Page 24 - Vol. VI #3

O.G. (continued from preceding page)
You are twenty-seven minutes late, Veronica.
bottles in her bag, between the shampoo and conditioner. Neither says a word as she zips the bag closed and returns the other bottle to the suitcase. She nods once at the old woman and spins around on her tan heels, opening the door and stepping out in the hall.
Knowing better than to apologize, the hairdresser opens her pink bag and pulls out bottles of sham- poo, hairspray and styler, as well as a pair of scissors. She fills the sink with warm water and massages Olivia’s wrinkled scalp—the color of an old grape webbed with white fuzz. She looks at herself in the mirror, and sees the elderly woman staring at her chin. Without meaning to, the hair- dresser thinks how easy it would be to drown the frail old hag. Or choke her dead, either one.
She passes back through the rec-room, hearing the door she left open behind her slam shut. She sees a large bowl of juice set on a table beside the disc jockey’s setup, and two gentlemen stand there in old suits at least two sizes too large, both constant- ly peering over their shoulders. One of them, she sees, is trying to hide an empty tequila bottle.
After her haircut and drying, Olivia looks exactly the same—which is how she likes it. She has the young- er woman put her seahorse earrings in too, frown- ing with dignity at her reflection in the mirror.
Should’ve choked her all right, the hairdresser thinks, too angry to notice the punch-spiking. What makes her think she can rip me off that way? Her disability? Her age?
How much? she asks as she buzzes her wheel- chair into the bedroom.
Her criminal ties coast to coast? ~
Three, the hairdresser says, cleaning her scissors and putting them away
Olivia grunts in reply, reaching under her bed and pulling out the suitcase. She spins the locks and opens the case, removing three fresh bottles identical to the one she gave Angie. Each contains a hundred tabs of Oxycodone, forty milligrams each.
How old is this broad anyway?
No bulk price, she says. They’ll be twenty-five a piece.
What can I say? Some like it in lingerie, some like it large, some like it geriatric.
C’mon, Ms. G!
Or ecstatic. Look at that mama in the black stock- ings and skirt walkin’ out now.
You’ll sell each one for forty. I know.
Damn she a saucy lil tart. Roll down that window.
But that’s almost eight G’s!
Hollerin’ at a nursin’ home? Ain’t we supposed to be scopin’ this place or what?
Then kick rocks.
Viper-Loc all bizness, son.
Is dude in tollbooth lookin’ at us funny?
I only got five. What about the hairstyling?
Olivia broods, tapping her fingers against her armrest.
We could enter there. See? Break the window with a crowbar.
Two precisely, she says at last. My final offer.
The exchange is made. The hairdresser shoves the
Y’all notice that black Mercedes over there, in the
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(continued on page 77)
Sixty-nine, Piju. Wanna smash it?
Damn Ricky Starr you nasty.