“Meeting Notes”
Job doesn’t ever call you frantically. Cooler than a polar bear’s toenails, more times than not. I hadn’t seen or heard a peep of fear from Job since a throwback jersey party we put together, back in ‘02. A young lady named Scarlett; a thin Nokia, and a credit card disappearance.
Job — yes, like a thing you work, as Job has always worked; so the name stuck to the person — spoke on the other end of the phone, faster than Eddie Rapsody did, the night he got hung over the mezzanine balcony at Constitution Hall, at the Maze and Frankie Beverly show. Anita and Patti showed up that night, and it was Marvin’s last day alive in the district that birthed him. Eddie Rapsody played a tip from a Bullet earlier in the day, and didn’t know the baller was in for it with some guy named Ray and his crew of bandits. Eddie, they say, was lucky it was Ray that found him, first; before Kane Berry or any. of Ray’s other workers had.
“I lost my book, man. And I think I left it at Marsha’s.”
“Book? What kind of book? You didn’t even read the book that I gave you for Whiskey & Words, coming up here soon.”
“My book, man.” And Job’s eyes widened, his head tilted; all while the eyes stayed locked on me; as if it were a secret thing and if I knew, I better not say it aloud. “My bright green five-by-eight, with the strap to keep it closed.”
“Oh, yeah. I like that one.” And I had. As a writer, I was fond of things that seemed trivial to most others. A good pen and a notebook with some fire, some soul, were always favorites, so I noticed when something caught my attention.
“That’s where I keep my official count and records, fool.”
“Count? Records? Say it in English, man.”
“My hit list is in that notebook, L.”
Now I was listening. “Hit list? As in women?”
“No, ducks while hunting.”
“Same shit.”
“Fucking funny man over here. Call Marsha and tell her. Maybe she hasn’t looked in it, yet.”
“Would she know any of the women?”
“A few.”
“You were capping between those lines, I can feel it.” Job looked at me like a son who disappointed his father inevitably.
“I have a wish list in there, as well. And she’s on it.” Job pushed me into the pool, and as I spit water out like a fountain, a bird shat, dead center of Job’s head. Hot and runny.
