Pimp by Ken Bruen & Jason Starr

Author:Ken Bruen & Jason Starr [Bruen, Ken & Starr, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783295708
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2016-03-14T21:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

Maybe my future starts right now.

JOHN GARFIELD IN The Postman Always Rings Twice

Mo had it all figured out. Once they got the money from that Larry Reed motherfucker, they’d take out the boss too. Hell, why the fuck not? Mo liked even numbers a lot more than odd. Mo never was too good at math in school—or maybe the problem was he wasn’t in school all that much at all—but he knew 85K split two ways was a lot more than 85K split three. But can you even split 85? He thought you could only split even numbers. Fuck it, man, if there was an extra dollar, he’d keep it, and they’d go down to Meh-hee-coe. Man, eighty-five thousand dollars is like a million pesos down there. Money’s worth more below the border, he didn’t know why everybody didn’t want to move down there. Why waste your time with dollars when you can have pesos?

Mo’s plan: they could use some of the cash to buy a ranch-type hacienda or whatever they were called, then use the rest to see how they might take on part of the cartel’s business. Stay small but profitable. He’d need Jo for the heavy lifting, the guy was dumb as shit, but you don’t got a wingman, who else gonna take out the trash?

But Jo, man, he’d been sniffing round Larry Reed’s wife, going, “Can’t wait to taste a piece of that meat” and “Bet the lady be tastin’ sweet” and “There’s a sweet hole down in that basement and I’m gonna plug it.”

Disrespectful-to-women shit like that.

Mo was southern, and all southern boys are gentlemen. He didn’t mind that talk when it was for show, like at the producer’s house. But that was just to put on a show, to scare the dumb guy.

Mo went to Jo, “You talk to your momma with that mouth?” and Jo said, “If I wanted to fuck her, I would.”

Jo was so stupid, it was impossible to have a sensible conversation around the man.

Mo was from Tennessee, hundred miles outside Memphis. Mo was the type of guy who’d kill a man who looked at him funny—and he had, seven times. Make that eight—there was that guy who gave him queer looks at that honkytonk back home. But women, man, he didn’t never kill none of them. Women were sacred to Mo. He didn’t understand how any man could ever hurt a woman. Women were a gift from God. Just look at them—how soft and gentle they all were, with all them curves. A woman was like a beautiful white mountain. Not that women had to be white, he wasn’t no redneck—at least not when it came to fucking. He’d fuck any woman, no matter what color. Like at ho houses, some guys would only pick the white girls, but Mo went black, Chinese, Mexican, didn’t matter to him. But most of the guys Mo knew growin’ up went around hating niggers.

That’s one reason why Mo took off for Los Angeles.

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