumbler glass on my stomach, reach beneath the small of my back and pull out the uncomfortable hunk of metal from my waistband and place it on the nightstand. Largo props himself onto his elbow not taking his eyes off the screen. He sips the JD. I lay and watch the movie. It's all heat haze, yellow sand and black natives. Looks hot. A desert. Set in the 1800's I guess. Largo is enjoying the story.
The rifle is mounted. Locked and loaded. Perched on the breakfast table. Largo sips. I lie still. The glass on my belly rises and falls with my breath. Rises and falls. Rises and falls.
The older brother in the movie, the fucking nut loon, is holed up in some canyon. I check my watch. Prop myself up. Sip the JD. It's warm and burns my throat. I dream of politics, business, crime. I dream of New Jersey and the man with the ice blue eyes. I can see his body. His mouth gaping lifeless. I check my watch.
I go to the window behind the net curtain standing beside the rifle. The black guy with the red vest was right, the line was growing. Men and women. Boys and girls outside Dune. Dressed for effect, talk and laugh. How many will make it through this night unchanged? Probably most. But not all. Some will meet a person they will spend many happy hours with. Some will meet someone who will make their life a dirty desolate tale of stalled ambition and lonely desperation. It could be attraction. It could be a deal. It could be a favor. I turn my mind back inside. Back to politics, business, crime. I am disengaging. Moving away. Distancing myself by increments from everything around me. Turning inside. Moving away from any form of emotional contact. I can feel the effect the mind has on the body. I can feel the chill of the A/C and the warmth of the JD but feel nothing else. Maybe, just maybe, a tiny amount of loathing for what I have become. For what I have done to my mother. For actions that brought death to my sister. Sister. Carly. Little Carly. The thought springs a trigger that brings the Rage. My heart beats faster. I now do not feel the A/C or the JD. I don't feel anything but the rage. I check my watch. Tell Largo.
Turn that shit off. We go now.
But it's getting good.
We fucking go now.
I snatch the remote and hit the red button. Largo creaks his old bones off the bed and stretches. I say.
We clear on the signal?
Yeah.
You don't go or do a thing until I give the signal.
Yeah. I know.
I look at Largo. Now I don't see an old friend. An old mentor. I see a stupid old cunt who is almost useless to me. He can handle the rifle and keep my back in case one of these kids fancies a shot at the title. But that's it. Period.
He sees that look on my face. He's seen it before. It's the Rage. I suppose when a heroin addict hits up his face takes on a stupor. When the Rage comes over me, my demeanor, my exterior alters. I need it. It is the thing that has defined my life. It is my curse.
DIRTY TERRY AND BLACK WHITEY
I grab my piece and head out the door. The corridor is empty. I check both ways. I take the stairs. They are dirty. I can hear someone in the stairwell above me. I trot down creating distance.
I'm on the street. Sounds are magnified. It's a cacophony of crashing sounds. Music. Voices. Yelling. Traffic. Cars. Motorcycles. A drum beat. A bass beat. Helicopter. Argument. A plea for spare change. A plea
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