Spawn of Mo-Hee-Kin

"MILLIE AND JILL"

I can't remember whose idea it was, to get rid of her. I mean, it could have been Millie. Maybe Jill's. Neither one had been eating. Both of 'em had been in a bad way for quite a while. Quite a while. I did the best I could but couldn't shake 'em out of it. They just had a taste for blood, if you know what I mean.

I told 'em it was a bad idea. I really did. I mean, there were a hundred reasons why it wouldn't work. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Besides, homegirl was in New York and we was in California. How the hell were we going to get to New York? No way we could afford that. We were barely scrapin' by as it was. Shit, we could hardly afford coffee every mornin'. You know what I mean?

We were all goin' crazy in the van. It was fixed up pretty good. Had a nice twin mattress. Plenty of blankets and pillows. Lots of books and magazines. A little refrigerator. The stereo was workin' real good.

The girls love listenin' to Hendricks and Creedance, you know. The old shit. Love for me to crank it up real loud. Don't matter if it's early or late or whatever. The louder, the better. Just crank it up and kick back. The sound literally makes the van's metal shell vibrate. You can feel it in your bones. Sometimes, it rattles your teeth, it's so loud.

We'll be in there, me drinkin' my coffee, and they'll be dancin' and singin', hoppin' around like Indians around a fire, like some kinda war dance, all crazy and happy and delirious. Man, I love to watch 'em dance. Millie's not quite as good as Jill but she's close. Jill, she can really shake it.

One time, we were --

"Objection, your honor. Please direct the witness to answer the question."

"Objection sustained. Mr. Jefferson, please stick to the essentials. We needn't hear a recitation of the history of indigenous dance. We are interested only in how it was that you came to be a party to a conspiracy to commit murder."

I understand, your honor.

"Good. If you insist on representing yourself, you will have to conduct yourself as an officer of the court. That entails adhering to the facts as defined by the law. Am I making myself clear?"

Yes, your honor, clear as blue sky.

"Excellent. Proceed."

As I was sayin', your honor, I don't remember whose idea it was exactly. Just, it was obvious that somethin' had to be done. I mean, every time we saw homegirl on TV...We had one of those little Sony's in the van, you know the kind that operate on batteries?

Every time we saw her -- we watched damn near every day -- she was interviewing some big-time actor or big-time politician or big-time whatever. Grinnin' and shufflin' around the stage, makin' a fool of herself. And us. How the hell are we gonna get any respect with all that shuckin' and jivin' on national TV?

I know she's rich and everything but Jesus H. Christ. She spends half her time clownin for the white man, no disrespect, your honor, and the other half apologizin' for the governor or the president or some CEO or CFO or whatever "O" she's suckin' up to that day. It's a joke. Damn woman's got a book club that'll make or break a writer but acts like she doesn't read a newspaper, bad as they are.

To get back to the "essential facts," your honor, me and the girls decided she was really no different from Reagan. Another clown. I mean, this guy was nothin' but a face. A smilin' face that made people feel warm and fuzzy while they was gettin' fleeced. I don't care how many books or best-sellers or movies they write about him...the only people who had it good when he was in office were his friends and the campaign donors that paid to get him there. What do you call them? I can't remember the word...Contributors. That's it.

So the deal was this. If that dude Hinkler or Hinky or whatever his name was could get his shit together enough to drop Reagan, then poppin' homegirl couldn't be all that hard, even though, like I said, there were a hundred reasons why it was a bad idea. Just not difficult.

I don't mean to brag, your honor, but I was a master craftsman in the Nam. I mean, everybody said there were few cats as gifted as I was. And I got the hardware to prove it. Uncle Sam done patted my head on plenty of occasions, you know what I mean?

Yeah, people trip sometimes when they find out I'm livin in a van next to I-80 but what the fuck? I ain't humpin' no house note. I ain't drivin' two hours, one-way, to some dumb-ass job in Silicon Valley. I ain't radiatin' my nuts in some lab for some geek boy who spends his weekends racin' in some friggin' rih-gah-ta. I ain't got no numskull kids in some fancy french-speakin' school with their noses so high they can't smell the shit in the street.

Even those jerk-offs standin' outside of Peet's all morning, pontificatin' about current events, know I ain't no joke. They can yack all they want to about "freedom" and "democracy." But I'm the motherfucker -- excuse my language, your honor -- that gave it to them.

To make a long story short, we got lucky, although I guess it depends on how you look at it. One day we read in the paper that homegirl was comin' into San Francisco for a fund-raiser for abused children or somethin'. Ain't that a bitch? There was also some stuff about plans to attend some fancy-ass party for the new governor, that Hollywood motherfucker whose ass she so happily kissed a few months ago.

It was like the universe was talkin' to me, tellin' me This Is It. Fourth quarter. Game on the line. Last shot. Time to make somethin' happen. So I did. I stood up. I told the girls, "Gimme the friggin' ball." I was The Man.

The night before, I had this weird-ass dream. It musta' been that chicken burrito from Don Juan's over on Solano Avenue. I swear to God they drag their meat fresh from the alley in back. It's cheap but sometimes the price of gas is a bit high, you know what I mean?

Anyhow, I'm back in-country at this sidewalk cafe, chillin', smokin' a Camel, sippin' sweet chai and watchin' the world go by, or more precisely, the foxy ladies in their Ao Dais and Non Las. White parasols are spinnin' over their shoulders. The sun is shinin' and everythang is everythang.

I see this Suzuki comin' down the street. Sittin' on the back, if you can call it that, is none other than homegirl wearin' lime green flip-flops, Ho Chi Minh pajamas, slingin' an AK with two banana clips. Wrapped around her head is a red bandanna over mirrored sunglasses and shit-eatin' grin.

The 125's weavin' through traffic, dodgin' Howard Johnsons -- those pushcarts dudes selllin' iced fruit and chicken feet -- edgin' toward the cafe. Bein' no newbie, I respectfully decline the invitation to my own funeral, slide out of my seat and tip over the table. Bein' butt naked, the best I can hope for is a little luck and cover.

As she swings past, I can hear Rick James singin': Super freak, Super freak, she's really freaky. Dahn, nah, nah, nah...dahn, nah, dahn, nah. The music gets louder and louder and the sun turns into this sparkling disco ball and everybody's dancin' except me 'cause I'm on the floor lookin' like a complete asshole.

Needless to say, when I woke up, I was a bit out of it. To be honest, that wasn't the first time, so I told the girls we'd just have to suck it up and take care of business. It wasn't nothin' that a few minutes of Zazen couldn't take care of.

So I lay chilly for a while in the van. I was so deep into it I could hear fat raindrops rattlin' palms fronds and feel the jungle mist brushin' my cheeks. At oh-seven-hundred, we slid two clics north to Peet's. One of the sidewalk philosophers, I think his name's Jason, was goin' on and on about Haiti and Aristide and "It ain't right" and "What makes us think we know what's best" and all that other Berkeley bullshit.

I listened for a bit. Said nary a word. Just stood there, noddin' while he and another speed freak rattled their gums. The whole time, the girls are kickin' back in the van, listenin' to NPR, peekin' and grinnin' through the window. They knew it was just a matter of time.
When I'd had enough, I downed my Java and said, "AMF." As I slid onto the front seat, I heard some beer-belly who used to be a professor of Near Eastern studies -- whatever the hell that is -- say, "What'd he mean by that?" I admit my estimation of Jason went up a notch when he correctly interpreted my meanin' as "Adios, motherfuckers."

The girls got a good chuckle outta' that one.

At oh-seven-thirty, we headed down University and got on the freeway toward the The City, as those cell-phone blabbin', SUV-drivin' prisses call it. What the hell does "The City" mean? What about Tokyo or Hong Kong or friggin' Saigon?

"Excuse me, your honor, but is any of this leading anywhere?"

"Sit back down and take, as the accused might say, a chill pill, Ms. Harris. Under the circumstances, I'll grant a bit of leeway. I doubt the people's case will be harmed by a full, if somewhat colorful, rendering of the events on the day in question. Please continue, Mr. Jefferson."

Thanks, judge.

Like I said, before being' so rudely interrupted, we spent thirty-five minutes bumper-to-bumper crossin' the bridge and at least another twenty crawlin' through downtown toward the Hotel Nikko. If I'd been thinkin', I woulda reconnoitered the week before when I visited Marty. He stays at the Rusty Arms up the street But we had a few hours before homegirl was scheduled to show and I figured there wouldn't be a whole lot of security.

Parking's a bitch down there. None of the meters last more than thirty minutes and there's no way I'm forkin' over twelve bucks-an-hour to some city-owned lot. I didn't want the girls to get bored so I took 'em with me to reconnoiter the area where the party, excuse me, ball, was supposed to happen.
We walked a four-block grid, checked out the traffic lights and streets -- most of em' run one-way in that part of downtown -- mapped out an escape route, with back-up, I might add. It was all strictly by the book. No clownin'. No joke. Straight business.

We didn't have much trouble except with this punk kid. He and a couple of his boys were comin' down the street, baggy pants droopin' 'round their narrow behinds, tank tops sproutin' skinny arms like bare branches.

The kid, he couldn't a been older than seventeen, is walkin' this puppy. Maybe eighty pounds. Black studded collar. Sweetest face you've ever seen. But the kid's goin' up and down the street scarin' folks, like he's got a dick on a leash.

When they came up on us, the puppy's jumpin' and barkin' and flashin' his teeth, makin' a big fuss. The kid's barely got a grip on the situation but he's standin' there grinnin' like he's a Bad Man. Folks on the sidewalk are too terrified to walk around and the girls aren't too happy either.

So I give him the death stare and, I swear, I can feel the pucker factor expand geometrically. You could almost hear the sucking sound as the air molecules rushed into that black hole inside those droopy drawers. Not wantin' to completely humiliate him, I kneel down and give the puppy a peck on the nose. Like I said, he was a sweet little guy.

After that, the girls had an attitude and didn't feel like helpin' out. So, I dropped 'em off at the van and went to Marty's. From there, I went up to the roof, then crossed over three buildings to the middle of the block opposite the hotel. The spot was a low so I set up a small blind. To anybody watchin', I was just another bum searchin' for a warm spot in the sun.
A couple of hours later, homegirl arrived and stepped her big butt out of a block-long limo. It was like a side of the barn wearing a dress. There was not way to miss. One shot. Very clean. Sarge woulda' been proud.

I broke down the gear and humped back to the van. Everything was stowed away and the girls started yappin' about bein' hungry. To be honest, I think it was the rush, if you ask me. They were so juiced. They didn't know any other way of handling it than to eat.

No way they were gettin' into the van and back across the bridge, as planned, until they got their munchies. So that's what we did. We musta' been five blocks from the hotel when we found a falafel stand. The girls love falafels so we stopped and got three. There was no place to sit down, no bench or anything, so we found an empty spot on the side of the building. I think it was a bank 'cause there was an ATM machine not far away.

I didn't see the heat walk up. I must' been talkin' to Millie. Jill saw him, though. Like I said, she had that taste of blood in her mouth. When I looked around, she was tearin' him a new asshole. He was yellin' and cryin'. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was pissin' in his pants.

Before I could get her off him, he'd pulled his weapon and fired. When I saw her layin' there, those big brown eyes lookin' all hurt and confused, that hole in her neck...I just lost it, I guess.

But I had no intention of shooting him, your honor, despite what the other officer said. I got too much training to lose my cool like that. A pistol-whipping was really all I had in mind. You can tell that by the bruises in the photograph, excuse me, 'People's Exhibit Eleven.'

The bottom line, your honor, is I have no problem doin' the time. In fact, I'm glad to do it. I did three tours in the Nam and I'll do my tour here at home. Shit, that cell can't be any smaller than the van, right?

I just wanna make sure Millie don't have to pay the bill for a meal she didn't eat, if you know what I mean. I'd really appreciate it if you could find it in your heart to make sure she finds a safe place to stay. She doesn't need to be locked up in some kennel somewhere starvin' before some asshole decides to put her to sleep.

She doesn't deserve that, your honor.

-- THE END --