Just like a watermelon.

Turn a different corner....

Grassy Noeline

I had never killed anyone. I was what you might call a "soft hitter"
Some intimidation and hard words. Threats that weren't so idle. It
suited me, I didn't like hurting people but I felt OK about scaring
those that I thought probably deserved it. Goons and bottom feeding
goofballs whose scheme of things involved a little pimping and
sharking. Nasty types. Sometimes it was as simple as heavy breathing
over a phone. Fine until maybe they got wise and blew a whistle down
the line and popped my eardrum. No problem. No claret spilt, nothing
physical.

Yeah, I made bullets but never had to fire them. I had a gifted gab and
could persuade a lot of people to do what was good for them before they
became part of the cement sand-shoe brigade. I like to think in actual
fact that I saved a few lives this way and definitely saved some fellas
the extra dirty work. Someone like Bubba Potzi would now and again let
me know how much he appreciated that. It meant having more time with
his kids and the skanky bimbos he met in motels for a slap and a
tickle. Nice. So when Don Blanco personally asked me to take someone
out for real I had to sit down with a bottle of Bourbon and slug it
out.

I didn't want to be part of anything terminal, not close up like some
hits anyhow. On top of that this was to be a "biggy". It seems they
needed me for my low profile, my lack of form and history. A clean
slate as they say, squeaky. What's more no-one would see it coming from
a lady midget. No-one ever did. I tried to weasel and worm my way out
of it-I couldn't shoot so good, I was too touchy feely and had a
problem with blood, the human cannonball had quit and they needed me
back at the circus. None of this washed with Mr. Blanco, you just
couldn't say no to the big bastard. So I told him maybe. That bought me
about twenty-five seconds. Christ almighty I was gonna kill
someone!

I was to hang out with Bubba Potzi and train up on just one thing. How
to shoot a guy in the head from a long way. Hundreds of yards away in
fact. At least I wouldn't have to get up close. I could almost convince
myself that no-one got hurt if I shut my eyes after I pulled the
trigger. Bubba Potzi was a killing machine. Thirty-seven hits and
counting the man was straight from hell when riled or on a job.
Otherwise he was nice as pie and a terrific cook. He called me his
little bundle of death and kept me chock full of ravioli and gnocchi.
His favourite gag was where he'd say he had used organzola cheese in
his lasagne. "Organzola?" I'd say full of
intrigue. "Yeah, dick cheese!" he would roar and slap me on the back.
The first twenty times were the best.

We would spend hours on the shooting range. Because I was so small they
had a gun specially made for me. Potzi insisted I gave it a name so I
called it Joe as in DiMaggio. Wow! Just by giving it a name made it
straight away less sinister, more like a pet, you know? It was only the
size of a kid's toy. I couldn't take it seriously and convinced myself
on some level that there was no way it could hurt anyone. Good. Very
good. A pet, toy gun that fired bullets made of, say? licorice. I was
kidding myself nicely.

Whenever I'd ask Bubba Potzi who it was I was rubbing out all I'd get
was" You'll see short stuff, you'll see" I knew it was someone big,
real big but that was it. My mind would race through possible futures
at three in the morning after I'd been up to take a leak. Why the hell
did my pea brain go into overdrive at three o-freakin clock! Every
time! I'd still be staring at the ceiling when Potzi called in at six
thirty with bagels and coffee. It was driving me nuts not knowing who
or even when for shit's sake. When I did sleep I kept having the same
dream. A huge watermelon would explode all over me and a really weird
dog would lick the juice and pips off me with a super rough tongue.
Yeah I know it's stupid but I would wake up tossed like a salad and
about ready to shit myself. The sheets would be soaked like I was
running a temperature of one hundred and three.

I had become a crack shot with little Joe. From two hundred yards using
a scope I could take out a cockroach if it sat still long enough. I had
to be one of the most dangerous dwarves on the planet, though I had
plenty of squeamish moments about the actual kill. This part of being a
hit lady still troubled me some. It would sit a lot better with me if I
knew the person I hit was bad to the bone and had it coming. That way I
could almost justify the whole thing, like it was Karma coming round
their way not me. Potzi gave me nothing to go on, never let anything
about the contract slip.

The final part of my sharp shooting practice was kind of wacky. Bubba
Potzi hoisted me up onto his shoulders and swayed while he sang Dean
Martin songs. He said if I could get anywhere near the target while he
did that then I was ready. I felt really dumb and a bit demeaned.
"Pip-squeak" he said after two of the nuttiest hours of my life "I
think you're done". "Thank Christ" I thought. It was a muggy old day
and Potzi not only sweated like a horse but had that gamey, just rolled
in shit fumarola about him. I never let on but that was the biggest
distraction during this whole kooky exercise.

If I didn't know any better I would have said the Dean Martin -shoulder
number was Potzi's way of getting closer. I think he had a thing for
me. He hadn't said straight out but one night after organzola'ed
linguine and a bottle of bad red he said that he enjoyed watching the
midget acts at one of Don Blanco's clubs. "What they couldn't do with
an Alsatian", he chuckled. Yeah, he was hot for me alright! You know
it.

The day finally came when Potzi spoke the words I was dreading and at
the same time longed to hear. "Pee-wee, we gotta go and get set", he
said with a face that gave no quarter. I was his little bundle of
death, he had worked hard to train me up and now he expected. So did
the mobbed blob Blanco. I wanted out, I had right from the start but
knew it wouldn't take much cement to sink this height challenged so and
so. Potzi had gone all serious on me and something told me I was just
number thirty-eight if I screwed this up. Or at least thirty-seven and
a half on account of me being a short arse.

I hadn't even been out of New York State and got a little excited when
he said we were going to Texas. I had a look on a map and agreed with
Potzi that there wasn't much else bigger. We went overland in a black
De-soto with one way windows. I was no genius but I remember thinking
the car had "Pull me over, I'm connected" written all over it. All our
death-dealing gear was wrapped in gunnysacks in the trunk, a patrolman
would spot our pieces straight away. The only pulling over we did do
was for me and my stinging bladder. About every forty or fifty miles as
we got closer to the Lone Star state. I was full on freaking out which
correlated directly to the frequency of rest room visits.

Dallas was real nice, lots of space and every other guy with a big hat
and nifty boots. The people were friendly to, polite and relaxed. It
made the Big Apple look rotten and full of worms like Mr. Blanco
himself, (at least he ate like he needed worming). Bubba Potzi drove me
around downtown a few times and pointed out different things, like a
tour guide or something. We were having a good time and I pushed way to
the back of my head the reason I was here. "Keep me distracted", I'd
say. "Keep me moving". "You're cute when you're nervous Noeline", he
said as we drove under some more bunting and red, white and blueness.
Flags every place and cops all over like ants. Something big was going
down. Potzi did not tell me what but I knew he knew and was keeping me
in the dark like a goddamn mushroom. I may have been pint sized but my
curiousity was of regular dimensions and |I was dying to know the
score.

To be continued?????.