Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  Muck was back at the gate. Asked who he thought could’ve been messin’ wiff the Cadillac. Biggs’s chin-gestured in the zeroes’ direction.

  “Kick they ass, then. Take ’em out. You packin’. Yo.”

  “If they want the window, they can have it.”

  Biggs had no use for a confrontation. Felt like paying the former cheerleader a visit anyway, before she turned in for the night. Then afterwards it would be on to the Bordello of Fear and seeing to it that everything was copacetic over there. Then what? Time permitting, they’d probably take a drive over to the CASBAH HIDEAWAY to catch the pole dancers to their thing. After all, it was Halloween. For a good month now, the owner of the venue had been promising his customers one hell of a show come Halloween night. Well, this was it. Time had come. Something told Biggs this particular show was not to be missed. Fact was, Peach LaBelle was great no matter what night of the week she was on, but for this particular night, Biggs knew the second-to-none prick-teaser would go out of her way to make the males in the audience cream in their panties; hoes, too.

  The bishop and his deacon walked to the Cadillac, and drove off as unobtrusively as they had pulled up.

  CHAPTER 43

  Ruse worked. Every time. Footsteps grew louder, sloppier. Jesus “Ace” Ortiz and his co-conspirator Felix Monk walked up to Pearleen Bell’s window.

  Ace was the emaciated one with the crude prison tats up and down both sides of his neck. Various x-ed names of various ex-girlfriends made up some of those tats: Luz, Rosa, Blanca. Had a runny nose and bright blue left eye made of glass. The good eye was dark brown. The junkie was in his late thirties. Appeared closer to sixty. Due to heavy and constant use of meth in the past was missing teeth in the front: two upper, one lower. Off crank lately. Swore he’d never use again. Couldn’t afford to lose what remained of his rotting choppers. Besides, his drug of choice was scag. He’d tried just about anything and everything he could get his hands on that would get him high, leave his brain buzzing and on fire: E, LSD, PCP, weed, model glue, crank, crack, booze. You name it, he’d been on it.

  But yes, it came down to bump and junk, preferably the latter.

  Ortiz was due for a bath these days. Hadn’t had a shower in weeks, maybe a month or so. Haircut. He’d been wearing the same threadbare shirt and pants for months. Not that there was never coin to clean up and buy skins, get his ears lowered. Money came his way through all sorts of scams and rip-offs, break-ins—but it was squandered on dope and booze, getting that jolt, losing himself in it. Nothing beat a good hit off of some fly shit. Best thing about being above ground.

  The twenty-two-year-old quasi pachuko with Ortiz was one Felix Jose Monk. In draped khakis, white T-shirt and stretch belt. Had on his feet canvas boat shoes decorated with neighborhood initials for Varrio Nuevo Chumino. His head gear consisted of a red bandana, tied low, to practically below the brows, and dark shades.

  Did some time for petty offenses over the years: like trying to break into a pay phone, attempting to haul off a bubblegum machine from a hoagie joint in broad daylight during store hours, mistaking a sperm bank for a blood bank and breaking in to steal Kool-Aid and cookies; boosting chrome wheels and car stereos. Felix did not do nearly as much dope as Ortiz (would never mainline anything or huff glue) but wouldn’t turn down a joint or a snort of blow, if and when available.

  What really cracked Meth Mouth up about Felix right now was that slick and shiny little shopping bag with the fancy Beverly Hills logo on it that Felix got his hands on by breaking into a Mercedes out there in Encino earlier and was now carrying like a trick-or-treatin’ little mothafuckah. Had some candy in it to make it look real: Gummi Bears, M&Ms, Toostie Rolls, Kit Kat bars and Candy Corn.

  “Halloween night,” he had claimed. “Looks better, don’t it? Gives me a legit reason to go knockin on the ho’s door.”

  “Huh?”

  “Trick or Treat, man.”

  “Like Finger Lickin’ Flinger.”

  “No way, dude. Like me.”

  Meth Mouth reached inside his friend’s hoity-toity shopping bag and grabbed a fistful of mini Reese’s peanut butter cups.

  “What the fuck, homes? Need the candy to make it look like I’m on the level over here.”

  “Gotta eat somethin’ sometime’, less I pass out.”

  Meth Mouth jammed the goodies in his shirt pocket. Raised the paper sack in his hands (the bottom of which was lined with something a whole lot more potent than candy) to his mouth. Saw to it he had the opening pressed tightly round his lips and nose. Cupped it this way, using both hands—and proceeded to huff. Held it. And held it. Huffed again. Some more. Couldn’t get enough.

  Felix glanced at him. Shook his head. His boy “Glassy” was about to fry his brains some more with the fuckin’ model glue. Let him. His life. Monk was busy eyeing Peaches LaBelle. Christ, chucha was unbelievable. Ace was watching, too, now, as Peaches reached for the vial in her purse. This was what Meth Mouth was after. Made him wonder how much toot and crack the bitch actually had hidden away in her place. These exotic stripper prostituta types made great bank showing off their culo, and spent most of what they earned on getting high, or else they had other ways to pull in the bucks: traded sex for drugs. They had ways, they always had ways, long as they was willing to suck dick or spread them knees. Lots of ’em did hardcore porn. Six hundred bucks per scene (or better, way better—when they did gang-bangs and anal).

  Easy money. Putas had ways. When guys like him and Felix had to work their fingers to the bone for the crumbs they usually ended up with.

  Ace found himself cursing through clenched teeth, out of frustration more than anything. On top of all that, he felt it coming on: bowel movement. Last thing he needed or wanted to have to deal with. Only hoped he could control it long enough to get what they had come for and that he didn’t crap his pants. Sometimes it happened. It happened too often. Motherfuck. It was the junk. He was sick. Glue was okay, and that’s all it was. Did the trick. Kept the monkey under control for a while, and if not entirely satisfied, at least calmed the fucker down some.

  He had the sniff, sniffles. Wiped his nose on his sleeve. Nudged Felix. Offered the glue. Felix shook his head. Unable to take his eyes off the peeler. What he wanted right about now couldn’t be found inside a paper sack.

  “Fuckin’ deadbeat. What do you want? Wicky stick? Ain’t got no wicky stick.”

  Felix didn’t care what he was called. Kept eyeing the black goddess as she held the gold lamé cape she had been working on at the sewing machine. Pearleen had the cape just above that enormous bosom. Stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging from the closet door to get some idea how it would look on her, how and if to what extent it favored her figure. She knew that it would. Was a definite plus. But every woman needed all the assurance she could get, and now she was there.

  She swayed her hips, ever so slightly, from side-to-side to the loud soul music playin’. I just want to get next to you. . . . Sounded like that Green dude. What was his name? Went from bein’ a pop star to bein’ some kind of preacher down there in the South.

  She stuck her behind out. Then thrust her pelvis forward, simulating the sex act—and she did it again and again, grinding it to the max, as she knew this is what drew the male customers wild, and enough women, too.

  CHAPTER 44

  Felix Monk was beside himself. Desperate for it. He also knew he would never get any, not with Peaches LaBelle. Woman was one of the untouchables. It drove him nuts with desire, nearly pissing him off. Here was a chick who stripped for a living, took her clothes off in front of peeps, got them all horny and shit, excited, had them creaming in their pants practically, and she wouldn’t have sex with them. Well, unless. Depended. You had to be rich. Money and cars.

  Rumor had it she did one hardcore flick years before. Was under age. Hadn’t turned eighteen yet. Used fake ID. Hardcore. Video. Sucking and fucking. Money shot in her face. Peaches LaBelle. The Untouchable. Nobody knew for sure.
Flick was banned. Disappeared. Chocha was a “minor” at the time; underage. Illegal—and so was her movie.

  Yeah, they all did it. Put out for cash. Why a regular guy could hardly get him some. Had to resort to peepin’. Peepin’ was a crime. So was having to go without pussy. At least it should be. Yeah, make them putas give you pussy when you needed some. The way it ought to be, as far as he saw it. Never even heard of nobody getting any with Peaches LaBelle; no regular dude, anyway. Except maybe that one rich dude, the porn studio owner she’d dated that time a while back, but nothing since, and it didn’t make any sense to him. Didn’t figure. How could somebody be so full of sex—she was sex, built to fuck, built to be licked and eaten and screwed—and yet you couldn’t get near her.

  Ace punched him on the shoulder. He could care less about Peaches LaBelle and her body. Yeah, she looked all right, but so did a whole bunch of other cooters out there, so what?

  “You fucked one you fucked ’em all,” Ace said under his breath. “Who gives a shit? Pussy is pussy is pussy. You seen one chocha you seen them all, man. Yeah, she got curves all right. Nice tits and ass, long legs. Good enough to eat. Probably tastes better than a Snickers candy bar. Fact is, you licked one snapper you licked all of ’em. Seen one, seen the rest. Pee-hole and asshole and a mind just as fucked as everybody else.”

  “Keep it down, man.”

  “Fuck you. We come here with a plan—and it’s time to push on that plan, Felix my man, before I shit my pants—and quit lookin’ at all that beaver and culo like you ain’t never seen it before, like you ain’t never had any. I know you ain’t no cherry—or am I wrong?”

  “Get off it, Ace.”

  Felix kept his peepers on the gorgeous high yellow. Sure is tall, he thought, tall and beautiful, one of the most beautiful women his eyes had ever seen; and he had never gone for them black women, neither, but this one was something else. She coulda been Miss America, he thought, if she wanted to be.

  Ace punched his shoulder for the second time. Got his homie’s attention and dropped a plastic bag full of rings and bracelets, couple of ladies’ watches into his fancy bag. It was cheap stuff, for the most part, but it was enough for the diversion. The good stuff, quality merch they had gotten from robbing graves, breaking into funeral parlors and ripping off stiffs (and any other way they could get their hands on gold) was kept to be sold to people in the neighborhood for jack. These here strippers seldom had any real bread, not that they didn’t make any—they made a pile in tips and doing videos, but most was spent on crack, rent, shoes; some on clothes.

  Ortiz pointed at the cheapjack jewelry items in his homie’s shopping bag, then shoved him in the direction of the front of the building and go knock on the door to the bitches’ apartment. Meanwhile, Ace wasted no time going to work with the chisel in his hand, jabbing away at the brittle stucco, forcing chunks of the stuff to break off, and eventually loosening the wrought iron bars just below the window sill and hoped that soul crap she had goin’ on the record player disguised enough of it.

  CHAPTER 45

  Pretty soon Monk could be heard knocking on the apartment door. Ortiz saw Peaches put on a long robe, grab a handful of mini candy bars, plus a couple of passes to her show for later that evening. She also held a dollar or two in her fist. Okay, so she don’t be a total heartless bitch; not one hundred percent, anyway, like the rest of ’em. Porn hoes was cold-blooded. No fuckin’ heart, or else if they had ’em a heart it was made of cast iron. Known for it. And the minute she walked across her room and stepped into the hallway to answer the door across it, Ortiz gripped the bars, and with all his body weight behind it, began to yank and twist this way and that, back and forth, until eventually the bolts on top gave and he was able to free the whole thing up.

  Ortiz saw the ho drop the candy in his buddy Felix’s trick-or- treat bag, then offer him the paper money. Heard her say: “You hungry?”

  Then his asshole homie came back with: “Not for food.” And lost out on the dollars. Right there. Mothafuckah ain’t never gonna learn: hoes like her don’t ever give up that pussy when you acted like a wuss. Got to be a man; show balls. Confidence. Like you got the world by the balls, even if you didn’t. Had to act it; all of them got by this way. All of them showbiz turds got by this way. Faked it. Every day; every time. Fake it ’till you make it. What was the use? Felix was a born loser. Look at him. Just look at ’im. Enough to make a grown man weep. If he, Ace, acted like that he never woulda got any pee hole, ever. None. Gotta act like you don’t give a shit if you never got any. All the time. Indifferent to it. Like pussy was the last thing on your pussy-hungry mind.

  It drove Ortiz crazy, seein’ what was taking place. Homie was doing his best to endear himself to the black stripper now, which was a waste of fuckin’ time. That shit don’t play with a hot ho like Peachy. Then, finally, his bud got down to showin’ her the other items in his shiny shopping bag, doing his best at last to keep her occupied, to keep her attention solely on him and the worthless trinkets he had for sale.

  That’s it, Felix, Ortiz thought. Gimme time. Only fool still had his shades on and that do-rag over his eyes. Take the shades off, pendejo. Raise the do-rag some. It don’t matter that’s it Halloween, man. Chochas gotta see who they’re talking to. Fool had his mind on how to cop a feel, when he should be concentrating on how to cop blow.

  Finally took the dark shades off.

  “Was about to give you a couple of bucks to go buy yourself somethin’ to eat,” Ace heard her say. “But you tryin’ to sell this cheap shit to me ain’t nothin’ but an insult. You ain’t never goin’ to get anywhere this way, don’t you know that? That worthless crap there ain’t even good enough to be flushed away down my toilet, ’cause all it would do is jam up the works and cost us plenty to call the plumber up.”

  “Miss Peach, still open to acceptin’ the paper money.”

  “You got nerve; all of you immature wannabe petty thugs got nerve.”

  “It was offered, Miss Pearleen.”

  “Now it ain’t.”

  All I need is some time, homeboy, thought Ace. And crawled in through the window as quietly as he knew how. He could see Peaches, arms akimbo, shaking her head. She didn’t appear to be remotely interested in what Monk was sheepishly offering. Had no time for him or his lame bullshit.

  Keep her busy, Ortiz said to himself, while praying to Jesus Cristo that he didn’t take a dump in his boxers. Show her the other shit I gave you. The better shit. Anything, but keep her busy. I’m so close now.

  He could swear Felix was blushing, showing his nerves. All caused by the high yellow’s looks. Only Ace Ortiz didn’t give a damn about any of that.

  Forget her culo, man. Don’t fall apart on me now, simple mothafuckah.

  CHAPTER 46

  Ortiz advanced another two feet. But progress, true progress, was close to impossible since Peaches was standing sideways now and he was worried about her peripheral vision. Not only that, he could hear Felix babbling about how he thought she was the most beautiful exotic dancer he’d ever known. Period. Ever. Black, white, Chinese. She had them all beat. And if he had the money he’d never miss a single show.

  Knock it off, fool, Ortiz thought. She gets that line twenty thousand times a day. Let her see something else. Broads like jewelry. Give her jewelry. Monk was dumb enough to ask for a date. Practically begging. Stupid asshole.

  Ortiz could hear the woman turn his buddy down cold, the same way she had turned the homie down in the past—by telling him she was busy.

  “You’re always busy.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And popular.”

  “Better than the other.”

  “Wouldn’t know,” said Felix.

  Monk showed her some of the other items he had. She shook her head impatiently. Who knew where the items came from. Woman wanted nothing to do with any of it. Been around.

  “Would your roommates be interested?”

  Peaches said she didn’t th
ink so.

  Ortiz was sweating. Undecided. He was well aware if he didn’t get to the purse before she did that it could be all she wrote. If La Belle of the Ball got to her gun before he did that she would not hesitate to use it. Then he wondered if it made any difference to him? All you got to do is get that toot, Ace. That’s what you’re here for.

  He rose to his hands and knees. Made a sudden, clumsy dash for the purse. Only Peaches proved far quicker than the wasted junkie in leaping back inside her room and getting her hands on the Sterling .25 automatic.

  The shots she fired at the spinning, fleeing Ace Ortiz seemed to coincide with gas emissions, if not equally as loud, close enough, that emanated from Ace’s rear end.

  He dove for the open window, losing control of his bowels at this precise moment. There was nothing to be done, as the excreta ran down both legs inside his trousers. What angered Ortiz was not so much the accident in his pants, but the fact he hadn’t been able to get his hands on the bitch’s purse.

  Peaches, having lost the one, spun to face the other. Squeezed off a shot at Felix Monk, who scrambled for cover. Rolled out the door and disappeared into the night.

  “Lowlife motherfuckers. You don’t ever fuck with Pearleen Bell.”

  Pearleen’s roommates, including the guy with Stella, ran out of their respective rooms to see what was going on.

  “Ace,” hissed Peachy. “Dirty, one-eyed bastard.”

  CHAPTER 47

  If the stacked and exotic-looking eighteen-year-old former high school cheerleader, Olivia Duarte, looked fantastic in her cheerleading outfit in all those blowups on Biggs’s dresser mirror and walls, she looked even more so now sitting on the edge of her bed in her pink teddy talking on the phone to her boyfriend Rudy Perez, whose picture she had her wallet open to. Two years older than Olivia, Rudy Perez was a handsome hunk with dark eyes and hair—and possessed a zest and a kind of flair about him that Cecil Biggs knew he lacked to draw someone like Olivia Duarte to him—without resorting to his usual means—and he despised the Perez kid for it. His resentment went deep enough to foster images of Cecil, in his Trusty face and cleaver in hand, going at the kid, who was full of life, until all life had left him—as he watched the scene transpire through his night vision glasses from a backyard garage roof to the left of the Duarte family domicile. He and Marvin were lying on their bellies, taking it in.