I was inside Benjy’s deli. The dead entertainer I was supposed to look for was standing across the street. I was on edge of the theater district, six lanes of insane traffic separating me from the Dominion Theater. On top of t he Dominion a larger-than-life-but-smaller-than-legend-size golden statue of Freddie Mercury was on the roof. The queen Musical, We Will Rock you. I was waiting between Chinatown and Bloomsbury, underneath the shadows of Centre Point Tower. Next door was a grungy-looking theatre-club that advertised Betty-somebody and some punk-rock-looking group whose name was the acronym GAY. I sipped on a green tea, reading Metro.Co.UK, an article about poor areas having the fewest free ATMs. The poor getting scammed, being once again penalized for being poor. I looked up, didn’t see her, checked my watch, went back to the paper. Channel 4 was planning to screen Britain’s first marathon masturbation event, called Wankathon. They were giving prizes to people who could have the most orgasms and masturbate the longest. Faking an orgasm could get you disqualified, and the record for the longest masturbation session was eight and a half hours. The Brits were special people. Saw nothing about the Reverend. Had to let that go. Was getting obsessed. I looked at my watch and yawned. Sleep was trying to invade my body. The people next to me were speaking French with a distinctive accent and vocabulary. “Secret Lovers” was on the sound system, Atlantic Starr sounding twice as popular here as they did on the other side of the pond. No matter if I was at a club over in Brixton or walking through one of the shops in Oxford Circus, I always heard more American music than I did British. Above me, a small television was on. Still on the story about the dead WAG. I looked across the street at the tube exit. A Filipina with skin the hue of sunrise over Ipanema was over in the crowd by Freddie Mercury, coming up from the tube. She put her cell up to her face. My cell rang “I’m inside Benjy’s” She hung up Black jeans. White sweater. Long black coat. Umbrella up high First she crossed in front of Centre Point; that left her one more intersection to negotiate before she made it to me. She passed by a man with a sign advertising Internet access at the cost of one British pound per hour. She passed by two police officers. They don’t carry guns, just handcuffs. Hard to be afraid of a gun less cop. A cop with no gun was a security guard. London was filled with thieves. On the tubes and in stores were continuous announcements to watch out for pickpockets, who preyed on the inattentive. Cafes had signs posted telling patrons to beware of thieves they called slasher, nimble-fingered crooks who would cut open your bags and catch the goods as they fell out. Plenty of nimble fingers in the UK lot who worked in groups and had mastered the art of distraction and blocking. The woman coming my way would put all of London’s criminals to shame. Her name was Arizona. People in my dark world knew her as Queen Scamz I fell in lust with her the moment I laid eyes on her, as most straight men did. That was in North Hollywood, when she was a young girl who had nothing but ambition in her eyes. Back then she was in love with Scamz, the man who slapped her silly, the man who made her his number one, then, in the blink of an eye, replaced her with her own sister. Back then Arizona was a flight attendant, using her job pre-9/11 to be a mule for some of Scamz’s illegal ventures, and her sister was working as a teller at a Wells Fargo in Hollywood. Arizone had brought her in on a job. Once her sister met Scamz, she had ambitions of her own, and her desires paid no mind to upstaging and dethroning Arizona. We had that in common. Both of us had been betrayed by people we cared about. Arizona crossed the street. Two men were about ten yards behind her, had been behind her since she exited the tube. Both of those men wore thick coats on top of black hoodies. Arizona came in the door, umbrella at her side, bags under her eyes, lips tight. I watched the men who were keeping up with her. They kept going toward Leicester Square, now looking at other women. I rubbed my temples, released my paranoia, let it float up toward the ozone. Arizona made her way to where I was sitting. “You’re early.” “Early is on time. On time is late.” She nodded. “And late is unacceptable.” I stood to hug her, but she extended her hand. I said, “So it’s like that.” She nodded once, her hand still extended, firm in her decision. I extended my hand for a curt handshake, all business. Last time I saw her we did things that would make porn stars take notes. She opened the Evening Standard newspaper in her hand. Once again the Reverend stared at me. It was international. Nothing to be proud of. It had followed me across the pond. I said, “Already saw it.” She said, “This place is too small, too crowded. Let’s walk and talk.” We fought the crowd, passed by Borders. Soho Original Books. Blackwell’s. Lovejoys. Murder One. Henry Porders. One look down any street and it was obvious that the British were literary. Bookshops were every ten feet, if not less, each one filled with book hungry customers. She asked, “WAG job?” “Wasn’t me. Sounded like a crime of passion. That was a hit?” “Heard somebody was looking for somebody to take that contract.” “And you didn’t refer me?” “Needed you for horse-and-grass country. Need you to handle Kolby.” Brazilian. Indian. Chinese. International food was every where, just like hiking down Broadway in New York, or being on South Beach, minus the palm trees and sunshine. There were enough Burger Kings and McDonald’s and Pizza Huts to make every foreigner feel at home. But it was the other shops I always noticed. In my world Starbucks ruled; here Starbucks was outnumbered by both bookshops and alternative coffee spots like Caffe Nero. I said, “Why you pick me for this job?” “Got fucked over on a Katrina scam.” “You know what I mean. I know him. Seen him around. A new face to a old game.” “He’s afraid of you, they all are.” “And I’d be a fool to go after him.” “Asshole owes me a lot of money. No one else I can send to make my point. Everyone else is afraid of him, he put on a great show this past Sunday. He knows you. Respects you. He’ll be cool with you. He’ll listen to you.” “How much he get you for?” “The amount is irrelevant. But it’s a lot. I taught him how to work FEMA like FEMA was nothing more than a pigeon drop. He made a quick grip. Refused to pay me a percentage.” “Double cross on a Katrina scam? Waiting years after for revenge.” “You know? Motherfuckers still don’t think I’m for real. Some of them misogynistic pricks still refuse to take a women seriously, Carmine. Looks like I have to send out another message.” “Hard business for women. Maybe you should get out and slow down. Have babies.” “I’m not the type for being barefoot and pregnant.” “Too bad. You have pretty feet.” “I was going to call Drew Switchblade in on this one, but he’s too messy, and would be a great student to learn from a master.” “Sure send him, kids good. I’ll ride up to Lakenheath Village with the kid and take care of it.” We hurried by theaters, coffeehouses, bars, and internet cafes, put her umbrella up high, dodged puddles, and headed toward one of the busiest spots in London. She told me there was a nice Starbucks across from Odeon, this location being the home of the UK movie premiers, the UK version of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The area had been cleaned up. The small patch in the center of the square used to be a haven for junkies. Now it was safe to wander through the grass without tripping over piles of old, used needles, and still-damp condoms. She asked, “You been back to New Orleans since Katrina?” “Nope. Just saw it on the news. Caught the scam from afar, people still fall for it even today. You were that way weren’t you? How bad was it up close?” “Ninth Ward still looks like a bomb was dropped on it. Houses stacked on top of houses, no one looking to fix it anytime soon. No money. Insurance companies don’t want to pay. That’s the scam right there. They blame the flooding on the levee, not Katrina. Don’t get me started on that crap. Material cost has shot through the roof. And gas prices are crazy. Hell most of the evacuees are running scams today. Half of them weren’t doing anything right before or after Katrina, now they still grabbing two grand a month from FEMA.” “FEMA. Bet you tapped into that and made a mint” “FEMA stands for Fuck Everybody with Melanin in America.” “Of course.” “And, yeah, I hit FEMA harder than Katrina hit New Orleans. Still getting checks from that scam” We passed by several spots to buy theater tickets. Saw a big poster for One Flew over the Cuckoo’s nest, Stomp had Hugh posters too. I spied the TKTS booth, the only freestanding building in the square, but didn’t see any ads for Rent. So many productions were posted. Impossible to notice everything. I held Arizona’s umbrella up over our heads as we entered the square and passed by all the tourist traps and souvenir shops, made our way across the cobblestone walkway leading to the center of the square and went inside Starbucks. Arizona ordered a latte. I went to the counter, ordered a house coffee, then found out they didn’t honor the US’s Starbucks gift cards in this country. The man behind the counter apologized, and I paid in pounds and pence. I told the server, “Lots of coffee drinkers. Thought Brits liked teas.” “There are no real Brits left in London area. Immigrants have taken over. And Immigrants bring their own tastes with them. I’m a Brit by birth and I only drink tea.” I thanked him and moved on. This Starbucks was large, most of the seating being in the back of the space. By the time I had put four sugars in my tall cup of joe, Arizona had a table in the back of the room, away from everyone, but still surrounded with enough noise to keep other people out of our conversation. She said, “Did you see the statue of Shakespeare out front?” “Shakespeare was a master plagiarist. He stole Francis Bacon’s work.” “Before we have that debate, let’s get to the business I have for you.” Arizona opened her bag, took out a folder, a profile on my target. She said, “Inside is a travel card good for all week.” “Why didn’t you get me an Oyster card? I could’ve done a top up.” “Don’t use an Oyster. It’s an electronic card, just like the Octopus card in Hong Kong. Those cards leave electronic bread crumbs. So every time you touch in or touch out, Big brother knows where you are. Use an Oyster and Scotland Yard knows where you are. They know where you get on the tube, where you get off the tube. They know where you get on buses.” “You have an Oyster card.” “Mine was bought with a hot credit card. Under a fake name. A man’s name. And I switch Oyster cards throughout the day.” “So you have extras.” “I’m prepared.” She dug into her bag, took out another Oyster card, threw it to me. I said, “You think like a man.” “I’m too smart to be a man. That’s why I’m a woman.” “Did you go to terrorist training school or something?” “Too smart to be a terrorist too.” I yawned, “All the CCTV cameras. London is starting to feel like one big-ass prison.” “Put up some barbwire and it would be, Surveillance cameras are both underground and on the platforms. Cameras are on the buses. Bobbies walking the streets like guards.” “Are you a terrorist?” “Just letting you know. If you’re traveling, if you’re trying to not be seen, trying not to be found, pay cash for a travel card, ride the tube, blend with the crowd, and vanish in the system.” Then she handed me a passport, this one deep red. It had the same photo as my blue one, the one made in the US. For the next few hours I would be a British citizen named Clive. “This clean?” “From a newborn. That’s the best was to do identity theft. Not from the dead, but from a newborn. Takes years, since a newborn or a kid won’t apply for credit anytime soon.” She tapped the information She said, “Handle Lakenheath as soon as you can.” Her fingers lingered on the information. I reached for her hand. She jerked it away. I asked, “Why the attitude?” “As soon as it’s done, the rest of the money will be transferred to your account.” We sat there, Arizona finishing off the last of her coffee. The moment reminded me of sitting at the kitchen table and watching my mother drink Folgers coffee In the morning. We used to leave our rattrap in the heart of the neglected village, abandon West Cali, and ride through the sweet, much-loved areas like Myers Park, ride by those homes in South California screaming and pointing like I was on a ride at Six flags. Looked at big homes the way people admired art at the Louvre. Loved them in the wintertime. Didn’t really snow in Cali, but the rain storms would come and bare some trees. So much beauty inside the danger. When I gazed at Arizona, I saw the opposite, so much danger inside beauty. Arizona spoke in a soft, almost vulnerable tone. “I started watching Battlestar Galactica.” No shit?” “Because of you, I watched that show because of you.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “Liked the Cylons. Love when slaves rise up and defeat the master. Racism. Battles amongst the classes. Sexism. Fear. So much hate wrapped around one television show.” “Like…life. Hate has put a lot of money in my pockets.” She said, “I have a theory on why people don’t respect different races.” “The Cylons will be respected.” “No, the Cylons will be feared. That’s better than being respected.” Her intense stare, it didn’t wane. “Who’s the woman who went to the hotel with you?” “A square. Met her on the plane.” “Don’t mess with squares. What do you know about her?” “She was looking for a room, checked out the hotel.” “Is that right? Where is she now?” “Well, Arizona. I offered you first right of refusal.” “Keep it professional, Carmine.” “So New York and Chapel Hill didn’t happen?” “No idea what you’re talking about.” “You’re breaking my heart” “When did you get a heart?” “Why are you being so damn nasty to me?” “Doesn’t matter. I’m a bang-and-go kind of gal anyway. At least that’s how you see me.” “Yeah, you’re breaking my heart.” “Better yours than mine. Actually mine has already been shattered.” “Can’t break what has already been broken.” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” “Hold up. How did you know someone came to the hotel with me?” “Maybe I came to see you. Maybe I thought about Chapel Hill and New York and wanted to see you gain. Maybe I was going to surprise you and get beans and eggs and toast for breakfast. Maybe I was outside your hotel room. Maybe I heard you fucking your concubine.” If water fell on her skin, it would sizzle away. She dug inside her bag, slid those legends toward me, her anger controlled. I had given her those Cds as a gift. Now she was rejecting the memory. I said, “Keep’em” Arizona shook her head. I saw the tempest in her expression, the frost in her eyes. That femme fatale owned beauty and more danger than an ice storm in North Carolina. Then I saw another kind of danger. I said, “Sit down” “Fuck you!” I gave her a broad smile. “No. Sit down.” “I’m not your whore. I don’t work for you.” I added a light laugh. “We’re being watched.” She hesitated. “Don’t play with me.” “We’re being trailed.” - [ * * * ] - Ho-fucking-hum. A match with Madison and her underwear model boy toy. You know, if you wanted to waste my time this week, NLCW, you could have had me doing autograph sessions instead of this. Madison and Kolby are nothing more then a big waste of my time - not to mention a waste of space. Madison, I know you like to live in that special imaginary world where anything is possible, but those of us with a grasp on reality know better. You actually defeating Drew and I? That lies in fantasy land, missy. And before all you anorexia-loving thirty-five year-olds, still living at home with mommy motherfuckers start spamming my NLCW web-mail in-box with hate mail, let me explain something to you. Madison is going to get in front of a camera this week, talk about how 'cute', 'sweet', and 'nice' she is, then try to tell you, me, and anyone who won't give her the finger that she's capable of defeating me. Bull-fucking-shit. And, if I know bitches like I think I do, you'll likely also get more of a look into her personal life than you want while she's at it. Let me break that shit down for you right now. See besides being a wrestler, Im also psychic and I can perdic that in a months time Madison will be turning tricks for Kolby. Hey, maybe, if you promise him a hand job, he'll do something really stupid, like try to attack me before our match, so you'll have something better than an astronomical chance of winning. You’ve both just signed with NLCW, and You've both already mistaken yourselves for an honest-to-goodness couple of wrestlers, when in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I will give you this, though. You're not quite the Useless Cunts other fly by nights cats have been here. But, don't go mistaking that for anything akin to legitimacy. See, while you do have a minor bit of skill, you'll both never be on a level with me. You're both nothing more then a glorified couple of punching bags at best, Madison and Kolby. So yeah, you've both seemingly got yourself into another endless supply of matches with wrestlers who are way out of your league. What are you two going to do with it this time? Choke yet again? Repeat what happened at the Pay Per View against Dom? Likely. Look even worse than you yourselves thought possible in my ring, against a team so vastly superior to you that comparison isn't even possible? Definitely. Walk away from the ring with your dreams of being Tag-Team champions dash? Absolutely. In fact, I'd say your efforts this coming Monday can be summed up in two words: Epic Fail. I won't waste my breath explaining how the best thing you two could do for yourselves would be to stay at home. You're both too fucking stupid to listen to logic. So yeah, you bring that 'anything can happen' attitude, bring your good looks, because plain and simple, it won't matter. Any more than you two do. Get your 'I got beat the fuck down' panties on, Madison, because at Avulsion, in my ring, that's exactly what is going to happen. And I'll let you people in on one more thing before I go. There's a reason both Madison and Kolby hasn't opened there mouths yet. There scared. They know, deep down that there a team of retards, and they know if they open there mouth before I do, just like when we're in the ring together, I'm going to stick my foot in it. So there waiting, desperately hoping that something in some word I've said will give them an opening. Or perhaps a glimmer of hope. No chance, Madison and Kolby. Not even in Candy Land, or wherever it is your fucking mind spends ninety-five percent of it's time. But go ahead and tell the masses how repetitive I am. Go ahead and remind them, once again that Carmine Vestieri has a potty mouth. Run it past them one more time, and don't forget to tell them, about my bloated ego, and how I care about no one but myself. It's all shit they've heard before. From everyone before you. So guess who that will make repetitive? So, I dare you, bitches...tell these idiots something they don't know about me. But get your fucktarded asses ready for a by-God beatdown come Monday Night. You're both resilient, I'll give you that, but your resilientness isn‘t going to measure up to save your ass this week, you will get humiliated, and you will witness what Tag-Team wrestling is all about… -- That’s a Wrap! --