“He killed your kid brother. I’m giving him to you as a getacquainted bonus.”
Bad Bob boohooed and begged for his life. Pimentel pulled a pistol and popped him in the pineal gland. He sheared off six more shots and shaved his crew cut down to a crease.
Sammy said, “Dig it!”
Pimentel reholstered his heater. “You look like the American entertainer, Sammy Davis, Jr.”
I said, “That’s ‘El Negrito.’ He’s a torpedo for a nigger mob in South L.A.”
Sammy said, “What’s shakin’,Jefe?”
Pimentel patted his paunch. “Quite a remarkable resemblance. Come, I will give you a tour before we eat.”
We whipped through the White House. The façade was fetching and faithful to our founding fathers’ design. The inside was lusciously Latinate and refreshingly revisionistic.
The rooms resembled rat-traps on Route 66. Jefe housed his hermanos herd-style. They bunked in six-bed bunkers hung with burro act artwork. Dingo dogs and Dobermans dashed down the halls and defecated dolorously.
They lived in the Lincoln Bedroom. The Lincoln portraits were painted by Pedro Pimentel. El Jefe altered Abe and changed him to a cholo in a ’52 Chevy.
The dog den opened into the Oval Office. The lewd little Lucifer leered on a lusciously loomed lavender rug. A heavy-hung hound was humping a chewed-up Chihuahua. A Pekingese was pissing on Pedro Pimentel’s papers.
The Rose Room stood in as a stall for the stars at the classy Club Diablo. Dig the hip heaps of hay! Dig the trough tricked up with the devil dick design! Dig the donkeys dozing in postcoital peace!
The Roosevelt Room was a gun range. The John Adams Room adjoined it at a rigid right angle. It was Pedro Pimentel’s private party pad.
A faux fur–flocked floor. Sheet-shrouded walls to smother with smut films projected prick-primingly. Presidential artwork by El Jefe:
Abigail Adams on dowager dyke Eleanor Roosevelt. Pat Nixon knob-noshing FDR–wigged out in his wheelchair.
Oooooh, Daddy-o! Save me from this pixilated Picasso!
We bopped out to the buffet behind the barb-wire fence. We feasted in full view of the slave kids. El Negrito and I flanked El Jefe. Bloated blackshirts blipped down and joined us.
Mink Mountain moldered in the sun. Flies flitted on the fur and flew off. A blowsy blackshirt brought me 500 Gs in a mink moneybag. I pitched Pimentel my plan to pop down to Paraguay and seek Paradise. He said he’d set me up with Strongman Stroessner.
We ate with unique utensils. We stabbed our meat with stilettos and tore our tortillas with Texas toad-stickers. We shivved shiny apples and swacked at our sweetbreads with switchblades. We slung slivers of food over the fence at the slaves. They slathered and scrapped over scraps. Blackshirts blasted them with their bullwhips and bullied them back to work.
El Jefe held forth–on himself. He ran down his rackets like a rabid raconteur. He shared shit on his shakedown scam and said he stored his blackmail bait in the basement of the Club Diablo. He raved about Dot Rothstein and lavished praise on Linda Lansing. He said he’d loooove to chuck his chorizo on Linda the next time he laid up in L.A. He’d looooove to jabJoi Lansing, too.
My brainwaves broiled, bristled, and brought forth that contradictory connection.
Joi Lansing–lashed to lo mein in Linda Lansing’s L.A. lair. My take: Tojo sent two taco heads up to lash Linda and pry a priceless SOMETHING off the premises. The spics spoke no English. They butchered the wrong bimbo.
But–
Tojo talked like he loooooved Linda. Like he’d love to loooove her AGAIN. Like he didn’t think she got shanked to Shiv City. He said he’d love to jab Joi Lansing–like he didn’t know she got mashed to mulch by mistake.
Which proved the priceless SOMETHING had to be SOMEWHERE.
?????
We stabbed steaks with our stilettos. We shucked oysters with our shivs. We toasted Tojo. We drank to a dreary drumroll of dictators and despots. Tojo twirled a little Lucifer key ring–and clipped a clear chord in my head.
We toasted Bad Boy Batista. We toasted Patriarch Perón. A blackshirt blasted to his feet and blanched brown to bright white.
He said, “Hay-soos Christo.” Elegant echoes eddied behind the barbed wire. Wasted waifs whispered: