Getting Ugly (3 page)

Brobee’s new ride slows down to a crawl, then rolls to a stop as “Radar Love” shuts off.

“Fuck.”

Brobee exits, nothing for miles but trees, crickets and moonlight. He fumbles around the glove box and finds a flashlight. He hears a muffled noise coming from the trees far away. Distant, but it almost sounds like someone is there.

“Hello?” Brobee asks the dark.

The sound comes from deep within the woods. Brobee hates this: still half-buzzed, alone in the wild, no gas, had to bail the motel without his cell, and his only food is that extra bag of nuts he swiped from the plane. He moves into the heavy woods with the flashlight in hand.

After what seems like hours of pushing through this dark maze of bark and vegetation, Brobee’s out of breath. He’s been at this awhile, and hasn’t begun his exercise program yet. That’s tomorrow, he reminds himself as he leans on a tree.

The sound has stopped. Brobee asks, “Hello?” Nothing. Complete silence greets him from the darkness in every direction.

Dense.

Claustrophobic.

This sucks and I’m not happy.

Then the sound is back. This time it’s much louder and sounds like it’s just up ahead; sounds a lot like singing, actually.

What the fuck?

Brobee pushes through the seemingly endless forest until he finally reaches a clearing.

“Thank Christ,” Brobee exhales. He’s saved. He’s so excited and happy he starts to bounce a bit. The singing continues, belting an almost operatic version of AC/DC.

Brobee strains to get a good look at something out into the distance. Something located in a large clearing has grabbed his attention by the throat. He freezes, not believing what his eyes are reporting back to his brain. He mutters to himself, “Is that? No. No fuckin’ way.”

Confusion fills his feeble mind as recognition shakes his flimsy body. Pure fear mixed with terror, topped off with an asshole clenching panic. Lips tremble. Eyes twitch. Flashlight drops.

He hears the sound of water trickling. Looking down, he sees piss rolling down his leg splashing all over the flashlight—so terrified he didn’t even notice he was pissing himself. A new low, even for Brobee. All of this, the twitching, trembling, pissing…all of it because of what is up ahead in the clearing.

Brobee unleashes the scream of thousand girly men as he hauls ass back into the woods, running for his life. With no regard for his body, he bounces off trees, falls, skids, slides, and claws his way through the darkness, maintaining his feminine wail throughout his frantic journey to safety. Bat outta hell style, Brobee flies from the woods and lands sprawled in the road. A truck skids to a stop inches from plastering him. A portly driver steps out, but the nice guy doesn’t even get the chance ask
“Are you okay?”
before Brobee jumps him. He puts a foot to the driver’s balls and a knee to his chin, then steals his truck.

Brobee lets the tires peel as he continues his screaming, tears streaming and fists beating the dashboard. At the airport parking lot he brings the stolen truck to a skidding stop, leaving the engine running as he bolts for the terminal with arms flailing.

After the plane takes off, Brobee gulps down two Jack Daniel’s mini bottles, skips the Coke. He sniffle-cries between breaths like a two-year-old. Far from okay, but at least he’s not screaming or pissing himself. Calming down he tries to think. The wheels in his head turn as he takes a moment to piece together what he saw.

Correction.

Who
he saw.

B
robee flies through the doors of the dark, nasty bar with purpose, ignoring everything in his path. It’s a hardcore drinker’s bar, where people throw a few back while minding their own business…until there’s an opportunity to kill or fuck someone. A dirty mirror clings to the wall behind the bar, tattered bras hung with care like a rainbow. A burly, aging bartender wipes down glasses with a rag that looks like used Charmin. He pulls down the tail of his flannel shirt to cover the .38 tucked in his waistband.

The bartender tries to stop Brobee. “Hey, asshole!” But nothing can stop him as he burns a trail to a back room, throwing open the reinforced steel door.

He enters a room that serves both as an office and criminal playpen and finds Rasnick, Oleg and Vig playing pool. Nothing shocks these guys, but even they are a bit taken aback at seeing Brobee here.

Brobee runs toward them, forgetting these guys tried to kill him not long ago. Rasnick’s punch to the face reminds him quickly. Brobee stumbles back, then tries to sooth the mood of the room. “Let me talk…” Rasnick slams a pool stick to Brobee’s gut, followed by a fist to the jaw. Brobee drops to a knee and screams, “Wait!” Before Brobee has a chance to utter another word, two 9mms are jammed into his skull.

“Please listen, motherfuckers,” yelps Brobee.

“Really, guy?” Rasnick slaps him.

Hammers pull back.

“I got something, fuckheads.”

Earns another slap.

Oleg and Vig tighten their trigger fingers.

“I found Big Ugly!”

The room goes quiet. Oleg and Vig look to each other. They know the name, and that name scares the shit out of even them. Rasnick lowers himself to eye level with Brobee. “You mind repeating that?”

“Big Ugly,” Brobee pants. “I know where he is.”

“Bullshit,” barks Oleg.

“He knows shit,” agrees Vig.

Rasnick looks into Brobee’s eyes trying to get a read. “How do I know, huh? How do I know?”

“Oh, fuck you. When have I ever lied to you…”

Rasnick slaps him again.

“Fine, fine. Okay, I’ve lied. But I’m telling you the truth.” Brobee gets to his feet. Oleg and Vig keep their guns on his head. While adjusting his shirt Brobee unfortunately feels the need to say, “Now, if you cocksucking faggots aren’t interested in finding the biggest prize on the planet, then maybe you could go fuck yourselves.”

Not well received.

An avalanche of fists and feet rain down on Brobee. He’s beaten to the floor, curling into a ball covering his face with his arms. This is a defensive stance that Brobee has perfected over the years. Rasnick, Oleg and Vig take turns kicking the various parts of Brobee still available.

“Stop,” barks a commanding voice from a dark corner of the room.

Rasnick, Oleg and Vig follow the order, immediately pulling back as if scalded. Out of the dark wheels a man in a chair. Face covered with burns and scars, the man looks as if he was pulled from an industrial accident seconds before death. He wears a suit and tie, partly to keep a certain level of respect, but mainly to cover up his disfigured body. His legs are useless, but he opted for multiple surgeries to avoid amputation. This is fifty-year-old crime lord, Doren.

Doren eyes Brobee carefully, trying to assess if he can believe this man. “Tell me everything.”

Brobee swallows big at the sight of Doren. He knows not many people actually get to speak to this man…or at least not many live after speaking to this man. He nods and begins to explain. “Big Ugly. I swear to whateverthefuck you worship, Doren, I can give you Big Ugly—spin the wheel, let’s make a deal.”

Doren’s hard stare burns through Brobee. Bubbling rage spikes through him as Doren’s memory flips through a ton of pain and unpleasantness. Big Ugly left Doren scarred from head to toe, but it’s the unseen scars that truly eat away at Doren. His eyes stop just short of popping as he commands, “Call a meeting.”

D
oren, a king on wheels, rolls across the floor of a gorgeous penthouse hotel suite, Rasnick pushing the chair with Vig and Oleg close behind. It’s a room tailored for the illusion of royalty: crystal, glass, brass, oak, fresh flowers. All at the price tag of ten grand a day.

Doren is focused, mind churning behind cold eyes that burn with a hate that few will ever know. They glide past the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the LA skyline. A family of fifteen could live here, quite comfortably. You could feed a small country for the price of the art hanging on the walls. Rasnick eyes a painting closely—he’s pretty sure he can lift it out of here without a problem.

They stop as they reach a dining room that holds massive, circular granite table. Seated at the table are the other three crime bosses of Los Angeles. Knights in the round. Nothing happens in this town without these guys and Doren earning a piece of it. Outside of a random domestic violence case here and there, there isn’t a drop of blood spilled in LA without these guys knowing about it. These are the lords of the city.

Cherrito: middle-aged Latino hood, but worth multi-millions.

Bosko: fifty-something, full-fledged Irish mob.

Waingrow: late sixties, but tough as nails with style and class—his blue hearing aid even matches his tie.

Doren is wheeled to the front of the table, as he should be. Doren has the respect of the room and he has earned it, the hard way. Rasnick, Oleg and Vig take their places against the wall. Dorn addresses the room. “Thank you for your timely response. I called you here to discuss an urgent matter that concerns all of us. Today, right now, someone can lead us to Big Ugly.”

The mood at the table turns electric, tension gravy-thick. It’s as if Doren just announced that Lucifer is alive and well. Waingrow rubs his ear, adjusting his hearing aid to get it just right—wants to make sure that the guys outside got all that.

Parked outside the hotel is a standard, non-descript, trying-hard-not-to-be-noticed van. Inside the metal cube of a workspace is wall-to-wall surveillance equipment. Stacks and stacks of Federal tax dollar funded audio and video equipment. The van’s interior is dark save for the bouncing red and green levels, B&W images light up the screens.

Two G-Men watch, soaking it all in. Cooper stands behind a tech, paying close attention to everything the young lad does. Shitty coffee in hand, they listen in on the crime lords’ penthouse suite conversation.

Cooper’s blood pressure flares at the words Big Ugly.

Over his headphones he strains to listen, wanting each and every word. He presses the headphones tight to his ears with his fingertips as Bosko says, “Big Ugly. That’s a name I’d love to fuckin’ forget.”

The tech, too young to know what’s what, asks, “Who? Big what?”

Cooper doesn’t bother explaining. “Grab me a cup of coffee, would ya?”

“Cooper, you’ve got a full…”

“How about you get the fuck outta here.”

The tech understands that. He gets up immediately, thinks of asking how Cooper wants his coffee, but thinks better of it and exits. Cooper takes a seat, and with laser focus pushes the headphones even tighter. If he could shove them into his brain, he would. He picks up a small mic that gives him a direct line into Waingrow’s hearing aid; a nice link to Waingrow’s head whenever he wants it.

Cooper listens in as Doren explains. “A degenerate named Brobee stumbled across Big Ugly. Simply blind luck and, after some negotiations, he has agreed to lead us to him.”

Cooper speaks low into the handset. “Clear your throat if you hear me, butt fucker.”

Waingrow grinds his teeth. He thinks about how long he’s been at this game and never got picked up on anything. Nothing. Not one damn thing. Then, at his age no less, he gets tagged on some bullshit gambling bit. Just because some bitch got nervous and blabbed. He broke one of his steadfast rules: always pay for pussy. Paid pussy keeps quiet. But Waingrow got soft; he actually liked that waitress with the green eyes and big knockers. And what does he have to show for it? He’s sitting here with these good people, people he’s known forever, and he has to fuck them.

He’s forced to snap out of his pity party as he hears Cooper in his ear again. “Hello, butt fucker? Clear your throat if you hear me. Butt fucker?” Waingrow clears his throat, clears his head, then says, “Think we all can agree our lives would be better if we never met Big Ugly.” He hates himself, but the table bought it.

Bosko sounds off, anger-fueled tears about to flow. “Soulless, shady, fucking…”

Cherrito interrupts. “Motherfuckin’ misery master is what he is. There’s no God while Big Ugly roams the earth.”

Bosko raises his right hand; he’s missing three fingers. “Monster took my digits.”

Doren regains control of the table. “True. We’ve all lost something to Big Ugly.” Nobody there has to dig too deep to recall a
favorite
Big Ugly memory.

There was that sunny SoCal afternoon in a Ralphs parking lot when some heavy-hitting, gun-toting bad boys took down an armored car in a broad daylight. Guards were on the ground hog-tied, bags of money being thrown into a getaway van. It was an easy peasy job for Bosko’s people. Until a wall of bullets carved them all to hell. Bosko’s men dropped. No last words. No death rattle. Just a pile of dead bad boys. All the carnage was done by a lone, at the time anonymous, “Dark Figure” who scooped up the money bags and took off without a trace. A mysterious thief of thieves.

Then there was that time at Cherrito’s little grow house outside of Manhattan Beach. He had a team of topless immigrants working day and night, surgical masks over their faces, gloves over their hands, nothing over their chests. Mixing. Bagging. Processing. A goon with a sawed-off manning the door, an accountant with an industrial money-counting machine to keep track of the stacks upon stacks of dead presidents.

Then, without warning, a knife slammed down through the top of the goon’s skull, blood spurting out like Old Faithful. The accountant took a few pops to the face from a Colt. That same Dark Figure grabbed the bloodstained money, but before leaving wiped the crimson hundreds across the surgical mask and bare breasts of one of the trembling immigrants. He wanted someone to tell the tale that time. He whispered in her ear simply, “Big Ugly was here.”

Waingrow tells the story of how his brother was in the comfort of his own bedroom, banging a very attractive girl who he paid good money for, when the Dark Figure showed up, stopping his brother mid doggy-style. Didn’t even let the man finish. The Dark Figure handed the girl a stack of cash and escorted her to the door. Waingrow’s bro tried to go at him, but he got bitch slapped back onto the bed, where he could only look on terrified, frozen by the sight of the Dark Figure holding an ignited blowtorch. He held the torch in one hand, a thick, blood-caked chain in the other. Brother Waingrow’s screams echoed, his fingers gripping the mattress, chest split open and toes charred from the torch. He told Big Ugly everything he wanted, and more. Gave up safe houses, drop spots, jobs, account numbers, phone numbers, addresses…you name it. He gave up enough info for Big Ugly to sink his teeth in and really go to work. Big Ugly thanked him, and set the bed on fire.