Dispatches From Noir

“Sandy,” Morg told me, “I hate marijuana.  I don’t particularly care if people smoke, but I don’t have to care about it to hate it. The goddamned dope fiends can do as they please—as long as they don’t please around me.  Smoke somewhere off in private and we can both enjoy ourselves.”  His face got red and he shook his head in disgust. 

“The worst are the ones always banging the drum to legalize pot.  Goddamn insufferable.  I don’t give a shit what they smoke.  I’m not sending the law after anyone.  But I just don’t care for those bastards who think we oughta change the law because they wanna get high.  They can already do that!  But asking the world to change because of their smelly habit, well, that’s too much.  I enjoy a cigar every now and again, Sandy.  I never demand to take it into the restaurant.”

He just sat there until the thought of cigars seemingly moved him to reach into his drawer and pull out a cheap one.  He puffed thoughtfully.  “It’s called respect, Sandy.  Kids these days.  I respect their right to be a dick.  They should respect my right not to hafta see—and smell—them doing it.”

They said he had a face only a mother could love.  It was too much of compliment.  He was homely, alright.  The ponytail reaching down to the middle of his back didn’t help.  The gigantic muttonchops were even worse.  The overall effect looked like someone put huge sideburns on a horse’s ass.

He was disingenuous.  That’s nothing new for a politician.  I’d seen the windbags roll through and spout off all their promises.  Perils of living in a swing state, I guess.  Most people are dismissive of politicos.  They have good reason. But sometimes they dismiss good ones, too.

This guy wasn’t in any danger of being overly dismissed.  Maybe at the ballot box, but not at his rally.  He didn’t have supporters, he had followers.  Fucking acolytes.  They had all been confused by the big, complicated world until he came along.  He explained everything and now they sang his praises.  Only they were as ignorant as before.  Only difference is that they didn’t know it anymore.

He swung through Miami beach trailing rednecks from Davie.  I didn’t think Confederate flags would win too much support half a mile from the Holocaust Memorial.  But none of that mattered.  If you weren’t already crazy about this guy, all the crazies who supported him would only confirm your initial opinion.  If you were already on his side, you were already a crazy.  And the more, the merrier.

He tried to tell the Jewish retirees how he was going to help Israel by withdrawing US support.  Some of them seemed reassured by his rationale.  I was just there to watch.  But I knew.  Knew that he bounced between saying he’d support Israel, saying he wouldn’t take sides with Israel and her enemies, and taking the side of everyone but Israel.  He maintained three simultaneously incompatible positions.  He could pick any one he wanted, but he shifted between the three continually.

For this, his followers lauded his consistency.  Sure, he was kinda beyond the pale sometimes.  But the establishment (whoever they were) was out to get him, and they were even worse.  If they hated him, he must be alright.  Consistency made up for all the conspiracy theories and reactionary policy stances. 

I wanted to grab them around the neck and shake them.  That guy wasn’t consistent; just consistently stupid.  That son of a bitch was as shifty as they come, and he played his devotees like a fiddle.  He would be an insult to their intelligence—if they had any to insult.

[This is a continuation of “Paradise, Part 1.”]

This might be a set-up.  I’d been seduced by a moll before. Any dame can stab you in the back, but some are just a little bit too eager to get on with it.  Call me crazy, but I’m not to so keen on the idea.  Duke Rundle would have to plunge the blade in himself if he wanted me dead. 

I wouldn’t put it past the bastard, but I didn’t think Jade was part of a honey trap.  Maybe she’s a damn fine actress.  But most gangster molls ain’t that good.  If Duke wanted me offed, she should’ve been looking over my shoulder for his goon.  But her eyes were on me.  The half-smile on her lips had anticipation written all over it—but it wasn’t expectation of a slaughter.

The filmy teddy barely hid her from my view.  Jade wanted to be seen for as long as I wanted to look.  She didn’t want to be a decoy.  I was sure of that.  But that didn’t mean I was willing to play her game.

Maybe she knew were Duke was.  Maybe not.  There was one way to find out.  Her eyes dared me.  If she knew where he was, she would spill the beans.  If not, I’d leave no worse than I came.  Every inch of her exposed body said that she didn’t belong to anyone but herself—and certainly not to the jealous Duke Rundle.  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t invite me in.

She knew I couldn’t.  I couldn’t touch her.  I couldn’t look away.  So she got a stern stare.  She didn’t seem like the type to blackmail me with a conflict of interest.  But you never can tell.  Still, I thought her thrill would come from tempting me into an unethical act, not any leverage that resulted. 

She was daring, I’ll give her that.  If she pulled this shit with thugs like Duke, she might get more than she bargained for.  And that was what I wanted to give her.  She was a voluptuous wisp, but still a wisp.  Of a girl, a woman, a tart.  Whatever she was, she was asking for trouble and she was in no position to dictate just how much trouble she would engage in.

Her taunting looks continued.  She wanted me to snap.  She wanted to see how far I could push her.  Would there be handprints?  Would she gag when choked?  Would she scream when her hair was pulled by the roots?  She wanted to know.  Every fluttering of her eyelashes, every tilt of her pelvis, every breath with those tits pushed out proudly—they were all calling to me and begging me not to let her get away with it.

Begging, yes.  Begging from the throne.  That bitch had me over a barrel and she knew it.  I had to play her game to find out what she knew.  She’d tell me, fair and square.  But I wasn’t going to jump through her hoops.  I might have come in guns blazing, but I was gonna leave holstered.

This paradise she invited me to, was hers.  I was gonna fan her and feed her grapes.  By bending her over the table and holding her down.  But however she got her kicks wasn’t my concern.  She could get them elsewhere.  This line of work doesn’t give me much time to find paradise.  And it gives me less time to send Duke Rundle’s girl there.