SEQUOIA & THE BASTINADOS

Her legs go all the way up to her neck. More leg than I’ve ever seen in my life and gorgeous, every square inch. Smooth, tanned. She’s an absolute freak, no doubt. It’s hard not to stare, but she’s looking me dead in the eye while she’s perched on that red velvet couch and all I can do is stare at her legs. I should be listening to the deal she’s laying out. Her deal could make me or break me. But I already know what she’s offering. Micky Feltone, the "made" Micky Feltone, gave me the skinny back in Kansas City, but all I can do now is gaze at this freakish monstrosity, from the tips of her expensive Bahma shoes to the legs that go straight up into her jaw and wonder. How did she get control? Who would give this hideous woman that kind of power?

The two goons on either side of the couch are proof positive that she’s the number one now. I recognize these identical Samoans, the Bastanados, from the Zion City days. They ran rackets with me and they always dressed exactly alike except for the fact that one wore pink, one wore brown. Now is no different. Better, pricier suits, sure, but the button-downs still spell out the distinctions. They climbed the ladder by busting the kneecaps of hustlers and free-loaders while I stayed on the outside more and more. Now they're the left and right fists of "Leggy" over here.

"Well, Sequoia," she says after the long spiel, "are you solid with me?"

For the first time since this one-sided dialogue started, I glance into her green, green eyes. Pink walks over to me and reveals a wedding band within a turquoise box.

"I’m solid," I say as I take the ring from its box and slip it onto my finger.




-SLL