Saint Oswald by Jay Bonansinga (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

bathes his throat, shoots down his lungs. His eyes water. “I’ll do it for a G-note.”

“Say what?” The Candy Man takes the joint back and then lavishes it with more attention, a wreath of haze circling his ’fro. “Going outta business sale?

“No, man, nothing like that. I just... I’m going through a... I got bills need paying.”

The Candy Man looks askance at him. “Excuse me, Chief, but you ain’t in no condition to scoop up the horse’s shit. Last one you done, you pretty near got pinched. Pretty near got me pinched.”

Oswald licks his lips. “I’ll do it for five hundred.”

A long pause here.

Oswald is nodding. “Seriously. You got somebody needs dealin’ with, I’ll do it for five hundred. I’m serious, Candy. Serious as a crutch. If there’s somebody you got in mind, I’ll do them for five C’s. I ain’t too liquid, if you want to know the truth.”

“Constipated?”

“Money issues... I need cash. You got somebody on the hit parade, I’ll do ’em fast and cheap and good. I do ’em, they stay done.”

The pimp grins through a cloud of chartreuse smoke, showing a mouthful of gold teeth. “There’s always somebody needs a talkin’ to.”

“Gimme the word, it’s a done deal.”

The pimp narrows his eyes, thinking it over, smoking some more. “The fuck’s wrong with you, Chief?”

Oswald swallows hard. “Nothin’s wrong, I just—”

“I know, I heard you the first time, you need the Benjamins.” A pause here, a forensic sort of pause, much pondering visible on the pimp’s face. “Once upon a time, you was the best there ever was, the motherfuckin’ gold standard.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Lemme guess: y’all never went to that headshrinker I told you about, did ya?”

Oswald looks at his hands. “I’m gonna see him, Candy, I swear to God, soon as I get a chance.”

The pimp lets out a sigh. “You can’t run away from that shit, Chief. You got issues.”

“I’m gonna be fine.”

The pimp carefully tamps the blunt against an ivory ashtray, an expression approximating concern knitting his glistening brown features. “That shit don’t go away, that childhood shit.”

“I said I’m fine.” Oswald looks at his lap. He feels the presence of ghosts behind him, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. “I’m fine.”

“You gotta let go of that shit—”

Oswald suddenly blurts: “Goddamnit, Candy! Enough with the psychology!”

The pimp freezes at the sheer volume and timbre of Oswald’s voice.

Oswald stiffens in his chair, realizing he has just pulled a major boner. The Candy Man calmly rises and comes around the desk.

Oswald feels his heart thumping. “That came out wrong—I totally apologize for that. I’m not myself today.”

The pimp goes over to the door, carefully shutting it and latching it. Then he turns to Oswald. “You need to get your head screwed on right, my brother.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m gonna let it slide this time.”

“I do thank you for that, Candy.”

The pimp sucks the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering something. “You definitely got issues.”

“You’re right, you’re absolutely right... I need some therapy, and I’m gonna get it, I’m gonna get some therapy as soon as I get outta here.”

A long, agonizing pause.

“Tell you what...” The Candy Man goes back around his desk and fiddles in a drawer for a second. He pulls out a business card and pushes it across the desk with a burnished index finger. “I want you to take care of this dude. I’ll pay the goin’ rate.”

Oswald picks up the card. It’s a LaSalle Street address, a major law firm. “Legal eagle, this guy?”

“A Motherfucker is what this dude is, thinks he can steal product and skim off the sides.”

Oswald puts the card in his pocket. He will memorize the information later and then burn it. “I really, really, really appreciate it, Candy.”

The pimp looks at him. “Do this one righteously, do it clean. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Abso-posi-fucking-tively.”

“Do this, and you’ll be back on the map.”

“You got it.” Oswald rises on his tree-trunk legs. The room spins. He holds onto the back of the chair. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Also: I need this thing done, like, five minutes ago. If you’re lucky, you can catch this motherfucker tonight, after hours, down by the Rusty Spoke.”

“Right.”

“Usually tucks his piece-of-shit Beamer a block away, in an alley behind Hubbard.”

“Got it.”

“Perfect place to disappear that greedy-ass motherfucker in private.”

“Will do. Thanks again, Candy.” Oswald turns to leave but pauses at the door and looks back at the pimp. “And I will see that therapist.”

3.

After Oswald leaves, the Candy Man lingers behind that closed door for a good five minutes. The pimp can hear the muffled rumble of driers outside his door as he sits at his throne, dialing a Chicago exchange on his cell. He’s confident nobody’ll hear what he’s about to say into the phone.

“Levinson, Cohen, Pearl and Roth,” comes the flat monotone of a receptionist.

“Gimme Jeff Harkness,” the Candy Man says into the cell.

After a minute: “Harkness here.”

“Go somewhere private.”

Another minute passes, the soothing tones of “Girl from Ipanema” crackling in the earpiece, when at last the attorney gets back on the line.

“As I told you last week, it’s just a matter of time until I get the vig,” the voice says in strained whisper in the Candy Man’s ear. “And I assure you that I am almost there.”

“Shut the fuck up and listen.”

“Go ahead.”

“This is your lucky day, motherfucker,” the Candy Man says, his smile full of precious metals.

4.

Jeffrey David Harkness, Esq.—avid narcotics trafficker and corporate rainmaker at Levinson, Cohen et al—hangs up the conference phone in a flurry. His heart races as he tears out of the private meeting room and then hustles down the lavish corridor of deep-pile carpet, mahogany, brass, and fichus. What did Candy Man mean by “one last chance to avoid that ol’ steel valentine”? Was Harkness on the hit parade? And if so, why in God’s name would the pimp tell Harkness the exact place and time of his execution?

“Courtney,