Stiff Proposition

Crime Fiction by Scotch Rutherford

(Graphic Language and Sex Warning)

June 6, 1980

The Hungry Tiger was a voracious predator with a blood-soaked mappina around its neck. In the red it said: Restaurant and Seafood Oyster Bar.

“You’re gonna love this place,” Giovanni Russo told his cousin, as they pulled into the lot off Sepulveda, out by LAX. When they got out, Dominic “Opti” Russo might’ve slammed the passenger side door a little hard.

“Take it easy, huh?” Giovanni said, waving his hand up and down at his black Coupe Deville. “That’s pearl black, you faggot. Hardest paint to match, and I just got it do.

“I’m sorry,” Opti said. “My apologies.”

“Just, you know,” Giovanni said. “Respect the car.”

Giovanni was as polished as the finish on his car. In a charcoal luminous silk Armani double breasted suit, a matching shirt and tie that couldn’t decide whether they were gray or lavender. Gold cuff links, an 18k Rolex Presidential, and alligator loafers, with his hair slicked back close, like he’d used virgin olive oil. He looked like a Hollywood wiseguy. Because he was. He’d snagged himself a minor role in The Godfather, when Frank Costello himself had made Francis Coppola an offer he couldn’t refuse. But Giovanni had never held the faces of burning saints in his hands, or had his finger pricked in tribute. He’d never taken the oath. He’d never been made. He’d never been ordered to kill. The few times Giovanni had dropped the hammer, it’d been of his own accord. But Giovanni was slick, and he knew how to get what he wanted. He had one foot in the life, and one foot in entertainment. For that, Opti was jealous.

“Yeah, fine.” Opti said. “You know your interior’s polished pink leather, right?”

“So what?” Giovanni said.

“So did you buy it off a pimp? it looks like a spook whore’s wet cunt.”

Giovanni cocked an eyebrow. “You ever been up in a spook whore’s wet cunt?”

“’Course I have,” Opti said. “We both have, remember?”

Giovanni flashed pearly incisors. “Best sixteenth birthday I could of asked for. Your idea.”

“Uncle Pete got the room,” Opti said.

“Yeah, but you picked out the whore,” Giovanni said.

“She had a nice nose. Like Pam Grier,” Opti said.

“I’ll never forget what you pulled, you sick sunovabitch.”

“What?” Opti said.

“You know what.” Giovanni said. “When she was riding me like a cowgirl, and you popped in the back door!”

“Couldn’t resist a booty like that.” Opti said.

“Puttana nera! The look on her face!” Giovanni said. “Fuckin’ priceless.

“We cream-filled that chocolate cannoli from both ends.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” Giovanni said. “Never told anybody about that.”

“Why?” Opti said. “C’mon, you’re a Hollywood guy—fuckin’ with the kinky show biz broads.”

“Yeah, but c’mon,” Giovanni said. “Our coglioni touched. We’re talkin’ finocchio, here.”

“I thought we were talkin’ spook broads,” Opti said.

“Who’s talkin’ spook broads—I ever tell you about the broad I bagged in Kenya?” a voice said, swooping in from behind Opti and Giovanni.

“Mitch Cobray,” Giovanni said, grabbing and cranking the little mustached man’s hand. “The man himself. This is my cousin, Dominic.”

Opti shook his hand, “Pleasure.”

“This place is good as they say?” Cobray said.

“Better,” Giovanni said. “They got fresh Maine Lobster.”

“No kidding?” Cobray said.

“Actual Maine Lobsters. Not those giant water bugs they feed you out here.” Giovanni said. “Pilots own the joint. They get flown in daily.”

“So what happened with that broad in Kenya?” Opti said.

“Oh,” Cobray said, the words jogging his memory. “Funny thing. I thought she gave me Herpes. Turned out I had a bad reaction to her coarse pubic mound.”

“Like fuckin’ steel wool,” Opti said. “Chaffing’s the price of admission.”

***

Mitchell Livingston Cobray the third, had a thick, neatly trimmed, black mustache that curled at the ends like a silent movie villain, and intense, beady dark eyes. The son of a Russian Colonel, he was a former OSS Operator, who’d developed silencers, flash suppressors, and a handful of submachine guns for several international weapons manufacturers. He’d even been featured last year on ABC’s 20/20. He was also a drug trafficker, a mercenary, and Larry Flint’s personal bodyguard. To Opti he sounded like G. Gordon Liddy, and had a scent like parfumed smelling salts.

“It’s a sweet deal, really,” Cobray said. “We’re talking a no-bid contract, here.”

“So you’re going to need one of my customs stooges down at the port,” Giovanni said.

“Ultimately,” Cobray said. “But one step at a time.”

Two lifeless husks of boiled crustacean shells sat on plates in front of Giovanni, and Mitch Cobray.

“I feel like a mechanic, here,” Opti said, tearing a limb off his lobster, then piercing the shell to get at the meat.

“You’re the one from Boston,” Giovanni said. “Thought you ate these things all the time.”

“I prefer steamers—clams,” Opti said.

“Wish you’d said something,” Giovanni said. “I could’ve saved twenty bucks.”

“I don’t think you understand how big this deal is,” Cobray said. “How expensive the product is.”

“We’re talking blow, right?” Opti said.

“Not exactly,” Giovanni said.

“Biologicals.” Cobray said to Opti.

Giovanni provided Opti with the translation his eyes were looking for. “Germ Warfare.”

“Forgive me, but I’m feeling a little discombobulated here,” Opti said. “You’re looking to grease the wheels at the port? Is that it?”

“It’s slightly more complicated,” Cobray said.

“You know, whenever one of you government types says something like that, I feel like I need to have a lawyer present to translate,” Opti said. “Complicated how?”

“Break it down for him, Mitch,” Giovanni said.

“First of all,” Cobray said. “I’m a civilian. Therefore, I’m a businessman.”

“Now I feel a whole lot better,” Opti said.

“It’s really very simple,” Cobray said. “I’m the go-between leveraging a deal with the lab that engineered the biological, and a commercial pharmaceutical company back east. The pharmaceutical company has ties with Washington, and therefore has first dibs on a government contract with DARPA.”

“To kill the commies?” Opti said.

“In a manor. Yes.” Cobray said.

“Always with the double speak, these guys,” Opti said.

“It involves destabilizing the region by outfitting the Mujahideen rebels with arms, while providing tainted vaccinations and medical supplies to the Red Army. The details would bore you. But yes, to kill the commies.”

Opti looked at his watch.

“You runnin’ late?” Giovanni asked.

“Nah. Hour.” Opti said. “We’re good.” He turned back to Cobray, and said. “And this involves us how?”

“What I need from you and your cousin, is insurance that the contract goes through. We’ve had a minor setback. A loose end,” Cobray said.

“And this competing faction you mentioned…” Giovanni said.

“That’s not your concern,” Cobray said. “I’ll deal with that myself.”

“What loose end?” Opti said.

“Tell him,” Giovanni said

“You’re asking me my business now, pal?” Opti said. “What the fuck? You government spooks and your clandestine ops. Your top-secret bullshit. And you’ve got the nerve to ask me about my business? Giovanni, am I right? This fuckin’ prick probably knows who whacked Kennedy, for fuck’s sake.”

“I do.” Cobray said.

“Okay. I—this, I don’t know what the fuck this is, but I’ve got business. I’ve got to go,” Opti said, unfolding his husky frame, and standing over the table.

“If you’re going to meet Jackson Steel, then it is my business,” Cobray said.

“Unfucking believable,” Opti said.

“Look, Dominic,” Giovanni said. “I know he’s your friend from the neighborhood—”

“This is about the vig, isn’t it—I can’t fucking believe this,” Opti said. “What does this guy want some sort of buy-in? What’d you promise him? Fifty grand?”

“There’s no buy-in Dom,” Giovanni said. “We’re getting the commission.”

“Were you gonna tell me about any of this?” Opti said, glaring at Giovanni.

“I’m tellin’ you now….” Giovanni said.

“Gentlemen, please.” Cobray turned to Opti and said, “I don’t give a damn about your money. Mr. Steel is in possession of a letter that can be used as leverage against the pharmaceutical company that produced the biological.”

“What’s it say?” Opti said.

“What does what say?” Cobray said.

“Make it snappy,” Opti said. “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got another appointment.”

“With who?” Cobray said.

Opti’s left eyebrow cocked. “Excuse me?”

That’s when Giovanni raised his hand up and showed Opti his palm.

“The letter,” Opti said.

“The contents of the letter are inconsequential,” Cobray said. “It’s a letter from Columbia University. It’s notarized and signed by a Doctor Wolf Smarzoch.”

“And what does it say?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Cobray said. “You know all you need to know.”

“It’s because they tested it on civilians,” Opti said, shifting his glare to Giovanni, then panning back to Cobray. “Isn’t it?”

Cobray glared back, maliciously. “No one of any consequence.”

Opti glared at Giovanni, who looked away.

“Don’t pretend for a second that you give a damn about any of those casualties,” Cobray said.

Opti leaned in, and clutched the table on either side of Cobray, and glared down at the little mustached man, whose eyes had slightly widened. and then in a low guttural growl, he said, “Listen you little fuck, I know for a fact that whatever you’re getting to broker this deal, is a whole lot more than you’re offering me and my cousin.”

Cobray turned back to Giovanni. “We had a deal.”

“LOOK AT ME,” Opti said.

The chatter in the dining room died down, and for once Opti could hear the juke. A Little Less Conversation from the king himself. His outburst had caught the attention of several other tables. One nuclear family with a kid in a highchair looked on intently.

Cobray glared back, this time his eyes had narrowed, and beamed a frightening focus and intensity. Without raising his voice, he said. “Son, I can see the blood on your hands from here. But underneath that sharp suit, you’re soft and entitled. I’ve seen combat conditions your Hollywood movies couldn’t even begin to explore.” His hate mongering glare intensified. “And I’ve sent more people to hell than you’ve even met. Now sit down.”

“Sit down, Dom,” Giovanni said.

Opti let go of the table, stood up, and then sat back down. His palms were greasy with sweat, and his face was still full of rage. Conversations in the dining room resumed, drowning out the juke.

“My cousin’s right,” Giovanni said. “We have a deal, but you held out on us.”

“I stipulated we had a setback,” Cobray said.

“Yeah,” Giovanni said. “But you didn’t say what it was. Now I’m not going to even speculate what you’re getting for this deal. And even if you told me, I wouldn’t believe you. But our end just doubled. Now it’s two hundred k. Fifty k up front, the rest when you secure the contract.”

“If he’s seen the letter,” Cobray said. “It might be easier for all parties involved…”

“Don’t push it,” Opti said.

Opti and Giovanni glared at Cobray, whose face softened, gesturing goodwill.

“I can live with that,” Cobray said.

“Good. You can wire the fifty when you get back to Atlanta. Twenty-four hours?”

“Done,” Cobray said. He shook Giovanni’s hand, then held his hand out over the table, offering it to Opti. Opti took a deep breath, exhaled with punctuation, then gripped Cobray’s hand, and shook it.

“Gentlemen,” Cobray said, getting to his feet.

Both men stood, and Opti watched the small malevolent man walk out.

Giovanni and Opti sat back down.

Giovanni gripped his cousin’s arm. “That little fuck runs two counter terrorism schools: Cobray international, in Atlanta, and Cobray Command, in Springfield, Alabama. He’s got a literal army of mercenaries, and enough munitions and automatic weapons to support the coup of a third world fucking country. That’s the guy who told me about what happened to Marilyn.”

Giovanni had met Marilyn Monroe at age fifteen. When he walked out of her hotel room at the Waldorf, in ’59 he had every wiseguys’ respect, including Frank Costello. Three years later she was dead. He’d even told Giovanni who did it, a guy known simply as “the doctor”—and why he’d been given the order to snuff her out. Marilyn never got the chance to run her mouth to the press about fucking Bobby and Jack, who also got disappeared soon after.

“That’s the thing about crossing powerful people, when they’ve already cut you in,” Giovanni said. “Imagine if you’d cornered a boss like that.”

“We’d both be in the trunk of your mulignan cunt of a Cadillac.” Opti said.

Giovanni had a plan. He was going to open the hottest club in Vegas, and he was going to cut Opti in. He had Dionne Warwick lined up to be his business partner out front, and Opti would be his silent partner behind the scenes.

“That slippery little bastard is dangerous,” Giovanni said. “Let’s get him what he wants, get our money, and get him the fuck out of our lives. Vegas is calling.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Better get to that meeting with your friend.”

***

Gold chains slithered between tufts of black and silver chest hair that illuminated Opti’s fat, greasy tanned body like tinsel, as he laid by the pool, in nothing but designer trunks, and his Porsche Carrera sunglasses. He and Giovanni had been waiting all morning for Cobray to return the call, and had decided by eleven AM, they’d rather wait in style. Each with a tall glass of Planter’s Punch. Giovanni, who was single, had recently started renting out his pool house to a couple of gap year Beverly Hills coeds—one ride each per day got them away from their asshole parents, room, board and access to the fridge. Jocelyn and Calista, two topless, synthetically endowed legal teens, blasted their eardrums with new wave synth from the headsets of their $150 Sony Walkmans, while they aged by the minute in the harsh So Cal sun. Practically catatonic, lying on their backs, designer thongs riding up their tight young vaginas.

The cordless phone went off, and Opti picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“It’s Jackson.”

“You calling from the airport?” Opti said.

“Nah. Got some complications.”

“Oh yeah?”

“That package?”

“Ashes to ashes.”

“Good.”

“So what’s up?”

“You said anything. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Opti said. “I remember.”

“Who’s that?” Giovanni said.

“Jackson Steel,” Opti said.

“What’s he want?” Giovanni said. “Not the fuckin’ letter?”

Opti covered the receiver, and laid it all out. The kid had come through last night asking for a favor. He needed to get rid of a package. Giovanni read him loud and clear. But most importantly, Jackson had handed over the letter. Smooth as lube.

“Somebody got pictures,” Jackson said. “From last night.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Opti said.

“He got the plate number and everything,” Jackson said. “Wants to trade the negatives for the letter. Can you talk?”

“Not here,” Opti said. “Where are you?”

“The office,” Jackson said. “Can you be here in 30?”

Opti twisted his wrist, got a look at the hands on the black face on his two-tone Rolex Oyster Perpetual. “Better make it 45.”

“Okay. I’m in a bad space here. You know what needs to be done.” Jackson said.

Giovanni barked, “Hey, tell him to fuck off, already. He’s clogging up the line…”

Opti covered the mouthpiece on the receiver, until Giovanni was finished, then replied, “No problem. See you soon,” and ended the call.

“What’s he want?” Giovanni said. “Better not be that fuckin’ letter.”

“Nah,” Opti said. “Just something I gotta take care of. It’s nothing.”

“Well hurry up and get back here, Dom,” Giovanni said. “When Snidely Whiplash calls—”

“If he calls,” Opti said. “Motherfucker’s three hours late.”

“When he calls,” Giovanni said. “We got to move.”

“Mhmm,” One of the bronzed teens mumbled, as she rolled over onto her stomach, revealing her firm, oiled buttocks.

“I’ll be fine here, until you get back,” Giovanni said.

Opti showered, and threw on a gray suit, and a clean white shirt, with no tie. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he yelled to Giovanni, from the sliding glass door, then walked through the kitchen, into the den, and opened the top drawer of Giovanni’s desk, where he’d stashed the letter. Then he grabbed the .45 sitting beside it, palmed his keys off the kitchen table, and headed for the door.

The pile of mail stopped him inside the rear entryway. On top was the latest issue of Playboy. Dorothy Stratton was on the cover. Ola Marie Ray was the centerfold. He’s been sandwiched between them last night at The Cockatoo Inn. Ebony and Ivory. He’d made his choice. He’d stepped out to meet Jackson in the parking lot, and sure as shit, Giovanni cockblocked him with Ola Ray. So instead of him, his cousin got to parallel park with the hottest colored girl this side of the Mississippi. Two scoops of chocolate ice cream. The best rear ending a 39-year-old guinea could have hoped for.

On a whim Opti doubled back for the letter.

***

Jocelyn Wagner rolled over onto her back. Oiled up in her maroon bikini, she looked like ‘an oven fresh cinnamon roll’, Giovanni had told her. She looked over at him. He must’ve been asleep. Bronzed up, and glistening. Hairy and greasy, with salt and pepper (mostly pepper still) hair. But like, not a bad body for an old dude. Calista called him Uncle G. Their parents would’ve called him Mr. Russo, but that’s what made it fun. He was totally an old perv. So pervy. And honestly, when she had to make it with him, she was always like so high. High as fuck. But he was a chill older dude who like gave them money and let them crash, so it was okay for now. Plus, one thing she loved doing with him, was holding and pulling on his hard cock. He had a big cock for an old man. The way he looked at her was so unbelievably pervy. It was like she owned him in that moment. And when they were all high, she and Calista would laugh like so hard, when she would jerk him off. Then she’d stop, and he’d just look at her like a dog begging. It was like, really funny. If you were high. She felt her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten. Like anything real since…Wow, since last night.

“Call Me”, by Blondie blasted through her ears. She hadn’t called Chas for like a week. He had a funny laugh, and totally cute longish rocker hair. He was in Malibu. She couldn’t tell him, like where she was staying though, because he’d tell Mandy. And then Mandy would like tell everyone. Plus she’d ask if Giovanni had old man balls. She was so scared in the beginning that like he would, which would be sooo gross. Like balls are gross anyway, but sagging old man balls? But like, he didn’t so it wasn’t so bad.

Jocelyn reached under Giovanni’s beach chair and grabbed the cordless phone. He was asleep, he wouldn’t miss it. Then she got up, slipped on her flip flops, and walked towards the kitchen.

Calista was in front of the fridge, carving off a slice of cherry cheesecake, when Jocelyn slipped in through the sliding door. Calista had a big glob of frosting on her thumb, and she gave Jocelyn that look when she was licking it off. That look Me Ling gave Felicity in the steam room before they did it. Felicity was a far-out movie. She blamed her liking girls totally on that movie. But it was probably some phase. Like on some Masters & Johnson type level. Calista looked so good. Calista had beautiful, full lips, and like the hottest dark green eyes. That like green that Bentleys come in.

Jocelyn pulled her headphones down around her neck, Debby Harry still wailing out of the Walkman she had clipped to her thong G-string. She stood in front of Calista a full three seconds before closing in.

Calista still had the knife in her hand when she wrapped her lips around Joselyn’s. Joceyln reached around and grabbed Calista’s ass, the way all the guys totally did whenever they kissed her.

***

Giovanni reached for his glass, to finish off the last round of his Planter’s Punch. When he did, he realized both the teenage skanks had left the pool, and one of them had snagged the phone. He needed that fuckin’ phone.

Giovanni got up, took his glass—might as well get another drink, while he was at it. When he opened the sliding door into the kitchen, he froze. The two teen tramps were locked in a sensual kiss right out of one of Jackson Steel’s porno movies. No need to break up the party. He’d let it go on another minute or so and let the tent pole in his trunks keep rising.

***

Jocelyn caught him staring out of one eye but didn’t let that stop her. She fed into his gaze and started squeezing and massaging Calista’s gorgeous tits. Then she pulled her lips off Calista’s and started sucking on her nipples, as Calista moaned in ecstasy, with her eyes shut, and her head leaning back. When Calista’s eyes flipped back open she caught him staring lecherously, popping wood from his trunks.

“Uncle G!?” Calista said, playfully. Jocelyn pulled her lips off of Calista’s nipples that were now as hard as thimbles.

Giovanni walked towards the fridge. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“You totally ruined a moment, Uncle G,” Calista said.

“Yeah. Totally,” Jocelyn said.

He walked up behind Calista, and said to Jocelyn, “I need that phone, sweetie.”

“Want to call my boyfriend,” Jocelyn said.

“Uncle G!” Calista said, flashing Jocelyn a playful look of surprise. His boner was totally poking her butt.

“It’s gonna have to wait,” Giovanni said. “I gotta have that line open.”

“After I call him,” Jocelyn said. “It’ll be super quick.”

“No. Now,” Giovanni said. “Give it.”

“No.” Jocelyn said.

“Listen you little shit,” Giovanni said. “I’m not askin’. Now. I need that fuckin’ phone! Right…”

Giovanni froze with fear in mid-sentence, when he caught sight of a tall ominous figure mid-stride between the back door, and him and the girls. Dark glasses, a dark gray jacket. His right arm raising up a .45 with a silencer.

“Fuck you, you dirty old dago fuck!” Jocelyn spat. “Who the fucking hell…”

Jocelyn’s left eye exploded as the bullet passed through her brain and took out a tiny chunk of Calista’s neck. Calista shrieked in blood curdling horror as Jocelyn’s body collapsed on top of her. A red dot fell onto Callista’s chest as the gunman moved forward. Callista watched Jocelyn’s beautiful limp body drop onto the floor, and she felt nothing but unbridled rage. She raised the frosting-covered knife as high as she could wind it back, and lunged towards the man with the gun.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!”, Calista shrieked like a harpy, as her chest exploded with gunfire. Before she dropped, she managed to hack into the gunman’s chin, before plunging into a bloody heap onto the kitchen floor.

***

Giovanni was more terrified than he’d ever been. There was nothing he could do for the girls. There was nothing he could do now but save his own ass. Ironically, that’s what ran through his mind as he bolted, at the sound of Calista’s war cry. It was a straight shot from the kitchen to the front door. Give me three steps. Give me three steps, Mister…Could have been his theme. He knew it was a long time coming. He’d made too many unauthorized moves over the years. Cutting bosses out of tribute, whacking people without permission. He’d just figured when his time came, it would’ve been Dom…As he pulled the front door open, he heard the phone ring…Then felt his right ass cheek explode. He led with his left, but when his right foot came down on the front steps, he collapsed, and plunged right into the mailman, on the sidewalk.

A woman walking her Shitzu froze at the sight of a middle-aged sunbather moaning and bleeding from his rear end.

A buxom blonde jogger wearing a headband, in a low-cut leotard stopped midstride, and stood over Giovanni as he rolled over on top of the mailman, who was in shock.

“I think he’s been shot,” the woman with the Shitzu said.

Giovanni howled in pain.

“Oh my god,” the buxom jogger said. “Sir, are you okay?”

What a bimbo. What does it look like? he would’ve said, if he could speak. Giovanni stared up at her. His dick was still poking out of his shorts. He could see down the top of her leotard, and thought to himself, this isn’t the worst way to go.

Bio: Scotch Rutherford writes about dark corners between the bright lights. He is the author of the novella, “The Roach King of Paradise”, available in the collection: L.A. Stories: Three Grindhouse Novellas. Some of his short fiction has appeared in Pulp Modern, Bull, and Crimeucopia: Crank it Up and The Yard. He lives in Los Angeles.

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