Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  Remaining discreet, he moved the barrel up enough so that it was pointed in the dogs’ direction. Probably should go back inside for a 9 milli with a silencer. Magnum is going to draw too much attention. It would take two shots. Was it worth it? In broad daylight? The noise, the attention. Didn’t have his earplugs with, either.

  “You gonna off them K-9, Cecil?”

  “What of it?”

  Biggs kept the gun aimed at them. The dogs were persistent in their effort to increase the depression they had created at the base of the boarded up window.

  “Blood don’t bother me, long as it don’t be mine.”

  “I’d like to pummel them out of existence. Once and for all.”

  Biggs found himself lowering the business end of the Magnum when he realized Brenda, who lived across the street with her half-brother and grandparents, was standing on the sidewalk looking in his and Marvin’s direction. Some of her teen girlfriends were with her. Unlike Brenda, they were preoccupied jumping rope. Brenda was the one wringing her hands and watching intently.

  What was going on? Did the thirteen-year-old want to be initiated? They spread their legs at a young age these days. Wouldn’t have mattered much to him. Dishwater blond hair, that he disliked, and all. Could always throw a dark wig over her head and go to work on her. Educate her in ways she didn’t know existed.

  It was the sight of the thirteen-year-old Brenda that made him take a closer look at the window. Should have thought of it right away. There was something furry and white, smaller than either dog, trapped between the hard wire mesh and the boarded up window. It had a collar on and a leash that trailed out below the window in the grass and weeds. Brenda’s pet rabbit. Should have known. What was his name? Benson? Becker?

  Marvin noticed the girl himself, then took a second look at the dogs. Cursed.

  “Bentley. What them dirty mutt’ be after.”

  Brenda was wiping her eyes. Cecil re-holstered the Magnum.

  “Take the mangy mutts back. Lift them over to their side of the fence and drop them. Drop them hard enough and maybe they’ll break a leg or two this time. Hopefully break a neck.”

  “Why me? You ain’t helpin’? What if the big one mistake my black ass for a buffet, like he done before, and try to take a bite?”

  “I’d do it myself, except I get sick to my stomach whenever I see that slobbering redneck moron and that chunky psycho cunt he’s married to up close. Furthermore, you’ve got gloves on, I don’t. Their dogs smell. I don’t want that smell on my clothes.”

  Marvin stared at him. Was tempted to say: Is you for real? The way the basement be? And the Abattoir? And them honey bucket’? Them dog’ ain’t got no smell to ’em. Ziggy like’ to bite, is what it be.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Using care and caution, the deacon got his arms under the Lhasa apso. Lifted him. Dog was unhappy and continued to make noise. Cecil didn’t want to be around when Roscoe and his wife showed—should they show—because of the racket the dogs were creating. Felt like taking a walk to the front, check his mail maybe, check up on his cars, only there was no way he was about to trundle through the tall weeds and trash, not to mention dog piles left there by Ziggy and Darcy.

  He walked toward the back. Would take a stroll down his driveway on the Crust side of his place.

  “Be nice now, mothafuckah.”

  “You relay this message to Marty Roscoe: Tell him to keep his dogs off my property. If that repulsive heifer of his pokes her head out, if she happens to be home—I don’t know that she is—but if she is, and gets abusive, or he starts showing off with that six-shooter, don’t panic. Call me over. Don’t mouth off, just call me over.”

  “What chu gonna do about Bugs Bunny?”

  “I’d like to shove him in the microwave, or just let Mr. Fimple feast on him. Raw.”

  “Rabbit stew be a whole lot better than that jambalaya Greta be cookin’ all the time.”

  “Keep your eyes peeled. The Flinger kid could be on the premises.”

  “Wilmer? Finger Lickin’? Figured as much.”

  “Take a good look in the back, both sides of the garage, after you drop the dogs off. I’m taking a walk down the driveway. I wasn’t kidding about throwing them over the fence, either.”

  “I ain’t doin’ it. I ain’t throwin’ no dog over no fence.”

  “Get them out of my sight.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Although as inquisitive and nosy as the Roscoes, the people on the other side of his driveway were far easier to tolerate. Harold and Fay Crust were the middle-aged African-American couple who lived in the one-bedroom frame house on his left. There was a close-to-identical type of wooden fence that separated the two properties, only it was a shade of brown, old, weathered.

  Best of all, though, the Crusts didn’t own dogs. And that cat they had, that he didn’t care for, at least didn’t go around digging up holes outside his basement windows.

  Biggs spotted the obese tom they called Delonzo crouched in the weeds at the foot of the fence up ahead. Seemed focused on a small rodent in front of him in the wet grass.

  Delonzo forgot about the rodent the minute he sighted Cecil walking up, leapt up the fence with that large body of his; not only scaling it, but cleared it, and was gone in a flash.

  Just as well, thought Cecil. He may have been tempted to pitch a rock at the copper-eyed, nasty-looking tom. Truth was, and he had to remind himself from time to time, he didn’t mind the cat half as much as he minded Roscoe and Petunia’s mutant mutts. Delonzo mistrusted and disliked people as much as Biggs did, and took off the second he sensed a human, any human he wasn’t familiar with and was close enough to do him bodily harm. The dogs, on the other hand, lingered and barked at you on your own turf, as if it belonged to them. They’d stand their ground and go nuts, snarling and threatening. What balls.

  Biggs walked along the driveway pocked with potholes full of water from the rains. Somewhere above, on a power line possibly, a large crow mocked him with as much relish as any henpecker he’d ever had the displeasure of crossing paths with.

  He ignored the crow. Had to. Went about checking the wrought iron bars and mesh on his basement windows. Gripped and shook the bars for looseness. Bars and mesh looked to be in good shape. Solid, as were the boards on the windows themselves. This was wrought iron mesh, and not that cheap, run-of-the-mill window mesh used by homeowners to keep flies out. So the only explanation he could come up with for that gap in the mesh that the rabbit had been able to crawl inside of must have been caused by a potential home invader, a snoop, crook; lowlife criminal types who prowled the neighborhood looking for an easy score to buy their dope with. Must have been cut with tin snips.

  Vigilance was the only recourse when you lived in a bordering-on-seedy North Hollywood neighborhood such as this. Vigilance. You kept on your toes, or they took you under, pulled you down to their level of poverty and desperation. He’d been there before. Both: broke and desperate. Had had his share of it, and hadn’t cared for it.

  He stood in the littered, weed-infested driveway, taking in the brick and wood affair. Shabby? Maybe. It was his. He could have lived in a better neighborhood, upscale home, and that was the plan eventually, to move out. Mortgage was manageable and money was hard to come by; it was always hard to come by. Why squander when you didn’t have to? Thrift was key. Save, don’t spend—had mantra potential.

  He looked up. The sun in his eyes. Squinted. He’d never liked the sun much. He kept looking, squinting hard. That’s right, get burned. Real smart.

  Windows on the first and second floors he’d outfitted with shutters, inside and out, in addition to bars—on all of them, with the exception of the four attic windows: dormer in front, one in back, and the standard-type single windows on either side.

  Felt those windows up there didn’t require outside shutters or bars; the inside shutters with the iron crossbar was adequate, although it wasn’t unthinkable that certain
home invaders were brazen enough to scale that high in order to hit a place. What he had up there would have to do. He felt comfortable enough with it.

  He walked down the gravel driveway in his boxers toward the front, past tall weeds that grew in clusters here and there and glistened with moisture. Flattened milk and juice cartons littered the grounds. Crushed and punched out beer and soda cans that resembled misshapen miniature gondolas held enough water to draw small birds to them. Buzzing mosquitoes hovered over puddles acting like they wanted their share, although Biggs knew better; they were out for blood. Possibly his, if they could score without a hitch.

  He supposed he should have collected the cans and turned them in for cash. Give Muck something to do. The freeloader hardly pulled his weight.

  Cans and cartons weren’t the only eyesore. There was rubbish; enough of it had accumulated to make it annoying even to someone as indifferent when it came to general appearance as he was. He’d never been all that fastidious about it, only this was supposed to be a church, was it not?

  Should put Muck to work. Make him earn his keep. Have him cut the grass, pick up some of the trash; at least trim some of the weeds with the edger.

  Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the grounds looking a bit more on the “presentable” side? It was a matter of being better organized, not always that easy to pull off, especially when you had so many other things on your mind.

  The noticeably less-impressive, one-bedroom dwellings on either side of Biggs house were nothing more, as far as he was concerned, than glorified Southern California bungalows. He called them as he saw them. What irked was the fact they were cleaner looking and their lawns kept up, at least to some considerable extent, the one that belonged to the black couple to the left of his place. Even the other one, to the right of the church, belonging to the redneck and his abhorrent wife, had a better looking, decent lawn.

  Their front porch was cluttered, as Roscoe was a known pack rat, but the grass part of their sidewalk was periodically trimmed, as was their own lawn, surrounding the front porch and backyard. Roscoe wouldn’t do the work himself, instead paid the Mexican Perez brothers or neighborhood punks like Flinger in vinyl records or worthless trinkets and figurines, to do it. Not that Cecil had never given it much thought, or that it genuinely bothered him any—until now. The way he had it figured: the waist-high weeds served their purpose. The majority of the juveniles in the area were reluctant to climb over his fence at night (or even during daylight hours) and break into his cars from fear that he might be lying in wait in the weeds with a ball bat or piece.

  The same loud crow, or a different one, pulled him away from his train of thought. Through the nasty black bird’s squawking he could hear the girls jumping rope in front of Lloyd and Fontana’s place. Brenda and her prick-teaser friends.

  He got close enough to be able to see them: the former mail carrier’s granddaughter Brenda and her cunt girlies.

  Brenda still standing there, wiping her eyes, looking unhappy over her missing rabbit. Well, they weren’t going to cook it, he came close to assuring her, and that Marvin would bring him over as soon as he unloaded the dogs.

  He couldn’t go over there the way he was dressed—or call her over; even if he had wanted to go and see her, there was no way that he would. A man his age talking to a slit that young? Besides, he disliked that dishwater hair. Always had, always would. Two of her friends, whose blond locks were light enough to pass for platinum, he disliked no less.

  Some went for the tow-headed type. He never understood why. Dusky beaver was always more enticing to him. Forget the fair-haired twats. The others with them were ethnic girlies. One black, the other Hispanic. Latinas reminded him of Tillie. Any high yellow reminded him of Tillie. Couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. But they did.

  Truth was, the fact that light hair held little or no interest for him made no difference, was immaterial, because the dark-haired and brown-haired jailbait fascinated him enough to want to stand there and take in all that virgin pussy. Dwell on the possibilities.

  Ballbusters in the making. Every one of them. Would grow up one day to henpeck more than one feckless dork into a state of mental anguish to land them in the psych ward. But right now, they exuded joy, jumping rope. “Double Dutch” is what they called it, what they, to a one, were into at the moment—with the exception of Brenda, who stayed forlorn. Looked in his direction presently. Or was she? Interested in him? Why would she be? Unless she craved a “Daddy” to loosen up that unmolested, untouched young pee-hole?

  Couldn’t be it. Had to be the rabbit. Her pet had gone AWOL and she was worried. That’s all. He didn’t know. Then again: Who did? Who ever would?

  He remained in place, standing and watching them jump rope, watching the summer breeze and the activity they were into lift their dresses and skirts high enough to reveal more thigh and a variety of panty as they bounced around, revealing enough skin to make him lust after it. Cunt was like money and kicks—you could never get enough. It’s off limits, he reminded himself. Too close to home. Have to be careful about these things. He’d taken his share of chances before, but to even think about going after one of these cute little numbers would not have made much sense. There was no way he could have gotten away with it.

  It wasn’t until Biggs had walked close enough to his front yard to check on his shell gray 1971 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow that he paid seventeen grand cash for sitting there, and the new deep-red, four-door Cadillac Brougham with the black vinyl top parked next to it that he noticed one-eyed “Meth Mouth” and his punk buddy Felix Monk sitting in their multi-colored, banged-up Toyota a couple of houses to the right of where the teeny boppers were hopping around.

  Meth Mouth was Jesus Ortiz, better known as “Ace,” also known as “Glassy.” Nothing more than an ex-con junkie out on parole looking for a way to fuck up again in order to be sent back to the pen. Well, not really—but Biggs knew better. A born-loser like that wouldn’t be able to stay out of the slam for very long. He’d known more than a few like him.

  And that other pissant with him with the do-rag? Just another low-grade mook. Between the two they didn’t have the brains of one of Roscoe’s idiot canines. Wouldn’t be surprised to discover they were responsible for damaging the mesh on his window.

  The junkie and the a-hole had dark shades on and they were sucking down beers in brown paper sacks. Slumped low in their seats. Ace in front, the other in the back. No doubt casing his place, trying to nail his routine down; no doubt scheming how to get to his rides, maybe his gun collection, dope stash, and other things of value that he owned.

  The cars were fine. None of the neighborhood punks had attempted anything overnight. All the windows were intact, the wheels still there.

  Both cars were heavily insured, and were rigged with state-of-the-art alarms. That didn’t always make him rest easy, not with desperate types like Ace and Felix hovering around his nest like those mosquitoes over the puddles of rain water.

  He was well aware that it would have made better sense to at least leave one of the cars parked in the garage in the back. Well, garage space was taken up with all sorts of things: doors, freezers and furniture, tires and car parts, tools, stereos and speakers, tv sets and boxes and boxes of porn—and a few other items. Besides, he enjoyed leaving his fine “hoopties” sitting this way in the front yard for the simple reason it gave him great satisfaction to flaunt his wealth, even with shifty low-life imbeciles like Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk always sniffing around, aching to get their sticky fingers on them.

  It’s all right. Let them try it. Not only was he insured, but had the arsenal and means to stop them cold in their tracks should they ever attempt anything.

  Keep the bait out there where it can be seen. That’s what luxury automobiles like this were when it came to bitches: bait. Cunt magnets. Let the neighborhood wannabes dry up with envy, let all the moronic welfare cases in this near-barrio see that you’ve got, and that they haven’t. Let the young
cunts know who owns the brand new Cadillac and a mint condition ’71 Rolls.

  One of the blonds, not Brenda, noticed that he was in his underwear, and quickly enough the rest of them did, too. Giggles and snide remarks soon followed, as they always did. To Brenda’s credit, though, she was not participating, and did what she could to get the others to stop it. She was not like Lloyd and her half-brother, after all.

  Her pals were not about to relent. They pinched their noses, while pointing at him and chanting: “Stinky! Stinky! Stinky!”

  Their mommies and daddies had taught them well. All came from dysfunctional homes. Had druggies and boozers and molesters and thieves and malcontents for parents.

  It was Dicker, ultimately. His fault. Curmudgeon was always making waves behind his back. What did you expect from someone who carried mail all his life? Certified nobody. He was the one responsible for spreading rumors about “stench” emanating from his church. It was nothing more than gross exaggeration, as far as Cecil was concerned. The so-called stench wasn’t nearly as bad as they claimed. He was certain of it. Wouldn’t he have been aware of it if it were? Wouldn’t he be as bothered by it as they, supposedly, were? Or was he so used to it at this point that it no longer fazed him?

  He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, however, was how much satisfaction it would give him to hang the young heifers on hooks in his walk-in, the bitches, all of them: Lloyd Dicker, his grandson Wilburn Claude, one-eyed Jesus Ortiz and his greasy buddy, and a few others in the area.