Suckcess

DISCLAIMER: This story contains adult language and adult situations.

Where are you, cat? "Gato? Here kitty, kitty."

She usually slept beside me. Judging by the taste in my mouth, my breath probably chased her into hiding. She didn’t appreciate me coming home drunk, and last night I capitalized the word.

Agh! Something was trying to get out of my head using a jackhammer, making it hard to move, but I managed to drop to my knees beside the bed.

"There you are, baby. Come to daddy." She hissed, her green eyes flashing.

"I’m sorry, now come out, damn it. I need to cuddle, bad."
Those accusing green eyes.

"Okay fine, go ahead and stay there, but I hope the dust bunnies gang up and beat the crap out of you, bitch." Bitch. Now I remember. Raquel broke up with me. Suggested I stick my head up the south end of a north-facing dog last night. The wedding was off.

I really shouldn’t call my ex a bitch. She was actually ‘Da Bomb’: a cross between Mary Poppins and Madonna. In public she was farm fresh and take-home-to-mother good; in private, WWF Smackdown/Playboy Channel naughty. No doubt about it. I screwed up big time, and last night I became a victim of waste management.

Raquel didn’t like my business associates, said they gave her the willies and if I didn’t dump them she would dump me. I had promised to sever ties but she didn’t believe me--maybe because I had tap-danced around the issue a half dozen times before. But I was serious this time. Really. I didn’t need them anymore. Not since Pablo came on board.

The mustachioed Cuban Don Juan had sweet-talked, cajoled, or slipped one-eyed Pedro to every recalcitrant councilperson and secured the re-zonings my construction company needed to build 1600 Condos. BP (before Pablo), I was striking out like Elizabeth Taylor did with husbands -- couldn’t buy a re-zoning. AP (after Pablo), voila! Maybe him being a Cuban had something to do with it. That was a major plus in Miami.

The phone rang, jangling the neurons in my head like a Salvation Army Santa Claus.

"Yeah, who is it?" I muttered into the receiver.

"Sly? It’s me, Pablo. You sound like dog squeeze."

"Well, good. That’ll give you an idea of how I feel. Goodbye."

"Wait a minute!"

"Whataya want, Pablo? Can’t you tell that I’m dying here?"

"I called to wish you a happy birthday, man."

"What?"

"Have you forgotten your own birthday?"

"Hmm… yeah… it is my birthday. Whoop-tee-fucking-doo."

"And…."

"And what?"

"It’s Halloween!"

"Not today, tomorrow."

"No, Sly. Today you are twenty-nine and it is Halloween."

Time travel? Simple. Get plastered, lose a day. Repeat after me, Halloween, birthday, Halloween, birthday. Halloween doesn’t move, neither does your birthday, dummy. "So what?"

"You, me, Raquel, and some clients are flying to Biloxi for a costume party, remember?"

"Yeah, it’s beginning to come back to me. Raquel won’t be coming with us."

"Why?"

"She pulled the pin on a shit grenade and lobbed it in my foxhole."

"Wha--"

"She broke up with me, as in asta la vista, sayonara, bye, bye, bastard."

"Sorry ‘bout that man. How you feel?"

"Gotta helluva hangover… nothing Smith and Wesson can’t handle."

Pablo laughed. "I mean about Raquel."

"Like my mama always said, ‘there’s a whole herd where that filly came from, son.’"

"You can tell yourself that, Sly, but I know how you felt about her. Listen, I’ll pick you up at three. Oh yeah, I’ve got your costume."

"I told you I didn’t want to dress up."

"Yeah, and then you changed your mind."

"All right, already. What am I gonna be?"

"A bumble bee."

"Huh?"

"A bumble bee."

"A freakin’ bumble bee? Are you loco?"

"Come on, Sly. It’s the only thing they had left. You’re a builder… if it’ll make you feel better, call yourself a carpenter bee. "

"Well just fuck me. Why didn’t I think of that…? What’re you going as, a cockroach?"

"You’ll see. I’ll be there at three."

Pablo knocked at exactly the time he said, punctual to the point of nausea, and surprisingly I was almost ready. I’d partaken of a little hair of the dog, and was well on my way to feeling human, but nothing could eject the melancholy from my soul. Pablo was right. Raquel meant more to me than I realized or wanted to admit.
I knew now how a three-year-old toddler must feel, lost in a mall, bawling for his parents. The difference was that nobody was searching for me. My parents died four years ago, and my only sibling, a self-absorbed sister, was modeling in London. And now my girl was gone. Was I just meant to be alone… to rely on myself? A scary thought, but I would get over it.

The pounding intensified, and I answered the vibrating door. "Jesus Christ, Pablo, you A.D.H.D. or what?"

"Sorry man, we’ve gotta go. The plane is waiting and traffic is terrible."

The Steadman Enterprises six-seater Beech Baron was idling, ready to go, when we arrived at Miami International. The pilot stowed our baggage and we climbed aboard. Three of the seats were occupied, and I didn’t know any of the occupants. They looked pretty anal. I dropped into a seat, and Pablo, standing hunched over to accommodate his head, introduced our traveling companions. "Sylvester Steadman, I’d like to introduce Councilwoman Madeleine Tinsley, from Tampa, Councilman Ted Broadman from Fort Lauderdale, and Councilman Julio Esteban from here in Miami."

No wonder they look puckered, they’re politicians.
Pablo told a joke and I tried to close out the ensuing raucous laughter. Soon you’ll be out of this, wealthy, happy, and free.
The twin-prop leveled out at cruising altitude, however high that was, and Pablo, ever the brown-noser, went to work. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels and plastic cups out of his carry-on along with ice from a built-in ice reservoir. Positioned between the three politicians, he began pouring.

"Have a drink, Sly."

"Naw, not right now, Pablo. I’m not feeling all that hot. You all go ahead, don’t mind me."

"Aw, come on, Mr. Steadman, it’ll do you good," the woman introduced as Madeleine Tinsley said.

She was a big, round woman with big strawberry blonde hair atop a head that took four chins to support. The fat might have insulated a beautiful woman. "No thank you, Ms. Tinsley. I’m saving myself for Biloxi."

"Maddy. Call me Maddy."

"Maddy it is. I’m Sly. I’ll be glad to have a drink with you at the party, deal?"

"Deal."

I glanced at the seat Raquel should have been in, squelched a feeling of remorse, laid my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. Pablo came off like a used car salesman, listing the multitude of perks and benefits available to the council people if they would just buy what we were selling. His voice drifted to the nether regions of my brain, pushed there by a picture of my parents.

They were on American flight 616, the plane that took them to their deaths --aboard that plane because of me. I was in jail in Cleveland for inciting a riot. A bar brawl, okay? In jail and they were coming to my rescue. I could hear their last conversation as if I were sitting right beside them on the doomed flight. Dad was angry, dogging me, and Mother was taking up for me like she always did.

"Betty, when are you going to come to the realization that Sly is a lost cause?"

"Never. Damn it, he’s our son."

"Maybe by blood, but at this point not by choice."

"William! You don’t mean that."

"When he went into the army we both thought he’d straighten up, but he gets out and wham! Same old Sly. I can’t take it anymore. This is the last time, damn it."

It went something like that, I’m sure. Dad was a broken record when it came to me. I’m the reason my parents are dead. I had never been in jail before, but they had extricated me from numerous squeezes in college. My tired refrain was that we were just having fun and my dad’s response, which I will never forget, was, "Trouble and fun are first cousins."

According to my father, I had never lived up to my capability and as much as I grieved for them, I constantly wrestled with this question: Did I want them back because I loved and missed them, or to gloat and say I-told-you-so over my success?
I opened my eyes, mentally throwing a yellow flag, calling a foul on myself for sinking Adam’s apple deep into self-pity. Pablo and his disciples were still engaged in mindless repartee, but I couldn’t tell what they were talking about nor did I care. I gazed out the porthole at motorized chalk sticks etching momentary marks on the vast green slate below. The sticks were quickly morphing into a variety of watercraft. Soon we would be on the ground in Biloxi.
***
The limousine smoothly cruised US90 past imported palm trees, white beaches, and towering casinos with parking lots filled with a curious mix of ratted out pickups sporting gun racks in the back windows, Camaros, Firebirds, BMWs, Mercedes and limos. Pablo prattled on non-stop, never missing a beat from the plane to the car. The council people were drunk; probably didn’t understand a word he was saying.

The car switched lanes and stopped at a red light in front of a 27-story hotel crowded up against the warm waters of the Gulf. "Lady and gentlemen," Pablo grandly announced, "welcome to Beau Rivage, where the vibrant blues, yellows and oranges of the Mediterranean Coast mingle with stately oaks, lush gardens, and sweeping vistas of the Mississippi Gulf. A place where genuine Southern hospitality and charm go hand in hand with meticulous service, and where your wildest dreams come true."

"Pablo, you’re so full of crap," I muttered, fed up with his braggadocio and pomposity. Usually I could take it, but not today. I couldn’t care less if we ever got another re-zoning. Top salesmen were like skunks that lay golden eggs; couldn’t stand to be around them, but you didn’t mind gathering the eggs.

The limo glided to a stop in front of the hotel, a valet swept the door open, and we all stepped out into the heat and humidity of a brilliant, sunshiny day. An attendant guided us into a cool garden atrium doubling as the lobby, to the front desk.

"We’re the Steadman party, here with the NBA," Pablo announced.

"You play for the NBA, man? What team? Can I have your autograph, man?" the young black clerk spat rapid-fire.

"No, no, we’re here for the National Builders Association convention, sorry," I said.

"I knew that, man. I was just yankin’ your short one." The young man’s face quickly slipped back into its business mask as he went about checking us in.

I did a three-sixty, taking in the lush setting and rich furnishings of the atrium. The cool, laid back atmosphere of the lobby offered a stark contrast to the manic activity in the casino, its entrance situated across the room. Periodic bells blasted, advertising lucky hits above the low roar of human utterances, as hypnotized patrons continuously fed ravenous slots in hopes of transforming mundane lives. Raquel would have loved this place.

"Hurricane Katrina has rather abruptly changed direction," the announcer was saying on the TV screen high on the wall above the counter. "Originally predicted to make landfall somewhere along the Texas-Louisiana coastline, it is now projected to come ashore between Biloxi and New Orleans tomorrow evening."

The atrium became eerily silent for a few moments, but the casino never missed a beat.

"What about the convention?" I asked.

"I don’t know, but I’ll find out. The awards ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow night. I’m sure the costume ball will go on as scheduled tonight," Pablo replied.

"Hope so. It’s going to be so much fun!" Maddy slurred.

"Wouldn’t bother me if they canceled the whole damned thing," I said as we filed into the elevator.

"Come on, Sly. Forget about Raquel for just one night, okay?" Pablo said.

Maddy grabbed my arm. "Yeah, Sly, just one night," she cooed.

Pablo’s suite was next to mine, linked by a connecting door. The council people had rooms further down the hall. We decided to retire to our rooms and nap until time to dress, Pablo arranging for a wake up call at seven. I laid down on the billowy soft bedspread and tried desperately to drift off, but my mind became a montage of flicking pictures starring Raquel, my sister Julia, my parents, and my partners.

I was to meet with the investors Sunday in Miami. I would quit, no more construction business. I was wealthy now. Time to try something else. Never really liked the Florida hammer and nail business anyway; too much ass-kissing politics. Money had been the only goal, the endgame, and I had scored big. The investors shouldn’t be too disappointed; they had pocketed a bundle too, which meant they should be fat, happy, and content. How Pablo would take it was anybody’s guess. He powered my success. Hope he doesn’t feel abandoned.

I must have drifted off because the pounding on the room-connecting door jolted me to an upright position, my mind in a state of alarm. I padded across the room and opened the door.

"Here’s your costume, Sly," Pablo said, thrusting a small black duffel bag at me.

I took the bag. "What about tomorrow?"

"They’re combining the two nights, announcing award winners tonight at the ball. Gives us plenty of time to get out of here before Katrina hits."

"Good, that means we can leave first thing tomorrow. I’ve got that meeting with the investors in Miami Sunday. I can use the rest."

"Get dressed. I’ll be back to help you do your paint in a half hour."

I walked to the bathroom, placed the duffel bag on the vanity, and peered into the mirror. Puffy blue eyes under yellow straw hair, framed by strong square jaws stared back at me. What did you ever see in me Raquel? I pulled down the lower lids under each of my eyeballs: roadmaps. All right, Mr. Happy, I’m ready for my enema. I reached into the shower, turned the controls to as hot as I could stand then slipped under the sizzling rain. After a few minutes, I actually felt better. Maybe my world would go on after all.
I towel dried myself and jerked on a pair of jockey underwear.

Reaching into the duffel bag, I pulled out a pair of black tights and slipped them on. Ridiculous. Next came a black long-sleeved, turtle-necked shirt with tails that snapped together under my balls. Sparrow eggs in a tea bag – shit.

The next item was the bee’s behind. Striped yellow and black, it was oval-shaped, big and bulbous. I stepped into the elastic girdle attached to it and pulled it into place. The last piece was an antennae-adorned, black pullover cap. I pulled it down to my ears, the antennae sticking straight up in the air, then checked the mirror. Stupid. I was just about to rip the costume off when Pablo tapped on the door. Retracing earlier steps, I opened the door to a suave Latin man impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo, cummerbund and all.

"What the hell is this?" I yelled.

"Bond. James Bond," Pablo answered.

"You asshole. I’m a fucking bumble bee and you’re James Bond?"

"These costumes were all they had left, Sly. Come on, it’s all in fun."

"Easy for you to say. You’re double-oh-seven and I’m just plain double-freaking-oh. How’d I come out with the shit end of the stick? I don’t remember flipping a coin. I own the company and I look like a damned fool."

"No you don’t. You’ll be the life of the party, shows you have a sense of humor. Now let me paint you."

"I don’t wanna go. I didn’t from the beginning."

"You have to go. Many important people are here. We came this far… besides I told everyone you’d be there."

"Okay, okay, but I won’t forget this Pablo."

Pablo rummaged through the bag, extracting two small bottles of body paint. Dipping two fingers into the yellow paint, he smeared a two-inch wide band across my forehead beginning just below the hairline, then black below that, then yellow, black, and yellow, all the way down below my Adam’s apple. When he finished, I glared at the mirror.

"The only good thing about this get-up is nobody can see the embarrassment on my face. I’ll just stand in the back of the room. Let’s go get this over with."

"Wait a minute, there’s one more thing." He pulled a clear, icicle-shaped object out of the bag and screwed it into a receptacle at the very end of the bee behind. It immediately began blinking.

"Ta-Da! Your stinger."
***
We met our traveling companions at the elevator.

"You look great, Sly!" Maddy gushed.

"Screw you," I retorted.

"You’ve got some balls, man," Ted Broadman said, laughing.

The elevator chimed and the door opened. "Just get in the damned elevator," I ordered.

Maddy, dressed as Tinker Bell, moved to the back of the car and I jammed in next to her. I felt like telling her she looked like Roseanne squeezed into a Barbie outfit, but thought again and swallowed the zinger. Broadman was Robin Hood and Julio Esteban, Zorro.

The elevator doors closed, we began our descent to the ballroom on the second floor, and Ted turned to Julio. "Did you hear the buzz about Hurricane Katrina --"

I scorched him with a look that could have jump-started an Abrams M1A2 battle tank.

The ballroom was a grand chamber dressed in expensive silk wallpaper, adorned with a half-dozen sparkling crystal chandeliers. On the stage a dance band played generic lounge music while costumed people milled around the room in odd pairings. Little Bo Peep held hands and laughed with Whorf, and Bill Clinton told a joke to the Virgin Mary while the bumblebee tried to lose Tinker Bell.

I found a spot by the kitchen entrance at the back of the room, away from Maddy and the hubbub of the party. I began to feel a bit better about my costume, although not enough to mingle freely. A waiter whizzed by and I grabbed two drinks off his tray, downed them both -- martinis I think -- then waited for another one to come my way.

Where was Pablo? Probably off making deals. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he needn’t put forth the effort, that I was closing the business. Monday he would know. Let him enjoy himself tonight.

I had imbibed six or seven drinks and turned down dance requests from an assortment of cartoon, literary, and political characters when the music stopped and Bill Clinton approached the microphone.

"Ladies and gentleman, it’s time to announce this year’s award winners…." The emcee proceeded to announce and present some dozen awards before he said, "And now, the Top Builder Award for the Southeastern United States goes to Sylvester Steadman owner of Steadman Construction."

I froze. The only thing about me showing any life was the flashing stinger on my ass. Everyone in the room was looking around, wondering where I was. After about forty-five seconds -- it seemed like ten minutes -- Maddy gleefully bounded over and grabbed my arm.

"Here he is! Here’s Sly!"

Maddy dragged me to the stage, propping me up long enough to accept, then drop, the heavy crystal trophy. I thanked my dead parents (phrased exactly that way), my cat, and my Harley Sportster, then stumbled from the stage.

"Let’s go to the bar," Maddy said as we made our way through the crowd, my back screaming for relief from the congratulatory pounding it was taking.

"Not tonight, Maddy. I’ve gotta get to bed."

"You promised to have a drink with me, and I’m holding you to it. Now come on," she said, firmly guiding me to the bar. One drink, that’s all…

I awoke to a replay of the previous morning, head pounding, eyelids stuck together by some mysterious goop. I managed to pry my eyes open and gaze around the darkened room. This isn’t my house. This is, is… the hotel room. I gingerly turned my head to the right and noticed something pink and blue on a chair by the bed. Pink and blue… what the… Maddy!

Her Tinker Bell costume lay on the chair. Mine was strewn around the room. For a nanosecond I considered using her pink tights as a barf bag, but nixed it; too porous.

Where was she? I noticed a door on the opposite wall outlined with light. I panicked, whipping the covers off my body. Whew! Still had my jockeys on. I stuck a hand in my underwear, ran fingers through my pubic hair. I’m okay, didn’t do anything. Must’ve passed out. I sat up in bed wondering how to handle Maddy, when the connecting door cracked and Pablo stuck his head into the room.

"Hey, compadre, you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah, get out of here," I shot back.

He pushed the door open and approached the bed. "I didn’t have a chance to congratulate you last night, hooked up with a senorita. Hey, looks like you did too." He scanned the room and immediately recognized the outfit on the chair. "Maddy?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I passed out," I assured him.

He reached over and swiped my face with two fingers. "You’ve still got the paint on from last night. You’re a mess."

"I’ll clean it off, now go!" I whispered as the bathroom door opened and Maddy’s enormous body filled the opening. Light spilled out around her, silhouetting her form in a warm glow.

"Hey, sweetie, you’re quite the artist," she said. Her hands dropped to her crotch, drawing Pablo’s eyes and mine to the black and yellow paint covering her massive inner thighs and pubic hair.

"Her vote’s a lock," Pablo muttered under his breath.

I spent the flight home trying to avoid eye contact with everyone. Whenever Maddy, with her girlish smile, did catch my eye I played hell attempting to suppress the bile that rose to tickle the back of my throat.
###

I gazed out the speeding limousine’s severely tinted window. Why the hell are these guys wearing sunglasses? There were six of them, two in front, four in the back. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Roberto Cavales scoop white powder from a small glass container using a super long pinkie fingernail. Swiss Army hand. I couldn’t help but smile. Cavales raised the nail to his left nostril, and with one strong nasal implosion the powder was gone.

Ought to call it suck instead of blow.

It was Sunday, and the investors insisted on meeting at their office. I suggested a Denny’s, but that didn’t fly. They also insisted on picking me up at my place, and something told me they knew exactly what I was about to tell them.

The confined atmosphere of the car was ripe with stale cigar smoke, putrid perspiration, and bad breath. And the Cuban bastard next to me contributed to the toxic mix by blowing methane gas out his ass every fifteen seconds.

"Where we going?" I asked. "This isn’t the way to your office."
Cavales swiveled his head toward me and smiled, exposing a dentist’s worst nightmare. "We are taking you to meet one of your business partners. A family member if you will."

"Look, Cavales, I’m finished; had enough. I’m getting out of the business. It’s not for me."

"Tisk, tisk. What is it you Americanos say? The cow, it is already out of the barn?" He laughed and, like backup singers, the others did likewise. I was trapped, nothing to do but watch landscape fly by the window.

We had been on the interstate for an hour when the driver took an offramp then turned on a side road running along the water, meandering between rows of abandoned packing sheds. The limo stopped in front of a large metal building sporting a faded Garcia Bros. Packing Co. logo and stopped. I exited the car into blinding sunshine. Two men, one on each arm, escorted me to a small side door. Cavales knocked. A clone of the others answered and we stepped from sunlight into the darkened interior.

The place reeked of stale fish. Rats scurried. Even they wanted out. A Caucasian man sat strapped to the chair of a school-type desk in the center of the cavernous building. A solitary bulb descending from the darkness hung over his head. His arms hung free at his side, his chin rested on his chest. He’d been severely beaten. I stared, wondering if I was next. In the distance, at the far end of the building, I could hear faint clicking noises.

They became increasingly louder until Pablo appeared out of the darkness smiling like a fleshless skull. I was stunned.

"What the hell are you doing here? This a joke?" I asked.

"I’m afraid not my friend," Pablo answered softly.

He spewed Spanish rapid-fire and the rest of the men broke into sustained laughter.

"I told them about the bumble bee and Tinker Bell," he said, chuckling.

"Yuk, yuk. What the hell’s going on?"

"My compadres and I are not Cubans, Sly, we are from Colombia. We are part of an organization called FARC. You are familiar with FARC?"

"Yeah, I read Time."

"We need your company for the revolution. You cannot quit."

"So the article is right on. FARC washes its assets through American companies so as not to tarnish its freedom fighter image. In truth, you’re just scummy drug dealers."

"Now, now. That’s not nice."

"How’d you know I was quitting?"

"That is not important." Pablo walked toward the man in the chair. "Come closer, Sly. It is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Timmons; another member of our family."

The men on my arms pushed me to within a foot of the man.
Pablo continued. "As I said, we are family. And, as in any family, there must be discipline. Mr. Timmons broke the rules. He must be spanked."

One of the men grabbed Timmons’s right hand, slammed it on the desktop, and held it still. He barely noticed. Another took a knife from his pocket, approached the desk and sliced off the thumb. Timmons came alive. Bloodcurdling howls reverberated off the metal walls. I turned away.

"Look at him!" Pablo shouted.

I looked. One by one the man lost all the fingers on his right hand, the severed appendages lined up like dominos. A cacophony of horrific shrieks pounded in my head. When the last digit was gone, the gaseous one handed me a bulletproof vest.

"Put this on," he ordered.

"Why?"
"Just put it on, bastardo!"

"I don’t wanna die this way, Pablo."

"And just how would you like to die, compadre?"

"Well. I wanna die well."

The men laughed.

"One cannot die well if he does not live well," Pablo said.

"And how will you die?" Sly asked.

Pablo smiled. "Me? I don’t care. Now put the vest on."

I did what I was told, then my escorts positioned me directly in front of the man at the desk. I raised my eyes to the tin roof. Dear God, if you get me out of this, I will change. I will live well. I promise you. Really. Amen.

Cavales fired a shot through the roof and Timmons raised his head. When he did, a man behind him fired a 9mm slug into the back of his skull. I swear I could see the slug exit right above his nose. It slammed into the vest milliseconds before blood, bone, and brain splattered my face, hair, and chest. Gore dripped from my ears and nose as I staggered backward, choking -- something in my mouth. I dropped to my knees and spit out a jagged remnant of the man’s skull.

"Now that you’ve met Mr. Timmons up close and personal, do you still want to quit, Sly?" Pablo asked softly.

Laughing, the men walked to the exit leaving me dripping in the spotlight of the low-slung lamp. Pablo stopped at the door and turned back toward me. "The bee suit and tuxedo should have clued you in as to who the boss really is."

They left me on my knees staring at the door, hoping Raquel would burst through it with a video team from Punk’d. After a few yearlong seconds, I realized there would be no Raquel, no Ashton Kutcher, and shifted my gaze to the man in the chair. His digits were still disconnected, half his face was still missing, and the red stuff didn’t appear to be Heinz. At that moment, I realized that I had actually sucked on part of his head.