Katrina Makar sat inside of her luxury class Lexus, took a drag from her Virginia Slim, then looked out the window. The apartment complex was a scummy building on a scummy block in the middle of a scummy part of town. The beat up late model Idaho was parked on the other side of the street, cracked and dented. Katrina wondered why one of Liberty's most notorious gangsters would want to dwell in such a place as this but then shrugged it off. In all of her twenty-six years the one thing she had learned for certain was that men usually didn't follow the proper process of thought. It was always something or another that drove them to do what they did. Their pride, their passion, but never their intellect. She checked her makeup and lipstick in the rear view mirror, opened the door, then emerged from the car.
She shivered and felt goose bumps after feeling the brisk San Andreas night air hit her body, a body not dressed for warmth. Her gray wool turtleneck shirt was didn't feel too wooly and her thin leather skirt didn't do much to combat the weather. Katrina peeked into her purse and made sure her artillery was there, a Walter PPK attached with a silencer, a girl's best friend. She crossed the street and made her way to the building's entrace, four inch stiletto heels clacking against the concrete. The intercom was busted, but it didn't matter; the door was already slightly open. Katrina took it as a sign that this was going to be easier than expected. She stepped inside.
Makar's contact in Lobo's organization was a fat slow-witted lonely little man with a big nose. In the past, he was more than willing to dump off information of Los Lobos in exchange for a little TLC from Katrina. She found it to be an equal payoff. Anyways, he was such a pathetic little worm that he never clocked in at anything past three minutes. Katrina compared the experience to something like getting one's legs waxed; unpleasureable business but absolutely necessary, and the payoff was worth it. The worm had told Katrina that the new associate from Liberty was staying at this particular apartment building, and that he wore a really sweet looking bomber-styled leather jacket.
The walls of the apartment's interior were yellowed with age and looked as if they hadn't seen a coat of paint within Katrina's lifetime. She walked down the hallway and stepped into the elevator that was, to no surprise, out of order as. Katrina found the stairs, bent over and removed her stilettos, then started up them. The worm told her that he was staying on the sixth floor, corner room at the end. She wondered what he would look like. Was he going to be a hairy, weak looking man with a bad breath? Or perhaps a tall, dark fellow with beady eyes? A fat and balding soft looking gentleman wearing glasses? Or maybe it wasn't even a man at all. Katrina had seen stranger things. She reached the sixth floor and put her heels back on. Walking down the hallway, she popped a breath mint and got ready. The door number read 616. Katrina rapped her knuckles on the wood and waited.
***
Styx sat in front of the television, breaking up a chunk of dank off of an either larger chunk of dank. Knight Rider was the program on, but he wasn't paying much attention to it. He wondered if Hasselhoff would have to come along with KIT to the drive-thru at McDonald's. Couldn't the car talk? What would the dude be necessary for? Styx jammed a quarter-sized bud of weed inside his bong and patted pockets for his lighter. Fuck. It wasn't there. He got up off of the dingy loveseat and scanned the apartment for the James Dean Zippo lighter. The whole setup wasn't very clean, but Styx didn't give a shit. Comfort was the number one priority, and to Styx, his place was a palace. Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered the living area, with articles of clothing, skin magazines, and random smoking knickknacks strewn about the apartment. Vegas had busted his balls about it, asking him when the maid would come. At the time, Styx shrugged it off, but now thought about it. Is the place that rundown? He thought that one of these days he should get someone in here to clean the pigpen up. You never know when company will come by, unexpected.
Styx wandered into the kitchen, even more trash spread out than the living room. Stepping over a large metal bicycle pump that he hadn't remember putting there, he batted away a couple of empty Chinese take-out boxes on the counter top and looked under an aged Features section of The San Andreas Examiner. No dice. Styx rubbed his ruddy chin in narrowed his eyes in thought. Then it came to him. He looked at Vegas' (his now) leather jacket and reached inside one of the pockets, feeling the cool steel of his lighter, but also something else. Styx pulled out a wallet and started thumbing through it. It was off of the fat ass dead dude that Vegas capped back at the card hall. Damn, mother fucker had a ton of shit in here. Ticket stubs, coupons, pictures of women, credit cards, pictures of more women, naked. Styx chuckled and took them out of the wallet, looking at each, girls in various poses, spread eagle, bent over assorted furniture, getting drilled in the-
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Styx whipped his head around and instinctively backed up, tripping over the bicycle pump in the middle of the kitchen. Arms pin wheeling and snapshots flying everywhere, Styx fell on his ass. He shouted "Fuck!" and then sat up. Who the hell would be coming by right now? It could've been Marty or Ringo, but those dumb fucks were in Berkeley for a few weeks. Maybe it was Veronica. Styx picked himself off of the dirty linoleum floor and smiled to himself. Veronica was this little dark-haired hard body that he met last month in a head shop. He said he liked the pipe she was picking out. She said thank you. He said he also liked her cutoff blue blouse. She said she liked his hair. He said his name was Angelo. She said she was Veronica but he could call her 'Ronnie. Styx smiled. She smiled right back. After lunch and four joints later, Styx was bangin' her for all she was worth. Walking towards the front door, Styx remembered that she said she was a bank teller at First National. He wondered why all bank tellers weren't as smoking' as she was. Styx grabbed the knob and opened the door. Styx's eyes widened a little at the figure standing in front of him; it wasn't 'Ronnie, but that sure as hell wasn't a bad thing. The woman standing in front of him was a raven-haired knockout, smartly dressed in a (pleather?) skirt and a form fitting gray turtleneck that mapped out the swell of her goods. Her cheekbones belonged to a model and she flashed him the pearly whites.
"Hello, I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?"
Whoa. Russian accent. Foreign babes are fucking freaks in the sack, Styx thought. This babe was looking for Vegas? Hmmm…
***
When the door opened, Katrina was a little disappointed. Of course, she wasn't expecting anything special. Usually the gangster hard asses were uglier than sin, but once, every blue moon, there was diamond in the rough. A good looking man who looks like can more than hold his own with calloused hands and dark eyes that are capable of freezing bones and melting hearts. Katrina took in the man standing in front of her. He was tall and lanky, dressed like he had just returned from a heavy metal concert, a pair of oversized aviator shades pushed up into the thick of his long, greasy looking, dirty blonde hair. He was cute, but in a seedy sort of way. She could tell that this 'Vegas Minor' was impressed by the way he looked at her, so she knew she had him. Katrina turned on the charm gave him the smile.
"Hello," she said in her 'I'm-sexy-and-you-know-it" voice, "I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?" She watched him lick his lips and give her another once-over top to bottom.
"You bet you're sweet ass I am, honey. Why don'tcha come on it?" he said, stepping aside beckoning her to enter. Katrina stepped inside of the apartment and was immediately disgusted. The place was filthy and vile, trash everywhere, but she acted like she didn't notice it. 'Vegas' led her inside to the living room, walking past the kitchen. Katrina noticed the bomber-styled leather jacket, complete with a few bullet holes in the back, hanging on one of the chairs; another sign. A television was turned on, an American program flashing on the screen. She found a spot on the loveseat and sat down, crossing her legs. Styx followed and took a seat next to her. He grabbed an enormous smoking apparatus that was shaped like a rocket ship and put it to his lips, lighting the marijuana with fire from a Zippo bearing the image of a sex symbol from the Hollywood of Yesteryear on it. Smoke gathered in the big part of the rocket ship and she heard the sound of water bubbling. The man sucked in the smoke and held it in, leaning back. He tipped her a wink as he exhaled, blowing neat little rings. Viyebnutsa zhopa, she thought.
"So, what can I do ya for? How did you know I was staying here?"
Katrina had to think for a second.
"I thought that you lived here."
"Oh naw, this is my buddy Angelo's pad. He's a fucking slob, that's why it's so," Styx gestured with his hands, "y'know, dirty. I keep my shit clean. You know?"
"Oh, I see."
"So, yeah, uh, how come you stopped by-"
Katrina put her hand on Styx's leg, rubbing it a little, running it up and down his jeans. Styx looked down at what she was doing. Katrina eyes didn't leave the television.
"What are you watching?"
"Uh, Knight Rider."
"Is it good?"
Katrina started moving her hand far up on Styx's thigh.
"Uh, the show?"
Katrina laughed.
"Yes, the show."
Styx swallowed.
"Oh, yeah, it's a pretty good one. KIT helps save Hasselhoff after he falls down a well, or some shit."
"Mmmmm. So tell me something, 'Vegas'."
Styx looked at her looking at him. She could tell his heart was beating a mile a minute. Katrina's wasn't; it was just business as usual.
"How are you liking San Andreas? Finding your way around the city?" she said, squeezing Styx just under his belt buckle. She saw him smile easily.
"Oh, it's nice, but I've been getting kind of lonely, you know it?"
"Is that a fact?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Well, perhaps something can be done about that…" She said.
And then Katrina pounced.
***
Jesus Christ, Styx thought to himself as he walked into the kitchen, naked except for pair of striped boxer shorts. That girl can work it. Styx went over to the sink and drew a glass of water from the tap, gulping it all down and breathing out of a sigh of exhaustion. Vegas must be one lucky dude, he thought, having chicks like that ready to get their freak on with him, just by his name alone? What was with that shit? Fuckin' a. Those foreign broads really are something else in bed. Styx threw the glass into the sink and looked at the fat dude's wallet on the floor. He bent over to pick it up, along with some of the pictures, when he noticed something he didn't see before. One of those girls looked familiar…very familiar. She wasn't splayed out in some tawdry sex pose, but rather it was a studio shot. The dark hair, the red lips, the high cheekbones. It was her!
Oh shit, Styx thought. This is heavy.
He turned around just in time to see Katrina standing behind him, naked, breasts full and heaving, swinging something that looked like it packed some clout. The fucking bike pump. Jesus. Then the metal pump struck him square in the temple, knocking Styx down for the count instantly.
***
Katrina stood over 'Vegas'. She dropped the big metal pumping machine and looked down on him. He was out cold. She picked up what was in his grasp. It was a large wallet, complete with pictures. She look through it and saw it was Nikita's, the sweet man who was one of Papa's lieutenants. Her picture was amongst those inside of the wallet and Katrina began to think. How much did this 'Vegas' know about things? Papa had told her to eliminate the threat, but perhaps that would be too hasty. Maybe she should take him back to the Red Star and find out a little what knew for sure and Katrina decided that is what she would do. Some gain, no great loss. She didn't get to kill him, but in a way, that was a good thing. He was quite good in bed. He legitimately made her scream, something a man hadn't done to her in a good while. She found her purse next to the couch in the other room and extracted a cell phone and she dialed up The Red Star. Makar picked up on other line.
"Papa. Yes. I have him. I think we should bring him in to The Room. It might be more beneficial that way."
"I'll send a car over. Stay there."
"Fine."
She flipped the phone shut and started to put her clothes back on. We'll just find out how much of a hard ass this 'Vegas Minor' is, Katrina thought. She looked and saw the rocket shaped smoking apparatus next to her purse. Curious, she picked it up and took a sniff, but instantly wrinkled her nose. She had never smoked it before, and she didn't want to start now. She pulled out the gun, went back into the kitchen, and sat down at the table, waiting for the unconscious man to wake up. It wouldn't be long now…
NEXT:
CHAPTER 11---SIMPSON
She shivered and felt goose bumps after feeling the brisk San Andreas night air hit her body, a body not dressed for warmth. Her gray wool turtleneck shirt was didn't feel too wooly and her thin leather skirt didn't do much to combat the weather. Katrina peeked into her purse and made sure her artillery was there, a Walter PPK attached with a silencer, a girl's best friend. She crossed the street and made her way to the building's entrace, four inch stiletto heels clacking against the concrete. The intercom was busted, but it didn't matter; the door was already slightly open. Katrina took it as a sign that this was going to be easier than expected. She stepped inside.
Makar's contact in Lobo's organization was a fat slow-witted lonely little man with a big nose. In the past, he was more than willing to dump off information of Los Lobos in exchange for a little TLC from Katrina. She found it to be an equal payoff. Anyways, he was such a pathetic little worm that he never clocked in at anything past three minutes. Katrina compared the experience to something like getting one's legs waxed; unpleasureable business but absolutely necessary, and the payoff was worth it. The worm had told Katrina that the new associate from Liberty was staying at this particular apartment building, and that he wore a really sweet looking bomber-styled leather jacket.
The walls of the apartment's interior were yellowed with age and looked as if they hadn't seen a coat of paint within Katrina's lifetime. She walked down the hallway and stepped into the elevator that was, to no surprise, out of order as. Katrina found the stairs, bent over and removed her stilettos, then started up them. The worm told her that he was staying on the sixth floor, corner room at the end. She wondered what he would look like. Was he going to be a hairy, weak looking man with a bad breath? Or perhaps a tall, dark fellow with beady eyes? A fat and balding soft looking gentleman wearing glasses? Or maybe it wasn't even a man at all. Katrina had seen stranger things. She reached the sixth floor and put her heels back on. Walking down the hallway, she popped a breath mint and got ready. The door number read 616. Katrina rapped her knuckles on the wood and waited.
***
Styx sat in front of the television, breaking up a chunk of dank off of an either larger chunk of dank. Knight Rider was the program on, but he wasn't paying much attention to it. He wondered if Hasselhoff would have to come along with KIT to the drive-thru at McDonald's. Couldn't the car talk? What would the dude be necessary for? Styx jammed a quarter-sized bud of weed inside his bong and patted pockets for his lighter. Fuck. It wasn't there. He got up off of the dingy loveseat and scanned the apartment for the James Dean Zippo lighter. The whole setup wasn't very clean, but Styx didn't give a shit. Comfort was the number one priority, and to Styx, his place was a palace. Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered the living area, with articles of clothing, skin magazines, and random smoking knickknacks strewn about the apartment. Vegas had busted his balls about it, asking him when the maid would come. At the time, Styx shrugged it off, but now thought about it. Is the place that rundown? He thought that one of these days he should get someone in here to clean the pigpen up. You never know when company will come by, unexpected.
Styx wandered into the kitchen, even more trash spread out than the living room. Stepping over a large metal bicycle pump that he hadn't remember putting there, he batted away a couple of empty Chinese take-out boxes on the counter top and looked under an aged Features section of The San Andreas Examiner. No dice. Styx rubbed his ruddy chin in narrowed his eyes in thought. Then it came to him. He looked at Vegas' (his now) leather jacket and reached inside one of the pockets, feeling the cool steel of his lighter, but also something else. Styx pulled out a wallet and started thumbing through it. It was off of the fat ass dead dude that Vegas capped back at the card hall. Damn, mother fucker had a ton of shit in here. Ticket stubs, coupons, pictures of women, credit cards, pictures of more women, naked. Styx chuckled and took them out of the wallet, looking at each, girls in various poses, spread eagle, bent over assorted furniture, getting drilled in the-
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Styx whipped his head around and instinctively backed up, tripping over the bicycle pump in the middle of the kitchen. Arms pin wheeling and snapshots flying everywhere, Styx fell on his ass. He shouted "Fuck!" and then sat up. Who the hell would be coming by right now? It could've been Marty or Ringo, but those dumb fucks were in Berkeley for a few weeks. Maybe it was Veronica. Styx picked himself off of the dirty linoleum floor and smiled to himself. Veronica was this little dark-haired hard body that he met last month in a head shop. He said he liked the pipe she was picking out. She said thank you. He said he also liked her cutoff blue blouse. She said she liked his hair. He said his name was Angelo. She said she was Veronica but he could call her 'Ronnie. Styx smiled. She smiled right back. After lunch and four joints later, Styx was bangin' her for all she was worth. Walking towards the front door, Styx remembered that she said she was a bank teller at First National. He wondered why all bank tellers weren't as smoking' as she was. Styx grabbed the knob and opened the door. Styx's eyes widened a little at the figure standing in front of him; it wasn't 'Ronnie, but that sure as hell wasn't a bad thing. The woman standing in front of him was a raven-haired knockout, smartly dressed in a (pleather?) skirt and a form fitting gray turtleneck that mapped out the swell of her goods. Her cheekbones belonged to a model and she flashed him the pearly whites.
"Hello, I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?"
Whoa. Russian accent. Foreign babes are fucking freaks in the sack, Styx thought. This babe was looking for Vegas? Hmmm…
***
When the door opened, Katrina was a little disappointed. Of course, she wasn't expecting anything special. Usually the gangster hard asses were uglier than sin, but once, every blue moon, there was diamond in the rough. A good looking man who looks like can more than hold his own with calloused hands and dark eyes that are capable of freezing bones and melting hearts. Katrina took in the man standing in front of her. He was tall and lanky, dressed like he had just returned from a heavy metal concert, a pair of oversized aviator shades pushed up into the thick of his long, greasy looking, dirty blonde hair. He was cute, but in a seedy sort of way. She could tell that this 'Vegas Minor' was impressed by the way he looked at her, so she knew she had him. Katrina turned on the charm gave him the smile.
"Hello," she said in her 'I'm-sexy-and-you-know-it" voice, "I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?" She watched him lick his lips and give her another once-over top to bottom.
"You bet you're sweet ass I am, honey. Why don'tcha come on it?" he said, stepping aside beckoning her to enter. Katrina stepped inside of the apartment and was immediately disgusted. The place was filthy and vile, trash everywhere, but she acted like she didn't notice it. 'Vegas' led her inside to the living room, walking past the kitchen. Katrina noticed the bomber-styled leather jacket, complete with a few bullet holes in the back, hanging on one of the chairs; another sign. A television was turned on, an American program flashing on the screen. She found a spot on the loveseat and sat down, crossing her legs. Styx followed and took a seat next to her. He grabbed an enormous smoking apparatus that was shaped like a rocket ship and put it to his lips, lighting the marijuana with fire from a Zippo bearing the image of a sex symbol from the Hollywood of Yesteryear on it. Smoke gathered in the big part of the rocket ship and she heard the sound of water bubbling. The man sucked in the smoke and held it in, leaning back. He tipped her a wink as he exhaled, blowing neat little rings. Viyebnutsa zhopa, she thought.
"So, what can I do ya for? How did you know I was staying here?"
Katrina had to think for a second.
"I thought that you lived here."
"Oh naw, this is my buddy Angelo's pad. He's a fucking slob, that's why it's so," Styx gestured with his hands, "y'know, dirty. I keep my shit clean. You know?"
"Oh, I see."
"So, yeah, uh, how come you stopped by-"
Katrina put her hand on Styx's leg, rubbing it a little, running it up and down his jeans. Styx looked down at what she was doing. Katrina eyes didn't leave the television.
"What are you watching?"
"Uh, Knight Rider."
"Is it good?"
Katrina started moving her hand far up on Styx's thigh.
"Uh, the show?"
Katrina laughed.
"Yes, the show."
Styx swallowed.
"Oh, yeah, it's a pretty good one. KIT helps save Hasselhoff after he falls down a well, or some shit."
"Mmmmm. So tell me something, 'Vegas'."
Styx looked at her looking at him. She could tell his heart was beating a mile a minute. Katrina's wasn't; it was just business as usual.
"How are you liking San Andreas? Finding your way around the city?" she said, squeezing Styx just under his belt buckle. She saw him smile easily.
"Oh, it's nice, but I've been getting kind of lonely, you know it?"
"Is that a fact?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Well, perhaps something can be done about that…" She said.
And then Katrina pounced.
***
Jesus Christ, Styx thought to himself as he walked into the kitchen, naked except for pair of striped boxer shorts. That girl can work it. Styx went over to the sink and drew a glass of water from the tap, gulping it all down and breathing out of a sigh of exhaustion. Vegas must be one lucky dude, he thought, having chicks like that ready to get their freak on with him, just by his name alone? What was with that shit? Fuckin' a. Those foreign broads really are something else in bed. Styx threw the glass into the sink and looked at the fat dude's wallet on the floor. He bent over to pick it up, along with some of the pictures, when he noticed something he didn't see before. One of those girls looked familiar…very familiar. She wasn't splayed out in some tawdry sex pose, but rather it was a studio shot. The dark hair, the red lips, the high cheekbones. It was her!
Oh shit, Styx thought. This is heavy.
He turned around just in time to see Katrina standing behind him, naked, breasts full and heaving, swinging something that looked like it packed some clout. The fucking bike pump. Jesus. Then the metal pump struck him square in the temple, knocking Styx down for the count instantly.
***
Katrina stood over 'Vegas'. She dropped the big metal pumping machine and looked down on him. He was out cold. She picked up what was in his grasp. It was a large wallet, complete with pictures. She look through it and saw it was Nikita's, the sweet man who was one of Papa's lieutenants. Her picture was amongst those inside of the wallet and Katrina began to think. How much did this 'Vegas' know about things? Papa had told her to eliminate the threat, but perhaps that would be too hasty. Maybe she should take him back to the Red Star and find out a little what knew for sure and Katrina decided that is what she would do. Some gain, no great loss. She didn't get to kill him, but in a way, that was a good thing. He was quite good in bed. He legitimately made her scream, something a man hadn't done to her in a good while. She found her purse next to the couch in the other room and extracted a cell phone and she dialed up The Red Star. Makar picked up on other line.
"Papa. Yes. I have him. I think we should bring him in to The Room. It might be more beneficial that way."
"I'll send a car over. Stay there."
"Fine."
She flipped the phone shut and started to put her clothes back on. We'll just find out how much of a hard ass this 'Vegas Minor' is, Katrina thought. She looked and saw the rocket shaped smoking apparatus next to her purse. Curious, she picked it up and took a sniff, but instantly wrinkled her nose. She had never smoked it before, and she didn't want to start now. She pulled out the gun, went back into the kitchen, and sat down at the table, waiting for the unconscious man to wake up. It wouldn't be long now…
NEXT:
CHAPTER 11---SIMPSON