Heaven, INC: Chapter 39: FUCKING COPS

I’ve never had problems with drugs.
I’ve had problems with police.
—KEITH RICHARDS

UNIVERSITY AVENUE,
NORTH PARK
12:02 P.M. PDT

TURNED OUT BIG ED WALKER didn’t get that lotion right away. Turned out, he first had to kill a man. Not that it was Big Ed’s fault, you understand, or even the speed’s. It was just people always wanted to pester Ed, to ruin a man’s good time. Especially cops, always sticking their noses into other people’s business.

Fucking cops.

See, what happened, see, Ed was just minding his own business, tooling around in ChemSteem Van#3 looking for a WalGreens when, out of the blue, he rolls right on by the Crow’s Nest.

The Crow’s Nest was a red-neck bar in a beaner part of town that Big Ed was known to frequent prior to getting sent away. And seeing the Nest . . . Hell’s bells, son, God’s saying, “Get your ass in there for a cool one’s,” is what He’s sayin’ . . . Ed decided he’d best not ignore the Lord’s will and, just like that, whipped the van into a wicked U-turn— after flipping off some asshole in a fucking Cadillac when the prick tried getting all aggressive on Ed, like he owned the whole goddamn road, and then nearly getting run over by some sunglass-wearing punks in a Suburban— just like that, Ed whipped the van into a U-turn and rolled into the Nest’s parking lot and around the back. Snorted one last ragged blast of meth off the dash and checked himself in the rear-view mirror . . . Damn, boy, you are one handsome SOB . . . before sauntering up to the front door whistling a Hank Williams, Jr. ditty like he was king of the whole damn world . . .

FUCKING PLACE had changed, man. And, to Big Ed’s considered opinion, it wasn’t change to the better, neither. Hunh-unh, no way.

See, first of all, whereas about every time Ed’d ever walked into the Nest, every damn time it was either Willie or Merle or Johnny Cash on the juke, singing about important things like cowboys, prison, bitchy women or whiskey. Today, Ed walks into the Nest and Kid fucking Rock’s singing about being Cocky.

Shit. Like Kid Rock had half the right and a quarter the balls to be anywhere near as cocky as Big Ed Walker.

Fucking pussy.

Second of all, Ed didn’t see nobody looked like they was selling crank and there weren’t but two skanks in the bar, couple older broads nursing draught beers down by the pickled eggs. Least they had eggs. That, and the pool table looked to be getting some action.

Big Ed sauntered over to the bar— Ed liked the way people watched him, the men afraid and the women hungry— and he clambered up on a bar-stool. Flipping a twenty on the bar, he said, “Beer and a shot of Jack, a buck in quarters for the table and you keep the rest, lil’ darlin’.”

Big Ed surveyed the bar as cocky Kid Rock gave way to ol’ Neil Young singing about Alabama. That got Ed to thinking about Arlene Pritcher, down Short Hollow Way. Not in Alabama, in California. Behind the Von’s supermarket in the Santee Mall.

Ed had Arlene on his mind when that bartender— a tough sexy biker-babe type who reminded Ed of Arlene— when she came back with a Bud and his shot. Dumping the quarters on the bar, she smiled and said, “Sure you don’t want more than a buck’s worth?”

This new Arlene had truly enormous breasts, in fact the largest Ed had ever seen, but she also had a smart mouth, which could go good or bad. For now, Ed smiled, because by that moment, the speed had really begun massaging his brainstem. “Arlene, darling,” he said, “since I seen you, my luck has changed for better. And so’s your’s.”

Climbing down off the chair— the thing was extraordinarily tall— climbing down, Ed felt Arlene watching him with aching need, and the skanks by the pickled eggs jar, too, all watching Ed saunter over to the pool table and the two guys in polo shirts said PARADISE WATER. Heh. Soon as Arlene saw Ed working the felt, winning some money, she’d be sure to show proper respect.


ED WATCHED the skinny fuck cut a ball into the side pocket and set himself up a pretty good leave on his last solid. Sank that one and looked at his buddy and laughed before banging the 8-ball as Ed laid more quarters on the table.

“You boys look good. Maybe you wanna play for a beer, nothing too serious, just something to make it interesting.”

The skinny guy studied Ed a moment before glancing at his partner, a rich pussy wearing his

Texas cap on backwards. “Sure, buddy. Rack em.”


IN THE FIRST GAME, Big Ed still had four balls on the table when Pussy No. 1 sank the 8. Cocky about it, too, like he was so much better than Ed. Feeling the rage building, the pump pump pump of sped up blood, Ed said, “Lemme get another buck’s worth, see if I can’t win one. Kinda beer you fellas like?”

In unison: “Coors Light.”

Fucking pussies.

Arlene gave Ed some shit when he asked for the quarters and the two pussy beers, but Ed just smiled and stared at those big beautiful tits. Before delivering the beers— slick as you please— Ed snuck some Visine into each bottle, drip drip drip, and walking back, handed them over, saying, “Here’s quarters for one more, but first I gotta hit the head.”

In one of the bathroom stalls, Ed did a line of speed and took a whiz. After washing up, he yanked the toilet-paper rolls from both stalls and shoved them down the toilets. The hand-towels went in the bottom of the trash-can and Ed out the bathroom door.

Racking, Ed said, “Hell, I ain’t in your league, but how about another quickie for beers?”

Pussy No.1 sipped his beer watching Ed like Ed was a bug and he was the scientist, like he was so much fucking better than, before responding: “We play for money, dude.”

He was an insolent fuck Ed was tempted to shoot right there on the spot.

But instead, Ed just shrugged. “Gee, I dunno. Hundred bucks?”

Pussy No. 1 did that bug-study thing of Ed again, glanced at his buddy and exchanged a look . . .
I see you, thinking there’s two of you and one of me and you’re so much better’n me.
. . . before looking back at Ed. “Sure, dude. But show me the money first.”

Ed gave Pussy No. 2 a hundred-dollar bill, who laid it atop the light that hung above the pool-table along with Pussy No. 1's five 20s. Pussy No. 1 broke the rack, got nothing, and it was Ed’s turn.

Ed was choosing a new stick when Alice Cooper came on the juke singing No More Mister Nice Guy, and humming along, he took his time, chalking his stick, chalking his hands, walking around the table, eyeballing various shots . . .

“Hey,” Pussy No. 1 said, “hurry up so we can finish before you die of old age.”
And looking a little uncomfortable saying it, too, like maybe he wasn’t feeling so well.

Ed smiled. “No problem,” he said, and sank three stripes before missing a tough bank. The moment he finished, Pussy No. 1 was up and shooting, sinking two solids before missing the third something awful and glancing over at Pussy No. 2.

Beads of sweat had formed on Pussy No. 2’s forehead, and Pussy No. 1 seemed a might bit peckish. “C’mon man, go.”

Ed paused dramatically in his selection of a pool-cue. “Excuse me, but ain’t no one ever told you it ain’t polite to hurry a man shooting pool? ‘Specially when it’s for money.” Ed stared at Pussy No. 1 a moment before he went back to selecting his cue. “In fact,” he said, carefully chalking the new cue, “it is downright feckless.” Ed blew off excess chalk dust. Then, smiling, he lined up a shot and . . . bam . . . nailed it on a sweet cut. He got on a run, then, when he was right there, it ended when he barely missed sinking the Eightball.

Fucking Eightball.

Immediately, Pussy No. 1 was hunched over his ball, kind of fidgety while sinking two solids. In the middle of the whole thing, Pussy No. 2 bolted to the bathroom. It rattled No 1, but he still managed to sink two more to leave nothing but the 8 and a shot your basic one-armed blind man could make . . .

Pussy No. 1 chalked up— grinning now, in anticipation of a hundred bucks of Big Ed’s money— and stood over the shot. Drew his stick back . . . hesitated . . . and then stroked the ball with a loud grunt. Even as the cue-ball was glancing off the 8 and headed for the side-pocket and a scratch, Pussy No. 1 was running for the bathroom.

With a bar stool, Ed fetched the money from atop the pool-table light, before going over to listen at the bathroom door:

“Dude! Dude, then get me a paper towel, now, please!”

“I told you, man, there are no paper-towels. None!”

“Dude, I got shit running down my leg . . . I think that little prick put something in our beers! When I get outta here, I'm gonna kill him!”

Ed smiled. It was a big smile spread across his face like the Grinch stealing Christmas he carried to the door whistling along to the juke— Dale Watson singing about Whiskey or God— as he sauntered past Arlene and out the Crow’s Nest’s front door, into the bright sunshiny day, thinking maybe he’d maybe treat himself to a bite to eat . . .

Course, Big Ed wasn’t expecting to find a nosey cop standing there with the van door wide open and eyeballing Ed’s ‘passengers’, because Ed was goddamn certain he’d locked the goddamned door.

Goddamn fucking cops.