SIX-OH-FIVE A DAY A NAMELESS PSYCHOPATH MYSTERY, PART 2 - PHIL BELOIN JR.
Yep, mercy me and my faithless masculine squirting, picking up a half-nudie Mex gal and taking her to my motel room. After showering, I exited the can, refreshed and clean, but the ten dollar whore had stolen my Bel-Air with eight gees of loot locked in the trunk.
The keys were in my pants’ pocket hanging from the shower bar. Had she hot-wired the car? Doubtful.
But someone might have told her where the spare key was magnetized by the left rear wheel.
Only Roy could of.
Roy, my two-timing partner had out two-timed me. It’s clunky, I know, but apt.
After the bank heist and we was hiding out, but Roy wanted his cut, for booze, for pussy. Me, too, buddy. About a week into this, I beat him like pulp. Left him lying in the shack. Took the money and the getaway car.
This was to flesh out any potential Roy cohorts and future headaches.
In this instance, it was actually flesh used.
I stepped out of the motel room and saw the tailfins of the Bel-Air motoring towards the downtown monuments of respectability. You know, stores and folks following all the foolhardy rules of society. Charlatans, if you’re asking.
I went over to the Packard I had parked here last week—telling the motel man I was going into the woods to hunt, don’t expect me to be around much. He had said, “Six dollars a day, plus the state gets a nickel tax.”
“Six-oh-five you say?” I had said.
“Yep’em. That’s your number.”
I had given the codger ten days worth of rent.
Now, I fired up the old Packard and followed the Bel-Air.
No need to hurry, though. Roy didn’t know about the Packard and his gal was probably too giddy about screwing me over to notice it either.
I drove by the bank Roy and I had hit a week ago, fedora pulled low on my brow.
A few miles later, the Bel-Air long gone from my view, I turned onto the dirt road. There was residual dust floating in the dry air, though it could have been from the breeze. I knew better of course.
I had picked up Roy’s hunny on this road. She had been fake hitchhiking—see, this path went only to the abandon shack where Roy and I were laying low. And with Roy whining about girlie parts all the time, I had had my doubts about this Mexy chick, though I hoped she might put out first before any true intentions were blown.
No such luck.
I had to park a good distance away. The motor would have carried.
I ran to the cabin. I didn’t beat Bannister’s four minute mile, but that English sissy wasn’t wearing a rakish fedora, a seersucker suit and carrying hardware, either.
I let my breathing slow down as I approached the shanty, the trunk of the Bel-Air open.
Those two dupes were making frenzied whoopee when I peered through a crack in the wall. Jesus, that swarthy gal was a perpetual motion machine, but sadly, Roy’s machinery didn’t last, breaking down and leaking all over. During their post-coital bliss—which was more like some mop up action I had seen in a Seoul cathouse during the Korean War fiasco—I stepped inside, waving my rod around.
“Hola, amigos,” I said.
Then I noticed the swag spread under their butts.
I mean really.
I’d like to say it was a struggle, but they were speechless, and I didn’t have a lot of words left in me either— emotionally, ha, ha—so I shot them both dead.
BIO: Phil Beloin Jr. still claims mental stability. His novel, The Big Bad, is on Amazon and you can even read a page or two. Phil suggests page one. The book is also in independent bookstore in the Connecticut New York border area. E-mail Phil for a list of places, email@example.com.
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