LAS FLACAS

 

LAS FLACAS

Gerard Thornton

 

               Curt and Troy rolled to a stop in the big red pickup truck.  They waited impatiently for the light to change on Collins Avenue.   The stereo was blaring a Morgan Wallen song.  Troy craned his neck to make sure the case of Bud Light that he had perched on the gear in the back seat didn’t topple over.  Once he was satisfied the beer was stable, he returned his attention to the nightlife parading down the street of Miami’s fabled South Beach neighborhood.  The lights of the late night strip blazed out, turning the night into almost daytime brightness.

               “Yo, man, check out those bitches,” Curt shouted over the music.  Troy followed his friend’s gaze to the car sitting next to them at the light.  It was a brand new M8 Gran Coupe.  If the dark side window hadn’t been lowered, Troy wouldn’t have cared much for who was driving, rather transfixed on the car itself.  The sleek, gleaming blue sedan must have cost close to $150 K, Troy figured, enraptured by the car.  From his perch, he could see the head and right shoulder of a young woman with a head of blue-black hair.

               Curt tapped the horn to get the girl’s attention. When this was ignored, he let the truck creep forward until his window was aligned with the BMW.  He hit the horn again.  This time, the passenger looked over.  Her eyes focused on the door, which was at her eye level.  Curt watched with no small satisfaction as the woman’s face registered surprise, then curiosity.  Her face was beautiful and youthful looking.  She couldn’t have been much older than 21.  The reflection of the streetlights glinted on the large gold hoop earrings that dangled from beneath lustrous black hair.  Her dark eyes looked up, pondering him for a moment. 

               “Hey, sweetheart,” he called down, a smug grin on his face.

               The girl gave a tight grin in return, then she looked over at the driver, and said something the men couldn’t hear.

               “I think those are some Mexican bitches,” Curt said to his friend, surprised.  “What the fuck are they doing driving that car.”

               “Probably stolen,” Troy said with a chuckle.

               Curt laughed at this, then turned the radio down.

               “Hey, the night is young.  Do you want to party?”

               The girl ignored him, looking away.  Her window slid up with smooth, electric efficiency.  Curt grew irritated at this, not used to having his charm fall flat with the ladies of the strip.

               “Dang, bro, you just got ghosted,” Troy laughed, nudging his friend with a sharp elbow. 

               “Fuck that, man,” Curt spat, and leaned out of the window.

               He waved a long, meaty arm to get the girl’s attention.  A trio of colorful tattoos danced on the muscles.  She looked over.  He motioned for her to open her window and watched as it slid down.  The woman now looked mildly perturbed, tiring of the exchange.

               “What’s the matter, no Habla Ingles?” 

               The two men laughed heartily at this.  The traffic light switched to green just then, and the BMW started forward quickly.  Curt punched the accelerator and rode up alongside the other car.  The cars moved in sync, jockeying wildly for position for a number of blocks, until they passed into the more secluded edge of town.  The women turned down a side street between dark warehouse buildings, followed closely behind by the truck.  The cars came to a halt in front of the locked chain link fence of one of the warehouse entrances.

               Curt stuck his head out of the window and called down.

“Hey, I’m Curt, what’s your name?”

The girl regarded him with eyes flashed black beneath impeccably shaped dark eyebrows.  The eyes were suspicious, almost hostile.

“Me llamo Lisa.”

The reply made the two men titter with laughter.  They shared another excited fist bump.  As the truck rolled to a stop, Curt could now see the driver.  She was a stunner by anyone’s standards. Curt held his fist out the window, his thumb and index finger curled into a circle.

“Hey, you smoke weed?”

With this, the driver leaned across the front seat and glared at the man.  The woman was older, maybe close to 30, but she was incredibly beautiful.  A gold necklace swung across the front of her black turtleneck dress.  The letters read RONNIE.  Curt let his gaze drop to the place below the necklace.  The woman was very well endowed.  He gave the woman a lecherous grin.

“Hey, conyo,” the driver hissed, “why don’t you 2 boys get a hotel room together and leave us alone?”

The man’s smile froze, then disintegrated.  He reared his head back, his face now a mask of sheer contempt.  Anticipating the women’s next move, Curt punched the accelerator and cut in front of the women’s car, slamming to a stop just inches from their bumper.  There was a brief protest of tire squeal.  Troy winced, half-expecting the women’s car to rear end their truck.  When the impact didn’t happen, he looked over at Curt, whose face was still twisted with fury.

The BMW had come to an abrupt halt behind the truck and the women glanced at each other.  The driver put the car in park and the women peered out at the truck.  The tailgate was a mass of bumper stickers, some of which had outlines of AR-15 style rifles, some stickers were of bald eagles in various states of flight and regal composure. Some stickers were American Flags. 

“Mira!”  The girl named Lisa exclaimed, pointing at the decals. Lisa read the words in her heavily accented voice:

 

PROUD BOYS: ALPHA AS FUCK.

 

YOU CAN TAKE MY GUN WHEN YOU PRY IT FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS

 

The two women looked at each other for a moment.  Then they burst into laughter.   The men could hear the two women laughing and speaking in Spanish.

“I’ll show those bitches something to laugh at,” Curt grunted as he produced a .50 caliber Desert Eagle from the center console compartment.

Troy gave his buddy a double take, not sure he shared his friend’s outrage at what he had considered to be nothing more than some playful banter with the women.

“Wait, hold up bro…”

Curt cut him off, seething.  “What are you some kind of pussy?”

Troy regarded the other man for a moment then nodded.  Yeah, he reasoned, was he a man, or a pussy?  Troy opened the glove box and retrieved his own weapon of choice, a .380 Smith & Wesson Bodyguard.

Curt pushed open his door and climbed down.  Troy followed from his side, and the two men converged on the BMW in the darkened alley.

Curt tried to catch a glimpse of the women, and half expected the car to peel out in reverse as they approached.  To his surprise, the BMW just sat their, the engine idling patiently.  He couldn’t make out anything from within the dark car.  Troy saw Curt slow his steps, as if he were unsure about something.  He knew the man wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, especially a couple of Mexican bitches, so he found the change in Curt’s gait to be somewhat unsettling.

“Well, how about it, you got something to say to us?”  Curt flashed the gun towards the BMW, releasing the safety.  Troy looked down at his weapon, but left it on safe mode, not expecting any more excitement just then.  The driver’s door opened, and the men watched a tall, raven-haired girl stand up next to the car.  The woman’s black dress was belted around the waist, and accented her shapely silhouette. 

“Hey, amigo, move your car.”  The woman’s voice was stony, confident.  It wasn’t a request; it was an order.

Curt looked over at Troy, the glow of the red taillights reflected on his large, angry face.  He looked surprised.

“Come over here and make me move it, bitch.” Curt shot back, crossing his tattooed arms across his chest, the barrel of his gun sticking out from under his armpit.

The passenger side door of the BMW opened now, and Lisa got out, her face cold and angry.  She no longer looked young and cute.  She looked fucking menacing.  Troy suddenly felt that this was fast becoming a mistake. 

“Yo, Curt, c’mon let’s get going, enough of this.”

“Yeah, Curt,” the woman driver chided, “do like your boyfriend says.”

Curt bristled at this.  “You got one big mouth on you, you little whore, you know that?”  Curt delivered a middle finger to the two women, thrusting up and down for emphasis.

“Damn, Ronnie,” the woman named Lisa said with mock fear, “I think we got ourselves a gangster here!”

The driver nodded, then suddenly reached into the open door and pulled out what Troy recognized as a Mac-10 sub machine gun.  He hadn’t seen one of those in years.  The thing boasted a 30 round magazine and could spit death at the rate of about 18 rounds per second.  It took Curt a second to register the threat, but by then it was too late.  There was blaze of bluish-white flame from the muzzle of the gun as it burped a dozen rounds of .45 caliber into the night.  Curt’s body drew into itself like a knot as the bullets hit center mass, and he collapsed beneath the bumper of his truck.  Troy looked up and saw the girl named Lisa was now also armed, with a nickel-plated .357 magnum hanging by her side. 

Troy’s mouth suddenly went dry, his arms frozen at his side.

“Hey, you come here,” the driver said nodding towards the other man.

“Nnn-nno, please,” he stammered, the fight suddenly escaping him.

“C’mon, you got something for me, huh?”  She looked down at Curt’s motionless form. A blossom of red had opened underneath the man’s torso, and the girl stepped over him as she made her way down the side of the truck, careful not to dirty the heels of her $800 Christian Louboutin pumps. 

Troy’s mouth fell open in an almost comical image of shock.  “No, please,” he repeated, stepping back from the barrel of the magnum.  Lisa aimed towards the man’s leg and squeezed off a round.   The pistol jumped in her hand.  Troy felt the bullet whiz past his leg, missing by what couldn’t have been more than an inch.

“Dang, I can’t believe I missed,” the girl laughed, looking over at her friend, who was slowly beginning to circle the front of the truck.  Ronnie shot the other woman a bright smile and wagged a finger at her, as if in admonishment.  The pair of women then moved forward with deliberate stealth; calm and confident.  Their faces registered no fear.

Troy let out a yelp and held up his gun.   He pulled the trigger repeatedly, expecting to hear the gun’s deadly report, but nothing happened.   He had completely forgotten about the safety catch, and dropped the pistol to the ground.  He took a clumsy step backwards, tripped on the curb, landing hard on his ass.  The two women surrounded him, looking down at their prey with bemused scorn, as though he had proven to be a most unworthy adversary.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble…”  His eyes were wide, mirrors of terror and panic.

“Hey, little bitch, tell your friends you fucked with the wrong girls.  We are las sicarias!  Somos las flacas!” the driver named Ronnie said through a sneer.  Troy pressed his eyes together tightly, expecting death to come for him.  The woman unloaded the rest of her magazine into the ground next to the young man.   He fell back onto the sidewalk instinctively, as though he had felt the bullets tearing through his flesh.  His body shuddered, and his bladder released a stream of hot piss into his jeans.  He began to sob, his eyes still shut tight.  The two women snickered, then walked slowly back to their car.  Lisa got out her phone, took a video of the dead body, and chuckled as she recorded Ronnie step onto Curt’s forearm with her 4” heels.  Reaching down, she pulled the Desert Eagle from out of the man’s frozen clutch and tucked it into her belt.  The women returned to the BMW, rolled up the windows and steered around the still-running truck, making their way onto Linwood Avenue, before turning back towards the lights of South Beach.  The only sound remaining was an idling truck, and the whimpering of a man who had somehow escaped certain death that night.