CRIME - chapter one

I hate my uncle and his fucking unfiltered Camels. Okay, that's a lie, I love the guy. But I'm sick of sweeping up these stupid little stubs of burning white carcinogens. I spend the next twenty minutes trying to pick all of the butts out of the couch in the backroom before I move on to sweeping up the rest of the mat. My Uncle Louie sits behind the counter with the crossword in front of him, only two words are filled in and a couple of guys are finishing up with a dryer toward the back corner.

"What I don't get about this phenomenom that you American brutes call 'Pulp Fiction' is that you say it restarted John Travolta's career." The guy has a Scottish accent, pretty cool in my book.

"What are you, a dumbass?" There's a shorter guy with him, he seems a little less cool. He pushes his glasses back up his nose when he tries to explain. "Travolta was gone for years, almost off the radar before Quentin brought him back."

The Scottish guy sits on top of the dryer and leans his head back. "Look, all I'm saying is that I'm very partial to Stayin Alive." Okay, maybe he's not that cool either. The smaller guy hops next to him and flicks him in the forehead. They continue to argue until their clothes finish drying.

"Hey, bud, can you figure this one out?" My uncle shoves the crossword in my face and a pencil in my hand.

"What? Oh...REEFER."

"Sounds like a wild night out there, boyo." The Scotsman is waiting at the counter with two little yellow slips in his hand, grinning.

"More like a mellow one."

He laughs and hands the slips to Louie. Louie passes them to me. In the back room, all of the dry cleaned and pressed suits hang next to a tiny cabless TV. I cycle through the endless drone of blue, grey and black until I find the two I need.

"Okay, Denton and...Schnider."

"Aye, good boy." He takes a look down at the crossword and points at a box. "AMPHETAMINE." The two walk out, still arguing about Travolta.

"I hate Stayin Alive," my uncle says under his breath. I laugh and go back to sweeping.

In the back room again, I find myself staring out the window at the pouring rain coming down over "Sunny" California's skyline. The rain comes down the glass like a waterfall, making the world beyond it seem more fantasy-like than real. It's the nights like this that I find myself thinking about my mother. She died when I was born, which meant I didn't get the chance to grow up and hate her. This left me with only the choice of missing her and crying at night. I know, it sounds pussy, but fuck you.

I look up at the sign to the laundromat and become hypnotized by the warped glow of pink and blue neon. The watr runs down the glass and I zone for almost ten minutes before a black SUV pulls into the lot. What the hell is Flarrety doing here?

Flarrety is another Scot that comes in once and a while to talk to my uncle. He's usually very businesslike, never says a thing to me, but when he drags his body out of his car, something is wrong. He's unshaven, disheveled, stumbling, probably drunk. He doesn't even avoid the puddles in the lot.

"Louie, check this out."

Louie lowers the paper and looks up as Flarrety walks through the door. "Marty, stay in back." He gets up and runs around to shake Flarrety's hand. "You Scottish bastard, how the hell are you? Marty, I said stay in back."

Fine, I'll go in back, but I'm listening to everything. I go around the corner and sit on the floor with my back to the wall.

"Louis, how goes things round these parts?" Man this guy has a scary voice.

"Always good, Flarrety, always good. You feeling alright?"

"Oh, you know me, mate. I get into things a little too deep and I just say fuckle to the particulars." He laughs a little. I shiver at the sound.

"Well, I'll have the boy get you a drink then. Marty! Two!"

This is an all too familiar signal. Right on the other side of the suits is a mini-fridge stocked with beer and whiskey. I snap open the door and the light that would normally blind me is blocked by a Chinese leftover box. I'll eat that later. Here we go. I stick my hand and the beers out from behind the wall.

BAM!

The bottles explode in my hands and I dive to the floor in a shower of suds. What the fuck just happened?

"Flarrety, what the hell is wrong with you?" I hear Louie ask. He's answered with the soft wet SMACK of a punch to the face. The wall vibrates as Louie falls to the floor against it. I hear Flarrety come around the counter and he hits Louie again.

"Louie...this is nothing personal. At least nothing against you. You see, that douchebag, pissant, little windowlicker of a boss of ours has ruined my life for the last time." Louie gurgles something, but I can't hear it through the blood. "Why you? I think that's a little obvious. Look, Becky just left me, and its all the bosses fault. And since I can't get to that prick, I've come here." Godammit. What the friggin hell is going on? "So, Louis. As I said, nothing personal, but I need to get his attention. So..."

CLICK.

BAM!

The bell over the door rings and I hear Flarrety's SUV drive off. LOUIE!

I come around the corner and I almost puke. Flarrety's a fucking dead man. Louie is behind the counter with a bullet wound in his chest. The smell of blood, sweat, piss and shit is seeping into the air around me. I guess it is true that you shit yourself when you die. Fuck.

I bend down and take Louie's head in my hands. This man was a father to me my entire life. When my real dad ran off he was there. When I ran away from foster homes, he was there. Now, I'm gonna help him. I wipe th blood off his face and try to sit him upright. Jesus Fucking Christ he's heavy.

I step out into the rain and look in the direction that Flarrety drove off. At least I think it's the right direction. I need to find Flarrety, or this boss guy. Someone needs to explain things to me. Now! I walk off into the streets of California. I think I have a migraine.