Pulp - Charles Bukowski [41]
She was a stunner. In a red dress. Green eyes. Long dark brown hair. Young. Class. Ass. A smell of mint. Her lips smiled.
“Mr. Belane, please come in.”
I followed her into the room. Then there was a hard object in my back.
“Freeze, motherfucker! Except your arms! Stretch them up! See if you can reach the ceiling, motherfucker!”
“You black?” I asked.
“What?”
“Only blacks say ‘motherfucker.’”
He was patting me down. He found my piece, took it.
“All right, you can turn around now, Mr. Belane.”
I turned and looked at him. Big guy but white.
“But you’re white,” I said.
“So are you,” he said.
“Well, I’ll be a motherfucker,” I said.
“That’s up to you. You can have your piece when you leave.”
I followed Deja into another room. She waved me to a chair.
It was a big room. Cold. Felt dangerous.
Deja placed herself on the couch, pulled out a small cigar, unsheathed it, licked it up a touch, bit off the end, lit up, exhaling a sexy blue plume of smoke. She fixed me with her green eyes.
“I understand you’re looking for the Red Sparrow.”
“Yes, for a client.”
“Who is?”
“That’s confidential.”
“I have the feeling that we can be good friends, Mr. Belane, very good friends.”
“You do, huh?”
“You’re a handsome man, in your way, you must know that. You have that well-lived-in look. It’s quite becoming. Most men don’t live well at all, they just wear down.”
“Is that right?”
“You can call me Deja.”
“Deja.”
“Ummm…why don’t you come over here and sit near me?”
I moved it over and dropped it near her on the couch. She smiled.
“Care for a drink?”
“Sure. Got a scotch and soda?”
“Bernie,” she said, “one scotch and soda, please.”
A few moments passed and here came the motherfucker who had taken my piece. He set the drink down before me on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Bernie.”
He moved off, vanished.
I had a hit of the scotch. Not bad. Not bad.
“Mr. Belane,” she said, “I’ve been told to tell you that you must forget all about the Red Sparrow.”
“I never drop a case unless my client so desires.”
“You’ll drop this one, Mr. Belane.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Does my smoking this cigar offend you?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Would you like to try a drag?”
“Uh huh.”
Deja handed me the cigar. I took a good pull, inhaled, exhaled, gave the cigar back. The room was clear for a moment, then the walls began to shift a bit, the rug rose up, fell back down. A shot of blue light flashed in front of me. Then her mouth was on mine. She kissed me, then pulled away. She laughed.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a woman, Belane?”
“I can’t remember…”
She laughed again and then her mouth was on mine again. It had been a long time. Her tongue slithered into my mouth like a snake. Her body was like a snake.
Then I heard footsteps, a voice: “HOLD IT!”
It was Bernie. He was standing there with two guns, one in each hand. One of the guns I recognized as mine.
“O.k., Bernie, o.k.,” I said.
Bernie was inhaling heavily as if there were no oxygen in the air. He was staring at Deja. His eyes were misted.
“DEJA,” he said, “YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU! I’LL KILL HIM! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL MYSELF!”
I was in a perfect position. I swung my right leg up and got him right between the nodules. He screamed and dropped, holding his center. I picked up the guns, put one in my holster, held the other in my right hand. I lifted him with my left and dropped him into a chair. I pulled his head back by the hair until his mouth fell open. Then I slid the gun into his mouth.
“Suck on this awhile, chap, while I think about what I’m going to do.”
Bernie made a gurgling sound.
“Don’t kill him!” said Deja. “Please don’t kill him!”
“What do you know about the Red Sparrow, motherfucker?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer.
I shoved the gun deeper into his mouth. Then I heard him fart. It was a loud fart. And a stinking one. I pulled the gun out and threw him to the floor.
“That was disgusting! Don’t ever do that again!”
I turned and looked at Deja.
“Does he have a room here?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Bernie.
“Now, you go to your room and stay there until I tell you to come out!