Greetings from the Vodka Sea by Chris Gudgeon Page B

for him to finish.
    â€œFound myself?”
    â€œStuck.”
    â€œStuck?”
    â€œStuck.”
    Moonie tuned the radio on. Coltrane checked in from 1956.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?”
    Murph shook his head.
    â€œJesus, man. You need a holiday. You and Rudy, go someplace nice. Get yourselves a plane ticket, and go someplace nice.”
    . . .
    Baseball. Crackers. Pearl. Lady. Bush. Candy. Da Bomba knew every word. Hotcakes. Raw. Scotty. Scramble. He even had his own words, he’d teach them to his bitches. Glo. Like “glow” but no “w.” Glo was candy. Or jizz. That was rock. Glamour Pussy, that was a girl who’d go down on you for some jizz, not to be confused with a smoker, a chick who’d suck you off for some jizz. He called a pipe a bracket, no one knew why, that’s just the word he used and he liked it. He called customers gooks, he called suppliers fairies, he called his posse his bitches. They didn’t like it, but what could they do? Da Bomba had a word for everything. He told his bitches how he’d fixed that gook with his dildo, the gook what owed him the grass (which is what Da Bomba called money), and how the gook had shit himself and cried like a baby, and his bitches laughed until they almost shit themselves. Da Bomba, he was one crazy mother-fucker. He was all fucked up. He was only sixteen, and already the police were afraid of him. Shit, his own momma was scared of that crazy red-haired motherfucker Da Bomba. And that night when Da Bomba got home, he cried. He cried and he cried and he cried. His momma came into his room and held him in her big warm arms. She just held while he cried and cried and cried. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die and go to hell. She was the only one who knew how scared he was. Da Bomba, that crazy motherfucker, he was scared shitless.
    . . .
    Murph knew the drill. He’d seen the cherries flashing a quarter mile back. He almost crapped himself. He nudged the wrinkled Barnes and Noble bag closer to Moonie, not entirely sure that, if push came to shove, he wouldn’t let Moonie take the fall. He checked his speed, but he was in the limit. It crossed his mind that maybe Dr. No had ratted him out. Maybe the whole thing had been a setup. Maybe Starky was wearing a wire and recorded their conversation. It’s possible he was already in deep with the cops and rolled over to protect his own ass. He was just that kind of self-centred son-of-a-bitch.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, officer? Was I going too fast?” Murph unconsciously wiped his shirt as he spoke. The officer didn’t respond. He asked Murph for his driver’s license and registration. The cop took the papers back to the hog and called them in. Murph slid the bag forward and tried to kick it under the seat. He was careful. Cops were always on the lookout for suspicious movement. For a moment, Murph thought of flooring it. He could easily put a quarter mile between the cop and himself, then ditch the book out the window. It was a question of the lesser of two evils.
    The cop returned to the car. Murph thought he looked funny in his little costume, his puffy motorcycle pants and high boots, the white plastic ovum that covered his head, the empty shades meant to convey dispassion, to strike fear into the heart. This was make believe for children. It was not how police should dress in this day and age.
    The cop handed Murph his papers.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Murphy. You have a nice day, y’hear.”
    . . .
    Peter Murphy returned home. Peter Murphy parked the car. Peter Murphy did not know what to do next. Dr. Starky had knocked the wind out of Peter Murphy’s sails. The cop had taken the wind out of Peter Murphy’s sails. Rudolph Murphy stood on the steps waiting for Peter Murphy to come up to the house.
    â€œHello, Father,” Rudolph Murphy said. His tone was unusually expressive.
    â€œFinished your opera,