SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 18

Vesperalia

The cheap joint was lighted by the glowing neon letters: "Magica's Cherry Pop" while Magica de Spell's sardonic smug smirked at Harry. "Taste our lilac special today!" wrote a hand-written sign on the glass above a pot with flamingo flowers. Harry bit a red "Apache", he grasped his belt and lit his match on. He always smoked his cigarillos with one eye half closed and his cheeks sucked in looking like a skull from Death Valley.

Once he was in, he smelled a peculiar perfume that reminded him of El Dorado and candles made of flower petals. Nora had gone to the bathroom for a while. On every corner of every wall Harry was witnessing drawings of Magica in peculiar personas except from her classic wicked witch. Pablo Picasso never passed by this place, Harry could tell. These drawings were like the tiny squares in a pulp comic book.

The small band was playing on the other side of the joint. The place seemed long and narrow in his eyes. There were two booth lines and in between corridors with checked tiles. These poor fellas couldn't manage to fit in the tiny stage and were too well for the few rocks they give' em. It was a warm night, they had the sleek forehead of the passionate musician and Harry wondered why they played like that since people weren't here to listen to them. Couldn't they see these two jukeboxes? One was next to the stage for Christ's sake and the other right across it next to Harry. They seemed as if they were staring each other to make fun of the goons with the guitars.

He sat on the table next to window and glanced at the jukebox. Perhaps he'd play a tune in a while. Perhaps not. He wasn't sure if he was in the mood. It was quiet now and had to think of what the fuck had happened the last few days. He'd the courage to jump his skip and leave Roseville for good. If Sergio wasn't coming after them, another prick would do the job just fine.

He took a couple of mini tartus jellies from the bowl and put them in his pocket. These jellies had the taste of childhood. That's the word. And if you were a lucky brat when you'd discover your granny's old cookie box you'd find these delights inside instead of her notions and that's how Harry used to spend his Saturday noons while she was taking a nap.

"What did you take?"

"No one has appeared yet"

"Go to the bathroom then, I'll order"

"I don't have to go to the bathroom, I can do it here", the cigarillo was hanging from his mouth while his hand was reaching for something in his hip pocket.

"The bathroom's fine"

"A hit. I'll be quick and swift"

"The waitress will bark. I'm not doing it here"

"Fuck' er", he waved his shoulders, "It's clean here. I'm not going to the filthy bathroom", he smiled biting a new cigarillo and looked for the waitress. He threw some blow on the table, folded a fiver to fix the line and snorted it. Whenever Harry sniffed some rock, his nose sounded like a vacuum.

"You can't enjoy your coke in my jazz joint, sir", the waitress puckered her glistered lips. She was a roly-poly Priscilla Presley knockoff who'd caught Harry in the act.

"Am I in for all day and a night?"

"Don't play smart, champ. Don't be a pesky pesker to me"

"I'll have two chicken burgers with fries and Magica's cherry pop", Priscilla noted Nora's hasty order and glanced at Harry. He was looking at the catalog without reading anything.