An Excerpt from Angel Dust: A Novel

The Dons’ Meeting began promptly at 7:30, the head of each territory seated with their bodyguards standing behind. The warehouse security guard had been given the night off, and no doubt he was already on his way to the docks to pick up some crude liquor and a cruder woman. Cigar smoke curled towards the ceiling, the only motion in the room save for the woodland creatures frolicking gaily beneath the table. King Fairheart began to speak.

“Listen up, ya schmucks,” growled the wise Fairheart, fluttering his gossamer wings in agitation. “Them Angels ain’t playin’ by the rules no more. They movin’ outta Pittsburgh, outta state, pushin’ that Angel Dust shit far as Akron. And I don’t need to tell ya, gentlemen, that Akron is Fairy Dust territory – our turf. Our goddamn turf!”

With a twirl of his wand, King Fairheart smacked his inept son Prince Brightweather in the back of his head. This was his cue to refill the buttercups of harsh Meadow Nectar whiskey the other Dons had in front of them, the only task in the Clearcloud Kingdom the Prince was capable of. The other Dons thought him simple.

“Sorry, Papa,” he mumbled.

King Fairheart fingered his shoulder-holster as he marvelled at his son’s stupidity. This was a tic of his, like a unicorn tapping its hoof to a happy song or a crack junkie’s shakes. He would not use his .45. Not in this meeting.

“This Dust the angels are pushin’, it’s cheaper, stronger, and more addictive than our shit. And to the lowlifes we peddle to, that means it’s fuckin’ better.”

He picked up a vial of the Angel Dust, and a vial of his own product. He examined the contents of both closely, though he’d done so many times before. They were nearly identical, besides potency and price; both were bright pink in colour, with sparkles all the colours of the rainbow. One sprinkle of Fairy Dust and a boy of true heart could do anything he could imagine – but a sprinkle of Angel Dust was like sitting in a vat of heroin with slit wrists.

“So, fellas, we gotta do something about it. The Tooth Fairy’s workin’ on hookin’ the kids early, but it ain’t enough, and nothin’ we do to the formula is gonna help either, cuz that Angel shit is just too fuckin’ good. That only leaves one option, fellas, an’ I think you already know what it is. We gotta let the Angels know that sellin’ on our turf is more trouble than it’s worth. Pony Boy, I believe you done got somethin’ to tell us there.”

Pony Boy preened his lustrous purple coat and whinnied. “The Angels have been sending their stuff across the state lines in the trunks of some Mexican truckers connected with the yayo boys in Cleveland. One of their guys – goes by the name Speedy – he’s been getting cocky, bringing in more shit than he should and catching the eye of the fuzz. My boy on the force has been tracing his route and we know that there’s a nice thirty miles or so where no one’s watching him. That means he’s our first and easiest target.”

King Fairheart cut him off. “If we get Speedy, which shouldn’t be too much hassle, we might scare the Mexicans off without gettin’ into another fuckin’ bloodbath with the Angels. I know none of us like each other much and I ain’t any different in that respect, but this benefits all of us, and then we can go back to shootin’ the shit out of each other like old times.” Prince Brightweather let out a guffaw but shut himself up when he caught his father’s eye.

Lord Goldenleaf of the Enchanted Forest quietly fumed in his seat, cheap cigar stuck in his jaw, purest starlight emanating from its tip. The sounds of his nephew’s murder the previous month during the raid on the Angel compound in Canton hadn’t stopped playing through his head since, and he couldn’t be convinced that Prince Brightweather’s incompetence wasn’t somehow to blame. He slammed his fist down on the table in front of him and stood up, staring King Fairheart down. “Bullshit!” he growled, voice like a sparrow’s song. “We all know that if yer goddamn moron of a son hadn’t blown the goddamn stake-out,” he motioned to the Prince, “the Angels wouldn’t even know we was a threat! We wouldn’t be in this fuckin’ mess!”

The King calmly leaned back on his toadstool chair. With the look of a man deep in thought, he tapped his wizened fingers on the table, inches from his wand. Suddenly, he pointed it at Lord Goldenleaf, and with a blast of colour and the dank stench of cotton candy, Fairheart’s target fell back into his seat. Goldenleaf grasped his throat, eyes bulging, as pathetic gasps struggled to fill the stunned silence of the abandoned warehouse. Prince Brightweather scrambled to clean up the golden sparkles now littering the table below Fairheart’s wandtip. The rest of the Dons watched in horrified silence; they knew that this was the first time a wand had been used at a Dons’ Meeting since 1963, and no one could forget the struggle that followed that incident. A few more seconds of feeble wheezes and spasms and Goldenleaf fell silent, his mouth open and drooling like a starving dog. Bloody, vomit-soaked gumdrops and candy corn slid up from his throat and spilled down his chest to the floor, staining his imitation Armani along their way. Fairheart smiled at his handiwork, and let out a sadistic laugh before turning to his stunned colleagues.

“Looks just like his whore sister after Twinklefeet got through wit’ her, don’t he, fellas?” the King asked, expecting laughs. He got them; at this point, he would get what he wanted.

~ Solomon Klein

Solomon Klein was born in Naples to old-fashioned Italian parents. Before becoming a successful author, his life was never separable from that of the Mafia. Angel Dust, a semi-autobiographical telling of his experiences as a young driver for his mobster cousin, is his fifth novel to date. It will be released February 28, and a book signing is scheduled for that day at the Euclid Ave. Barnes and Noble.