Beautiful, Naked and Dead mm-1

  Beautiful, Naked and Dead

  ( Moses McGuire - 1 )

  Josh Stallings

  Josh Stallings

  Beautiful, Naked and Dead

  CHAPTER 1

  There is nothing quite like the cold taste of gun oil on a stainless steel barrel to bring your life into focus.

  I was six years old the first time I honestly considered suicide, not as some cry for help, touchy huggy bullshit. No, for me death was a gift, an escape. Like those vests divers wear that fill with air from a CO2 cartridge and pull them to the surface. At night while the Monster roared through the thin walls of our bungalow, I would pull that thought up and let it comfort me like a warm blanket.

  As an adult I have found that a barrel in your mouth forces you to pause, take a moment, ask that all important question. How did my life get this fucked? If I don’t need anyone, why am I so lonely? At least I like to think it was that deep, fact was I had a bone numbing hangover, a throbbing head and a fur covered tongue. The gun was on my dresser and if I had any aspirin they were all the way in the bathroom.

  Thumbing back the hammer of my snub nose Smith amp; Wesson.38, it clicked into place. Three pounds of pressure on the trigger would drop the hammer onto the primer, igniting the 4.5 grains of smokeless gunpowder. The resulting explosion would drive 158 grains of lead at 1085 feet per second out of the barrel, plowing up through my pallet, through my brain and out the back of my skull. Sure, it seems like a lot of complex engineering just to end one life, but it was the simplest thing I could come up with at the time. Idiot. All I had to do was hang around long enough and people would line up to do the job for me.

  Outside, the warm southern California sun was baking the sidewalk, kids laughed and shrieked as they ran through a sprinkler. Down the street a Mexican radio station was playing some brass-driven ranchero music. Happy, happy LA.

  Running my tongue along the gun barrel I could feel the ridges of the front sight.

  Was this the day I had the nerve to pull the trigger?

  Blame it on the fifteen large I owed Vinnie Bag Of Doughnuts on a string of nags that came in third place.

  How about that bloodless whore Jen. Blame her. I owed the heartless bitch five grand in back alimony. An old man in the joint once told me, “You meet a pretty girl, you just want to eat her up, you marry her and son you’ll wish you had.” To prove him right, Jen had to sic the D.A. on my deadbeat ass so what little green I made was attached. The cherry on top of this little shit cake is my dealer cut me off for passing a bad check for a jar of whites. Hell, what kind of dealer takes checks anyway?

  Was it debt that had me sucking on my.38?

  I doubt it. I was born broke and would go to my grave broke, only a moron would expect the years in between to be any different. Fact was, my life sucked the big salami. I was just bone tired of trying to pretend I cared what happened to me.

  Gripping the trigger, I started to squeeze. Three pounds of pressure and adios mi vida loca…

  At two plus pounds, the phone rang. Odds were it was just more bad news. But what the fuck, I could always kill myself later. Or have a beer, or go bowling or what ever it is people do when they are not killing themselves.

  “Speak.” I said into the receiver.

  “Mo?… Are you busy?” It was Kelly, the day waitress at Club Xtasy, a titty bar I bounce at whenever my cash runs low, which has been full time for the last two years. She was also maybe my only real friend.

  “Not with anything that can’t wait.”

  “You know you said if I needed help, well…”

  “Baby doll, what’s up?”

  “It’s complicated. You’re the only one in the whole wide world I trust, you know that, right, Mo?” Kelly was a sweet breath of fresh air in a world that stank of stale smoke and yesterday’s beer. She had the looks to be a stripper but not the strength of character, so they let her keep her clothes on and serve slop to the swine we call customers. Even over the phone I could see her winding her brown curly hair around her finger, it was a thing she did when she was searching for the right words. “They want… She um… My sister… well…I’m not who you think I am ok Mo…” Panic made her normal scatter of speech into a flow of meaningless noise.

  “Who’s the ‘they’, Kell?”

  “They, them — you know… It’s complicated. Don’t hate me Mo, please. It’s just… I… this… Things you know? Things go wrong and we can’t always fix it. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just she… “

  “Slow the train down girl, you left me at the last station.”

  “Ok, it’s, well they, people do things, stuff happens and then, you know, not what you plan but there it is and I need your help or it’s all…” her thoughts were a runaway truck, her brakes had failed and she was in free fall.

  “Where are you Kell? Are you at home?” I asked.

  “I’m at the club…Mo… It’s Monday… But they um…You can’t hide from them…Why bother right?”

  “Pour yourself a drink, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” I hung up the phone. Sitting up too quickly, the room tilted and sent my stomach lurching. Gripping the watery remains of last night’s nightcap I gulped it down to quiet my nerves. Suicide would have to wait at least until Kelly could tell me what the hell was going on. Something about her brought out the big brother in me. Maybe it was her Indiana farm girl innocence, or what passed for innocence in my jaded world. This is something the straight world would never understand, we all live with our own set of scales. This girl Piper, she’s twenty-nine and that makes her old, past retirement in stripper years. And Kelly didn’t take off her top for bucks or give men hand jobs in the back room and that made her innocent. It’s all relative. She was the only girl in my life with whom I didn’t trade sex for favors. With the other girls it was always give and take. The lap dance for the ride home on my Norton. Convincing a boyfriend to move on for a hand job. Forty-three, rode hard and put up wet too many nights, my life had been many things but never easy and it showed. I had scars from my missing great toe, to the fifteen stitches in the back of my skull. The flesh real estate in between wasn’t much better. I knew the only way a pretty girl would want me was in trade. I didn’t mind. It was just the way it was. But Kelly was different. She never offered sex and if she had I wouldn’t have accepted. When I was with her I felt almost normal, like I had a shot at becoming a good man. A man has to have one pure relationship in his life, and for me she was it. So when she reached out to me, I really didn’t have any choice at all.

  I set the shower to scald, hoping to burn the stink from my body and cobwebs from my brain. Who the fuck was I fooling, Moses the great white knight, savior of the naked working girls. I could barely keep my body vertical. I let the water run cold before I stepped out.

  Searching the pile, I found a less than disgusting pair of jeans and tee-shirt. Laundry was one more thing on my to-do list, right after “find a reason to live” and “go grocery shopping.” Slipping the revolver into my coat pocket, I headed out the door.

  It only took three stomps to get the Norton to kick over. It was a black ’76 Commando, from the gold lettering on the gas tank to the flawless chrome, it was the only thing I owned that wasn’t fucked up. The reason Jen hadn’t taken it in the divorce was I think she hoped I’d kill myself on it before the life insurance ran out. Pulling out onto Avenue 52, I turned at York by the panaderia, the sweet smell of new bread wafting over me, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a good meal in the last day and a half. One thing about riding a bike, you get to know a town by its smells. Highland Park was fresh bread, sizzling meat and chilies from the taco trucks, it smelled warm and hot and sweet all at the same time. It was one of
those transitional areas in Los Angeles. Transitional, sales speak for we got gangs but they’re pussies. We got biker bars and artists’ lofts. It’s one recession away from the ghetto and one Starbucks away from good times. Eighty percent of the residents are dark skinned and most of the signs in the shop windows are in Spanish. Whichever enlightened citizens passed the proposition making English the official language of California forgot to tell Highland Park. Hell, bigots and political whores can pass any law they want. Down here we speak how we want, using the words we have to communicate what needs to be said, even the cops speak Spanish in East LA.

  Club Xtasy was a smallish single-story, flat roofed building in the shadow of Interstate 5. It stood a block away from the cement banks of the LA River and next door to a chroming shop. Directly across the street was a ancient print shop full of giant machines that stamped out flyers for illegals to place on car windshields. This was the perfect titty-bar neighborhood, light industrial, old, run down but not a ghetto. On the border between Silver Lake and Atwater, which meant both communities could frequent it, but neither had to claim it. To class the joint up, Uncle Manny, the owner had the bright idea of putting plaster replicas of Greek sculptures along the top of the building, Venus de Milo and her scantily clad sisters, all missing limbs. Statues of damaged girls outside, advertising damaged girls inside. The less than classy huge pink plastic letters on the side of the building screamed out “GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS” and “LIVE NUDE”, which begs the question, who the hell would pay to see a dead nude? Then again this was LA, they’d probably line up around the block just so they could say they’d seen it. Two planters in front of the door held dying palm trees. Not that the guys who come down here ever noticed. The working stiffs thought it looked good and the cats from the nice side of town were too busy trying not to be seen sneaking from their Lexus’ into the club, to ever notice the facade.

  Moving through the turnstile into the dark club I was washed in the thumping bass of Eminem’s “Cleaning Out My Closet”, “…I’m sorry momma, I never meant to hurt you…” The blonde monster sang. I slipped off my shades, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim shadows, outside it was mid day, but once you passed through that thinning velvet curtain it was permanent midnight. A short bar ran along the wall next to the entrance, it had room for three bar stools and a waitress station. The back bar was limited, nothing fancy, it was mostly a beer and whiskey crowd. Martini rat-pack madness had skipped the strip scene. Our boys wanted to get drunk, see some tits and ass, pay a filly to grind on their lap and blur on home like it was all real.

  “Where’s Kelly?” I asked Turaj. He was at his station behind the bar, in his collar-less black silk shirt and slicked back hair he looked every bit the Mack Daddy pimp he thought he was. His Uncle Manny owned the joint, but when Manny was AWOL, gardening or watching his grand kids, Turaj was the big swinging dick. He wasn’t a bad kid at heart, he was just one of those pricks who acted like he thought a tough boss should act. He was always a little squirrelly with me because unlike the girls, I knew I worked for Uncle Manny and no one else. He tried to yank my chain once and almost lost an arm in the process, since then he plays nice.

  “Fucking cunt walked out in the middle of her shift,” he said in a voice that crossed boredom and disdain perfectly.

  “What did you just say?” I tensed, ready to jump over the bar.

  “Fucking cunt walked…”

  “Look around here, don’t look at me asshole, look around here.” I swept the room with my hand. “You see any cunts in here?”

  “Fuck you Moses, what the hell? You going all feminist on me?” He puffed up trying to hold my eyes, but couldn’t. “It’s just talk Moses, you know talk? Your girl, she bailed and left me without a waitress. It’s bad enough she doesn’t take her clothes off, but now she won’t even serve drinks? If we get a rush I’m screwed.”

  I’m not sure what I expected, I told her fifteen minutes over an hour ago. I could go blasting out after her, chase her down and let her tell me all about her drama. Or I could have a cold one and try and slow the drum squad in my skull.

  “Give me a draft,” I told Turaj, he seemed relieved to see I wasn’t going to give him any more stress. Taking a sweet deep swallow, I turned my back on him and scanned the room. On the center stage in the middle of the room China was wiggling her way out of a leather mini-skirt. She was a hard-bodied Asian girl with the best tits money could buy, not those gaudy old school balloons, her store-boughts were round and swooping like soft flesh ski slopes up to her perky nipples. The surgeon screwed up when he moved her nipples, so now she had no sensation, but damn they looked good. A ranked teen tennis pro at one time, her father put a racket in her hand as a child and pushed all the way. China hit the age of consent and decided to show her old man a thing or two. Eighteen months ago she had been a young woman on fire to prove something to the world. Her parents sealed her off like a room they would never enter again. Now she was just another girl working for tips, trying to get through with a minimum of pain. Stripped down to a G-string and prancing around the stage, you might even think she was enjoying herself if you didn’t make the mistake of looking too close. Odd thing about LA you can show guys a topless girl and sell him all the booze he can drink, but if that same girl slips off her G-string, you can’t sell booze. I guess there is some fear that if a drunk man sees naked poontang he will go wild and take out a city block trying to get at it.

  China had her story, every other girl had one just as twisted. The deal was, if the customer bothered to ask, they were all college gals working their way to a degree in child development or nursing or some other non-threatening all-giving career. I knew this one Lithuanian broad, got a square to front her six grand for tuition. She split for Vegas the next day. Hey man, if you believed a single word spoken on this side of the curtain, you got what you deserved. We were in the business of selling fantasies, if booze and naked bodies blurred that simple truth, screw you. The world is made up of hookers, John’s, pimps and bouncers. You pick your role and play it best you can even if the deck is stacked against you.

  Tits, yabows, massive ta-tas, the guns of Navarone, chee-chees, tetas, mountains, sweater meat, orbs, melons, boobs, knockers, mammary glands, fleshy fun bags, cleavage valley. Oh that I go through the valley of the tits I shall fear no evil for I’m a man. A couple pounds of flesh and men fall apart. Big ones little ones it don’t matter, tits, “size just doesn’t matter it’s all about the shape.” “More than a handful’s a waste”, hell I like two handfuls. Maybe we all want to get back to our mother, suckle at the breast of our childhood. If that bitch crawled out of the grave, came to me and opened her shirt, I’d close my eyes, turn and walk away. There never was any succor there, never was any peace at those tits. She taught me a valuable lesson when I was little. If things are bad now, they can always get worse. Things never change for the better. I hear some mommas say to their babies, “Don’t worry baby it’ll be alright”. That wasn’t mine. Momma you said, “If it’s going bad, it’s probably something you did. Something you did against God and Christ.” Religion was a hammer used to make me feel shitty. Tits? No tits in the bible, no sir. So who the fuck wants to read that book.

  I was jarred from my gentle childhood reminiscence by a Mutt and Jeff pair of pimped up Armenian thugs stepping out of the private lap dance room. The little one looked around the club with the cold smile of ownership. It was an arrogance I was used to in Glendale, hell they owned that town, they puffed up and you got out of their way or got run over. But these punks were two miles across the border that we all knew Armenians didn’t cross, at least not strutting their junk. My boss was from Iran and didn’t truck with the Armenian gangsters. They had their own gentleman’s club down by the old Southern Pacific tracks in Glendale, it was my job to gently point them in that direction, draw a map on their face if that’s what it took.

  The punks stopped in front of the stage and leered up at China as she slid her ass up along the pole. T
he skinny little rat-faced one beckoned with a crooked finger for China to come over to the rail. She looked off balance as she danced up to him. She leaned down to hear what he was whispering. His hand shot out and slid up her leg, two fingers stroked her G-string. Shock flitted across her face. I started to push off from the bar but Turaj caught my arm.

  “Let it be, they’re good guys,” he said, not meeting my eyes. The skinny punk stepped back from the stage sniffing his fingers and laughing to his huge partner who only returned a stone stare. Whoever had worked them in the lap room hadn’t come out yet. The girls always beat the men out of there, if the guy still had some cash they might come out on his arm, if not they ran for the dressing room to smoke or drink or do whatever it took to wash away the feeling. I moved quickly but without hurry toward the lap room. The bouncer’s strut is a trick of moving rapidly without drawing attention, from the belt up you have to look like there isn’t any place you need to be, while you move your legs fast.

  The Lap Dance salon is a small back room lined with mirrors, floor to ceiling. It had six raised booths with chairs in them where men sit and get friction dances. Piper was sitting in one of the chairs, reflected on three sides by the mirrors. Her flame-red hair flowed down her back like a burning waterfall. She had on a tube top that was being stretched beyond the suggested limits of its elasticity, her muscular shoulders gleaming in the dim light and her long powerful legs spilling out of her silk tap pants. She’d been in the game long enough not to cry, but I could see the flicker of pain and fear behind her eyes.

  “What’d they do to my lil’ girl?” I said. She looked up at me, hesitating. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t fix it.”

  “God damn son of a bitch…the little pencil dick wants a grand a week or…” She didn’t need to finish it. Whatever they said they were going to do to her was ugly and painful. Had to be to scare a pro like Piper.