Sometimes the cooks. . .er. . .crooks get it right.
I first posted this story over a dozen years ago. I suppose I have Damon Runyon to thank for it.
If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Thyme
By Angela Rasch
“What the fuck?” I stared stupidly at a newly splintered hole in the window’s trim -- inches above my head.
I can’t count on a house I’m just visiting to take more than one bullet for me.
Thwack! Another slug tore into the wall just to the left. I dove to the floor. In one motion I freed my Glock 17 from its holster and shot out the overhead light. I suppose I could’ve flicked the switch, which is right above me on the wall, but why ruin the moment?
During my twelve-year career as a wise guy, I had been shot at only once before, and that had been by a rookie cop who wanted me to stop and explain the carton of cigarettes I’d liberated from a Hy-Vee. Underaged – I’d apparently broken the law by stealing cigarettes without a note from my dear mother. Luckily the a-hole officer had been neglect in his range practicing.
Mostly where guns were involved, I’d been the one dispensing bullets.
Feeling much safer in total darkness -- I assessed my situation.
Harry the Hun, the only person in the world I trusted completely, had sent me out on a sweetheart detail. “Nothing to it,” he’d said. “Bim bam, thank you Ma’am.”
All I supposedly had to do was babysit a shipment of coke for a few hours, before he came by to deliver it to a major league buyer. I didn’t have a scale, or anything, but it appeared I was protecting about eight kilos, which on the street would bring about $two mil. That was enough money to attract all kinds of bacteria.
We’d picked the house for the drop, because it was located in a failed real estate development. It was eighty percent, or so, built and had been like that since the money people had pulled the pin three years back. The nearest inhabited home sat at least five hundred yards to the north. Location is everything.
They was trying to sell it, so it had electricity but lacked appliances and drywall on the second floor. The three bedrooms and two and a half baths were apprenly enough to have attracted my “guests.”
“Hey, Asshole!”
Someone who doesn’t know me too well -- obviously wants to chat.
I crawled on my belly to a point fifteen feet from where I had been, before I’d shot out the light -- and then waited. Under similar circumstances I had suckered my targets into a lethal error by giving away their positions answering my taunts.
Targets.
I always referred to those I was about to kill as “targets,” because that made it easier to pull the trigger. Unlike some of the anti-social slime I called “associates” -- I had a conscience. While others actually enjoyed splattering brains with a baseball bat, I often didn’t sleep well for days after particularly brutal murders. I disliked it when I had to put away a kid, or ice some helpless broad.
“What the matter, Fingers?”
Hey — it sounds like at least one of them knows me. I’d been stuck with the moniker “Fingers” back in my Elm Street Elementary days. When someone would get on my bad side I would wiggle my fingers in their face, before I jumped them.
“Are ya too much of a pussy to answer?”
Geez — Louise! Guys have been calling me a “pussy” for years, ‘cuz of my compassionate nature.
It all started back in high school. I went all the way through the middle of my junior year before giving up formal education, for a more lucrative lifestyle. It was considered standard operating procedure back then to finish off a good fight properly. After you knocked out your opponent, you were supposed to drag them over to the curb, open their mouth with their teeth biting the edge of the sidewalk — and then kick them in the back of the head. The idea was to separate them from a half dozen teeth, or so.
I figured that kind of behavior to be over-the-edge. Although I wasn’t at all opposed to applying the leather to a fallen advisory, I had my ethical limitations.
“What did I tell ya — he’s a fucking pussy. Always has been — always will be.”
Cripes all Friday, I hate it when people say that! Sure, in a way, I suppose I am, in that I’ve always felt I should’ve been born a woman, but no one knows that but me.
Although I worked out every day and sported a 48-long jacket over a body with less than six percent fat, I liked the way I looked in a dress. I had several stuck away in my closet. I even had become fairly adept with make-up, although I had to trowel on the foundation to cover my perma-beard.
They’ve gone quiet. My guess is there’s only two of them. When there’s so much easily fenced drugs involved, you can’t trust nobody. So why send three or four, when two can do the job? There’s probably one who’s decent with a rod and another who hasn’t had a neck since the third grade.
I silently rolled across the floor to position myself with a perfect shot at the front door. As a precaution earlier in the evening, I’d barricaded the back door and all of the first-floor windows had been boarded over.
If they come through that door I’ll blow their fucking heads off.
“Listen-up ya panty-wearing freak.”
Oh for crying-in-the-beer! Everyone has known for years, about me wearing panties all the time. I make no secret over the fact that I prefer the feel of silk to cotton. Why can’t some of these homophobic idiots just get over it? It’s never mattered to the Hun, and that’s all that I really care about.
“Here’s how it’s going to go down. We got five gallons of gas on each corner of the house and have fuses running to each of them.”
Shit! I’ve done the same thing dozens of times and never once did I fail to snuff out the rat-bastard I had holed-up. Talk about your irony.
“You can play it smart and shove that suitcase full of powder out the door. We’ll trade your fucked-up life for it — even though I can’t imagine a life so fucking putrid as yours being worth more than a couple hundred bucks.”
Who is that guy? He sounds a little like Philly Frank, but I’m almost certain Philly is doing a fiver upstate. How many times have I made a likewise deal with some weasel-dick prick, and then lit the house and shot the son-of-a-bitch when he came out coughin’ from the smoke — just to make sure there were no hard feelings later -- resulting in retributions.
“You got two minutes to make up your mind and then it’s going to get hot in your homo-land world.”
Holy shit! When will they ever learn that I’m transgendered; and I’m also 110% heterosexual? Why is that so fucking hard to comprehend? Sure, I would do anything for the Hun, but that’s different.
If it were me out there — I would set myself up about twenty-five feet from the front door and maybe ten feet to the right, behind that sign that gives the name of the defunct contractor who built this stick home. Then I would place my partner behind my car -- wherever I parked that piece of shit.
“Ya got just sixty seconds, ‘til boom time.”
I’ll come out the door with the suitcase full of coke held up in front of my head and hide the fact that I got my gun ready in my other hand. I’ll take out the mouthy one with three shots right through that sign — then I’ll nail the muscle. Let’s hope I’m right and the second goombah is a lousy shot.
“Thirty seconds.”
I picked up the suitcase full of drugs and stood with my back to the wall next to the front door. I would wait for the first explosion and use that distraction as an opportunity to burst through the door with my gun blazing.
Whoooooosh.
I pumped three widely-spaced shots into the sign and was rewarded with a death-grunt that I’d heard dozens of times before. The “muscle’s” first shot hit the suitcase and nearly tore it from my hand. I saw a reflection of the gasoline-ignited fire in his glasses and fired a shot that hit him in the right lens.
“Umph!” I bent over from intense pain that teemed through my body, but centered on my groin. “Sonabitch! I’ve been. . ..”
***
“She’s coming around.”
I looked up into the Hun’s face.
He touched an ice cube to my lips. “How ya feeling?”
I shook my head, which made me aware of bandages covering most of my face and neck.
“Don’t try to talk,” Harry said. “There’s a few things you need to know.”
Damn. I must’ve passed out and got burned in the fire.
I looked down and saw bandages around my chest. I’ve heard that the real pain from burns doesn’t start for some time after the fire. Perhaps that’s why I don’t feel much horrible pain. . .yet.
“Ya done good, Fingers,” the Hun said, while sweetly touching my hand.
The fire must’ve burned off all the hair from my hands and arms. Why have they got me in a pink hospital gown?
“We had to make some decisions on your’n behave,” he said. He turned toward the nurse. “Could we have a little alone time?”
After she left, he closed the door and came to the side of the bed. “You gave me quite a scare.”
This time when he touched my hand he actually picked it up and held it.
“I came up on the scene right after you took one to the ‘nads.” His face turned red. “I’m sorry for being such a blunt language user. It’s gonna take me a while to remember to talk right arounds youse.”
Talk right? “Uhmmmm.” I had moved to sit up a bit and found searing pain between my legs. “My. . . ?”
I looked down toward my privates.
“You can chalk it up to fate.” He squeezed my hand. “The surgeons heard about your panties. They asked me a few questions that maybe they shouldn’t have or maybe they should’ve – I donna know. And then I made them an offer they realized they should not refuse.”
I nodded.
“They made the right choice and decided they owed me some favors. The nurses, too, played ball and shaved you top to bottom. The docs said something about giving you a complete overhaul as long as they had you up on the rack. I made a list.”
He pulled a paper from his pocket. “You’ll excuse. I’ll just read the list. Sorry.”
His face turned red again. “Urethea inversion. Vaginoplasty. Labia majora. Labia minora. Breast implants. Eyebrow lowering. Forehead shaving. Rhinoplasty. There were several more that I didn’t write down, but they say you’ll leave here looking pretty. Of course, I’ve always thought you looked pretty, so that’s nothing for me.”
Pretty? This is the best dream I’ve ever had, except for the pain in my. . ..
***
“How’s my patient this morning?”
Where do they get these doctors. . .and do their mothers allow them to cross the street on their own?
“We’ll let you have some liquids later this morning, but we’ll stay away from solid food for a few days. Okay?”
I nodded, not having a clue what he was talking about.
He grinned and spun to leave. Once he had moved away, I spied the Hun sitting in the chair next to my bed.
Nice of him to visit. I can’t wait to tell him about my freakin’ dream.
He rose from his chair and held a glass of water to my lips. “Are you awake for good now?”
He set the glass down on the rolling table thingy that sat next to my bed, and then fumbled in his pocket. “Just in case you decide to float off into dreamland again -- I want to make sure to give you this.”
He slid a golden ring with a big rock onto the third finger of my right hand.
I looked into his eyes. “Omigawd. . ..”
My hands flew to my face, as I realized how lucky I had become.
The End
A few weeks ago, I unpublished my stories on this site. I’ve decided to bring them back with updates and editing. I hope you enjoy them.
Thanks to Gabi for her support and help.
I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.
If you buy a book from this list on Amazon you’re supporting this site.
Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Thing You Always Died For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Sexy, Cute, and Popular
Bringing Good Cheer
Baseball Annie
I’ve also allowed Erin to place several of my stories under Premium Stories.
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
The Ninth Fold
Voices Carry over Water
Residue
To Alleviate Suffering
Comments
If You’ve Got the Money, Honey, I’ve Got the Thyme
Angela; You said "The End", so we are not getting anything more to this great start of a story? Richard
Richard
It's All There
Take this "great start of a story" add a moment or two of quiet reflection or critical thought. . .and make your own story. Your imagination will satisfy you much more thoroughly than anything I could write.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Title
Are you familiar with PDQ Bach? The title sounds like one of the lines out of his oratorio The Seasonings.
Ray
You'll Have to Ask. . .
. . .Lefty Frizell or Willie Nelson.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Only
the running knows (Ipheginia in Brooklyn)
Nice story, Angela. A bit predictable given the setup but I like it, just the same.
Hugs
Carla Ann
A Marriage Made In Heaven/Hell??
Very Runyonesque and very entertaining! Harry the Hun indeed!,
Nice one Jill,
Joanne
Here's Cookin' with You, Kid
Nice, Jill.
I like it. It went from gritty to girlie in a delightfully short time.
The boyfriend's nickname is perfect too. I appreciate it anyway.
The writing is superb but I'm a little confused about sliding the ring on Fingers' right hand. I expected a proposal of marriage I guess so I thought the ring would be put on the left hand. Of course there'd be a little question to pop along with the ring so I'll shut up now.
Thanks very much for the story.
- Terry
Thanks, Hun
Neither character would have a clue about which finger signifies what, other than wiggling them in front of people -- which wasn't exactly a prelude to a kiss. Their doublefault results in perfect communication.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Hi Jill, Another nice,
Hi Jill,
Another nice, excellently crafted story with a twist that I always expect from you.
Hugs
Sue
Interesting couple
So does Lady Fingers get to stay part a da Bizaness or is it the little lady from now on? Harry does seem a pinch...olde school. Reminds me a bit of Prizzi's Honour, Jack and Kathleen, but do they cook?
Kristina
Yo Tony Pass the Linguine
Being the sensitive person she is, Fingers has all she can do to keep her Hun in Veal Francese, Tuscan Bean Crostini, Broccoli Rabe, Chicken a la Andrea, Fettuccine Alfredo, Filet Mignon Oscar, Insalata con Genoa, Clams Oregano, Filet of Red Snapper Italian Style, Linguine with White Clam Sauce, Mushrooms Stuffed with Crabmeat, Pasta Primavera with Shrimp, Shrimp Scampi, Tomato Sauce, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Veal Piccata, Marinated Asparagus Wrapped with Prosciutto, Baked Stuffed Clams, Veal Chops Milanese, Sicilian Caponata, Gambino-style Fried Chicken, Lobster Thermidor and a hamburger or two.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Shopping list
Apart from the hamburgers at the end, that could almost be Ayla Goodkind's shopping list!
That has certainly got to be one of the more unusual routes to transition I've read about - drug deal that almost goes wrong, then while "Fingers" is out for the count, the money scooped is used to fund a shopping list of operations (medical!) and a rather natty ring :)
(EDIT: Discovered via Random 5olos)
As the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body, then only left-handers are in their right mind!
You have penned another
You have penned another winner. I like your writing style and bountiful imagination. This was a most enjoyable romp. Thank you!
Sincerely,
Ginger Collins
I usually don't go for the "bad guy" stories but...
Since it was one of yours, I figured I ought to give it a shot, and I'm glad I did. While it isn't my usual cup of tea, it is very nice, and a great ending too. "I'd do anything for the Hun," huh? Seems like after that turn of events "Hun" is going to have a completely different meaning between the two of them.
Is this a chance for her to turn her life around (at least as far as you can while staying on the shadier side of the law?)
Melanie E.
I Didn't Mean to Give BC the Fingers
That's just how things worked out with this protagonist.
My guess is Fingers will support her spouse in his endeavors. Of course she will continue to be compassionate -- in her own way.
My story is now my second favorite in the summer romance contest -- after yours.
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)
Saccharine?
You weren't kidding about the "sweetness"... I had an intimation of what was gunna happen, but I was figuring there was an ACTUAL dream at the beginning. LOL Nice bit at the end... I must say, I can think of a few people that would be willing to "wake up" to such an experience and need for recovery. It's a good thing she wasn't burnt too. Severe burns are not easy to recover from, and "one little operation" isn't enough to do the job...
Nice turn around - that it was all the 'bad guys' in the story.
Thanks,
Annette
Sense of Humor
You have a sense of humor that would "almost" be on parity to Bru when you're on a roll. Obviously you wrote this one after spending all night cow tipping?
always,
Barb
Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl
Coffee
",,,hasn’t had a neck since the third grade" almost caused me to spill my coffee -- up my nose. :)
Hugs,
Erin
= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.
Thank You Erin
You're the master of this kind of voice. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm sure you know the "Hun" part was just for you.
Snark!
Jill
Angela Rasch (Jill M I)