Two Iguanas Lounge

By Verge Le Noir

COME IN FOR A STIFF DRINK. STAY FOR THE MAYHEM

 

Ex-cowboy/ex-jailbird affectionately known as "Slick" tries to live up to his nickname by joining the notorious Piggy Bank Gang, with the intention of getting his hands on their ill-gotten gains.

 

Pixie, Quilt, and Zeke of the Piggy Bank Gang are on their way to Mexico, with a pit stop at the notorious Two Iguanas Lounge in the town of Cottonwood, Arizona to talk shop with the owners. The owners are more than willing to accommodate the gang—as long as they can also get their hands on a little cheddar.

 

Slick falls for Pixie, Pixie falls for Slick, but her brothers are not thrilled about this. They try to shake Slick loose, but like a dog without a bone, Slick keeps coming back for more, until an inevitable violent showdown leaves death and destruction in the path of these fun-loving desperados.

 

NO SUCH THING AS HONOR AMONG THIEVES

• Language: English
• Publisher: Le Noir Books
• Release date: Apr 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393267669

Verge Le Noir

Verge Le Noir is the ridiculously on- the- nose pen name of writer Virgilio Feldman. He is the author of the short story collection Shell Casings the novella Two Iguanas Lounge and the short novel Desperados. He has been, among other things: a laborer, a house painter, a bracero, a busboy, a bar back and a failed chordophone-lyre-plucker. In other words: He’s a jerk of all trades; master of none. In lieu of becoming a pornographer or a sommelier to the stars, and having a gift for spinning a tale or two since he was a wee lad, and at a time when art is quickly becoming a commodity, he foolishly decided to become a writer. His meager writing output has been described as dirty realism infused with sophisticated comic flair, gritty, dark, breezy, and peppered with true to life characters. Despite his cog in the machine status and a touch of misanthropy, he enjoys a great read, a good laugh, and a great fish taco. He currently lives in East New York, Brooklyn.

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VERGE   LE   NOIR

Two Iguanas Lounge

Two Iguanas Lounge Copyright © 2019 by Verge Le Noir. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

Cover designed Virgilio Feldman | Copyeditor Emily Nemchick | Lizards Lounge Copyeditor Tammy Salyer

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Produced and Published by:

LE NOIR BOOKS

New York,

N. Y.

10276

Table of Contents

One - Rogue’s Gallery

Two - We Get Baptized

Three - Why Banks?

Four - Once a Thief

Five - Needle Point

Six - Pulling Out Is Hard to Do

Seven - The Middle of Forever

Eight - One-Star Crooks

Nine - Bye-bye, Miss Apple Pie

Ten - Well, Hello Again

Eleven - Cerberus

Twelve - We Meet Kharon

Thirteen - Patty Buns & Frolicking Fries

Fourteen - Fugly Americans

Fifteen - All Stick. No Carrot

Short Story - Lizards Lounge

One

Rogue’s Gallery

From the jukebox, Tom Waits croons about hoping not to fall in love with you.

Do you believe in God? she asks in that phlegmy, sourly-sweet south Boston accent of hers. She then takes a sip of her IPA. The few pictures she sent me didn’t do her much justice; she looks way better in real life.

You mean a supreme being? I ask, or just a stranger on a bus?

She waits for my answer like a hatchling waiting for its mom’s regurgitation. She waits, and I let her wait some more. She’s much too young to know the musical reference in that last question. Finally I say,

Sometimes I do.

What do you mean sometimes? she asks, her eyes big, green, and hungry, her thin blond hair damp with sweat and tied in a tight ponytail.

Sometimes, I say, like when I’m in pain and misery, I suppose. Like right now, when I’m having a conversation with a woman I’ve been stalking for the better part of a month. I’m in a hungover hell of pain and misery. I should’ve stayed under the sheets in my car, which is where I’ve been living since coming to town. I should be sleeping, having a wet dream to moisten this dry spell of mine, a dry spell that might come to an end, if she keeps plying me with booze. She swerves the conversation away from celestial matters by saying that a Tom Waits song feels like someone is stabbing you in the heart while making it feel good.

Did you know, I say, that, uh, Tom Waits married the woman who inspired him to write this song?

That’s so fucking romantic, she says. Like the Taj Mahal or something, y’know?

Romantic it is, but I don’t know if I would compare it to the Taj—

Do you like me? she blurts out, and I want to say: d’you mean as much as I like this beer, this bar, my life? Or your mind, your tits, your violent ways and your yellow-toothed smile? Instead I just tell her I will answer her question truthfully if she buys me another beer.

That’s not fair, she says.

Why?

What if I buy you the beer and then it turns out you don’t like me?

It happens to guys all the time. But I guess that’s okay then, huh?

I squish in closer. I give her my best Valentino smile. I caress her square jaw and, hoping my dragon breath has dissipated, I tell her that I do indeed like her. A lot. She calls the bartender over, a Mr. Laffite, and orders two more ales. She pays and gives him a generous tip. He thanks her, and he gives me a nod and slides off to serve another thirsty lost soul. I grab my new brewski; she pockets her wad of cash, all crisp bank notes, hot out of the oven. I like you a hell of a lot more now.

Cheers!

Chin-chin, she says.

The coldness of the brewski does the trick. The compounding alcohol ramps my good mood up to ten, and for a fleeting moment there, life is good. Then those limey bastards from the band Oasis came on the jukebox, whining the song ‘Wonderwall’ in their Beatlesque, melodious way. At the beginning of the song, the bar goes quiet, but then, when the singer starts singing, everyone sings along, all except me. I want to jump from a skyscraper, armed with the biggest Louisville slugger, and smash the head of the bastard who called up this song. The jukebox will be nothing but dust when I finish with it. What the hell is a Wonderwall anyhow? Is it the wall where orthodox Jews in Israel go to pray?

Every one of those fucking chords, though.

A falling brick to my head.

Every one of the singer’s wails, a piping-hot nail to my ears. I want to go into primal scream mode. Hide under a rock; better yet, grab said rock and smash something, anyone, or anything. Thankfully, damnation and salvation come in many forms, shapes and sizes. Like humans, like chimps, like nuts and bananas. Song’s over. I thank God and all his saints and some sinners too. She smiles. I melt, and I give in. She plants a kiss on my lips, the type of kiss that’ll make Lake Minnetonka overflow. She swings to the rhythm of Mazzy Star’s ‘Fade into You.’ I feel young, vibrant, stupid and elated. This is fucking stupid, but it’s happening.

Sometimes I hate reality and reality hates me. Sometimes I hate life and all its silly card tricks. This is not fucking happening. I’ve got to keep in mind that this lovely lass is none other than Pixie Malone—bank robber, killer queen and sister of Quilt Malone, aka Killer Malone, head of the Piggy Bank Gang, three banks in the past year all along the East Coast. Two dead, five wounded—including a state trooper—and now they’ve made their way into Arizona territory.

My place or your place? asks a tipsy and flirty Pixie Malone.

She grew up poor, ratty and semi-destitute with a hard-living family of eccentrics, con artists, thieves and now murderers. She loves Susanne Vega, Yolandi Visser, and P. J. Harvey. Hates the Catholic church and all its iterations. Has a heart of gold encased in a box of glass. Smiles easily, but don’t get in her way. I came to learn all about the Malones from their late father, Mr. Yandel Malone; we used to be in the same cell block back in Arrowhead Correctional Center in Cañón City, Colorado. I’ve been corresponding with his daughter ever since. I didn’t tell her when I was getting out; I wanted to surprise her. Also, I was a bit afraid to meet her and her family, so it took a while for me to finally say hello.

That’s a tempting offer, I say to her, but, uh, I live in my car at the moment. It’s where I have all my meager possessions too, mainly my clothes, in a carry-on bag I bought at the Adidas store in Colorado a long time ago.

My place then, she says.

That’s all good and dandy, I say, but I’m here to meet your brothers, remember?

Oh right, right you are. But first, she says with overflowing exuberance, we need to dance to this song.

Dance? Moi?

I don’t know how to dance… She grabs my hands and tells me to just put one foot in front of the other…

…and shake what your momma gave you.

It sounds to me like she’s quoting her first boyfriend, a man way older than her, a despicable slithery bastard who pushed her into doing pirouettes on The Pole. When big brother Quilt Malone heard about it while doing a quarter up in Suffolk County House of Corrections in the far-away land of Boston, Massachusetts, he was none too happy about his little sister shaking her money maker in front of a bunch of glowering and drooling strangers. I guess no self-respecting big brother would like that for his little sister. So, Quilt Malone sent a few of his outside contacts to do a number on the old boyfriend. When the leathery bastard refused to stay away from Pixie, the old motherfucker suddenly disappeared. He’s never been found, as if he never existed. It’s what they do. All of this according to what their late father Yandel Malone told me.

How long have we known each other? she whispers in my right ear. A tingle travels from the base of my skull to the bottom of my feet. It feels amazing.

One week, five hours and thirty-five minutes, I answer. Like I said, I’ve been stalking her for a while. I was nervous about meeting her.

She looks me in the eyes and says,

I’m impressed, but I bet you say that to all the girls, huh?

No, not really. I only say it to the lovely ones who buy me beer and make me dance to corny songs from the nineties.

This song isn’t corny.

I guess it’s not, but you get what I mean.

She pulls me close. Her sweat stains and mine collide in a chemical sexual explosion. I close