The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (3 page)

She
smiled sweetly. “Please, as long as I’ve been here, I don’t think it would be
unprofessional for you to call me Labi, Mr. Sweetbuck.”

“Only
if ya call me John.”

Hook, line and sinker.

***

John
and Labi were married four months later. Within a few weeks it was revealed why
there were no women sniffing around: the smallest disagreements brought smacks
across her pretty face.

It
was a relatively small town. When the abuse began, Labi asked around about him,
something she didn’t think to do before the wedding because there’d been no
reason to. If she had, she would’ve uncovered that he was a woman-beating
bastard who’d avoided arrest due to his job. His past loves said he’d
threatened to ruin their lives, or worse, if they opened their mouths.

In
the first year, he sent her to two different hospitals on five separate occasions
with broken ribs and fractured orbital sockets. Her stories about uncooperative
stairs and doors that swung by themselves were becoming old hat to emergency
room staff. Every time she arrived, there were scars from injuries she hadn’t
reported.

She
formulated a plan to leave Sweetbuck. Her only concern was John locating her
through the maid service. In between split lips and caved cheek bones, she’d
found time to take a computer course twice a week in the evenings. John’s
possessive nature was such that she had to lie concerning her whereabouts. One
of the few friends he let her have was in college at the time, providing Labi a
perfect alibi; acting as her “study” partner, she used those nights to cover
her time spent in class. She completed the course and left him one day while he
was at work.  

Within
a month, she was hired at my father’s firm. After she and Sweetbuck divorced,
she began seeing Pops during my parents’ separation. She never told him about
John, the abuse, none of it. One night, John tried to terrorize my father the
same way he’d done with women for years. Thing is, though, if you try to fuck
my pops, he’s the kind to fuck
back.

Let
me weave you a tale of three clowns who tried to take out Tommy Two-Guns, as my
father signs his tax returns because Hardwang Fuckemall Coxman takes too long
to write.....

***

My
pops was living in an apartment across town from
the house that was no
longer his
my mother’s place while they fought over extremely important community
property. And
me
, when time allowed. It was summer and
I’d gone to spend a few weeks with him. He and Labi were living together, and
the three of us had gone to see John Candy’s hilarious badge of honor
The
Great Outdoors.
It was 9 PM when we arrived back at his complex. All I
wanted to do was sit on my pudgy ass and watch TV, my usual form of amusement
after leaving a movie theater. Little did I know the night’s entertainment had
yet to
begin.
 

Swooping
into the lot, we saw a white Crown Victoria with tinted windows in my father’s
assigned spot. It gleamed from the lamp post in the parking island. The
darkened rear glass had a bumper sticker reading “Don’t Be a Litterbug” on the
bottom of the passenger side. I could see Pops’ ears growing red-hot from my
position in the back seat. We sat at an angle as he voiced reasonable
opposition toward the unauthorized vehicle.

“What
in the
fuck
is that cocksucker doing in my space? I pay a lotta money
for this place and I’ll be damned if some asshole is going to come and park in
my
space!”

“Oh,
H. F., just park somewhere else. They’re probably visiting somebody in another
apartment and didn’t know about the assigned spots. It’ll be gone tonight or in
the morning.”

“I
don’t give a shit, Labi. The signs with ‘Tenant Parking’ written on ‘em
should’ve been reason enough for this idiot to
not
park in an
assigned
space.” My father squinted and looked hard at the vehicle. “Kinda looks like a
detective’s car.”

I
asked if I could slash their tires with the lock-blade I’d gotten for my
birthday. The way I saw it, how better to show an impolite toolbag that you
disagree with his actions? The worst outcome would be the owner seeing me
destroy his property and I’d get to practice my thrust and parry before Pops
handed him his balls. I didn’t see a downside.

I
bandied about the backseat like I did when I’d seen my first skin flick,
thrilled with the possibility of finally getting to inaugurate my new knife. My
dreams of juvenile mischief were foiled when Pops gave an emphatic “No” and
shot me the evil eye.

Labianna
neglected to mention the initials “U” and “P” she’d seen on the license plate.
(I don’t know about other cities, but where I’m from, “U. P.” on the plates
mean “Undercover Police.” Kind of negates the whole point of driving an
unmarked fucking police car, if you ask me.)

My
father parked in another space and we began walking to his building. We were
almost to the front lobby when three visibly drunk men stumbled out. They made
a beeline straight for us. All three were wearing jeans and those stupid
Lacoste shirts with the alligator on the left breast.

“John!
What are you
doing
here?!" It was Sweetbuck and two other
detectives smelling of trouble and cheap liquor. Labi was caught off guard by
her ex-husband and went pale.

John
was as jubilant as a mayor in a crackhouse. “
Heeeey,
Labi!
Comin’
home from an evenin’ on the town, eh? We didn’t want anythang important. Just
came by to say hi!” He winked at my father, pointing at Labianna’s crotch.
“Careful with those lips, Hardwang. They can get as ripe as a wet gym sock!”

Pops
glared at her. “Labi, who the fuck is this?”

She
looked at the ground like a whipped dog. “H. F., this is my ex-husband, John
Sweetbuck. He’s a detective for the city. That’s his car parked in your space.”
My father’s paws tightened at the deception. If he’d known Labi had a psychotic
ex who doubled as a police officer, he would’ve never gotten involved.

“Yeah!
I heard you were datin’ somebody, Labi. Thought I’d come check out the new
man.” John turned to my father. “How ya doin’, Hardwang? Good to finally meet
ya! Hope ya don’t mind, but I ran your name and got your address. I wanted to
come over and congratulate ya on such a fine catch. Ya shouldn’t put your name
on your space, though. Makes it easy for anyone to find out which one’s yours!”

Without
missing a beat, “Well, if I’d known it was gonna be
you
parking there,
John, I’da rolled out the red asscheeks for ya to kiss.” He turned to me.
“Innis, go sit in the car.” I didn't argue with him. He had a weird sparkle in
his eye and the vein in the middle of his forehead was thumping.
I went
to the Lincoln and rolled down the window. The only thing I could do was watch
from the back seat as John continued to taunt the both of them. His friends
laughed from the sidelines.  

Out
of nowhere, John threw a sluggish haymaker that still makes me embarrassed for
him to this day. The Thunderbird had made him as nimble as a paraplegic in a
sex swing. My father ducked, letting his drunken bodyweight fall him to the
ground like a bag of failure. One of John’s cop buddies heffalumped his fat ass
over to the melee and tried to avenge his friend’s dignity. Grabbing a heavy
tree limb off the ground, he took a swing at my pops and missed. He swung
again, and this time Pops caught the limb and ripped it out of his hands. He
beat Jabba until his sputtering pleas for mercy were silent. As the man was on
his right side, I watched him lift his arm in protest, right before I heard the
crack of a newly fractured skull. Pops turned his attention to the third guy
who stood with an open mouth and heavy underwear. He invited him to the party
with a motion of his hands, but the third cop wisely tucked his nuts between
his cheeks and sprinted into the night.

It
was as if Bruce Lee had fought two invalids.

By
this time, John was back on his feet and hurling anti-Semitic slurs at Pops and
Labi with all the wit you’d expect from a lush. “What ya got there, hose nose?
Where’s your Star of David? ‘The Star of David.’ Ha! More like the Star of
Dick!
You money grubbin’ bastards! How did it feel when your people nailed Joseph to
the cross, motherfucker?!”

Aside
from being a poor theologian, John’s insults had little effect on either one of
them; Pops is a Baptist and Labi was a Godless tramp.

No
matter. John was about to end them both with his off-duty pistol. He bent to
retrieve a revolver from his boot.

Glee
flashed across my father’s face as he instinctively reached for his waistband.

***

John
saw a bright FLASH!
out
of the corner of his eye. He
was whisked back to the Awffle Spouse parking lot, reliving the incident in
vivid detail. This time, it was different—the dealer had pulled a gun first.
John felt he was in a floating state, caught somewhere between the living world
and the land of the dead. He saw Esteban appearing before him, coming to
collect his soul on the Devil’s behalf.

In
the middle of his reverie, there was another bright FLASH!
exploding
in his face. This time, John was certain it was his karma, reliving the murder
of a man for a fistful of tainted money. The long-dead Puerto Rican had
returned in the black cloth of the damned to drag Sweetbuck to his personal
flames. He knew what horrors awaited him for all the evil he’d done—the killing
of an unarmed man, accepting graft from drug dealers to squash their rivals,
playing Judas to the oaths he’d sworn to live by. Deeds that bought an eternity
of being ripped apart by winged devils.

***

No,
it wasn’t any of that shit. It was only Pops firing two rounds from his .357
snub. John’s thoughts of a cosmic payback were just that—delusions from a
lead-induced blackout.

I
watched with wide eyes as John got to his feet, fighting through the pain of
two unforeseen holes in the gut. He vomited the rotgut alcohol down the front
of his designer shirt. The bile splashed over his chest and the bullet wounds
in his stomach. His gator probably drowned. As he righted himself and craned
his nose upward, he caught the scent of barbecue. Maybe burgers. Maybe t-bone
steaks roasting over glowing embers of freshly scattered maple chips from a
hibachi on a tenant’s back patio.

But
again, no. It was his own flesh sizzling from the double-tap of a well-aimed
Smith & Wesson.  

As
John stood drenched in blood and partially-digested Thunderbird, my father
gently talked some sense into him. “Goddammit, you crooked sonofabitch!
Stay
down! You’re hurt! You’re hurt bad! I don’t wanna kill your stupid ass, but
I’ll fill you full of holes, motherfucker!”  

John
staggered toward Pops with a little bit of fight left in him, teetering like an
extra from an underfunded zombie movie. When he was a few feet away, he
leaped!

My
father fired a shot to the belly that knocked him to the grass with a sickening
thud.

Seeing
that it was over, Pops stuck his weapon in the right hip of his waistband. He
asked Labianna for her compact. She was stiff from the action that had taken
place in front of her and didn’t move.

“Labi!
Gimme your fuckin’ mirror!” My father’s booming voice snapped her out of it and
she complied. Once he had it, he walked over to John and held the mirror under
his nose. It turned foggy with the air of bad judgment. He reached down to
John’s ankle holster and took out his .38, jamming it in his pants next to his
.357.

Tommy
Two-Guns had reigned victorious.      

Pops
stood up with flair in his six-four frame. He was The Duke. He was Jack
Palance. He was Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Billy the Kid
all rolled into one modern day badass. He reached into his front shirt pocket.
Grabbed a pack of Winston Lights and pulled one out with his teeth. He struck a
match, lit it, and took a drag. With the exhaling breath, he looked down at
John to sum up the entire fiasco:

“Yep,
life’s rough! For stupid people it’s even rougher!”

***

Some meddling fucking neighbor
A
good Samaritan had called nine-one-one after the first shot. Emergency
officials arrived to find a holey John and a bloody hunk of shit unconscious on
the ground. Unable to fathom why John kept screaming about an Awffle Spouse
parking lot, the paramedics shrugged and tossed them both in the ambulance.
They later testified in court that he’d admitted to murdering some drug dealer
through his ravings in the back of their rig.  

After
a few questions as to what happened, the police caught up with the third
gentleman a few blocks away at a strip club called The Sticky Stick. They found
him in the men’s room washing out his boxer shorts. When he was Mirandized, he
confessed to their half-baked plan of overtaking my pops at his apartment.