The Tucson Tango

A 1992 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham reflected the desert moonlight as it cruised Speedway Boulevard. Sapphire Blue Fire Mist paint draped the vehicle. It flowed like water under the stars. A tiny bulb on the exterior of the trunk illuminated the Grand Canyon State license plate.

Tucson’s Friday night traffic filled the streets as the car's long boxed body weaved in and out of vehicles. The index finger on Claiborne’s left hand tapped the steering wheel. His tree trunk neck protruded from his boulder shoulders. It was thicker than most men’s thighs. Huge eyes and a wide mouth gave him an otherworldly look.

Crevices between the folds of skin on the back of his neck collected the beads of sweat that rolled down his bald cranium. He wiped his head, neck, and face dry with a yellow-stained white towel.

The Cadillac stopped alongside a city bus at a red light. The traffic light turned green and beamed onto the sedan. The automobile’s clear coat projected a purple hue into the night as it reflected the traffic signal.

The roar of the public transport’s engine made its way into the sealed interior of the Cadillac—an air freshener shaped like an evergreen hung from the rearview mirror. The smell of pine and leather filled the cabin.

Claiborne looked in the rearview mirror at the man who sat behind the passenger seat.

Eddy resembled a grand champion fight dog covered in prison tattoos. He wore a low-brimmed ball cap on top of a dark brocha mustache. Deep scars marked his face. The black eyes in his skull reminded Claiborne of a great white shark.

“Let’s go ova’ tha’ plan one more time before we pick him up,” said Claiborne.

Eddy waited a few moments, then replied in a raspy voice, “Again?”

Claiborne smashed the steering wheel with his massive fist. He glared at Eddy through the rearview mirror.

“I didn’t fucking studda’,” said Claiborne.

“We pick him up,” said Eddy.

“Then?” said Claiborne.

“You put the car in park. I put the piano wire around his neck and hold him against the seat. You hit him with the filero.”

Claiborne snorted, thick phlegm came out of his sinuses, and onto his tongue. The light green loogie temporarily relieved his cottonmouth.

He rolled down the window, hocked the snot into the street, and wiped his head. The sound of automobile engines, police sirens, and a tractor-trailer's air breaks muffled as the window closed.

“That piece of shit doesn’t deserve that patch. As soon as he is dead I am carving that fucking tattoo off his chest. Do you have the knife I told you to bring?”

Claiborne glanced in the rearview mirror.

Eddy held up the filet knife. The blade reflected the aqua-marine instrument gauge located in the dash.

A wide grin stretched from one ear to the other, “How do you know he isn’t packing heat?”

Claiborne held up his right arm, exercised his trigger finger, and looked at his hand with a down-turned mouth.

Eddy shrugged, “I told him we were going to go to the strip club. They give a good pat down. He won't be strapped. When do I get my feria, homey?”

Claiborne sucked his teeth, “You'll get your money tonight. You just get that over his neck as soon as I put this boat in park.”

“Fucking easy street,” Eddy’s head swayed from left to right as the massive sedan’s run-flat tire missed a jagged depression in the road, “What did he do to get in the hat?”

“That motha’ fucking rat bastard thinks he is going to put his hands in my fucking cookie jar. He’s too fucking ambitious for that age. Something like him comes along and you have to smotha’ it in tha’ crib.”

Eddy unwrapped a stick of gum and placed it in his mouth, “You sure he won’t trip on me sitting behind him?”

Claiborne smelt the cinnamon of the gum. A flash of heat started in his temples, built heat through his head, and spread through his body like wildfire. He raised his index finger and pointed in the rearview mirror, “Don’t fuck this up, youngster. He's ambitious but he’s got fucking shit for brains. He thinks tha’ world is his fucking ashtray like he is ten foot fucking tall and bulletproof."

Eddy smiled, “Lock in.”

Claiborne pulled next to the curb in front of a busy midtown tavern.

A tall slender man, with a five o’clock shadow, knocked on the passenger side window. He wore khaki shorts, a black t-shirt, and tennis shoes. Dark hair on top of his head was cut into a tight fade. His eyes were a white sand beach ocean blue.

Claiborne rolled down the window.

“Claybee, what’s good? You see this?” said Play.

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder; his eyes reflected the neon bar lights, “True friendship."

A large woman, with curly hair fashioned into a long mullet, wretched violently. Next to her stood a petite woman with bad skin. The petite woman held her friend's mullet away from her face. Vomit splattered their open-toe wedges.

"It's okay, Barbara," said the petite woman.

Barbara glanced up at Play, opened her mouth to speak, and belched, “Fuuuck youuu!"

She raised her middle finger, doubled over, and wretched so hard she farted.

Play laughed, “You smell like the drunk tank and you sound like a poo-butt dinosaur. I'm going to have to pass.”

"Get the fuck out of here," said the petite woman.

Claiborne squeezed the steering wheel. His knuckles went white. He forced a smile, unlocked the door, and motioned for Play to get in the car.

Play opened the door, leaned over the passenger seat, and extended his fist for Eddy to bump.

“Fast Fuckin’ Eddy, It is a fuckin’ beautiful night. Are you ready to see the ladies at TD’s?” said Play.

“TD’s East or TD’s West,” asked Eddy as he dapped Play’s fist with his own.

Play sat in his seat, turned to Claiborne, and buckled his safety belt.

“You call it, Claybee.”

A smile crept across Claiborne’s face. His chest constricted, warmth spread from his loins to his guts, and imaginary abdominal monarchs filled his stomach.

“I have to make a drop at the track first. Then we go to Miracle Mile,” said Claiborne.

"Westside it is," said Play.

Claiborne pulled the Cadillac into traffic.

"We are supposed to be partying. What the fuck is up with this work shit?" said Play.

"We need more cash for the ladies, ese," said Eddy.

All three men laughed.

"You're buying the first round and the first dance, Claybee," said Play.

"Deal."

"One-time. Half a mile up on the right," said Play.

"I see him," said Claiborne.

A marked police cruiser parked in a gas station faced the road. It pulled in behind the Cadillac.

"Easy," said Play.

"Shut the fuck up," said Claiborne.

The police cruiser turned on its sirens.

"Fuck," said Claiborne.

He flipped his turn signal, pressed the brakes, and made the first available exit.

The police cruiser engine roared as it blew past them.

Eddy whistled.

"That fucking cock sucker," said Claiborne.

"I was ready to fuckin' run," said Play.

"Me too," said Eddy.

"Too fat to run," said Claiborne.

"Claybee doing the car chase in the Caddy."

Several more police cruisers screamed down the street.

"It's going down," said Eddy.

Thump Thump Thump Thump

Tucson Police Department's Bell 206 helicopter buzzed the Cadillac in pursuit of the cruisers.

A few miles down the road Claiborne snorted, "Word on the street is you saved some overdosed hooker."

"She was a fuckin' kid not a hooker. Had a needle hanging out of her arm. The bottom of her feet were blue. Eyes rolled back in her head. She weighed ninety pounds soaking wet," said Play.

"How did you save her?" asked Claiborne.

The engine accelerated.

Claiborne glanced at Play.

His gaze fixed out the windshield. His left hand trembled.

"I asked you a fucking question?" said Claiborne.

"I called emergency services," said Play.

Claiborne chuckled, "You hear that Eddy?"

"Heard it," said Eddy.

"Some little girl with a needle in her veins isn't good for business, holmes," said Play.

"Watch how you fucking talk to me," said Claiborne.

"Chill out," said Play.

"Don't you tell me to fucking chill out you mother fucker," said Claiborne.

He squeezed the steering wheel with all his might. The veins on his bald head bulged. Sweat poured off his brow, down the side of his face, and serpentined through his chest hair.

Claiborne pulled into the Rillito Park Race Track parking lot. A small sedan was the only vehicle in the lot. Massive Grandstands, huge glass pane windows, and a long dirt track loomed behind the lot.

"There he is," said Claiborne.

Claiborne pulled close to the sedan. The dark-tinted windows made it impossible to see inside. He shifted the vehicle’s transmission into park, extinguished the headlights, and kept his hands on the steering wheel.

Play peered into the dark windowed vehicle with his hands cupped over his brow, "I can't see shit."

Claiborne smiled, turned to look at the rear passenger seat, and felt sick to his stomach. Eddy was gone. The vehicle rocked. A metallic thread pulled Claiborne's neck against the headrest. He looked into the driver-side window; Eddy’s distorted reflection grimaced as his jaw muscles strained. The golden implants in his mouth twinkled as they caught twilight. The glow from the instrument panel accentuated his deeply scarred face. Eddy’s dead eyes gazed into another place.

Claiborne grabbed at the ignition, spit flew from his lips, he gasped for air.

Play turned off the car, snatched the keys, and threw them in the back seat.

The pressure in Claiborne’s head made his eyeballs feel like they were going to explode out of his face. His white shirt turned bright red as blood leaked from the wound across his neck.

“Ease up, Fast Eddy,” said Play.

Eddy released tension on the garrote, tied the handles in a knot around the support bar of the driver seat headrest, and released his grip.

Claiborne gulped air with the small amount of slack given.

Play opened the glovebox, grabbed a high processed cream-filled chocolate cake wrapped in plastic, and held it up in front of him.

“Fuckin' snack stash in the glove box? This is why your neck looks like that. You’re like a fuckin’ Shar-pei.”

Play opened the pastry, took a bite, and spoke with a mouthful of chocolate, “You get these at Franky’s? Have you had their cheesesteaks, Fast Eddy?”

“Hell yeah. Best fucking cheesesteaks out west, hands down,” Eddy replied.

Play turned to Claiborne, “Franky made a four hundred and twenty-six-foot cheese steak. Fuckin' legendary.”

Claiborne turned his head the best he could as the wire dug into his flesh. The feeling of the thin metal as it lacerated his throat made him clench his fists. He craned his neck, gazed at Play, and spat blood on the center console.

Play pulled the remaining cake to his chest to protect it from the body fluids.

“Fuck you, punk,” said Claiborne.

Play made a clicking noise with his mouth, wiggled his index finger in front of Claiborne, and shrugged.

“This is your fault. You can’t hit someone from our outfit without a blessing from the dream team. So you outsourced like the sneaky fuck you are. You fucked up when you went to my homeboy, Fast Eddy. He informed me of your fuckery. Now we are here. Why do you want me gone?”

Claiborne kept his mouth shut.

Play took another bite, leaned back against the passenger door, and nodded to Eddy.

Eddy punched Claiborne in the head, “He asked you a question, bitch.”

Play stuffed the last of the chocolate cake into his mouth.

Eddy handed a Colt 1911 chambered in .45 caliber to Play.

"Man stopper," said Play.

"He's a big boy," said Eddy.

Eddy soaked the interior of the vehicle with lighter fluid. He turned the bottle upside down over Claiborne's head.

Claiborne’s vision tunneled as the accelerant dripped into his maimed throat.

“Cut the fuel line and tap on the window when you are finished. I’ll take care of this,” said Play.

“You ain’t said nothing, homey,” said Eddy.

Eddy exited the vehicle.

“You could have called anyone else in the city to kill me; besides my best fuckin’ friend Fast Fuckin’ Eddy.”

There was a knock on the window.

"You wanted the best. You got the best," said Play.

He chambered a round into the pistol.

Claiborne struggled against the wire, “No!”

Play rolled down the passenger window a few inches, exited the vehicle, and closed the door. He placed the barrel of the pistol through the crack from outside the vehicle.

Bang!

Claiborne's left hip exploded as the mushroomed projectile passed through his pelvis. A high-pitched squeal came from deep inside his body.

The pistol ejected the empty brass, the slide slid forward, and another .45 was chambered.

Play looked into the car through the crack in the window, “Fuck me.”

Claiborne gurgled as blood gushed from his side.

Play raised the pistol.

Boom!

The round removed Claiborne’s face. Blood coated the inside of the Cadillac. Brain matter plopped out of the gaping head wound onto the large man's lap. His body twitched, convulsed, and shivered against the seat belt.

A lit matchbook landed on Clairborne's lap. His body went up in a flash.

Fire dropped from the interior of the vehicle. A pool of flames grew beneath the car.

The dark-windowed sedan drove away.

Kaboom!

The Cadillac windows exploded into thousands of pieces, peppered the ground, and sounded like a tidal wave of tiny bells.