By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Q double-parked and ran into the coffee shop to fetch me a latte with a double shot of espresso. I waited in the back seat of my limo, puffing on a Marlboro, reading the latest issue of Hustler Magazine.
The girl in the centerfold posed with her ankles behind her ears. She looked young and nimble, glistening in fresh morning dew--all the things I am not.
In case you're wondering about the magazine, I write erotic stories for erudite porn enthusiasts; I turn to Hustler for the latest trend in sexual deviancy. Hey, it's research.
Regular smut novels are a dime a dozen--an easy write. I prefer to think of myself as the Earnest Hemingway of naughty novels. Or better put, the Oh Henry of Erotica. A fifteen-minute read for the twenty-minute-break crowd. Get it on, get it off, get back to work.
Anyway, while I'm highlighting a great story about a lonely janitor and his shop vac, a skinny white dude in a hospital gown jumps into the driver's seat. And, away we go.
In typical carjack fashion, said dude takes off like Andy Granatelli at the Indy 500. The only problem, my luxury automobile is Fleetwood not fleet-of-foot. Hairpin turns are problematic.
As a result, he cranked a hard right onto Michigan Avenue, skidded ten feet, and came to rest on a hydrant.
I righted myself off the floorboard as my faithful Q rounded the corner in full trot.
He pulled me from the backseat and parked me on a concrete bench covered in pigeon shit. Now would be an excellent time for a cigarette were it not for the geyser raining down on my head.
Q left my side and pulled the skinny carjacker from the front seat, and tossed him next to the bench where I sat. His hospital gown fell open, showcasing his tiny trio of manliness. Testicles the size of walnuts sought refuge in his nut sack. Had my knees not been doing the fandango, I would have slam-dunked a three-pointer with my foot.
Q paced about with his iPhone alerting the police and dispatching an ambulance.
"Got a smoke for an old friend, Zee?" The nut sack guy said, sitting up and covering his goods.
And, there, on the sidewalk next to me, sat Ike The Spike. The dude in the hospital gown. The jerk who'd rammed my limo into a Fire-hydrant. Ike, the fucking, Spike.
To be continued.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Ike the Spike should have been dead by now. Mort. Kaput. Yet, here he is, crouched on the sidewalk beside me, alive and relatively well. Once again, proving--only the good die young.
A bit of background:
His real name is Nicholas Dwight Gallo, son of one of the Gallo brothers of restaurant fame. I nicked him Ike The Spike due to his middle name and needle fixation. As if heroin and cocaine were not additive enough, Ike couldn't stay off the spike.
He carried his kit in a leather pouch attached to his belt. If arrogance were apples, he'd be an orchard. His veins read like a braille autobiography of self-annihilation--one prick at a time.
As with most Chicago offspring of the rich and notorious, Nick's bon vivant lifestyle peppered the society page until his mug shots outnumbered his paparazzi portfolio. Then the darling of the celebrity A-list turned to persona non grata on everybody's list.
A few years back, I get this call from his old man, a guy I'd rubbed noses with a few times. "Do me a big one," he said.
"I think I already did," I answered back.
"Nah, I'm talking about my kid. Give him a job," he said. "Straighten him out."
"What's his forte?" I asked.
"Fucking up," he said. "I'll owe you big time if you get him out of my hair for a few months."
My favorite words, "I'll owe you. "
I agreed. Q resisted.
"Babysitting a junkie is not in my job description," Q grumbled.
"Your job description is facilitating your employer. I need facilitating."
"He ain't gonna like my house rules."
"And I care for what reason?"
Ike moved in with a backpack and an attitude. The house rules were short and simply put. "You cop, I cut," Q said.
"Cut what, Mr. Fancy Pants?" Ike asked like a scarecrow throwin' shade.
"I will uncouple your digits from your metacarpus."
"Whaaattt!" Ike asked.
"He'll cut your fucking fingers off," I said before I had to fetch my thesaurus.
The first month passed without incident if you discount the occasional late-night come-to-Jesus realignment chat. Q can be very persuasive when sleep deprived. I bought an extra ice pack.
Then, Ike did the unthinkable. He moved in on Biggie. I blame myself. I missed all the signals--their shared interest in photography, video games, and Hostess Ding Dongs.
As it turned out, Stella, ever the romantic, facilitated their tete-a-tete, and Thursday Movie night became a regular thing. I was just happy to have one night a week without Stella and Biggie hogging the TV.
A good thing. Right? What could go wrong?
Famous last words. Yes, indeed, what could possibly go wrong?
To be continued.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Just a movie and a stop-off at White Castle for a few sliders and onion rings. What could go wrong?
How about the part where Stella doesn't go to the movie. Instead, heads down to the pool hall for a game of eight-ball and a few brewskis.
How about when Ike the Spike talks Biggie into ditching the stupid movie and cabbing over to a pop-up-party?
"We'll meet Stella at the White Castle... she'll never know. Come on! It'll be fun. Come on, Angel. Spread your wings and fly."
Yeah, he calls her Angel. And she loves it--no more Biggie.
So that's how it went, or so the story pieced together.
Off they go to a warehouse on the West Side. There are no tables or chairs in a typical pop-up-party, just a plywood bar serving drinks in plastic cups and a DJ pumping out electronic dance music with a hypnotic rhythm. Booze and beer sold in the front, smack sold in the back.
Nick, now in his old environment, high-fives and glad-hands his way through the crowd to the bar, pulling Biggie along introducing her as his "New Angel."
"Baby girl! You are my lucky charm. My little Angel," he declares as he picks her up and sets her on the jagged plywood bar.
He throws a fifty on the bar. "Benny, long time no see!" he says to the bartender, "I'll have a Bud and a shot of Crown. Get my Angel anything she wants. I'll be right back."
Only, he never came back.
Two tweakers found him lying behind a dumpster in the alley behind the warehouse. A young Asian girl with green hair sat beside him, rocking back and forth as if to a song only she could hear. Back and forth. Back and forth, she rocked.
When she tilted her head to catch the blood oozing from her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie, she saw the two men and ran--abandoning the first purse she'd ever carried--abandoning the first pair of shoes she'd ever worn without laces.
She ran into the night barefoot and alone.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
At approximately 4 AM, Q entered my bedroom with a grim look on his face.
"Wake up. We got a situation."
He tossed my robe onto the bed and abruptly left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Whatever happened must be bad. Q's demeanor spoke volumes. I took my time dressing, stalling the inevitable.
He came back into the room. "We need you now," he said.
I slipped on my comfortable shoes. Somehow I thought they might come in handy. I prepared myself for the situation. Whatever it was.
I followed Q into the kitchen. Stella sat at the counter drinking a long-neck beer and smoking a cigarette. The ashtray overflowed with butts. Empty beer bottles lay precariously on top of the garbage can, disabling the lid from closing.
Nothing truly odd about this picture except, she held Trevor on her lap in his Thursday outfit. A ripple of goosebumps ran across my sternum and down my arms. Why was Stella holding Biggies stuffed bear? Where was Biggie?
I turned to leave. Q spoke. "I made a cup of coffee for you."
"I'll be right back," I said and took two steps forward.
"She's not there. She's missing."
"Okay, fine," Stella said, throwing Trevor onto the counter. He skidded, tumbled, and landed on Biggie's keyboard. "I lost her."
She staggered into the kitchen, opened the door to the refrigerator, and stared inside.
"How do you lose a person?" I asked. not really wanting to hear the answer.
"It's not my damn fault. She's 19 go'n on 12. Let's face it. She's a fucking retard."
Q slapped her hard. She ricocheted into the fridge and grabbed hold of a shelf to steady herself. Beer bottles and leftovers tumbled, rolled, and crashed at her feet.
Stella, not one to cry, not one to take a punch without retaliation, crumbled to the floor as if every bone in her body gave way to grief. And she sobbed and rolled around in the broken glass and fried rice and sweet and sour chicken.
Q picked her up and held her tight as she thrashed about. She looked small against his massive frame. Tiny cuts from the broken beer bottles popped up on her arms and face, dots of blood mingling with rice and pea pods.
Q carried her to her bedroom. I waited. Waiting was all there was to do. That, and stare at tiny pink hearts dancing to and fro across the Biggie's computer screen.
Oh, yes, and one other thing. I held Trevor on my lap as Stella had a few moments ago.
To be continued....
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Q came back and poured himself a cognac.
"She'll be out for a few hours. I sedated her."
"And when did you get your medical degree?"
"I have many talents."
"I hope one of them is making Biggie appear."
"Sorry, I'm afraid I can't pull that off right now. Want another coffee or a drink?"
"I think I better stick with coffee." I held up my empty cup for a refill. "Okay, spill it. Tell me what you've done so far."
"When Biggie and Nick were a no-show at White Castle, Stella called Biggie's phone. No answer. Then she called me asking if they'd showed up here. I called Nick's s number. No answer. By then, we knew we had a problem."
"Where was I when all this was going on?" I asked.
"It was after 11. You were in snooze-ville."
"And you didn't wake me. Why?"
"Dealing with one hysterical woman was enough. It was my call."
"Then what did you do?" I asked, ignoring the inference that I am a hysterical woman.
"We called all the hospitals in a five-mile radius."
"And?"
"One John Doe showed up by ambulance to Rush Emergency at about the right time. It's Nick. We ID'd him."
"Car accident?" I asked.
"Tire iron or baseball bat. Hard to tell. His head looks like road-kill. They got him in an induced coma. No guarantees he'll make it, and even if he does, he'll likely be jacked up."
"A positive ID?"
"Hard to miss with the tats and needle marks. It's him. Here's what was found at the scene." He pulled a bloodied plastic bag from under the counter. Inside was Biggie's shoes and handbag and the clothes they cut off Nick. I recognized them.
"We got the address of where the paramedics found Nick. We checked it out. They were both there. The bartender confirmed it. We talked to the two tweakers that found them. A twenty-dollar bill loosened their tongues. They ID'd Biggie by a picture I carry."
"You carry a picture of Biggie?"
"Yeah," he said and showed me a picture of her taken at our cottage in Wisconsin.
It was a few years old, but she was sitting on the dock fishing with a cane pole. I remember because she refused to bait the hook. She couldn't bear to hurt a fish.
"Do you carry a picture of me?" I said, handing the wallet back.
"No," he said. "I got you right here." And, he tapped his index finger against his temple.
"I'll accept that. What happened next?"
"They spooked her, and she ran. Stella took off on her motorcycle. Rode up and down every street and alley in the area for a few hours. No one's seen her. I stopped a couple of squad cars. Told them to be on the lookout. Currently, she's in the wind."
"Was she hurt? Beat up?"
"Not according to the two dudes. Nothing obvious."
Good news, I thought. Better than the alternative. A straw to grasp. I was running out of idioms. Maybe I could say a prayer? Light a candle? Get down on my hands and knees and beg forgiveness. But God and I had parted ways long ago. I was unworthy of redemption. Or, maybe God just didn't like me. Hell, I didn't even like me.
I put my pity party on hold. "Now what?" I asked, snubbing out my cigarette and lighting a fresh one.
"Tomorrow, we canvas the area with posters offering a reward."
"You mean today," I said, hugging Trevor close to me.
"Yeah, today."
"And, by the way. I'm not the hysterical type," I said.
"Depends," he said. "I'm gonna catch a few winks."
"Q, do you pray?"
"Yes," he said.
"Good. Try not to mention my name."
Later in the day, Stella and Q hit every wall and lamp post with Biggie's picture and the promise of a reward. I called in every favor I could recall. It was the best I could do. That, and try not to act hysterical.
To be continued..
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Life is lived in seconds and remembered as moments. As in "a moment of crisis." Our moment of crisis stretched into days, one on top of the other like a lopsided sandcastle. Only to be washed out to sea with the evening tide.
After two months, hope dissolved into resignation. Biggie had disappeared after Nick's savage beating, and now all we could do was wait.
But resignation did not come without the natural stages of grief. Oh, no, there were stages.
Strategic lists were made. Assignments were given. Nightly reports served with gin and tonic turned into accusations, mixed with anger and reprisals--hit repeat.
Possible sightings led to euphoria followed by crushing disappointment. The reward for information increased incrementally, equal to our desperation.
We consoled ourselves with the daily confirmation that her body had not turned up in the morgue and intentionally avoided speculation that she might be a victim of sex trafficking or chained to a wall in a basement of some deranged sadist. Not that we didn't think it. We just refused to say the words out loud.
All normal activities ceased. Finding Biggie was all there was to do. That and the wringing of our hands and the mingling of our tears with shampoo and body soap.
To our credit, we avoided crying in front of each other. And I know that may sound silly, certainty not newsworthy, but it kept us from demonstrating our ever-increasing fear that she might never again sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV and chew her toenails. A disgusting habit I would sacrifice a year of my life to see again. Make that two years.
We were like runners in a relay race. We took turns passing the baton of hope. As one of us succumbed to despair, another would step forward with renewed spirit.
On day 28, word came that Ike The Spike had been released from the hospital and spirited away to an island in Greece to undergo physical therapy. Hiding out from the bangers who beat him for non-payment of funds owed would be closer to the truth.
Whatever the reason, taking him out of the country relieved Q's consuming desire to disassemble him and feed his parts to the fishes. I reassured him that there would come a reckoning, but first, we find Biggie.
On day 63, the phone rang at 10 AM. Weary from running down false leads, no one jumped to answer the call. After a half dozen rings, Q picked up.
"Hello," he said. "Yes," he said. "Fifty thousand," he said. Then he listened.
I looked at Stella. She stared at Q as he picked up a legal pad, turned to a fresh page, and wrote down a phone number, name, and address.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes. Keep her there," he said and hung up the phone.
His absence of excitement was apparent.
"So, you think it's her?" I asked.
"I don't know. The girl this man is talking about is about 4-5 months pregnant."
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out onto the city. "Well, shit. It can't be her," I said.
"Yes, it could," Stella said matter of factly.
I sat back down and stared at Q. He stared at Stella.
No one spoke. The only sound, a constant tick-tock coming from a cheap knockoff cuckoo clock, Stella gave me for Christmas. A definite eyesore and one I would have gladly shit-canned had Biggie not fallen in love with the little plastic bird who made haphazard appearances and never on the hour.
And ... as if by some divine intervention by Father Time, little Tweety scooted out its door and cuckooed. Not a regular cuckoo, not cute, and sweet. No, this time, it sounded sinister with a mocking tone in a minor key.
In one swift move, I snatched it from its perch and hurled it across the room.
Bye bye Birdy. Hello, madness.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zeeā??s unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
After I killed the tiny yellow plastic bird, we got down to the business of Biggie.
The man Q spoke to on the phone gave few details. His instructions were more cloak and dagger than Good Samaritan.
We threw together a simple plan. Q would go alone for a meet and greet. Stella and I would smoke cigarettes and sling accusations back and forth.
"How could you let this happen?" I asked in a voice customarily heard right before the big explosion.
"You're the one who invited the wolf into the hen house!"
"Biggie is not a hen!"
"Well, she's about to be."
And on and on...
The wait-time amounted to two pots of coffee, a half pack of cigs, three slices of cold pizza, and an entire Carmel cheesecake.
Q came home, walked straight to the bar, and poured himself a glass of scotch, neat.
"Late Breakfast or early lunch?" I asked, avoiding the apparent lousy news etched on his face.
"It's her. She's in the psych ward at South Shore Hospital. The guy who called works as an orderly. I couldn't get in to see her. But, he walked her over to the door, and I ID'd her. She's listed as a Jane Doe."
"Is she...?" I couldn't bring myself to say the word out loud.
"Yes, she is. Looks like maybe 4-5 months, but she's so emaciated it's hard to tell."
"Fancy words!" Stella spat.
"She's skin and bone and baby," he said in a gloomy tone.
Stella asked the burning question. "Why didn't you bring her home?"
"Ah...a black man shows up at a psych ward and claims a pregnant, Asian, white girl with no proof of identity. What could possibly go wrong?"
Stella backed up and sat down. "Got it."
"Here's the problem," he started.
I interrupted him in mid-sentence.
"Oh, please share. Cause I'm still working on the one where we come up with a fake identity for a girl born in the Philippines and transported with her mail-order-bride-mother to Canada where a sadist kicks her in the head for peeing on his work boots. Then in the dead of night, Mom sneaks across the border in an eighteen-wheeler headed for Chicago."
"Let me finish," he said.
"By all means, continue. I'm waiting for the part where we all die a horrible, welcomed death."
Sarcasm spewed from my mouth like Mount St. Helens tossing her cookies. I was not helping.
"Here's the tricky part," he said.
I covered my mouth with both hands.
He continued. "According to Tobler...the orderly...psych patients can only stay at South Shore for 30 days. Then, they get moved to a long-term facility."
"And the problem is?"
"That's in two days."
"But of course! Okay, what's the plan, Stan?"
"We kidnap her in transit."
Stella responded first. "I'm in!" She said with her hand outstretched for a high-five.
"Fuckin' beautiful. Just how I want to spend my remaining years. Is kidnapping a State or Federal offense? I hear Federal Pens have better accommodations."
I left the two of them peering into a computer screen, planning the heist. I needed two Tylenol, an ice pack, and a long nap.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The dynamic duo formulated a snatch-and-grab plan. I reluctantly agreed because "a" plan is better than "no" plan. And, let's face it, I was planless.
Q assembled the reward money. I knew being a rich old broad would eventually pay off. My new screw-in teeth would have to wait another year unless I could arrange an oral agreement with my orthodontist. (Oh, please, we're all adults here.)
Q sent Stella out to buy two identical red hoodies and backpacks from Old Navy.
I spent the day at the spa--a facial, Pedi-mani, and bikini wax. Looking one's best is essential when pulling off a kidnapping. I read it in the handbook.
The plan was simple.
Q filled one backpack with half the reward money and a red hoody. He arranged a met with Tobler.
"Here's half the reward. You get the other half when the switch is over. Dress our girl in the hoodie. Cover her head. Have her wear the backpack for the trip to Heartgrove Behavioral. Once you seat her in the van, call the driver out to check the driver's side back tire."
He did as he was told and walked the driver around to the back of the van. That's when Stella, dressed like Biggie, took off down the highway, screaming her head off.
While the orderly and driver ran after her, I pulled up next to the van. Q got out and grabbed Biggie. The whole thing took 2 minutes.
The trip home was weird. I kept looking at her in the rearview mirror. She looked like a ghost. It was her, but not her. She left looking 15. Now she looked 40.
She began to shiver and rock back and forth in the seat, humming some steady sound through clenched lips. I cranked on the heat. When Q removed his jacket and tried to cover her, she flung herself onto the floorboard and curled into a ball.
The hum turned into a shrieking sound like a wounded animal in a snare. I drove the car with tears running down my cheeks. Q picked her up and pinned her to his chest. He held her tight while he sang a song she used to sing.
Puff the magic dragon lived by the sea......and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee......Oh, Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea. And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee
His rich, baritone voice replaced the cries of pain and suffering with a simple song about a dragon___as he repeated the only lyrics he could remember.
Puff the Magic Dragon. Damn, I need a cigarette.
...........
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
I'd lived through some tough times-- broken bones, broken hearts, broken spirit. But the breaking of a loved one fell out of my emotional wheel well. I couldn't fix this.
I watched Q carry Biggie to her bedroom. She looked like a life-size rag doll
He threw the backpack on the floor and pulled the red hoodie over her head. Her off-gray shirt and baggy pants reminded me of photos I'd seen in concentration camps. The only thing missing was a tattooed number on her wrist.
"Here's her favorite nightgown," I said.
"Fill the tub with warm water. We're bathing her."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, she's dirty. Look at her hands and she's got what looks like vomit in her hair."
I watched him cover her naked body with a blanket. "Hurry," he said.
I continued to follow orders like a good soldier. I filled the tub with warm water. No one in our household took baths except for Biggie. Soft plastic animals rimmed the tub.
"Okay," I called out.
He carried her in and bathed her as if she were an infant. "Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea....." I stood by, watching, listening. She was indeed dirty. How had I missed this? I'd missed so many things--so many things.
When he finished, he carried her back to her room and dressed her in her favorite nightgown.
"Here," he said, handing me a comb. "Comb the tangles out of her hair."
He left the room, and I did as he commanded. I propped Biggie up and sat behind her. Her shoulders sagged, and her head lolled from side to side as I ran the comb through her silky black hair.
And, I realized something. I'd never really touched Biggie before. Not in the true sense of motherly love. I was not her mother. Her mother died. I was the reluctant substitute--the best option in a bad situation.
For a moment, I wished it had never happened. If I'd never met her, I wouldn't feel this crushing pain. I wouldn't be combing her hair with her head wobbling side-to-side like a doll with a broken neck.
I tried to remember if my mother, the host uterus, had ever combed my hair. Or, kissed my cheek or tucked me into bed? And I realized we were birds of a feather, Mom and I. Reluctant recipients of unplanned parenthood.
I almost felt sorry for her__the host uterus, that is. A moment of weakness on my part, it would pass. Twenty-plus years of analysis, and I'm still as screwed up as ever.
I joined Q in the living room. "I think she's sleeping. It's hard to tell."
He held up a finger as if to hush me. He was on the phone. "Okay, please...hurry, goodbye."
"Who was that?" I asked.
"Sit down, Zee."
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
When someone tells you to sit down, it's usually for one of two reasons. You're drunk, or they come bearing bad news. My money was on the latter.
I walked toward the bar. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."
"Sid's on his way over."
I lifted the lid on my five hundred dollar Waterford "Nouveau" ice bucket. Three slivers of ice floated on top of tepid water accompanied by one dead fly. I put the lid back on and asked a simple question.
"Sid who?"
"Sidney Rosenthal. You remember him. Your ex-psychiatrist, ex-friend, ex-lover. The guy you hired me to kill for playing fast and loose with that chunk of charcoal you call a heart."
I sat down.
"Then, I assume you did not kill him ."
"You were having a nervous breakdown. I was placating you."
"Since when does placating cost ten grand?"
How about a lovely lemonade?" He asked. "Fresh squeezed."
"No," I said. "Is he flying in from Florida?
"No, he is taking a cab from Fullerton Avenue."
"When did he get back?"
"Oh, a little while ago," Q said, rattling the ice in his glass. "Sure I can't get you one of these?"
"Fuck the lemonade. When were you going to tell me that Sid is back in Chicago?"
"You hate Sid. I didn't think you cared."
"Right on the first part. Wrong on the second."
I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of lemonade. "So let me get this straight. Sid is coming here, now?"
"Yes, unless you have a better idea."
I sat my drink down on the glass coffee table. "The asshole left me broken-hearted and sans a psychiatrist to pour my aching heart out to."
Q picked up a coaster and placed it under my drink. "Since when does charcoal ache?" He said mockingly. "And, as I recall, you drove him away!"
I took a drink and set the lemonade back down on the glass table. "If he truly loved me, he would have stayed and fought for me."
Q moved my glass back onto the coaster. "Fight for you? You mean like slap the piss out of you for being an asshole?"
"Everyone knows I'm an asshole," I said, tossing the coaster to the floor. "That is no excuse for leaving me."
Q picked up the discarded coaster and my half-empty glass of lemonade and set them on the bar. Then, he walked around the coffee table to where I sat, took hold of my four hundred dollar Kolbi Haperin silk blouse, and ripped it over my head and off my body. Buttons flew. He then used it to wipe the lemonade rings off the glass table.
"You asshole!" I said, standing in my bra and slacks.
"Touche'" he said. "Now sit your ass back down before I rip your bra off and stuff it down your pie hole."
The muscles around Q's eyes tighten, his nostrils flared, and his hands clenched and unclenched. I do believe he is angry with me.
I sat. "You're supposed to be on my side. Now you are siding with Sid?" I said in my best sniveling voice.
Sid's a doctor. A psychiatrist. He has drugs and connections. We have a pregnant girl in a comatose state. I think her need trumps your fucked up love life."
He had a point.
My phone rang. Stella's name popped up. "What! Yes, I know. Hey, asshole, I got a situation here. Eat a ham sandwich." I hung up.
"Who was that?"
"Stella, wanting to know when we are going to spring her from the funny farm."
The phone rang again. It was Stella.
"I'll get it," Q said.
The following conversation ensued. "Keep your shirt on, Stella. Take a chill pill. Get to know your fellow inmates. Make friends."
A long pause. "Well, fuck you too." He said and hung up.
"That went well," I said.
"By the way, she said to tell you that you're an asshole."
"At least my reputation is still intact," I said, recovering my destroyed silk blouse from the floor.
This time the house phone rang. Q answered. "Send him up."
He turned to me. "You better fix your face and put on another blouse. Sid's on the way up."
I hurried from the room. Yes, my face needed fixing. My nerves needed calming. And I needed to splash a bit of lovely on the girls.
I dressed in a lavender, see-through top. Combed my hair and repaired my smudged eye shadow. And, all I could think of was, "Sid is coming. I will not fall into his arms." (Thank goodness I had my nails done.)
"He's probably in the elevator right now! I will not fall into bed with him". (Thank goodness I got a bikini wax.)
Oh my god, Sid is, (knock knock knock) here!
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
By the time I finished reshaving my legs and playing whack-a-mole with my chin hairs, Sid had come and gone.
Q sat in his Eames chair, looking pensive.
"Where's Sid?" I asked.
He took his time answering as if the sound of my voice traveled a long distance.
"While you were doing...whatever...you were doing, Sid did his doctor thing and left. An ambulance will be here soon."
"What did he say is wrong with her?"
"His best guess? She suffered some kind of psychotic break due to a traumatic event."
"How long will she be like this?" I asked.
I knew the answer; there was no answer. But I'd run out of questions. Sid knew Biggies history. He knew about her step-father kicking her in the head with steel-toed boots when she was two years old--the ultimate diagnosis: Arrested emotional development and speech dysplasia due to blunt trauma to her developing brain. Now, this.
And I was correct. Q did not answer.
Switching questions, I asked, "So, where is he, Sid?"
"He went home to pack a bag. He's taking Biggie to a private sanitarium in Wisconsin."
"Are you going?"
"Yes."
"Can I go?"
"No."
"Then, what am I to do?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "Pack her things," he said and then swiveled his chair to face the wall. "Now, leave me alone."
"Did he ask about me...?" I asked in a whisper.
If he heard me, he chose to ignore me.
That was three years ago.
So, here I sit on a concrete bench on Michigan Ave with Ike The Spike.
Had he not spoken to me, I would not have recognized him. His charming good looks were a thing of the past.
The person sitting next to me in a hospital gown looked more Frankenstein than Frankie Avalon. The entire left side of his face looked as if it had been removed with a meat cleaver and sewn back on with baling wire. His left eye drooped as if he were perpetually staring at his shoes.
"How's my baby?" He asked.
"What baby would that be?" I asked.
"I hear she had a kid."
"Does the "she" you refer to have a name?"
He laughed, then coughed, then wiped bloodstained mucus on his filthy hospital gown. Then, he laughed again.
"I think we need to get you out of here before the cops come," I said, hailing a cab.
Q was busy in the front seat of the limo, retrieving registration cards and insurance proof. He did not see us leave. He had not recognized Nick.
We sat in the backseat of the cab. "Where to?" The cabbie asked.
I looked at Nick. "The Surf hotel off Broadway," he answered.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Nick leaned back in the cab and brushed gravel off his bare feet. "Lucky stroke for me, I carjacked your limo."
"Yeah, I'd say so," I said, rubbing my palms together to keep my hands from shaking. "How'd you hear about the kid?"
"Through the grapevine. You know how it is." (Cough-cough). "When I get straight, I wanna meet it. Might get me back in good with my old man. Keeping the bloodline going and all that shit."
How he knew was of little importance. The fact that he knew was monumental.
Biggie's son was born via cesarean section. The only people in attendance other than the staff were Sid and Q.
Q ended up signing the birth certificate as the father__an unexpected event. No one questioned the parentage. They handed him the baby, a few pampers, and he brought the infant home.
The new baby showed up unceremoniously. "Meet Tolliver," he said.
No one knew how to change a diaper. Stella googled disposable versus cloth. Nuk-naturals versus Mam-newborn versus Evenflo. I thought all nipples were equal. Fuck me.
At first, Q took his new responsibility with trepidation and then dedication, then with fanaticism. He bought baby furniture and transformed Biggies room into a nursery. He prepared homemade baby formula with the finest ingredients
Only organic materials could touch Tolliver's body, including his butt. Boxes of vinyl-free gloves invaded every room in the condo. Even the dog was quarantined in Stella's bedroom. I was not allowed to smoke anywhere other than my bedroom. Fuck me, again.
Sid showed up every day with something new. A car seat, a high chair, a stroller, bouncy toys, and stuffed animals. I enjoyed seeing him even if he refused to speak to me.
Stella took care of sterilizing all things needing sterilization, disposal of all poop-filled, puked-on clothing, and 4 AM feedings.
I went shopping for under-eye concealer. Since babies do not sleep__no one sleeps. Fuck me.
So, the idea of Ike The Spike getting his hands on the only thing we have left of Biggie except for a shadow of herself, could not happen. I acted on my raw instinct.
I lit a cig, much to the chagrin of our cabbie, and handed it to Ike. "How about I take you to meet your son? Think of it as a much-needed vacation__so to speak. Kill two birds with one shotgun__so to speak."
A lie told convincingly.
"It's a boy! How cool is that?"
"Cool, indeed," I said
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, ex-friend, and ex-lover. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
We sailed along Lakeshore Drive, got off at Fullerton, took Clark to Broadway, and turned right onto Surf Street. The hotel sat in the middle of the block, minuscule compared to the apartment buildings on both sides.
The Surf Hotel is a rent-by-the-month shit hole frequented by Down-and-outs whose plan for the future ends with their next meal, trick, or drug-induced trip. Then hit repeat. Crushed beer cans and cigarette butts littered the sidewalk along with the human equivalent.
A twenty-something kid in filthy jeans and a Metallica tee shirt paced back and forth in front of the building in a looping pattern. Hands shoved down in his pockets, back hunched, head bowed like he was working out some unresolved coming-of-age crisis or counting cracks in the sidewalk.
Two punks leaned against the side of the building in an alleyway. The perfect escape route if a cop accidentally drives by on their way to buy donuts.
An old bag in a dilapidated wheelchair sat next to the hotel entrance chucking insults at passerby's. She could have been a character in Oliver Twist__with emphasis on the twist part.
Nick stuck his head out of the window. "Hey, Gladys, I'm back!"
"You got my money? You piece of shit."
"Don't pay any attention to her; she's batshit crazy. I'll get my things and be right back."
"I got an errand to run. Meet me at Clark and Diversey in an hour," I said.
Before he entered the hotel, he stopped for a chat with the two punks. The conversation looked animated; then Nick pointed to our cab and waved to me. Not so much a "come here" wave. More like, "I'm with the rich old bitch in the backseat of the cab" kind of wave.
One of the punks pulled something out of his pocket and palmed it off to Nick. I heard Nick say, "thanks, man, catch you later." Followed by a fist bump.
He disappeared inside the hotel, with his ass hanging out the back of his hospital gown. No one gave him a second glance. Welcome to the bottom of the barrel, Chicago style.
I watched the wheelchair lady reach into her pleather pocketbook and pull out an empty pack of Camels. She crumpled it in one motion and threw it next to a discarded beer can. Then, she leaned over and fetched a half-smoked butt from the ground and lit it.
I knew the feeling--the joy of finding a half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray of life. I reached into my Fendi HoBo bag and fished out two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fresh pack of Marlboro's. I tossed a hundred into the front seat of the cab. "Thanks for the ride," I said. "Keep the change." He drove away.
"Hey, Gladys, any place around here a gal can buy some dry clothes?" I asked.
She looked surprised that I knew her name and adjusted her demeanor. She dropped the cigarette and ran her fingers through her greasy hair. A hopeless grooming gesture. But important. Yes...important.
Her voice morphed into a younger version of herself. Goodbye, crone, hello promising young woman of yesteryear.
"Oh, my! Well, let me think. Uh, Ronnies Resale Shop is around the corner. But," she said in a whisper like we were two ladies dishing the dirt. "It's kind of chintzy."
"Thanks for the info," I said with a wink. "We girls got to stick together."
She gave me a million-dollar toothless smile and then quickly covered her mouth.
I palmed her the other hundred and dropped the pack of cigs in her lap. When I turned the corner on Broadway, I looked back. She was waving the money and yelling something. I never heard what she said. But, I'm sure it was important.
I stared at my phone. I had four missed calls from Q. I deleted them and dialed a number. "You still in the disposal business? Send someone to the corner of Clark and Diversey for a pick-up. My name? Manning, Zelda Manning."
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, friend, and lover. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
A no-name/no-neck guy, driving an old Coupe De Ville, pulled up at Clark and Diversey.
He rolled down his window. "Manning?"
I nodded in the affirmative.
He angled his paw-like hand with a half-stump thumb toward the backseat. I got in. I wondered what happened to the other half of his thumb, but it seemed impolite to ask since we'd just met.
"Circle the block," I said. "The package will be here soon." I handed him a scrap of paper. "Here's the address."
We made one trip around, and Nick showed up. So far, so good. I waved. He rushed over and took hold of the backseat door handle.
"Front," Mr. No-name said.
Nick hopped in the front seat. He bounced up and down, slapping his hands together as if he'd just hit the lottery. At least he looked and smelled better in his black Levis and a Blackhawks hoodie. His monogrammed leather kit hung on his belt.
Mr. No-name headed west on Diversey toward the Kennedy.
"Cool wheels, man! This fucker rolls like a boat." Nick said, turning the dial on the radio. "This thing work?"
Mr. No-name cracked his no-neck side to side and turned the radio back to "off".
I checked my phone, now on silent, five more missed calls from Q. I turned it off. There would be hell to pay for keeping him in the dark, but I'd call it rent and declare it on my taxes. Problem solved.
We cruised along 1-90 at 57 miles an hour. Traffic backed up at the toll road, but other than that, it was smooth sailing. Nick curled into a ball and nodded off.
"You ever talk?" I asked No-name.
He did not answer. Thus, answering the question. He did glance at me in the rearview mirror, and for a moment, I thought he might smile. He did not. I spent the rest of the trip staring out the window.
The cabin on Rock River started as a love nest/fishing shack. Love nest for me and fishing shack for Conner. I lost Conner to Jack__Daniels, that is. Now it's a place to stay when we visit Biggie and an opportunity to contract West Nile Virus.
We got off at Newville, Wisconsin, and drove west on Elendale Road. The road snaked along the Rock River. Small cottages dotted the colorful landscape. The trees were already preparing themselves for fall, doing their part to signal the passage of time. I didn't need much of a signal. I had a mirror.
We wound around on the narrow road passing few vehicles. No-name broke his silence. "Not a lot of traffic."
"The FIB's have all hauled ass for the season," I said.
"FIB'S?"
"Fuckin' Illinois Bastards," I said.
He laughed a girly laugh. I took it as a sign we were becoming friends.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, friend, and lover. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The sun lay on the road like a giant peach, ready to make an exit--the end of a perfect day.
"Just ahead on the left," I said. "Turn in where you see the Troll holding the Norwegian flag." A leftover ornament from a previous owner. The bizarre thing, they could have been cousins, No-name, and the Troll. Maybe he was Norwegian? Or German?
"Here?" he asked, breaking my frivolous train of thought.
"Yeah, you can't see the house from the road."
"Perfect," he said. He was becoming a regular Chatty-Cathy.
He drove down the steep hill to the cabin and parked next to my Mercedes-Benz. A 1987 SL convertible. Red. A gift from an admirer when I still had admirers.
Wet leaves covered the windshield. I picked a few off and patted her hood. I wondered if anyone would ever pat my hood again.
Mr. No-name stood by the passenger door, waiting. Nick continued to sleep. "How you want to do this?"
"Bring him in and tie him up. I got a few questions. Need a few answers."
He opened the door and draped Nick over his massive shoulder like a side of beef.
"Hey...hey...hey. Let me down." Nick was now fully awake.
The big man carried him inside. He sat him in a straight-back kitchen chair and stood behind him.
Nick looked around the room. "Where the fuck am I?"
"You gonna tie him up?" I asked.
No-Name grabbed Nick by his hair and lifted his head until the tendons in his neck looked like they might snap.
"Ough! What the fuck, Man. Let me down!"
"Ask," No-Name said to me.
"Tell me about it," I said to Nick.
Fear registered on Nick's face. "What the shit, man!" he squeaked.
No-Name snapped Nick's head back and leaned directly into his face.
"The lady asked you a fucking question."
"Tell you about what....?" he asked as his eyes bulged and the wrinkles in his forehead disappeared.
"The night at the club. The night you got your face rearranged. What happened that night to Biggie? I need to know."
"Jesus, that was three fucking year's ago!" he screamed.
I liked hearing him scream, and a little begging would be even better. I imagined he'd spent a lot of time on his hands and knees, begging like a dog.
"Tell me!" I said, bringing myself back around to the task at hand.
No-Name swivel him around in the chair by his head. "Tell her."
"Okay....okay. Jesus. I went outside with a couple of guys I owed some money to. I was negotiating a settlement when Angel, ugh....Biggie comes out looking for me. One of the dudes grabbed her. I told them... she's my girl."
He stopped talking and looked up at No-Name, "Hey, I'm talking....okay....lemme go."
I nodded yes, and No-Name turned loose of his head.
"Thank you," Nick said with an unwarranted element of bravado directed at the man standing behind him.
"Continue," I said.
"They said pay up, or they'd take her for collateral or some stupid shit. She started screaming bloody hell. One of them held her down with his hand over her mouth while the other one worked me over with a tire iron. That's it, man. Hey, I'm the one that nearly died! I don't know what happened after that."
I believed him.
"What are their names?"
"Who?"
"The dudes you stiffed. The one's beat you."
"You saw them. The dudes outside the Hotel!"
I've heard a lot of shit in my life. Hell, I've said a lot of shit in my life. But, this, this takes the cake. "You still do business with the two animals that did that to your face!"
"Nothing personal. I burned em,' and they got carried away. We kissed and made up."
I backed up and sat down on the couch. They kissed and made up. Like nothing happened. A misunderstanding among comrades.
"We done?" No-Name asked.
"Yes," I whispered.
In one swift move, he snapped Nick's neck. Pop! And, it was over. He let his body slide to the floor.
"I think I'll drive the Mercedes back," I said. "You good to lock up? Key's under the mat."
"Yep," he said, folding Nick up like a cardboard box. "I got this."
"You gotta name?" I asked.
"Nope," he said.
I grabbed the keys to the Mercedes and opened the front door. I took one last look at Ike The Spike. I should have let Q kill him. He'll be mad ...if I ever tell him.
Mr. No-Name stopped folding and spoke. "Any fish in that river? "
"Fishing gear is in the shed. Help yourself, "I said. "Can I ask one more favor?"
"Name it."
I did. Then, I walked out, got into my car, and turned the key in the ignition. She sputtered and started. Then she began to purr. Not like a kitten, more like a pissed-off lioness. Or like a three-pack a day smoking lioness. We had a lot in common, this old car and me.
I turned her loose on I 90. She hugged the road. I embraced the steering wheel.
Norwegian, definitely Norwegian.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, friend, and lover. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
I pulled into Marina Towers as The House of Blues closed for the night. A swarm of people formed a labyrinth between me and the parking garage.
Bouncers stood with their arms folded and legs splayed, trying to maintain a menacing look while glancing at their watch for quitting time.
Patrons mobbed the cab stand. A scuffle ensued. Bouncers held their ground at a safe distance.
Young flesh peppered the tarmac. Dude's fashionably dressed in tapered pants with shirttails out scoped the territory for leftover quarry. Over-served and under-dressed girls held onto the arm of a Mr. Wrong or Mr. Right, definitely Mr. Tonight.
I tried to remember what it was like to be young and horny. All I could manage was the horny part.
Charlie, my favorite car hiker, pointed to a spot next to my building. I pulled up and threw him the keys. "New wheels, Lady Zee?"
"Nothing about me is new. I'm vintage, Charlie."
"You're classic, Lady Zee."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," I said. "I left you something special on the front seat."
He hopped in and rolled the window down. "Wow! A Blackhawks hoodie. Sweet!"
"You have no idea," I said.
I used my key fob to trigger the electric doors, stepped on the elevator, and hit 60. The elevator rattled and banged, then stopped with a jolt. I stepped out into the hall--another triumphant ascension into the heavens without falling sixty floors to a mangled death in a steel cage.
My apartment key slipped soundlessly into the door. I held my breath. With a bit of luck, everyone would be fast asleep.
I kicked off my shoes in the foyer and tippy-toed into the kitchen. The only light was the glow of Biggie's computer screen. I thought better of gathering ingredients and rattling ice cubes for a much needed martini and settled for one of Stella's longneck beers.
I don't like beer--a holdover from when I lived in East Peoria, home of the Pabst Blue Ribbon Brewery, but tonight I would make an exception.
The refrigerator light was bright enough to find my cigarettes and lighter. Three left in my pack. I felt a little like Gladys but with a full set of teeth.
I found a spare ashtray hidden under the couch and switched on a table lamp. A Linley London rocker had long ago replaced Q's Eames chair. I sat in it.
I lit a cigarette and took a swig of beer. It was wet and cold. Two out of three ain't bad. And, that's when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet.
A sweaty hand touched my arm. "Drama," he said. Yes, you heard correctly. Tolliver calls me Drama. What started as a practical joke is now a reality.
"Everyone has to have a name," Stella said. The baby can't just call us "Hey, you!"
"How about Zee Zee," I said.
"How about Gramma?" She said.
"How about you be Gramma, and I'll be Zee Zee."
"How about you be " Drama" as in Queen," she said. It stuck.
Tolliver stood next to me in his P.J's hugging Trevor; Biggies stuffed bear.
"T-fore," he said.
"Trevor," I corrected. "And when Mommy gets back, you're gonna have to keep your mitts off her bear."
I took another sip and another puff.
"Drama," he said again, lifting his chubby little arms for me to pick him up.
"Shhhh," I said. "You'll wake up the whole damn house."
"Damn house," he repeated.
Oh, great. I can't get him to say Trevor, but "Damn House" is now part of his vocabulary.
I picked him up and sat him on my lap. Trevor sat on his lap.
We rocked.
"Puff," Tolliver said.
"You're too young to smoke, and besides, I've only got two left. Here, have a swig of beer."
He took a healthy gulp and made a face.
"At least we agree on one thing," I said.
He laid back in my arms. We rocked some more. I wiped his little boy slobber off the mouth of the beer bottle onto Trevor's fur.
"Puff," he said.
"All right....keep your pants on," I said.
"Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea. And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honah Lee."
He looked up at me with his big almond-shaped eyes. "Honey bee," he sang out.
"Yes, my little prince. In the land called honey bee."
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, friend, and lover. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
The long night ended, and a new day dawned around noon.
Q asked me the appropriate questions. Where did I go? What did I do? I did the right thing___I lied. He laughed. Then, he made breakfast.
Within a few months, I bought a one-bedroom condo in the building next to the Surf Hotel and furnished it modestly. A courier presented Gladys with the keys, compliments of Publishers Clearinghouse. As instructed, the courier sent a picture of Gladys in front of her new condo. Colorful balloons decorated her wheelchair, and she held a sign that read, "Big Winner."
Her new false teeth showcased her ten thousand dollar smile. Apparently, false teeth are also on the list of prizes from Publishers Clearinghouse. Who knew?
As for Biggie, after extensive research, Sid discovered a new drug for catatonic patients. Biggie responded to the treatment and came home.
She has no recollection of Nick or the incident or being pregnant. Sid recommended let sleeping dogs lie. I agreed. In the official story, Tolliver is Q's adopted son.
We spent the 4th of July at the cottage in Wisconsin. Biggie and Tolliver sat on the pier with their cane polls, bobber, and bait-less hooks.
Q stood nearby in case of mishaps.
Biggie snagged something on the bottom of the river. She dangled it over the pier and announced she'd caught a fish. Q removed it from the hook. He hurried back to the cabin.
"You need to be more careful when disposing of a body," he said and held out Nick's monogrammed leather kit, still holding a spoon, rubber tubing, and syringe.
"Guess my assistant missed that chapter in your handbook. You can't get good help these days."
He pouted until I shared a little secret I'd been keeping. Then, we kissed and made up.
Two weeks later, two small-time criminals were fished out of the Chicago river naked and bound together with duct tape in the 69 position. Cause of death: Asphyxiation.
Stella is now dating Charlie, the car hiker. It all started when he detailed her Harley Davidson in exchange for a ride around town. The tipping point for her attraction to Charlie was the indentation of his erection on her hindquarters. She contends he was overcome with lust for her flat ass. I say he gets a hardon from the vibration of riding on the back of a motorcycle. The jury is still out.
Q is busy setting up a college fund for Tolliver to attend his Alma mater, Princeton. Tolliver, when asked where he will go to college, answers Pee Town. Q sees no humor in this. Stella and I disagree.
Q bought a new limo for family outings, but I continued to drive my two-seater, Mercedes.
One evening in October, I decided to take a drive on Lakeshore Drive. There was a pronounced chill in the air. I grabbed my mink coat and asked Charlie to put the top down on the car.
With disregard for the speed limit, I cruised the drive at 70 miles an hour. I think of myself as a conservative rebel.
At Diversey Harbor, the waves crashed the breakwaters and spewed a mist onto my windshield. I got off at Fullerton, took Clark to Broadway, and turned right onto Surf.
And ... there she sat, in her wheelchair at the entrance of the Surf Hotel, chucking insults at passersby. Her store-bought teeth in a jar by her kitchen sink or wrapped up in Kleenex at the bottom of her pleather purse. Old habits and all that shit.
The really good news, Sid agreed to open up shop one day a week. Biggie and I go together. She and Sid sit together on his couch and play a game on his x-box.
I smoke a half pack of cigarettes and long for his caress.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Author of cheap paperback novels. Rich, eccentric old cougar living in a condo in downtown Chicago.
Biggie: Filipino. Zees unofficially adopted daughter. Computer guru. Eighteen but diagnosed with arrested emotional development and speech dysphasia after suffering a brutal beating as a child. Stella: Thirty-something housekeeper. She lives with Zee. She Drives a motorcycle. She moved from her grandparent's farm in Oklahoma to Chicago in search of her birth mother. Q: Big, mean, and beautiful. He lives in a condo next to Zee. Occupation, bodyguard, chauffeur, cook, and anything else zee needs. Upper crust educated. African American. Ike-The-Spike: Heroin Addict. Son of famous restaurant owner in Chicago. Real name is Nick. Sid Rosenthal: Zees ex-Psychiatrist, friend, and lover. |
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