Page 7 of A Long Con

Twinkletoes held out a hand of protest. “Nothing, man. I just don’t know much about rocks.”

Harte grinned impishly with amusement. “See, there are rocks, then there are minerals. Anyway.” He shook my hand. “Pleased to go into business with you, Royal. You’re a trustworthy man. I know you’d never throw us under the bus.”

“Appreciate it, brah. I’ll come by your shop tomorrow.”

“Yeah. It’s north on 95 about two miles toward Desert Hills.”

I said, “Rajah dat. I’ve seen it before. Good man.”

“For a haole.” The Bent Zealots loved to call themselves that around me. It just meant “white guy.”

On my way to get a beer, Rover waved me down and requested some flakka. It figured that he’d be the Zealot most likely to want the “zombie drug.” Rover was drug-addled, unreliable, impulsive—in other words, a likely prospect for a subcontractor. Not the type you’d want, but the kind you were liable to get. I wove my way through the packed house to get some from my saddlebags— never kept it on my person. I was accosted by the chief sweetbutt herself, Kenna, a shapely blonde with a pierced lip and far more ink than me.

“Hey handsome,” she purred, grabbing a handful of my crotch. That was the way we behaved.

Tonight I wasn’t having it. I wanted to sell Rover his shit and go home so I could count my coin. I had to figure how much to bring to Harte the next day. So I wrapped my fingers around Kenna’s wrist and bodily removed her.

“Not now, honey,” I tried to continue down the hall.

She stuck out her lower lip. “Damn! You’re the only one around here who’ll fuck me. Except for those Navajo kids, and that gets kind of old. They only last a minute.”

“Business, sista,” I said, smiling a fake smile. “Try Twinkletoes.”

Truth was, I could’ve fucked her, and then gone to get the stuff. Or gotten the stuff, then fucked her. Truth was, I didn’t want to. Lately I’d been wondering if, maybe, I was bisexual myself.

Well, it wasn’t exactly “lately.” I’d been wondering that my whole adult life. But my father’s extreme reaction when he’d heard about it had permanently terrified me from experimenting, mostly.

It was only two more steps to the front door by then, the most important two steps of my life. They brought me face to face with dark-haired beauty Berkeley Moynihan.

Ah. It was enough to make a strong man weep, the innocent way he looked up at me with his sloe eyes, though he was brandishing what looked like a pizza cutter. Kanapapiki, this Apollo of a man had me slamming back against the wall. Several brothers gave me humorous side-eye, especially seeing as how Berkeley Moynihan of the black Irish tribe was a bit shorter than me and much thinner.

To compensate, I stepped up to face the man.

“Let me in.” I wanted to suck on the lower lip he stuck out.

Since I didn’t recognize him, I couldn’t just let him in. “Now, now. Let’s discuss things first.”

He let me take the pizza cutter and I graced him with what has been called my “dazzling” smile. But he snarled, “What’s there to discuss? One of your friends took off with a tray of my silverware. I want it back.”

I clapped him on the shoulder like a patient teacher. I had sent the two-bit thug down the street to steal shit from that abandoned, hoarded house. It was a disgusting pit and I wouldn’t go in there myself, but we could make some coin if we dug deep enough. Silverware, eh?

“Let’s go over to this bench where it’s quieter,” I suggested, and he let me steer him over.

Draping his arms over the back of the bench, he manspread his knees until I had no choice but to touch his with mine. With bowed cupid lips and eyebrows like satin ribbons, he was almost too beautiful to be true. He actually made me a bit nervous, an unusual feeling for a victim of Urbach-Wiethe Disease, what doctors called my brain injury. Yeah, that’s why I pick up snakes and ward off muggers. I have no fear.

I propped one elbow on the back of the bench. His fingers brushed my inked shoulder.

“Listen, brah. I’ll ask around about your silverware, but we can’t let you go rampaging through that house with a sharp knife, you hear?”

“I understand. You guys all stick together. You can’t have an outsider accusing you of anything. Even if it’s true.”

“It might be true, brah.” I already knew I’d give him his silverware back. If he lived in that fucking smelly rat-infested house, he’d need it. “You let Royal Palakiko take care of it. Meanwhile, you tell me why you live in that rundown heap.”

I texted Pothole, my little thief and current hang-around of the Bent Zealots. Bring that silverware to me out front.

He’d wonder how I knew he had silverware.

A dark fog came between me and Apollo. He looked at the ground. “Not my house. I’m real sorry about that. I know it’s a stain on the neighborhood. But I’m there to clean it up.”