Connect The Dots

THE CLOSEST distance between two points is a bullet, Bobby knows this.

Picking up her scent in Tennessee, he brings the teams together in Mobile Alabama. One team, just in case, moves cross country down through Oklahoma.

There a motivated group of mugs, Dim Dim their coach, figuratively, silently, prodding them on just because that was who he was.

Bobby was promised by Tony’s men’s eating up the phone lines that they hoped for results soon.

“You can only bribe so many people, threaten them with dismemberment, death and their toes nails ripped out, before you have to admit defeat.”

Paulie, Jimmy’s son of his mother Gloria’s side, not Paulie Jr. Aunt Angelica’s sister’s son, had told him.

Spending the night in one of the most humid places in the world, the crew powered a Southern breakfast, which Dim Dim had had two.

Bobby, planning out various routes, got the boys right, rolling as they then fanned out, drove, stopped, chatted, then EUREKA they had found it.

No Interstate, Bobby was positive about that. Moving West, and because Bobby loved his big friend and not wanting the giants blood sugar to get low, and knowing the feed bag was important for the big fella, they had stopped at a convenience store out side a New Orleans. Innocently, they had picked up the next scent of Tony’s stinking girl friend at a convenience store by a stroke of pure luck.

Bobby likes nothing about the South, so, while Dim is buying a half dozen burritos, tides him over until lunch, Bobby, sweating profusely, in shirt sleeves, smoking, glances across the dark street, blinks, for standing under a neon sign The Swamp Club is the biggest black man, he has ever seen. Watching for a few minutes, his skin itches which usually a good sign. He shakes his head, for folks, looking like they just walked out of the cast of Deliverance are laying off dollar bills to the black giant.

He thinks of Dim, the black giant rumbling, giggles. “Pay per view.”

A thorough man, where the fuck is Dim, he snaps up the photo of the whore, figures what the heck, strolls across the street.

Approaching the African American man, with utmost caution, for he is three of the small Italian, Booby gets one of those crystal ball, seventh senses feeling about the behemoth. He feels that this man is not one that he can intimidate, even with Dim Dim’s help.

Knowing street ghetto etiquette, figuring it was a long shot to boot, yet ya never know, he knows, because he feels it, not to come off as a cop, a gangster, something threatening. A PI, maybe, looking for a rich mans daughter, you know, kids, dogs, folks love her, miss her, nice reward for some help. What the heck, as he stands before him, looking way up, eyes focused at hub caps for eye balls.

They begin to chat, bright guy, Bobby figures. He spins the story, kids, puppies, cats missing her, husband rich, loves her to death. He is about to throw terminal cancer into the mix, nixes that idea.

Black man, intelligent eyes, seems honorable, looks at the pic and seems a little bit edgy. Bobby knows he knows something, he can see it in his eyes, he’s positive. He knows the slag bitch is so fucking beautiful men don’t want to give her up, especially from a suspicious black man. Let’s try cash, just a nudge as he peels off five one hundred dollar bills.

Little Junior of course remembers the doll, remembers the air kiss, don’t like nosy people, law in any shape, way or form. He figures the small guy, clipped moustache, thousand dollar alligator shoes, is bent, maybe not, black eyes lit from the five C-notes layered in the wops small hands. He has to consider turning out the blond. After all, what is she to him?

Bobby gets it, sees him staring at the money, adds five more Benjamin’s, see’s the ball bearings revolving in the black man bowling ball sizes head. Little Junior, likes money, a grand, is a grand. Why not, help the husband get the sugar twist back, he’s just helping that’s all, okay. He tweaks the grand out of Bobby’s small hand, smiles, sure, she was here a night or so ago. Real pretty, tall, thin, white hair, kinda a flirt, old Cadillac, convertible, blue he thinks, drove direct west, very very fast.

“Thanks man. You’ve helped, a lot.” Bobby genuinely says.

About to offer him a job, more gomers qued the line, Bobby nods, walks across the street, opens the door, feels the AC, sees Dim Dim staring straight ahead, some food wrapper around his feet. Dim looks okay, that’s good. He checks the neon of a Motel room, the street name, pulls out his cell, makes a few calls, giving the direction for the remaining crews to join them. He text messages Tony with the update, slaps it shut.

He snaps inside the car, accelerates, pulls to the motel, parks in the lot some, he and his crew needed refreshed preplanning and rejuicing for the charge west is needed.

He feels good, he checks himself, Dim Dim experiencing a little shut eye always helps.

What he does not know is that he forgot the double edged sword rule.

Slicing off distance between she, and he, he forgot one thing. Dealing with a master fencer, who is elusive, lethal and cleaver, do not forget about the other side of the blade.

For as with all duels, the black blood you so desperately want to see washing over your hands from your advisories jugular might not be hers at the end, but your own.