Me and Big Joe in South L.A.

It was dusk and I was standing outside the bus terminal talking to someone I don't know. She was smoking cheap cigarettes, looked like someone who could be paid to tell everything she knew and we shared a half pint of Muscatel I had chambered in a paper sack. We were chatting amicably when a black Porsche with dealer tags slid into the parking lot. Driving was a young black male, MLB hat, about 26 1/2years old, and next to him a young white female, blonde, who reminded me of a jaded American Airlines attendant. I could see she was crying. Her door opened, she got out, said nothing, slammed it and walked towards us.

The Porsche crept away and she pulled a cell phone from her purse and started jabbering, interrupting her conversation only long enough to bum a cigarette from my new friend. About 32 seconds later, the Porsche pulled back into the parking lot and she walked over.

The driver lowered his window and handed her a small knit bag. She took it, turned on her heels, and disappeared into the bowels of the terminal passing a guy who was wearing a newspaper shirt and a masking tape hat. As the Porsche sped off in the direction of Wilshire I noticed there was something on the ground near where he had parked and I walked over and picked it up. It was a quarter, solid silver, 1959. My new new buddy and I finished the box of wine and I gave her ten bucks to watch for union organizers and tell me everything. She said she would but I knew she was lying. I stubbed out the smoke we were sharing into her forehead and walked across the street to my rental, a flat back 2009 Suburban with a 454 and glass darker than legal. I could hear .9mm reports in the distance and I smelled fresh human feces. I got in, chambered a hollow point into a Glock .40 I don't claim to own and flipped on the interior lights momentarily to insure no unwanted riders. I then drove to Redondo Beach in total silence where I am staying in a suite on the water. I gave my bag and a twenty to the bellman, told him the park the beast and went straight to the bar where I ordered a $24 glass of Cabernet, drank half of it and poured the rest out the window into the ocean.

"Big Joe," as he likes to be called, was filling my doorway and the light from the hall was obliterated by his six foot five frame onto which he's packed on about 350 pounds, no fat. He looks like he lifts motors for a living and maybe he did at one point in time when there were still cars being made in this country. Now he wears a black jacket with "Security" embroidered on the back in yellow.

"You ready to go, Big Joe?" I said, looking up.

"Whenever you're ready, Mister Jim," he said, snapping to attention. "How's your case going, sir?" he asked, and I could see in his eyes he was already wondering if he should be so bold, whether this kind of inquiry was wise.

"They revere me, Big Joe," I replied.

"Revere? Who's Revere?" he asked nervously, looking around as if this Revere fellow might be a spy, or worse.

I smiled knowingly. "Yes, Revere. You might know him. I believe his name is Paul Revere."

"Fuck no! I don't know him!" he snapped. "Do want me to hurt him?" a question Big Joe asked with some regularity.

"He's history," I said, trying not to laugh in his face.

"God damned right he's history!" Big Joe barked. "When I find that motha-fucka Revere he'll be history all right!"

"Good, good, Big Joe. You make sure he gets what he deserves," I said, mocking sincerity.

"You need help to your vehicle tonight, Mr. Jim?" Big Joe asked approaching my desk slowly.

"No, not tonight, but thank you. I have my little helper with me," I replied, pulling the Glock .40 from a Zero Halliburton attache, jamming in a clip and chambering a round all in about a half a second.

"Damned, Mr. Jim, that's a nice gun," Big Joe slathered.

I stood up, reached over the desk and slapped him hard against his sweaty bald head. His face was a mask of terror.

"This," I said, calmly raising the Glock between his eyes, "is not a gun. This is a pistol."

He nodded, but I could see even as he was staring down the dangerous end of the barrel that he was still admiring the weapon.

"Big Joe, I want you have this when we're finished here," I said, lowering the pistol graciously.

"You don't mean it, Mr. Jim," his voice quivered. I could tell Joe had been fucked over so many times that he figured this was just another fuck in that long list.

"I do mean it, Big Joe, but there's one condition. Nothing can happen to me.

Nothing. I can't stand senseless violence. Do you understand me?" I asked, no emotion, as I stared into his soul-dead eyes.

"Yes sir, Mister Jim! I understand. Ain't nothin' goin' to happen to you! I want that gun… err… I mean pistol, sir."

"Good, Big Joe. Now, get the fuck out of here. I'm busy."

I looked up from my desk and he was gone but I could hear his Chuck Taylor's slapping the linoleum sloppy as he made his way down the hall.

"Ayeeee!" the scream was primal.

"You best tell me where Paul Revere is, God damned you!" I could hear Big Joe screaming.

Then I heard what sounded like a person being slammed through a sheetrock wall, mostly because it was a person being slammed through a sheetrock wall.

I laughed to myself and got up, shoved the Glock into my belt, and walked into the night.

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