Tampa '85

Ok, now Mrs. Robbins, was it?

The voice was depressing. Wounded and worn from massive overuse. Sonny “Cokespoon” Johnson’s ad in the Tampa Tribune claimed that he was once a police officer, and that he’d served in the Marines, but the man sitting in front of her didn’t look like a cop or a soldier. He was dressed in a white cotton suit with a pink pastel t-shirt. On his feet were gleaming white canvas slip-ons. Would the Marine Corps abide soldiering under a walnut-brown mullet with frosted-blonde ends?

Roberts, and it’s Ms.

Right. Ms Robbins, I’ve decided to take your case. My fee is $300 per day plus whatever expenses I incur payable on reported completion of the job. That means I hand over a report, and you give me the balance.

Balance…?

Balance. You give me a thousand dollars today to retain me.

Well…

Mrs Robbie, are we here to dick around? I mean if we’re here to dick around, then just say it. Walk in, announce that we’re gonna dick around and make silly-talk, and then let’s just jagg each other off for a few days. That’s what I’d like to do. You? How does that grab you? I got an idea, let’s just rent a hotel room. Instead of starting the case, and thus maybe solving it, today, we’ll go down to Dunedin, get an ounce of coke and lay up in a Ybor City motel for a while. Go all day and night for three nights and watch TV: Magnum PI, Cheers, Taxi, fuckin’ Three’s Company!!

The woman looked nervous. For a moment their eyes locked. Then Johnson continued:

That’s what you think this is? Me? Sorry lady. You got the wrong guy. We solve cases here, lady, and that costs a grand up-front and does not include expenses. You wanna jerk off, go down to the strip, find a titty-bar called Touchless Automatic. Don’t go in, that‘s for later. Instead I want you to go up the next staircase, on the right if you’re facing the building. Ring the bell for the top floor and ask for a lady named “Peach”…

He paused, looking up at the ceiling. An ant crawling around up there. No, just a spec of lint.

…or was it plumb? Plum? Peach! Yes it was…Wait. Anyway it doesn’t matter, they’re all pretty good. After that go to Wo-Hop and have the sesame chicken and tell them I sent you, but you have to say it like John Wayne. those guys love that. I went in there one time, let me…

MR JOHN…

Then used what Sonny’s ex would call her “inside voice” to finish it off:

…son: I have a doctors appt. To whom shall I make out your check?

Sonny grinned and, for the first time in days, quieted down and made sense:

Personal to yours truly is fine Mrs. Robberson. And don’t worry about the money. I mean, it’s not as if I’m going to bolt downtown and spend it on coke and pills. This money is going to fuel our success!

The woman looked unsure, but after a few moments she took out her checkbook and a pen.

On the way out he found his latest assistant Trudy-something. Had she been here the whole time? Had she heard him with his client. He tried to his best to appear both frazzled and deep in thought so he could just blow through the room without being rude. He’d just polished off a good portion of a huge bag of cocaine he’d scored less than 48 hours ago. Appearing frazzled wasn’t a problem. The problem was that it was all lost on Trudy. She stopped him by saying

Sonn…Cok…Uhm…Mr. Johnson?

He spun in a frantic looking double-take. Said:

OK, so I’m going to be having lunch with Dave. Fuckin’… I’m gonna’ go over there now. I love going to the copshop, always fresh donuts. You know people joke about the cop/donut thing but that’s really true. Did you know most donut places don’t charge cops ANYTHING for donuts so they really do all eat donuts, coffee too! Cops LOVE their fuckin’ cof…

I just wanted to let you know, a Mister Du hoo? Du hoe?

DuHatt?

Yes. He said it’s urgent that you call him.

Ok. Gotcha.

He sounded angry.

k. Gotcha.

When will you be back?

When will I be back…?

In the office. What should I tell people?

Oh. Right. Tell them. Tell them…You know what?

What?

Just don’t answer the phone.

And he was gone.

***

Half an hour later he was cashing a 1000 dollar check at a supermarket branch of Ms. Robbins bank. Then he went downtown and purchased 800 dollars worth of cocaine and 200 dollars worth of Ativan ™ from a friend of his. The transaction was less than cordial. Sonny having found the guy face down, in the front “shrubbery” lining his double-wide. From the looks of it he’d been there since last night.

Goddamn Phil, unconscious in the mulch again?

The mulch-sleeper moved slow, rolling over onto his back. Spoke:

‘S on purpose dick-wipe. My back’s been givin’ me hell. And it’s Phillip you buttfuck! Phil-LIP.

Take it easy fucker, you’d think it was you giving me a grand for a nickel’s worth of narcotics.

Sonny went rooting around inside his trailer as Phillip regained consciousness in the mulch. Before long he emerged with a solid-looking bag of powder, shaking it around between fingers.

This can’t be it right? Lookatthis you fuckin‘ amateur! if this ounce was any lighter it’d be a half-ounce.

Phillip collapsed back into the mulch and shut his eyes. He put two fists in them and began to flex at the wrist.

Now you’re gonna talk about weight? Guy’s fuckin’ chin-deep in debt to every drug dealer in the greater Hillsborough area. Talkin’ about weight.

Fuck you, where’s your integrity! And I don’t owe every dealer

Call it whatever you like. ‘Not exactly a buyers market for you.

My debt doesn’t give you a license to be a fuckin’ dick. I’ve known you since we were ten.

Right, and that’s why I’d feel very, very guilty having to take a thumb, even more so a whole hand.

Damn, dude. Like that?

Just like that, asshole. Now beat it, I’m going to work.

***

He heard the robotic “ring” of his car phone from the steps of the doublewide. Phillip was barking at him halfway through:

Don’t take that fuckin’ call here you fuckin’ loser.

Sonny scronked back hoarsely:

It’s nice to see you too PHIL.

As he retrieved the phone he was reminded that he couldn’t afford the thing. It was essentially a three hundred dollar a month center-console ornament. He never gave the number to anybody, so whenever it rang it was sure to be bringing bad news. Thankfully, whoever had called him had apparently given up. As he pulled out of Phillip’s though, the phone’s futuristic drone-tone was at it again: Boooooooop….Booooooooop….

Cokespoon picked it up violently, yelling into the receiver:

Look, I said I don’t have the money right now ok? Jesus fuck! If you guys are so bad off send somebody to pick the fucking thing up cause I don’t give a …

Phillip yelling at him:

You stupid monkey what’d you do!!!

Fuck you PHIL-LIP. Whaaat?

Your fucking assistant stupid. You have to call her family.

Fuck.

Sonny hit the wheel with both hands.

Not again!!

***

He arrived and it was just Phil and two fingerprint techs, Michael and Thomas. Coke greeted them:

Phillip, Michael…Thomas.

Phillip said:

Hey dooshbag. How many is this now? Three?

Three this year. Two last year.

Four? Fucking four!!

Phillip twisted his face in exaggerated disbelief.

Four fuckin’ young pretty girls, their whole lives in front of them. young and full of fuckin’ hope…

Phillip…

Michael, Thomas. Leave us. I need to speak to Mr. Johnson alone.

Dude, you gotta pay this guy back. What are you into him for like 50,000?

Sonny squirmed in his seat. Partly because he was uncomfortable with the conversation, mostly because he’d just horked back four giant gaggers on the way over. He knew what he’d find there. He knew who did it. As a means of erecting a significant buzz-wall to protect him from shame, he'd snorted a line for every red light on the way back to his office. By the time he badge-flashed onto the scene and found Phil, different sections of his lips were moving of their own volition.

Actually no. I owe Jabba 5,000 dollars.

Phillip stared. Sonny tried to still his quivering coke lips, but with Phillip looking into him like this they were only getting worse.

Five? No. You…There’s gotta be a mistake. 5,000 dollars a month until you or he is dead?

No. Just five.

No. Gotta be something missing. 5,000 dollars ten years ago, and there’s massive vig attached, and interest alone your 20 g’s deep, right? What’s wrong with your fuckin’ lips man?

‘Spoon ignored the question.

Nope. Just 5.000. It’s from the casino last month. We went together, but the ATMs there didn’t honor my card. I HATE paying the fee, so Jabba sponsored me.

Let me guess: You fucking lost.

No, No. I won HUGE! It was a great night. After I sprang for hookers and pizza back at the room.

Phillip said nothing.

Sonny said: Wow look what he did to her head. I’m gonna have to get a new fake plant…

Phillip still said nothing.

***

Sonny did a lot of thinking on the way home. Unfortunately the thinking was of no use because most of it was stupid coke-centric thinking. The rest was so random and disconnected even Cokespoon couldn’t decipher. Basically he ended up driving around for an hour, then parking in front of Jabba’s storefront-fake “cab stand”. He did three lines, and opened the glove compartment. He removed the .38 Sig from under what looked like hundreds of parking tickets. It was full of hollow point rounds and the serial numbers had been dissolved with acid. The perfect weapon for what he, suddenly, had planned. As soon as Jabba got back from his A.M. rounds, he liked to gather all his boys together for a motivation session and some team building role-plays. ‘Spoon’s plan: wait him out, invade the session, and shoot Jabba in the neck in front of his army of minions. It was the best way for the thing to end, he decided. This way all Jabba’s people would understand what a badass he was and think twice about avenging the boss. His thoughts were slowing to semi-manageable level. This was both good and bad. Good because he had to shoot somebody in the neck soon. Bad because he was out of both drugs and money. He thought about asking a friend, Jabba maybe, for a small loan. Just enough to get a little, not a lot, but just a bit of cocaine, then he’d be ready to get the job done. As he schemed and planned, he fiddled with a yellowed Polaroid that had been slotted in the sun-visor of the car. He stopped every so often to look at it. It was a picture of two young boys at what appeared to be a rodeo. Inscribed on the bottom were the words :”To my lil brotha Sonny. I will luv you forever, even if we become mortal enemies” . Sonny read this and began to cry. Then he fell asleep for 8 hours. As he drifted

***

He woke to the sounds of a tow truck disengaging from a towed car. He felt a light jolt, and then a harder one. He heard the sound of a tow truck moving off and smelled tow truck exhaust. He peaked up. Even though it was nighttime, and even though his body was sending (very urgent) messages about cocaine and cocaine withdrawal to his brain, he still was able, within just a few seconds of waking, to discern exactly where he was. He’d fallen asleep in his car, and the meter-maid had impounded it, having it (and, with it, him)towed to the Jefferson Court motor pool for the Tampa PD. Outside his window he saw, roughly, 40 Tampa PD radio-cars.

He looked for anybody else around. He knew that was unlikely this late at night though, and before long he stepped from his car and started rifling through the cop cars. Unlocked, all of them, because they were locked in here behind concertina wire.. Instead of the glove boxes and center consoles however, Cokespoon went right to where he knew the goodies will be. He pulled a latch tucked between the cop car's rear bench and the door. What he found made him extremely happy, if not exactly surprised. Every criminal in the world knows: anything illicit that’s on you when the police processed you for arrest, is better stuffed down the backseat of the cop’s car than in the hands of the intake officer. By the time Sonny returned to his vehicle he was holding almost an ounce of cocaine, a full ounce of what looked and smelled like awesome weed, at least a hundred blue valiums, and a Walther PPK sidearm worth about 1,000 dollars at the Tampa Porn n Pawn. Cokespoon jumped in the back of his car once more, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually thankful to have the car phone. A voice, agitated and coke-breathy, came on the other end.

Let me guess…

Seargant Phillip Lesh asked Sonny “Cokespoon” Johnson

Your car’s been towed and you’re calling me to come share the awesome stash you found by breaking into cop cars.

Sonny, sharp, said:

People keep drugs in cop cars?

***

It was almost midnight when ‘Spoon and Sarge drove out of the plundered motor pool. Sonny said:

Thanks for the ride, dude. I only wish I had found drugs in those cop cars. Motherfuckers really stuff coke in Cop's back-seats?