Free I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) by Tony Monchinski Page B

turntables
were joined by digital turntables. The old man continued to stock a
large supply of records: everything from Do Wop for the old timers
to twelve-inchers for the DJs and club kids.
    An old bluesman was singing about John the
Revelator on the house system.
    “Give me a second, Mojo.” Blind, talking to a
young Indian guy at the counter, held a finger up for Boone. Boone
sidled up to the counter and leaned against it.
    “That Twin Hype you recommended last time,
they loved it,” the Indian guy was saying. Boone gave the cat the
once over. Flashy clothes, platinum. Some kind of DJ or something.
“What else you got, get people on their feet?”
    “You hear Black Rob yet?”
    “Nah, Mr. Charles. Who dat?”
    Charles. Everyone but Boone called the blind
man Mr. Charles. That was his name. That was the name on the
outside of the store. Boone called him Blind after the Cheech and
Chong skit, Blind Melon Chittlin’. Blind called him
Mojo after the Doors’ song.
    “He dropped some lyrics on the 112
remix— Come see me . Puffy been sitting on this
brother’s album…”
    As he listened to their conversation and
leaned his elbow against the counter top, Boone scanned the record
store. Part of the fun for the customers who came to the place was
to look through the bins of records and recordings. Boone knew
there were people who came here and spent hours just looking. Blind
didn’t mind, or if he did he never said anything.
    “Black Rob that young nigga appeared on
Mase’s cut last year, right?”
    “One and the same,” nodded the old man.
    Keisha was working the register across the
store. Keisha was Blind’s daughter and she was, in Boone’s
estimation, smoking hot. Keisha was ringing a customer up and Boone
let his gaze dwell on her ample breasts, glad her father was blind
and couldn’t see him doing so.
    “Now what you need to do is walk yourself
over to that aisle over there and find you some Powerrule.”
    “Powerrule?”
    “Yeah, the white boys love that, right
Boone?”
    Boone ignored him.
    “They mix Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall , Part 2 in their hook. Believe me, it works.”
    “Aight, Mr. Charles. Thanks.”
    The old man nodded, smiling but showing no
teeth.
    Boone wondered if Keisha was wearing those
stretchy pants he liked her in. She had about thirty pounds of ass
on her. Keisha rarely gave him the time of day, but this hadn’t
stopped Boone from rubbing one out thinking about her about a
hundred times before. If she ever gave him the chance, he’d worship
that ass. For an hour at least.
    “What you lookin’ at, Mojo?” the Indian guy
had wandered off to find his one hit wonders and the old man had
turned his full attention on Boone. Boone shook his head. How the
fuck did Blind know? Every fucking time…
    But the old man didn’t dwell on it. “These
kids today, ain’t nothin’ if they ain’t eclectic. From Son House to
King Sun and everything in between. So what you need, Mojo?”
    “Couple of things,” said Boone. “One’s
information.”
    “On what?”
    “Not a what this time. A who .”
    “Who it be then?”
    “What do you know about a guy ran with
Gossitch, colored guy named Santa Anna?”
    Blind looked at Boone through his shades.
“Colored guy, huh?”
    “You know what I mean, Blind. Black.”
    “Well, let me ask you, Mojo. What you know ‘bout guy run with Gossitch called Santa Anna?”
    “I know I did some work with him this
morning.” Boone looked around the store as he said it. There was no
one close enough to overhear their conversation. “I know he just
got out of the big house a short while ago.”
    “Santa Anna. Now there’s a man knew how to
stand up. They got him, and they woulda’ got Gossitch and Bowie and
all ‘em from that old crew, if he’d opened up. But the man kept his
shit silent. Didn’t say word one. Glad to hear he’s out.”
    “Okay, that’s all sweet and shit, but is he
trustworthy?”
    “All that muscle on top of