Chapter 39

Kurtis and Darroll Missions, Pussylip’s two eldest sons, used to co-manage a drug pumphouse at 423 Herring Cove Road in Spryfield, with a young drug dealer named Lewis White, a.k.a. ‘the Fag.’
If anybody knew what Kurtis Missions was up to, it would hopefully be Lewis White, who currently lived year round at the Star Hotel in North End Dartmouth.
Dee wanted to whack on him with an ax until he spilled every last thing he knew about Kurtis Missions.
“Lewis White lives with a massage girl?” Glenny was saying from the passenger seat where he was loading his tiny HK MP5 submachine gun with a shortened clip. He screwed a suppressor onto the muzzle, then carefully placed the completed gun into a lidded storage bin full of automotive towels, between the front seats of Dee’s Jeep TJ Sport.
“He lives with that girl, Jenny Blood at Gentlemen Jim’s,” Dee said. “She’s the one with the blonde pubic hair.”
Glenny smiled. “So, what’s the point of having a slag for a roommate, if you’re a cock-smoker?”
They passed over the MacDonald Bridge in heavy morning traffic. Smokey fog wafting up like cold meringue from the waters of Halifax Harbour.
Across the harbour, the three candy-cane-striped smokestacks of the Tuft’s Cove coal-power generating station spewed a marshmellowy smoke into the atmosphere.
“Actually, it’s a perfect arrangement,” Dee said. “Think about it: She gets a john and’s working him over, then suddenly she starts to get tired. This is her seven or eighth cock of the night. All she has to do is flick the lights off in her bedroom and call in the Fag. As long as he shaves his he-pussy, you’d never notice.”
Dee turned onto Windmill. An ugly hooker was walking down the side of the street with her thumb out, hitchhiking.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Glenny laughed loudly, in his trademark Count Dracula laugh.
“Or they take turns on the glory hole. He fills in when she goes on her cigarette break.”
“F-f-f-f-f-f-f. That Jesus thing. I swear I felt a mustache on the other end one time.”
“-No!” Dee looked over.
“Yeah. It was a real bristly one too. A pussy-tickler.”
Dee snorted in gulps of air to feed his laughter. “It tickled your pussy?”
Glenny was trying to light a Colt winetip in the strong wind over the harbour but was laughing too hard. Eventually he had to crank his window up to get the thin cigar going. “Ah-ah-ah.”
When he got the cigar lit, he settled back in his bucket seat, smoking through pinched-together teeth.
“What I don’t get is how the Fag ended up with the rights to sell coke at Cabaret?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, how’d that ever happen? Who sells for the Lee family there?”
“Nobody, I guess. The Fag gives Tom Saulnier ten per cent.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the deal.”
“That don’t make no sense, man. We got nobody dealing in a club owned by your father? Does that make sense to you?”
“It’s just one of those weird things,” Dee said, getting a bit defensive and frustrated by another crush of traffic. “It’s like you doing that Shitty the other day for Tin-Tin and Perry Spalding. It sounds weird when you think about it, on paper-“
“-That’s different.” Glenny got mad now. “I was helping that Jesus son of mine.”
Dee tittered. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. It’s doesn’t sound right, on paper, but when you talk about it, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. You were helping your son, for all the good it did you. It’s the same thing with Cabaret. We used to have a guy selling there, Gaylen Matheson, but the fags refused to buy from him. They wanted to buy from a fellow polecheck. And they like the way Lewis White organizes himself. He’s safe and smart, they say.”
“Oh, ‘they say’? You talk to a lot of queers do you?”
“Well, they don’t talk very much with my cock in their mouths. No.”
“-Ah-ah. Okay, so what’s so smart about Lewis ‘the Fag’ White?”
Dee rubbed his nose with his index finger.
“He runs a gay pride website. He writes a blog. Everybody, all the fags, go there and leave a message in the comments and type how much dope they want, for which night of the weekend, all in some kind of faggot code. And they all use different screen names, like Ballgobbler. Only the Fag himself knows who is who. It’s priceless to read, man. I should get you the address. Maybe you could meet somebody now that Niggole’s out of the picture?”
“Oh? You feel like dying today?”
“Ha!”
Glenny reached down toward his shoes and then reared up and backhanded Dee across the cheek with a huge, swinging arm, sending the Jeep swerving left into oncoming traffic.
Dee recovered the steering wheel quickly, but an oncoming car compensated too much on the right and screeched up against a guard rail.
“Motherfucker! Anyways,” Dee continued, unfazed. “Just listen. Then they pick up their drug orders at the Fag’s hotel room, or else he sends it out through the pizza boys. Either way, there’s never anyone calling him on the phone.”
“That’s pretty good, I guess.”
“Then he goes to Cabaret Saturday and Friday night. He makes a mint.”