Various Artists: Jazz Lounge Volume 1

The blue was almost overbearing. The sky and sea were cartoon clear, mid-June in the Ligurian Sea, just off the coast of Corsica. The sun drenched everything in sight, pulling the teak oil out of the wood of the rented speedboat and shooting it right up my nose full speed. It was competing for space in my senses with a myriad of other smells, sweating skin, the remnants of dockside lunch, blood and the jasmine bouquet of Angeline's shoulders. My god, she really is perfect, I reflected as we hit a wave full force and she launched off the deck ever so slightly, grabbing my arm and smiling. Her teeth were what caught me first. Odd to say, but a woman's teeth speak for her, in more ways than one.

Three days ago I had been lying in a hospital room looking at the mountains surrounding Castiglioncello and wondering just what in the hell had gone wrong. Bryan and I had come to the south of France for two weeks of relaxation, food and serious beach time. It's almost impossible to not have a good time in Marseilles. Especially when you're loaded from a fresh job and with a clean alibi trail leading all the way back three months. It's a shame those plans had to be put on hold. Bryan had clued me into the deal back in March and it sounded fucking perfect. One nights work, thirty years of pay. I had been squeaking by with small time hustles and part time work for a while. Nothing big ever panned out but it never stopped me from dreaming.

The deal was straight forward. Well, as straight forward as these things ever are. African diamonds going to Ukrainian black market dealers for some RPGs and a grab bag of AK47s, pistols and whatever else the Soviets left behind. The buyers were some little known radical faction from a tribal hot zone in the west of Africa. I'm almost certain they were the "Democratic Liberators of Something or Another". They always are. Anyway, the deal was being brokered by some of Bryan's old friends in Amsterdam and for a thirty percent cut, they would let us know where the exchange was and help us find a new buyer in the area. Lawyers. I hate fucking lawyers. But whatever I felt had to take a backseat to these particular lawyers, they were about to make me a very happy and wealthy man.

The one thing I'll give lawyers is that they're detail oriented. We had verified employment in Japan for one of their shell companies, alibis who would swear that we were at their hotel and the receipts to show for it. While our ghosts were working in Sendai (evidently we were contract IT) Bryan and I were mapping Amsterdam and setting up the job. Bryan had lived there in his early twenties so it really helped having him on this. That and his locals kept us in a steady supply of information and good hash. It made for a very pleasant stay. But we weren't here for the weed, not yet anyway. We had work to do.

The plan was simple. The buyers were coming in on a train from Paris and taking a taxi to the hotel a day before. The meet was the next afternoon with our boy so we had about a 12 hour window to relieve them of the diamonds. Hotel security was a joke and the police were far enough away that we could get clean before they arrived on scene.

We walked through the back door courtesy of a very disgruntled and now significantly wealthier cook and made our way to the emergency stairs. Changing into the masks and stripping off our street clothes on the landing, Bryan and I exchanged nervous looks. I hate to disappoint people, but it doesn't matter how long you've been doing this kind of shit, you're always nervous. Professionals just don't let it affect their cool. The door to the room was as promised, unlocked with the master key and opened with a slight click.

Two very surprised looking men were locked into that position permanently as the clack of two silenced pistol rounds opened their minds to the world. Such dirty business. We moved quickly then, scooping up the briefcase, grabbing the keys off both men and re locking the door. Back into the stairwell we headed, pulling back on the tourist outfits and filling our backpacks with the weapons and masks. Thankfully no one was awake and roaming the halls, I hate having to kill innocent people.

Out in the alleyway we met our waiting limo driver and headed off to the train station for passage to Marseilles. I never breath a sigh of relief until the job is done and we were only halfway there. Sitting underneath my feet was about $30 million in blood diamonds and some very bloody keys were jingling around in my pocket. The lawyers were sending their guy to meet us at a resort, Kalenda. A nights ride later we checked into our rooms at Kalenda and I started to sweat.

All that was left now was waiting for the agent to get in touch with us and collect our money. Bryan headed to the hotel bar and I stayed in the room with the briefcase, watching my cell with anxious twitching. I have always hated that part. Sitting, waiting, not knowing what's going on. I like the action. Put me in a firefight and I know what I'm doing. Make me sweat in a hotel room and we've got a problem.

The phone rang, Belgian country code, unknown number. I picked up and listened. "We meet in the restaurant at the docks, Une Table au Sud, 19:30. I will be wearing a white tie." "Alright." Well, there was about three hours to kill so grabbed my cargo and joined Bryan at the hotel bar for a while, clued him into our dinner plans and grabbed a glass of wine. Hotel bar crowds are the same every where, business types, tourists and the occasional local cruising for visitors. Time stood still for a while, chatting up a corporate raider from America about the growth of the Euro. Damn, I should have gotten our cash in Euros. Too late now, I bid farewell to my new friend and headed back to the room to change.

I slid the key into the door and heard the click of a gun one second too late. That's all I remember until the bright sunlight of the Italian morning and some serious fucking pain in my shoulder. Angeline was my nurse and over the next few days I managed to get in touch with Bryan through some contacts in Italy and convince Angeline to help me out. She helped me get out of the hospital without too many uncomfortable "gunshot, found on the beach" questions. Let no one ever underestimate the power of persuasion.

Persuasion, and about three grand in bribes. My pocket money was running low, my shoulder felt like someone had dropped it in lava and I had some double crossing bullshit to wade through. Bryan was in the clear, he had been shot three times in the leg and one to the chest, left for dead by these pricks. The only other person that knew where we were was that Belgian phone number.

A short shopping trip to pick up a new cell phone, call Bryan and give him the new number, find me a boat and we were on our way. Angeline and I were off to Corsica to meet up with him and find out exactly who I needed to punch holes through to get our payday. It was going to be a long summer.

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Soel: Memento

The constant vibration of the road had jarred my soul awake and sent my ass to sleep by the time the skyline of the city finally revealed itself. I felt like someone had shot me with a tranquilizer dart about 50 miles ago and it had really sunk in deep. Motorcycles are sexy in theory and even then only for short rides. The blessings of a parking lot were just off to the right of the highway exit so I pulled in and put my feet on ground for the first time in 300 years. Sweaty is the natural condition of riding gear, I think it comes pre-loaded with some abnormal funk that grows progressively nastier with every mile. The helmet came off with an audible slorching sound and all I could think of was escaping the tyranny of the Flame Lord so evident outside.



Sweet air conditioned salvation lay only feet away from me and I fell through the front door of the bar into the crisp cool air. Or at least I thought. My brain tricked me for a moment, imagined fresh air wafting over my sore and sweat soaked body. In reality the muggy air was hotter in the bar than it was outside. My skin quickly realized what my brain refused to believe and sent the "resume sweating" signal rushing through my nerves. The look of incredulity on my face must have triggered some deep running sympathy in the bartender as she smiled and told me "Sorry, A/C's busted honey!" What cruel fate had led me to Hell?



Seeing no sense in trying to find another place to sit and rest this far out in the country, I pulled up a seat at the bar and ordered a beer and whatever shitty bar food was available. To my surprise the food was better than most bar chow, plenty of vegetables and fresh food on the menu. Fuck it, I ordered a hummus platter. Who knew thatbumfuck Virginia had vegan game? Delicious hummus platter filled every sense I had and the fan cooled what it could off of my head and shoulders. As I sat back and pondered the ceiling I could hear the door opening and closing behind me, noises of people coming in and ordering drinks. Typical bar chatter, I thought, I delved back into the book I'd brought along for times like this. About three chapters and two beers later I looked down at my wrist and cursed loudly. 8 o'clock at night! Shit, I'd gotten there at six and I still had three hours on the road to get home. I reached back to grab my wallet and pay up when the room came back to me all at once.



This place was packed to the rafters, past the rooftop and reaching towards the rising moon. Everywhere I looked there were people dancing, bodies flowing into one another and becoming a blur of limbs and sweat. At first I thought there was no order but as I watched and listened I could barely hear the slinky beat riding behind this mass of grooving flesh and salt water. Something down by my stomach clicked on and my feet started tapping out the rhythm. Senses started melding together, I was feeling bass lines across my flesh, watching pheromones dance in front of my eyes. The gravity well of bodies pulled me forward into the teeming, humid mass of humanity and that's really where the story ends.



Or begins, if you ask me. I don't really recall anything after that until I woke up. A stray dog licked my face as the grainy film vision of hangover revealed me to be laying stark naked in the middle of a field behind the bar, my clothes lain out as bed and pillow. Whatever had happened after the black hole of bodies sucked me in I had been laid mightily.Every muscle in my body felt like it had been through it's own personal triathlon of Kama Sutra techniques and I don't think their was a part of me that didn't reek of sex. A brief survey of my possessions found everything in order so I started the trip back to the parking lot, trying to simultaneously smoke a cigarette and pull my pants on at the same time. I stood next to my bike, stubbing out the last of my smoke and staring up at the sun. If I could remember what the fuck they were playing last night I'd have the most dangerous sexual weapon ever conceived. As I turned to walk back to the bar and find out I stopped dead.



The place was full of cobwebs, door hanging on for life and gently swaying back and forth in the early morning breeze. It looked like no one had been here in at least 20 years. I have seen too much weird shit in this life to start questioning good fortune and if demons stole my soul last night, the dance had been worth it all. I walked back towards the bike and slid my helmet back into place. The familiar heat overtook every pore and that's when I knew I was still alive, still in this reality. No imagination, no dream, no layer of Dante's hell can properly simulate a Southern summer and no devil would ever be so cruel as to subject someone to it. I knew it to be as real as the rumble under my bones as the road stretched out in front of me. That, and the fact that my ass was still as numb as roadkill.


Good for: Losing your mind and your pants. You didn't need them any way.

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The Raveonettes: Pretty in Black

There was darkness in the air, brimming over the window and flowing around my legs that night. As the endless fields flew past my eyes, I reached down to crank the radio up once more. The speakers and engine were groaning under the weight of the sky but I could not hear their cries. The only thing that played out in my mind was the runny eggs, weak coffee and sobbing confessions of the early night, the diner and its insistent cheerfulness. One side of my quarter was hope that the song in the jukebox could change my life. The other side of the coin was her face broken into a thousand fragments of regret and pain.

I could still smell the metallic sweetness of the coin, feel the textures on my fingers and hear the mechanical clicking of the record player near the door. Each memory was as sharp as a steak knife, clearer than anything that came from her mouth. There was something about the slightly damp table; the way the napkin clung to its home reminded me of her. The way I found her arm around mine a pair of handcuffs, a napkin determined to stay.

As the confessions of sobbing infidelity spilled out of her mouth, I sat numb and listened to everything around me; clinking coffee cups, yelled orders, the constant buzz of busy short order cooks and the jangling guitars radiating from the jukebox. There were words spoken, but they sounded so far away. Should I feel bad about that? The eggs and runny grits seemed more real than anything I heard.

So the night rushed in with its unfolding darkness outside the front door, the smoke from the diner mixing a greasy odor with the fresh smells of grass and starlight. I felt cold door handle, squeaking vinyl and the numbness of the night wrapped tight around my heart as I slid into the seat. The crunching gravel turned to gasoline fumed roaring as the rubber hit pavement and I poured out onto the road. Endless fields, they spread out in front of the hood like waves of ocean tide, topped with reflected moonlight and swirling with the possibility of relief.

The radio was my saving grace, the hand reaching out from the glowing dashboard and steadying my grip as I pushed the needle past 100 and into the grey zone between a death wish and a new life. I was speed itself, I was the wind. There was no difference between the ground rushing outside the windows, the roaring eight cylinders in front of my feet and the pain deep inside my chest. The driving guitar melts inside my eyes and I feel each drumbeat on my skin.

Everything leading up to this moment was necessary, the total loss of self in wind and steel; the sobbing lies echoing across a Formica table; tasteless runny eggs and lifeless grits; grizzled truckers and the constant flow of coffee brought by the waitress; teenagers sneaking cigarettes and glances at each other from grimy booths; everything is in its place. The Raveonettes led me past the pain, past the bullet riddled state line sign and into comforting darkness flowing around the car and into my lungs; salvation and temptation in every chord; the joys of love and the bitter taste of loneliness were mine for the taking. Dawn found me stranded without fuel 300 hundred miles from home drinking a bottle of cheap beer, laughing at the sun and at the happiest place in my life.



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