Back n the saddle (part II)

I dinged the bell. Then I dinged the bell again. Some Cracker Jack with droopy eyes and soiled hair stepped behind the counter and I spat. “Who runs this shithole?” I ask.

“Sir?”

“I said who runs this shithole?”

The Man Behind the Desk leaned his head back and glared at me from down his nose. “Better watch who you’re speaking to in these parts, mister.”

I spat again. “I’m the one you should watch, pal.”

The Man lowered his glance and swallowed hard. “You mean you’re…”

“Say my name.”

He froze in place then blinked. “You’re Beau Montana,” he said.

“You’re goddamn right.”

His hands trembled. He ran his fingers through his matted hair and reached for a keycard. “My apologies sir. I wasn’t expecting you this early.” I took the keycard and spat on the desk. I said nothing more to him.

I strolled down the shitstank corridor and found the elevator broken. After climbing the steps to the second floor, I used the keycard to unlock my room and stepped inside. The toilet was clogged. Bed unmade. Injection needles littered the floor. The room was exactly as I expected it to be. I took a quarter and unscrewed the air vent and stuffed the fifteen grand of hard US currency into it. Then I looked myself once over through the shattered mirror and sauntered back into the Arizona sun.

Under the wretched heat, I found a Preacher man yelling obscenities into traffic. He seemed approachable enough. So I tapped him on the shoulder. “Cigarillo?” I ask the Preacher.

“American. I speak American,” he said.

“Then could you spare a poor fellow like me a cigarette?”

“Of course,” said the Preacher. “But in exchange, I must profess the word of god. For the saving of your very soul. This world is temporary but the word is for eternity.”

I placed the cigarette between my lips and lit the zippo. “Uh huh. And which god is that Preacher man?”

“The one true god. The god of our savior. The god of the word.”

“And where did you find him?”

“He’s been with me since the beginning. I’ve never known no other god.”

“What about Da Nang. 68?”

“Sir?”

“Was god at Da Nang? In 1968?”

“God is everywhere.”

I dropped the half smoked cigarette to the undusted ground and exhaled on the Preacher’s face. “I was there,” I told him. “I saw it with my own eyes. The napalm. The fire. The wretched screams of burning children. Even I, the devil, could never forget. And through those flames I saw all around me. I saw no god. No goodness. No sign of a heavenly reprieve. There was only the cry of the many followed by silence. Death was their only salvation. Is that your god? If so, then your god is no better than me.”

I punched the Preacher on the stomach. As he writhed on the ground and grasped for air, I reached into his smock and lifted his wallet. Inside was sixty bucks in three $20s. I took one twenty dollar bill and dropped the rest onto his chest. “I left you forty bucks,” I told him. “That’s more than what your god left those children in Da Nang. Thanks for the cigarette.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 33)

Lines formed on his forehead as he chewed on his thumbnail. “Uh, when did this happen?”

“A couple of days ago. In downtown Vicksburg. Since you haven’t been by the house in a few days, I hadn’t had the chance to tell ya.”

“Okay, well, did they catch the guy who did it?”

“No. It was two men apparently.”

“Two men? No mention of a priest?”

“No. Why would a priest be involved?”

“Forget it. I don’t suppose they got a good look at the two men, did they?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shit.”

“Also Jerry, a couple of Oak Ridge officers stopped by the house looking for you.”

It was all beginning to click. His heart sank to his feet and he struggled to get out his words. “Oak Ridge, eh? So uh, what do they want with me?”

“They said they was just needin to talk to ya.”

“What did you tell em?”

“I said I hadn’t seen you in a couple of days. I told em you’re usually at the jail on Saturday nights.”

Fornier’s hands began to shake. He opened the flask and emptied it into his mouth. Then he cleared his throat and attempted to end the conversation. “Alright, thanks Ma. Talk to you later..”

“Wait! Your father wanted me to tell you…,” but the phone was already nestled in its cradle. The deputy jumped to his feet, took out his keys, and unlocked the line of shotguns aligned along the office backwall. He took one out, dug through the cabinets, and loaded it with buckshots. Then he called Deputy Simpson in. “Take one of these,” he said to him, offering a shotgun.

“What the hell is going on?!” Simpson yelled.

“I just received a uh, terroristic threat to the jailhouse.”

“Well shouldn’t we call Dirk?”

“No!” Fornier shouted with an unexpected ferocity. Seeing the shocked expression on his partner’s face, Fornier took a breather. “It’s alright Simpson,” he explained calmly, “I can effectively neutralize the situation on my own. I just need you to sit up and be on the lookout.”

“For what exactly?”

“Anything suspicious. Radio me if you see sumthin. I’m gonna head out to the tool crib for a few minutes, okay? I won’t be long.”

Fornier bolted for the rear entrance, past the basketball court, and out towards the shed just beyond the gate. Once inside, he looked for anything flammable and threw all he could find into an undersized wheelbarrow. When he was finished, he rushed the wheelbarrow to the front of the jailhouse and as he did, crap would occasionally fall out of it. But once on the front porch, he dug through his gatherings. He attempted to recall some tricks he learned from his ordinance days in Vietnam. Simpson stepped out onto the porch, shotgun in hand, and watched his fellow deputy move manically. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked him.

“Go back inside!” ordered Fornier. “Get me whatever munitions you can find!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Not another shit post!

Fuck you!

I don’t have the time to write you an essay every day! Who do I look like?

Susan Sontag?!

As a spry 102 year old, I have mouths to feed: five kids in the states and another family I started in Vietnam while in the Marines (during the 90s, of course). So my time is VERY valuable.

That being said, one thing I find very satisfying is a good performance on screen. Even if it’s a minor role. So while I was sitting on my ass, at work, and watching the second best James Bond film (with Timothy Dalton) -License to Kill– I was reminded of an actress that understood the assignment and nailed it: Teresa Blake.

Don’t remember her? She played the role as “ticket agent” at the airport when Bond was moving on to his next assignment. The place was covered with police officers and she informs 007 that “some big drug dealer just escaped.” Understanding what that meant, Bond rushes away, leaving her hanging. “Your ticket!” she exclaimed.

This was the best performance of the movie. Yes, even better than Robert Davi’s.

Teresa Blake went above and beyond what the role called for. I’m sure director John Glen and producer Michael G. Wilson simply told her “just look hot and say the lines.” But Blake (probably) told them to stick that piece of direction up their ass because she was gonna add some subtly to the role.

Usually in these small exchanges, the attractive woman is supposed to ogle James Bond. But that’s not what Blake does. Instead she plays it like she’s just doing her job. She couldn’t care less that a “big drug dealer just escaped” and that there’s a tall, handsome British agent standing in front of her. Yet even then, her delivery of the “escaped” line fits in perfectly with the James Bond Universe. Blake is aware of why she was cast and leans into it. She plays it like a Bond girl without the needless sexual innuendos.

But her finest moment was the delivery of “Your ticket!” Clearly John Glen saw what I saw. He could have easily put that line on the cutting room floor but left it in because Blake absolutely sold it.

So shout out to Teresa Blake. It’s a shame that she doesn’t have more credits but at least we have her 20 seconds in License to Kill.