The fly buzzed about the blood stained tissues piled up on the coffee table. It landed and crawled slowly over the filth. Syd couldn't stop focusing on it. It seemed to grow bigger as it moved closer to his open eye. The fly moved onto the tissue he has stuffed up his nostril. It was soaked through but clotting had occurred sometime between his blacking out and now. Syd didn't move, the lethargy of snorting heroin for much of the night hadn't entirely worn off and the effort needed to brush the fly away seemed an insurmountable challenge just then. The pain in his stomach was an entirely different thing. The rumble in his gut had roused him from the grey cloudy nether world that passed for rest in the daily ritual of snorted heroin for rest, steroid injections for strength and Viagra for erections. The rumblings in his gut became more painful and frequent. The pain was getting to be "reduculous" and only eased when presently the seat of his pants slowly filled with a wet warm goo which began to trickle down his legs. That didn't get him to move. Syd was whippd by the tail end of the dragon that was snorting Afghan white heroin.
It was getting more difficult to level the ride out and moments like this, unthinkable a year ago, were now regular. So regular in fact that the locked door to his "Man Cave" no longer caused Angelina alarm or upset the neat little house's daily routine. The world beyond the door continued unchanged while the fly crawled onto Syds blood stained cheek and flew away. The warmth in his pants turned cold and the air smelled of sweat, Jack Daniels and shit. The shakes started. It was very cold or so it seemed but he knew the heat blasted from the vent silently. Full late morning light shone brightly through the French Doors and had banished all shadows from the wooden deck just beyond. The deck was filled with large Terracotta pots full of late fall blooms and all was awash in sun. The blessed sun of the wine country mocking the dark demons of addiction.
Syd fully awake, now became aware of the crap in his pants and jumped up from his face down position on the dark brown leather couch, " shit of shit..." he said aloud, repeatedly in a half sobbing half whispered cry. He bounded into the bathroom but fell short, tripping over an overturned ottoman and landing on his ass. He jumped up again, rushed into the shower, stripping off the soiled pants as the hot water poured over his now naked body. The trail of brown liquid followed him from the couch and ceased only when it reached the shower. His cell phone rang again. It had rung continually for what seemed hours. He ignored it. Ending his shower, he toweled off facing the oversized full length brown wooden framed mirror leaning against the bathroom wall. A hacking cough began and wouldn't cease. His body convulsed, he shat again, this time standing up and naked. The brown ooze landing fully on the white bathroom mat. "SHIT! What the FUCK", he cried out and showered again.
Clean again, he looked into the mirror. Syd saw a too lean, older looking than his 29 years, man staring back at him. Syd looked himself over critically as the commodity he now was. Syd was shagged out and past prime by any standard. Once what everyone thought of as a good looking guy, he had always pulled ass, well at least after his nose was fixed, it having been broken in a high school football game. After that Syd was no longer called Platapus Rex. Those same teenagers would now taunt him by calling him scarecrow fag. The wasting effect of a year of near daily heroin use and ticking had taken a heavy toll on his muscle tone. The steroid cocktail he juiced daily would need to be alternated again and rapid muscle gain mixed in with a shot for strength.
Popping the vitamins and Viagra he took daily with a swig of Jack Syd walked over to the closet where the safe lay hidden, not by design but by habit, under a pile of filthy clothes. Opening it he removed two of the 60 boxes of steroids neatly lined up within. A couple of thick envelopes full of cash were set beside them. Those were for his increasing trips to McCarthy, his drug dealer in the Haight. The envelope had been kept full by his selling of Steroids and tricking with married men and an occasional frustrated wife but the once unthinkable had occurred, a john upon seeing him at his Hotel room door had passed and slammed the door shut Syd never fucked a single woman. That would seem like he was cheating on Angelina. In his drug fueled roid rages and endless erections blown in cars on back roads by old bi married men not banging single pussy passed for marital fidelity, that would now change. Syd was confident that the lonely hearts club of women would melt as soon as he opened a door or said Darlin to them and was not worried.. If a fool can have confidence Syd would thrive.
That particular idea, keeping loyal to "Angie" had started when he was Gian the Fireman. a stripper at suburban bay area Bridal Showers. Syd wouldn't touch the Maid of Honor or Bridesmaids. The Mother of the Bride and Groom, the Matron of Honor, hell the Grannies were all potential paying Jane's. Single girls got attached and caused trouble. It took two dates for any woman to open her legs and the money rarely came until the 5th but the single girls would be attached by the end of the bang and ready to do battle for "her boyfriend". A mouse of a wife like Angelina was too tempting a target for a territory invading woman to pass up and Syd let them feel him up, suck him off but that was all.
Still business was only as good as his being able to be buffed and keep a boner some of the time. As his dependency on heroin increased his erections had become more difficult to maintain and were no longer the thick "sleek Fireman's Pole" he had formerly and rightfully bragged of.. The cellphone rang and he grabbed it after he injected his two doses of steroids. It was a Jane, she'd been given his number by her friend Addie and looked to meet in four hours time at her place in Healdsburg. Jojohn said no, that as it was a first "date" they would need to meet in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel in Santa Rosa, she would need to make the reservation, pay for the suite and pay cash upfront for his service, his minimum was three hours at $500.00 per hour. To his surprise she agreed! The time was noted and the call ended. The steroids had begun to take effect and he felt like the day would be a good one. Closing the safe he noticed he had blown his entire supply of heroin. He called McCarthy and set a meeting in 90 minutes time in the parking lot of Walgreens on Stanyan Street. Opening the "man cave" door he yelled ANGIE I'm heading to the city". And headed to his sweet 4 x 4 pick up.
This Jane sounded like easy rich pickings and he looked forward to the easy routine of conversation, food ordered from room service, massage for her with a skilled handjob providing her with an unrelenting release followed by about 30 minutes of cuddling. The cuddling messed with the woman and he would be assured of at least four more dates before he would tell her his wife was pregnant and he wanted to work it out. A fifth or sixth date never was booked as the women became increasingly uncomfortable with his lack of erection and the amount of money she was spending. Those who attempted to stick around were prone to being dependent lonely souls more bothersome than profitable and he would block their numbers Equally troubling were young gay men. They were simply mischievous. The easiest most profitable client was a married older man. They paid for servicing, silence and privacy. A best example was the 60 something retired Stock Broker Real Estate developer who owned the Curee Cave.
Barry Harris was his best client and 10,000.00 a month from the owner of the rapidly failing Dry Creek Winery Curee Cave had not been unusual when they first tricked but as the market for trophy wines disappeared post 2008, Barry's finances had taken a triple hit, his leveraged real estate holdings lost 50 percent of value and no longer provided easy capital. Cash gained by pulling out large amounts of money from ever increasing equity had dried up as surely as the creeks in drought. Drought or no, large amounts of capital infusion were needed to cover the expenses of running a sink hole of a winery and the shopping extravagances of an alcoholic wife.
Money for Barry, or so it was rumored in the town, was still plentiful as he was thought to cultivate dope on his more remote acres.. What Barry did do was launder the Mexican Drug cartels money through his Winery production cost and skillful manipulation of profit and loss write-offs. A never used Champagne cave, dug out of the mountain, well out of view of the Chateau and tasting rooms was a curing facility for primee aged Kush. for them too and the finished product often began it's journey to Chicago and the southeast from the tiny Healdsburg Airport a mile down the road. Barry flew for them as well and under cover of marketing his wine. All together the arrangements and increased trips had relieved his strained cash flow. Flying his Cessna to private airports near ski lodges in Aspen or Vail and the film festival at Sundance from his own runway, had become so common that no one much noticed the plane. Barry saw no other way out of his financial troubles and had recently taken the more risky flight into Vegas with his plane loaded with first quality Kush. He was, they liked to remind him, more and more their "bitch" but he reassured himself that this was only temporary until his real estate holdings value recovered. Barry just needed to hold on.
Liquidating the whole operations was not an option. No one would pay even close to what was owed and the more sobering fact was that the Mob, once established in an enterprise, were loath to leave. It simply was too good a deal for them. The only people on record were Barry and Isabel Harris. The employees were all his, the property was all his. The risk therefore was all his. They reminded him that he had sought them out by offering use of the empty Champagne Cave. They were hesitant to use a place with tourist trade activity but Barry had skillfully sold them on the place, his marketing skills were put to good use as he showed them the end of the estate with an independent power source, well water, a pristine and well lit unused Cave.
The Winery was now an integrated facet of an international criminal operation. On the upside, a legitimate business which was financially profoundly unsound and incapable of turning a profit survived and kept a dozen people employed. The Mob business, which produced so much cash that it was difficult to "legit" all of it, yielded a large "profit" in capital gains for its investors through the cover of the winery. It may have been a marriage of convenience but it served the same client. Those liking a toke or two were the best clients for the fine wines. The baby boom liked a buzz, the sun and a look of luxury and class. So what if it was more Vegas wine country theme park than a Tuscan hillside vineyard. The majority of the clients no more traveled under the Tuscan sun than were Harvard M.B.A.s. The money rolled in and life went on.
It was all professionally run and not in any way resembling the violent gangsta's of popular imagination. It provided employment, and taxes. The only Mob people Barry Harris interacted with were the dozens off duty county Sheriff's "employed" by him through the special event and catering section of his winery. When not providing services to the courts and jails or golfing with the judges of Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino and Lake Counties they supervised the arrival, parking and loading of out of state U-Hauls and R.V.'s, all driven by middle aged "tourist couples" as well as the delivery trucks for markets who picked up regular "winery purchases'. They also provided security and manned the always money losing special events that the town looked forward to reading about and the socially ambitious Isabel had become famous for. They a provided the heat, muscle and intimdation that kept the operation going and the too curious or disgruntled away.
They all knew Syd from his bi-weekly bangings with barry. They thought he was a freak and at times goaded the former County grappling champ into time killing matches that turned into mini-gangbang by hose or broom handle of a too stoned to care Syd whose rapid decline had become so marked that he was "topped" on most occasions and rarely remembered it. Syd was, they had told Barry,a liability that needed to go. They'd leave the how, when to him for a week or two but made it clear that Syd having infected one of them with H.I.V. after a match ended with an equally stoned Sheriff fucking hin without a rubber they would not be inclined to be quick or kind if they needed to do it. Barry was neither cruel or sentimental. about personal relationships and after a thoughtful day and enlisted McCarthy. No date was set but Syd was Barry knew, "past due" and the idea of his life ending did not bother him nor disturb his sleep. This was after all just business in the glorious wine country.
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