The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (11 page)

Nobody
was that interested to learn how I’d produced eggshell-cocoa meringue.

***

There’s
something to be said for the axiom, “If you mess it up, clean it up.” When I
called for a deputy to my cell, I asked him to relay that I’d be more than
happy to go in and remove my inner goodness from the judge’s courtroom myself.
He laughed heartily and said it’d been taken care of.

I
felt bad for the trustee who was tasked with the sanitation, but from what the
deputy said, he chuckled to himself as he shoveled everything away and
disinfected the box.

My
guilt subsided.  

Curiously,
I was still released ROR, much to the bewilderment of myself and everyone else.
When asked, the deputy escorting me to processing said the judge let me go due
to my flu, stating it’d be inhumane to lock me down for such a small amount of
marijuana with, “gastrointestinal calamities so forcefully afoot.”

That
deputy
did
secure my arm, standing behind me, diagonally to the right.
My smirk cleared three frontal feet so as not to get popped at the end of the
tunnel. He saw a poker face when I turned and asked him to give the judge my
thanks and warmest regards.

An
Ivy League education bought the guy a title, but goddamn, it didn’t buy him
sense.

***

Low-cut
Chucks slapped the sidewalk in front of parish, my Dickies and Big Johnson
t-shirt smelling of mothballs from the brown envelope that’d housed my clothes
all weekend. The Kool at my lips tasted like freedom. And fiberglass. I inhaled
deeply, feeling
five
ten
twenty pounds lighter.

I
walked the half-mile to the impound lot to obtain my Studebaker, immediately
checking the glovebox for my portable haram. Someone had lifted it from me
while I was in lockup. It was of no concern. I was pissed to be sure, but it
was a small price to pay for taking a coke-riddled dump on a witness stand in
front of an unwitting judge and some stupid cops.

And
a full courtroom.

And
a handful of prisoners.

It
was later revealed that my two arresting officers were as corrupt as a Southern
governor. They’d been under watch by IAB for quite some time. In the end, they
did themselves in: a few weeks before my arraignment, they were busted
smuggling illegal drugs into the jail.

Cocaine.

In
their asses.

Their
integrity was compromised and I was found innocent of all my charges. The
headlines said they’d received ten years apiece for their crookedness.

Irony
is where you find it, I suppose.

Alfonse
wasn’t upset about his lost product. He accepted everything as the cost of
doing business and was pleased I didn’t snitch, happy that I, “dealt with it
like a man.” His gratitude was politeness in its purest form, however. If I had
snitched he would’ve heard about it.

And
given me a bullet within minutes of hitting the street.

***

I
learned many important lessons from my muling days, one of which was to limit
my load to
two
cookies, goddammit.

Another
was to avoid that life altogether. It’s a trap, man. The only thing waiting for
you is the prison yard or the bone yard. I’ve seen too many people walk into
the void and many of them didn’t come back—for various reasons. I’m proud to say
I’ve left my scandalous ways in the dust, thanking God for every new day I
shirk the need for any debilitating drug.

Redemption
is the greatest high in the world.

Now
if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep. The salon closes at four
and Klaus will only bleach men’s assholes on Tuesdays.

A nasty gash with a dick in her mouth rides me on a broken couch
while a humongous nutsack flaps wildly near my face.
Somewhere in
our canoodling, the nutsack’s owner announces that he’s about to achieve
release somewhere in the vicinity of my bloodshot baby-blues.

The
three lines of speed I just bumped are perforating my brain like a sewing
needle. Images from the robbery they came from flash in my mind like movie
clips. Primal grunts yank me back to the two-faced chick we’re double-teaming
and the impending splooge that may shoot across my peepers:

I can’t wait to get this over with.

Her nipples are freakishly huge.

Christ, am I still even hard?

Dude, please aim it at the Pink Panther doll.

I’ve gotta get better friends, man.

***

My
buddy Jay used to run a tattoo parlor called The Dirty Needle. It was located
in a brick, two-story tenement in a part of town that always had fresh chalk
outlines on the sidewalk. Jay owned the building and ran his shop out of the
second floor. The first floor was rented to a mortician and his funeral home. I
never asked questions, but from what I saw they seemed to have a good business
relationship. It had deep roots, going all the way back to when they were both
struggling up-starts trying to make it.

You
see, when Jay was first learning his craft and the funeral home was still
begging for bodies, Jay would let his tenant fudge on a payment in exchange for
some late-night practice.

The
mortician got a free month’s rent.

The
bereaved never knew Grandma went in the ground with “CARROT TOP RULES!” carved
in her asscheek.

It
was a win-win.

To
say that Jay’s place had a diverse clientele would be an understatement. If the
casts of
Oz
and
L. A. Law
had a bunch of bastards running around,
that would about cover it. It catered to everybody—from wannabes in suits to
the lowest sacks of dirt to ever duck a Morning-After pill.

Drug
dealers, strippers, doctors, nurses, drug dealers, lawyers, hangers-on,
paralegals, drug dealers, addicts, real estate shills, and drug dealers all
crossed his threshold on a daily basis.

There
were bars on the windows to protect his investment, electric doors in case a
snappy shutdown was needed, and weaponry strategically stashed for quick
retrieval. It was a successful business that brought in sacks of cash and Jay
kept his patronage in line with a .44 Bulldog that resided on his person at all
times.

Which
is why it blew my mind when he asked me to help him rob the meth-dealing
husband of this meth-addicted whore who
frequented his cock
frequented
the shop.

***

Jay’s
office was a relaxing mahogany room in the rear of the building with Bob Marley
on the wall and The Geto Boys blasting from the stereo. An oakwood desk
obtained from an “after hours sale” at a furniture store sat at the far corner.
A black filing cabinet was on the right as you walked in. It was his private
oasis from the hustle of business where only a few people were ever allowed as
guests. He and the artists under his employ would congregate back there before
going home, smoking blunts and sniffing lines, unwinding after a day of
tattooing rainbows and Winnie the Poohs on homosexuals who were trying to
convince themselves they’d made the correct life-choices.

We
were in his office when he asked me to get his back on the robbery. The shop
was closed that day but we had made arrangements to meet. Jay had a date
shortly thereafter, and may I say that he was
dashing
in ghetto-fab
white boy garb. From his purple porkpie hat down to his steel toes, the man was
dressed to impress: light-blue cholo button-up, baggy Karl Kani blue jeans, an
enormous belt buckle in the shape of Texas, and a spit-shine polish so high on
his boots that a man could see the reflection of his teeth before they were
scattered all over the parking lot.

He
was reclining in the leather chair at his desk smoking a joint as I gave him my
gut reaction about his request. I paced back and forth over the hardwood,
coolly explaining to him the wrath that theft of a chemically-based
entrepreneur with an illegal arsenal could bring upon us:

“You’ve
gone batshit fucking insane! Did you drink all the tea? I knew that cow shit
was too old!”

“Coxman,
chill, man. Listen.”

“Deez nutz
don’t listen!
Dude, have you thought
about who we’re getting in bed with here? We’re talking about Alotta Shitz, the
most double-dealing bitch to ever snub penicillin. You know if something goes wrong
she’ll give us to the cops. And if we’re caught red-handed, Harry’s not gonna
kill us. He’s gonna keep us a while—
then
he’ll kill us! What’s the deal?
You owe her a favor or something? Why ya wanna help some strung-out geek who
doesn’t even swallow?”

“That’s
not true. She swallows sometimes.”

“Point
taken. But why did she ask you to do it? Between her and her snaggletooth
little brother, they should have a stable of tweakers
itching
to rob
that asshole.”

“They
do. Which is why she asked me.” Jay leaned forward and put his elbows on the
desk. “Check it out, dude. She wants to leave him but she needs some money
first. Said if she gets a hold of Harry’s stash she can flip it and have enough
dough to leave the state. She told me that when he starts a new cook, he leaves
it to simmer for a few hours in their shed while he takes a nap. He keeps three
duffle bags of speed in there, too. Me and you can snatch that shit up while
he’s sleepin’ and call it Miller time.”

“That’s
a fuckin’ peach. But I’m still waiting to hear why she asked
you.
”

“Because
he’s gonna lose his shit when he finds out and she doesn’t want it coming back
to her or anyone they both know.”

“What’s
in it for us?”

“A
bunch o’ free speed, my man.”

He
offered me the joint. I took a deep hit, mulling over the pros and cons,
floored that I was even considering this suicide mission. Although I tried to
come up with an acceptable out, there were two points I couldn’t ignore: I
sniffed a lot of meth and blew a lot of cash.

I
told him I was in. Once I got my cut, I could sell some, sniff some, and come
out as delusional as Charlie Sheen.

I
leaned against the wall, unable to believe the words falling from my mouth.
“Dude, alright. I’ll do it ‘
cause
you’re my boy and
there’s potential for some money. Truthfully, though, I think we’ll be lucky if
this doesn’t bite us in the balls.”

“Cool.
Thanks, Innis. It’ll be worth it. Oh, and Alotta has a little hideaway on the
other side of town. That’s where we’re gonna meet to split the load. She might
be down to fuck, too.”

“She
still got the drips?”

“Nah.
Free clinic took care of that. Don’t matter, though—
if the vadge is sick I
got wraps
fo
’ the dick!”

“Fuckin’
gross, Jay.”

***

Miss
America 1985 had just been given a hole in her cheek to match her nostrils. At
least, that’s where the hole would’ve been had Sharlene Wells’ actual head been
in the line of fire. Just as that hook-nosed sea creature was accepting her
award on national television, the bullet from Harry’s 9mm tore through her face
on the screen.

Alotta’s
father had just bought that TV the day before.  

***

Alotta
Flushing and Harry Shitz met at a miniature golf course when he bumped into her
on a fairway. She was trying to hammer a shot into the clown’s mouth as he was running
from the concession stand with the take from the register. Their eyes locked
and it was love at first sight, two hearts merging as one. They soon discovered
it would be a long road before they could be happy in their aortic
misguidedness. (Speaking as a man who’s been attacked by a few fathers, take my
word: you always love the hardest when it’s forbidden.)

She
was a sixteen-year old Bible thumper with straight
As
and a pony tail.

He
was a twenty-four-year old dope fiend with a flattop and a prison record.

She
came from an extensive line of Jehovah's Witnesses.

His
pedigree included addicts and petty criminals.

The
loving rays of the Flushings shone dim when Harry was taken to bask in their
Christian glow.

Alotta’s
father, a used car salesman, had put his foot in Harry’s ass when he put his
cigarette out in the lasagna. He threw Harry out of the house and promised to
feed his nuts to the family Pit Bull if he ever came back. Mr. Flushing
should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Harry
called Alotta’s house all hours of the night, begging her parents to let him
see her. He filled his empty heart with Wild Turkey and biker speed, pining for
the most beautiful underage girl he’d ever had. No matter what he did, he could
smell her orange blossom perfume; taste her cherry lip gloss; feel her steel
braces snag on the head of his veiny penis.

“There’s
no way a man who sells fuckin’ Gremlins is gonna come between me and Alotta!”
he screamed in between plunges of the needle.

Likewise,
Alotta longed to be with her felonious bad boy. She lived in the body of a
teenager—her Esprit sneakers flying her home from school to watch another
never-missed episode of
Charles in Charge
—but beneath her pediatric
shell beat the heart of a woman who was dying inside. She loved Harry deeply
and was lost without him. She felt like Rapunzel, trapped in a suburban tower
of brick and vinyl siding. Not even her Menudo posters brought excitement
anymore.

Alotta
loved everything about Harry—the way he kissed her, his skill in sizzling a
spoonful of dope, his back tattoo of a Klan lynching (when Harry flexed his
muscles the victim turned into a yoyo). Being apart cut deeper than a
switchblade.

Oh, Pat,
if love is truly a battlefield,
then my Harry will
figure out a way to break down the walls of this impenetrable fortress.

Yeah,
she’d said that as a metaphor, never thinking he would really kick in the front
door and pop a cap in the TV.

***

After
massacring the family’s brand new Zenith console, Harry announced that he was taking
Alotta to a state where sixteen-year olds could get married (there’s
unsettlingly quite a few). He’d planned ahead, forging Mr. Flushing’s signature
with exaction from the driver’s license he’d stolen the first night he was
there. Harry then hit Mr. Flushing across the face several times with his
pistol while Alotta’s mother slunk into the couch having a silent freakout.
Alotta had overheard everything from the landing upstairs.

Bowled
over by Harry’s commitment, and the totally tubular way he pistol-whipped her
father, she vaulted over the handrail, crashing into the sweaty embrace of her
beloved kidnapper. Leaving with just the clothes on her back and the Swatch
Watch on her wrist, she yelled, “Cowabunga!” to her parents and ran out of the
house with one of the nuttiest ex-cons to ever pack a gun.

Fifteen
years later,
me
and Jay were packing guns to go rob
the same nut.

***

Alotta
said Harry always started a new cook around lunchtime. She called us at 2 PM
the day he began making a fresh batch and we went over there to scope it out.

If
Alotta was any indication, their house was going to be trashy. My suspicions
were heightened when we entered the neighborhood. I use that term loosely, mind
you; it was more like houses squatting on a maze of broken streets. It was
called Pine Brook in its inception, but everyone, including the residents, now
knew it as Pine Crook.

Originally
meant to be a middle-class suburb back in the 70s, construction was abandoned when
the bank financing the project went under. The homes that’d already been built
were sold at rock bottom prices to recoup some of the expenditure, attracting a
certain “element” in the process. It was now the sort of community where drunks
lay passed out on porches, where bums pushed stolen shopping carts, where every
corner reeked of larceny and old garbage. A place where you could brew megatons
of crystal or beat your wife without drawing unwanted attention from the cops.
Not that anyone would’ve called them.

Someone
was beating somebody in every residence.

***

Everything
was quiet around the old clapboard house. There were black garbage bags
covering broken windowpanes, aluminum foil clinging to the rest. Three gutted
trucks older than the wheel itself rusted in the front yard. Filled with bullet
holes and groupings of buckshot. A late 80s model Corolla sat in the driveway
with no bumpers and a lot of primer. Cap it off with a lawn that was mostly
dirt and you had a setting straight out of a Depression-era novel. A leaning
hurricane fence sealed it all in. We’d gain access through the broken front
gate.