#I could give her my left kidney and she would create a cool new Devil Breaker | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dvbermingham · 4 years

Text

Chapter 9: Jazu

It was about three in the morning when we got to Tonic. I knew it was on the west side, over by 10th ave, so we drove around for a while until we spotted a few greasy looking inebriates who were walking with a little extra swing in their step, not looking for any trouble, no girls around to impress, too tired from dancing wildly through the night. This was the mid-nineties, mind you, so this kind of thing was just about to get very irritating to a lot of people.

They showed us the way — an old warehouse with no line, no bouncer, no velvet rope, just a light bulb glowing green above a door. Inside, there was a small man inside a small wooden encasement, old and chestnut brown. He looked like a fortune teller at a carnival, and took our money and told us to have fun.

Inside, smoke clouds plumed and collided like volcanic eruptions, formed a haze that swam between and through the purple and green lights. It was a wild atmosphere. The music was spastic, incredible. The kind of music Takuto listened to whenever he had the chance. The drummer led the band, calling out expletives each time one of his bandmates made his ears orgasm. It was a thrill to watch. I was glad to not have to talk anymore.

We walked up to the bar, the man there wearing a leather apron and a bow-tie, knives and strainers and jiggers attached to his apron like weapons and ammo. Matsusaka introduced himself and ordered two scotches neat. The bartender twiddled his mustache to greet us and introduced himself. Whit Bissell is what I heard, and that’s what I chose to believe. He served up the scotches and put out a plate of raw cabbage with a dipping sauce. The scotch burned its way down and we ordered another. Matsuzaka did the talking, while I watched the room. Pure human writhing, sweaty and beautiful. There were people of all ethnicities, all ages, even young boys and girls, dressed up in oversized suits and wing-tip shoes, drinking from rocks glasses and throwing them down, skidding off and slicking the dance floor to give the whole human carousel a slippery twist. No one seemed to care about anything. I finished my scotch and asked for another. For the first time that night I was feeling good.

Then I suddenly felt even better. Across the room I met the eyes of a beautiful creature, a mature woman with hips bursting from her tan high-waisted pants, a ruffled green shirt that looked softer than five-star hotel sheets. Her hair was as red as hot brick, cascading over itself like lava, the kind of hair her parents were baffled at having created, the kind of hair never seen before in the family, like the genes were biding their time, waiting to bestow it when the right person came along. Our gaze was quickly broken. She was dancing with everyone and no one all at once and for forever, her body airborne, her feet never once touching the ground. I wanted to breathe her in, smell every inch of her, let her aroma bewilder my brain. Then there was a tap on my shoulder. “Lou! What the fuck are you looking at?” Matzu handed me my third scotch. “Pay attention, alright? This place is dangerous.”

Dangerous it was indeed. Dangerous for the heart, dangerous for the soul, dangerous for what a woman like that could do to the only body I had. But Matzu was right. I forced my head in different directions, scanning the room for threats. There were quite a few people I would classify as goons or thugs or just generic intimidating security types. Nothing that seemed out of the ordinary, a fair number of Japanese men and women though, the security definitely sushi. What did a place like this have to worry about? What did it hold? Who did it attract?

The hot jazz explosion on stage came to denouement with the drummer executing a long solo that in my sloshy mind turned him into a cartoon octopus. The crowd roared, the band screamed, the cymbals clattered and the kick drums shook and the musicians started backing up as though their leader was about to self-immolate. Two people in the middle of the dance floor fainted, several more threw their drinks in the air, liquid courage showering the room. It felt like New Years Eve.

The drummer fell off his chair in a show of exhaustion, then bounced back up as soon as the clapping turned to a chant, all smiles. He straightened everything, held up his hand to quiet the audience, a call of a new mood. The frenzy came to a hush — soon all you could hear was heavy breathing, giggles, suggestive whispers. The trumpeter started up something slow and blue. The dance floor paired off, the bass showing them the way, slowly. Then the shhhhh of a brush on the ride, more slowly now, dragging the band a half-step back. I scanned the dance floor with hopes to see her again — she was pulling her hair back in an effort to cool off, revealing a thick neck I wanted to explore with the tip of my nose.

She watched as I walked toward her, the sea of dancers separating, my tribe cheering me on. My momentum carried me too far, and I found myself unable to stop my body from crashing into hers. Luckily, a woman of such magnitude had no problem side-stepping my oafish clumsiness, catching me by the arm, spinning me around, and leading the way. We danced for what felt like an eternity. Neither of us spoke, our bodies turning and turning over on each other, the bar and the other dancers having long faded away, leaving only the rhythms and us.

Of course that moment passed, gone forever, a moment I will never get back but am grateful to have had at all. The music kicked into another gear, and I realized I had been away from my post, had left my mark. I severed, but before I could, she pulled me back by my forearm and asked me my name. I said Lou, Lou Mastiff, and she said hers was Vicky Felix. I told her I had to go, that I was working, and I saw no concern on her face, no sense of loss, no pining. I, however, pined. I pined immediately for the dance that just ended. But there she went, away to dance alone again, never losing an inch of that smile, as though knowing something she was sure I would soon know as well.

Matsuzaka watched me the whole way back to the bar. “Sorry I just had to get that out of my system,” I said.

He shook his head. “No worries Lou. It was fun watching. You’re a good dancer.”

“I am?”

“I wish I could dance like that.”

“I could teach you.”

“Unfortunately I’m a little focused on not getting shanked in the alley, so maybe we can push off the dance lessons a few weeks, hm?”

“Right I’m s—“

“While you were over there over there with Miss Hipswivels I’ve been here talking to my new friend Mr. Bissell. He tells me there was quite a scene here a couple weeks ago involving our friend Takuto. Turns out Takuto had a bit of a drug problem. Got him into some trouble with the local dealers I guess.”

“Drugs?”

"The devil’s sushi rice. Colombian short-grain. Brought out his aggressive side. I guess that was enough for Senju to give the okay for him to get taken out. No sense in jeopardizing the whole city of New York for one junkie, right?”

“I never realized,” I said.

“That’s what my new friend Whit here seems to think. And if that’s the case, then we, my friend, are in the clear. Raise a glass. You too Mr. Bissell. A toast to our dearly departed friend Boss Takuto. And to new beginnings. And to New York!”

“To sushi!”

“Here here.”

We drank. Matzu ordered another round and we turned our attention back to the band, which was putting forth glorious noise feasted on by the pack of insatiable hyenas on the dance floor. I tried to pick out Vicky Felix, but she was no where to be found. I told them I’d be right back and went to go look. As I moved through the frenzy I got the feeling again, the same one that I got in the alley outside Takuto’s apartment, that same feeling that came too late, after he had already been cut up and left for dead. I glanced to the perimeter of the room and the guards had shifted, and multiplied. Some were in among the dancers, others were moving in groups of two and three. I turned to the bar. Neither Whit nor Matzu were there, just a couple of jazz freaks trying to get a round of drinks. That’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder, a pistol in my side. Turn around sir, I heard him say. And don’t make a scene.

I was sandwiched between two Japanese men with long hair and black suits. They moved me through the crowd with ease. The trumpeter and I made eye contact and he blew a little harder. I tried to swivel my head one last time to see if Ms. Felix was anywhere near by and got a nice clock in the spine for it. Keep moving, buddy, he said, jamming the pistol deeper into my kidney.

I was relieved to find no aquatic themes in the back room of the club. There were no decorations at all, just exposed pipes, uneven floors, ceiling rot, peeled paint. The metal chair bolted to the floor had little metal jags on the corners which tore my clothes as my body absorbed the alternating slaps and punches and the occasional stomp. The slaps actually hurt more than the punches. With this mass my body can absorb any number of direct blows, but something about the tautness of my skin, maybe due to being overworked trying to retain all the blubbery bits inside of me, it’s a little more sensitive than most other parts of my body. This guy, the slapper, seemed a well-practiced skin-stinger. Still, years of taking beatings gave me the ability to dissociate from the pain and the torture of it all so I just kind of coast through and deal with the physical trauma later. As for the psychological trauma, well, I just hope I die before I ever have to deal with that.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” I said, trying to gauge what level of back-rooming we were dealing with here. But they hadn’t asked me anything, didn’t seem to care. Like a classically trained boxer I sat there absorbing everything those henchmen could give me. Then I hit them with some basic trivia, current events or pop culture from decades ago, general knowledge type stuff. This was a tactic I learned years ago from one of my early mentors Don “Loopie” Loper, back in my days as a caddie. When I was starting out, the best way to get into the hired goon industry was through your local caddy program. Loopie told me that when he was getting worked over by a couple of tough guys you wanted to tire out without getting yourself too messed up, just quiz them a little. Nothing too hard. Give them questions they feel like they probably know or used to know once upon a time. It distracts them, makes them feel inadequate, but it won’t enrage them. It’s a subtle defanging that creates self-doubt. Punches will land a little softer after that.

As the one part of my mind took care of the beating-end of business, the other part, the one hiding deep in the brain-bunker, began trying to remember those last few moments between when I walked away from Matzu and when I turned to find him gone. Had I seen anything suspicious? What did Whit Bissell’s face say to me when I slugged back that fourth scotch? Did he smile? Did he glance to the corners of the room?

A while went by — who knows how long. At some point I glanced at my new friends through what I assumed were my swollen eyelids and saw them panting, a little sweaty on the brow, a little hunched over, and I decided it was about time. I stood up, grabbed them both by their wrists and squeezed. Right there I heard two separate snaps. I held on, squeezed some more. That was another trick Loopie taught me. The old adage “break the wrist, walk away” was for amateurs. Professionals snap the wrist and hold on, they squeeze, grind up those little bird bones into dust. Make the pain so intense and long lasting that your enemies collapse that their whole bodies quake and they wet themselves. Then let go.

Out front the band was packing up. A few people still lingered, flirting with the musicians, sucking back the remaining ice in their highball glasses. Security had vanished. I let my nose guide me to the smell of fresh city air.

Night was over. The sun was making its way over the horizon, giving the sky a nice peachy preview of the day to come. It was going to be a warm one. High humidity, hazy sky. I tried to catch my breath enough to get walking, seeing as I didn’t want to hang around the club much longer. That’s when I heard a voice. A woman’s voice. A voice that made my buttocks tingle. I looked over to what appeared to be a small cluster of bikers wearing cut off shirts, long hair, standing around their motorcycles.

“The big bad Mastiff got away,” she said. Now I knew my eyes were swollen, as I saw her figure walk towards me, I was unable to make out a single feature. Instead I smelled a glorious sweet aroma, hers and only hers. “Looks like they did a number on you.”

“I’d say you should see the other guys, but honestly, it’s just two grown man who’ve pissed their pants.”

“You got a ride?”

“I’ll just hail a cab.”

“Nonsense. I’ll take you home.”

We rode without helmets down the empty New York streets, too early for traffic, maybe it was a Sunday. I felt the air whisk away the dried blood crusts off the corners of my mouth. Vicky took local streets, coasting through red lights, swerving across four lanes and back again, taking her time. I saw the sun cast double in the river as we crossed the bridge headed to Brooklyn. The air smelled different above the streets, closing in on a new borough. I became overwhelmed with emotion, thinking of how I lost Matzu, how I left the tuna, how I might be 0-8, or is it 0-7, I couldn’t remember. The sight of Brooklyn made me wonder how much of the world was really out there for me to explore, and what exactly was holding me back.

We pulled up to a big building on Atlantic ave, across the street from some Lebanese grocers. It was an old concrete thing with the words Ex-Lax carved into stone above the entryway. She said it was the old factory, or one of them, she didn’t know. When we got inside she told me to flop down on the couch while she runs a bath. There was nothing I wanted more than a nice flop, and she knew it. She could tell that’s what I needed, knowing me only a couple hours. I knew I had found someone special.

0 notes