Dark Side of the 60's Moon - Mike Marino (best novels to read in english .txt) 📗

too. I helped Mickey Featherstone and the Westies in New York get rid of that union leader that way. Never found him yet, or even the pieces left over. You know Mickey likes chainsaws!”

 

I kept silent as the reality of the situation escaped me. I was in my mind watching the Marx Brothers, Autopsy  Night at the Coroners! These guys were discussing murder theory as though they were two New York cabbies arguing over which route is faster, the Tri-Borough Bridge or the Lincoln Tunnel, or worse, two mafia types arguing the merits of a Cadillac Seville over a Lincoln Continental while stuffing their mouths with mama’s homemade cannolis.

 

The decision was made at last. The .22 caliber route was chosen. The Yellow Brick Road to Execution was now charted out. Just in time too. Word was sent down to the basement that the FBI guy was in the building. Myrika spotting him arrive called out to him to join her at the table she had in the corner. That was the signal for me to make my appearance and lead the sheep to slaughter. I dashed up the stairs and entered the dimly lit bar room.

 

“Martin,” I called out as if he were my long lost brother. “Man glad you made it. How are you? How’s Danny? Hows...hows...hows...a waterfall of nervous bullshit was falling from my mouth. We hugged as two ”friends” will do, had a few drinks then sprang the trap.

 

“Man, c’mere. Let me look at you. Olivia’s here and wants to see you,” I lied convincingly. “Got her in the downstairs office. You know, incse some Mick cop walks in and spots her with being under age and all. Wouldn’t be a pretty scene. C’mon I’ll take you too her.”

 

We started towards the basement door off to the side of the bar, bartender acting as lookout and with his .45 under the counter as bouncer in chief. Fuck with him and I guarantee a lobotomy by bullet awaits you.

 

Myrika wanted to come with us. I could tell she was getting off on this too. Jesus H. Christ. Good thing she wasn’t present on the Grassy Knoll at the Kennedy assassination. She’d probably orgasm on the spot singing, “Happy Birthday, Mr. President!”

 

We descended into the basement abyss. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, Martin asked, as he should, “Where is she?”

 

“Uh, Martin, there’s been a change of plans.”

 

At that moment two large Irishmen stepped out from the shadows  grabbing him and holding him down, while Liam placed the barrel of the .22 against the base of his skull and let three shots ring out.

 

The noise was muffled by the jukebox upstairs blaring aloud with the Clancy Brothers singing about some battle in Belfast accompanied by gales of Gaelic laughter and the ceremonial clinking of mugs of ale.

 

I just stood there. Paralyzed. I’d seen dead bodies before, at funerals, but never watched the process of crossing over the line of death and life demarcation before.  Was now as guilty as if I pulled the trigger myself.

 

Liam was excited as a working class hero who takes pride his masonry or carpentry skills. “A job well done, Mickey. We’ll dump the body in the river. The boys are already in the alley with the car. Ha Ha...taxi service. Where to, Mate? Oh the river you say. Should we take the Dan Ryan or I-94? Ha. Another rat exterminated. Thanks again Mickey. We’ve eliminated a potentially dangerous situation that could have landed you in prison and me and the boys back in British hands. Both situations not pleasant, eh? OK, drinks are on the house...upstairs everyone!”

 

So with the jovial jocularity of a New Orleans funeral combined with an Irish wake we made our way upstairs to join in the din.

“Myrika, are you OK,” I asked to be comforting.

 

She had a smile and look on her face I had never seen before, and could catch the faint musk smell she gave off between her legs when excited.

 

Oh Oh...I knew that look. She was reloaded again. A cold steel pistol barrel for a dildo was one thing, but this was downright scary when a cold blooded murder lit the fuse of her libido.

 

“Jesus, Myrika. Now? Where?”

 

“On the Bar!!!”

 

Goddamned girl! Sex on a bar in a crowded Irish pub with bagpipes blaring Amazing Grace!

 

“Let’s get in the camper. You can work my bagpipes over in there instead!!”

 

Two is company, 43 is a crowd!!

Chapter 59 - All Roads Lead To Detroit

 

 

Nothing like a murder to get your blood flowing. My blood was flowing out of fear...Myrika’s  blood was excited sexually.  Never witnessed this in anyone before. Menstruation for her must be a real rush and a half! The pub patrons had been ushered out the door before the basement killings. Closed for repairs or some bullshit excuse was given, but in this neighborhood, my guess is they knew the drill when the IRA and Irish mob went into the basement.

 

So while the upper floor bar area was temporarily vacant, Myrika and I hopped up on the slick wet beer spilled mahogany bar wrestling to get our pants off to have a go at her pot of gold. She was already wet and I was already ready. Like a damned  Boy Scout except had me by the balls. Always had, always will.

 

Until that night, I had never had sex on a large Irish pub bar with mirror in the background. Something about a public setting and the afterglow that accompanies a murder well done of an informer that makes the senses race and Myrika’s nipples rising into peaks of majesty  in a crescendo, with  her areola singing a sexual  aria while the vulva was ready to join in the harmony of eruptus clitoris with the Labia Tabernacle Choir leading the parade into the inner sanctum. She had one rule of thumb, I wasn’t allowed to let loose until the length of time it takes to listen to both long versions of “Inna Gadda Da Vida” and “Light My Fire” together!! She kept it sustained as if by magic for said length of time, then with a few flexings of tightened muscles in her delta region she could signal the all clear with a hearty “Thar she blows!” Moby Dick was ready to breach and spout!!

 

She was moaning and speaking German, words I didn’t understand, but as she pushed my head lower onto her belly and I exited her down below, she pushed my head and face even further south. Probably near where Munich would be on a map, I suspect. This was her favorite geography lesson for me. She was a great teacher, and I was a willing student. We both loved sexual academics and quid pro quo oral essays and forays. I could clap her erasers all semesters if she held me after class had climaxed!

 

When we finished, well, when I finished, she always seemed to have massive aftershocks that needed quelling. Having sex with her was 10 on the Richter scale. She could level the entire Pacific Rim with one orgasm! Her fucking vagina was a weapon...a certified “ring of fire!”

 

We got dressed slowly and let ourselves out of the back door of the pub and into the camper. I always felt sorry for “Flashback” after Myrika and I would have sex. If only “Flashback” could meet a nice Airstream trailer with a large hitch. Then I felt she would be a “happy camper”. You know what they say about Airstreams...once you’ve had an Airstream, you never go back!”

 

I fired up the engine while Myrika rolled a fat joint that would make Lenny Bruce cringe and we headed into the dark Chicago night heading back to Detroit. There was no turning back to Canada, our island, our resistance work. Our cover had been blown so we’d take root in my familiar Detroit along with Olivia and Baby China as we forged a new life ahead of us hoping to still stay one step ahead of the feds and hoping this goddamned war would end to stop the flow of more bloodshed

Chapter 60 - You Can Go Home Again

 

Once back in the safety of the womb of familiarity of the so called Motor and Murder City, which somehow seemed appropriately named after our own recent voyeuristic participation in the elimination of a federal agent, we set about establishing ourselves as other than who we actually were. Hiding in plain sight from the hands of Hoover’s FBI and the the entire Military-Industrial Complex and it’s complexities.  

 

I had some media background as an underground journalist and rock and roll bon vivant, so in the course of time found radio work across the Detroit River in Windsor, Ontario. Which Detroiters always referred to as a “suburb” of the Greater Metro Detroit area. Just don’t tell any mountie red blooded Canadian that or he’ll cut your beer supply off at the pass!

 

Myrika, with her every increasing mania for art and music, was our artistic as well as sexual nucleus as we formed the Experimental Theater Workshop and Art Gallery in an old brick grand dame of a building that used to house the Fur Trading Company in Detroit in the 1800’s when beaver was king. It was a Katherine Hepburn majestic brick structure  in the Greektown neighborhood of downtown Detroit. The rent was cheap and the place was spacious enough to house an art gallery of Myrika’s photography, and other photographers in the area  as they became aware of our presence. There was room for a makeshift stage for our theatrical presentations and was used as a platform for jam nights on weekends, BYORP of course, bring your own rolling papers, where local musicians would play together or solo around the gravitational pull of Myrika’s musicianship.

 

In an apartment a few blocks away in the shadow of the Greek Orthodox church that loomed over the area, Myrika, Olivia, Baby China and myself made our home. The post industrial warehouse look suited our renaissance  motif of recording equipment, of reel to reel recorders, Sennheiser microphones, headphones, amps, Martin guitars, turntables, monster speakers forging  electro friendships with a complex assortment  of darkroom supplies...Ilford photo paper, chemicals, pans, trays and film.

 

We sectioned off portions of our “spaceship” as Myrika called it into living area, kitchen and constructed from scrap plywood two sleeping rooms...one room  for Myrika, Olivia and I. The extended family that sleeps