by Kirk Alex
Muck kept asking to use the binoculars so that he’d have an excuse to take the mask off for a while, and Cecil kept telling him to forget it. But then Muck would yank back the lower half in order to catch some fresh air and Biggs would tell him to pull the goddamned thing back down over his face.
Liv Duarte was certainly another one of those stunning prick-teasers that Biggs could never get enough of. She had it without trying. She had it—and someone else, that punk Perez (more than likely) was going to put his pecker in it one day. Envy ate away at him. He was kicking himself for not having abducted her that time he broke into her room. He had molested her in her sleep, massaged and licked her pussy, even finger-fucked her, although not to the extent that her hymen was ruptured. Left her a virgin. Filched undergarments, the cheerleading skirt.
Her room had been on the first floor back then, in the rear. Now she was on this second floor and those windows down there had bars on them.
Too many homes in this part of the Valley had barred windows these days. What were you going to do? Citizenry had to protect itself against home invasions. Who could blame them? He had installed bars on the windows of his own church for this same reason, had he not?
Biggs eased the binoculars away from her for a moment to take in parts of the room, the framed family photos on the end table, more on her neat white dresser, photos of her taken during her cheerleading days as well as during the two seasons she had spent playing right field on the high school softball team (two seasons of outdoor workouts and games that Cecil Biggs seldom missed).
There were photos of Mr. and Mrs. Duarte, Olivia’s three sisters, and a sixteen-year-old brother named Carlos. There were other photos of birthday parties and Christmases, photos taken when she was a little girl hugging a fluffy stuffed animal or doll. Those same stuffed animals and dolls were in evidence throughout the room where everything was in its proper place—all so very neat and meticulous.
Biggs was amused by it. The urge was never far away, the impulse to destroy anything that reminded him of what he never had as a youngster, that reminded him of a stolen childhood fraught with pain and misery.
“A very tidy and bright young lady. . . . Four years, baby. Four years of waiting and fantasizing. Four long years. . . .”
“Four year’ too long, if you aks me.”
“Keep your voice down.”
Cecil reminded him that sound carried easier as well as further at night. Made no sense to let her become aware of their whereabouts and hear them, the way they were able to hear what she was saying to the punk on the phone.
“I can’t just tell them we want to be engaged, Rudy. You don’t understand. I have to wait for the right time to approach my family about this.”
Muck tried again to reach for the binoculars in Biggs’s hands. There was no way the bishop would allow that to happen. He kept ogling the former cheerleader and rubbing his crotch. There was a loud knock on her door.
“Who’s that you’re talking to on the phone, Livia?” It was Yolanda, Olivia’s older sister by four years and no less delectable. Biggs and Marvin were able to make her out through the hallway window curtain as she stood there with her ear pressed against the door. Broad was both: snoop as well as eavesdropper. Kind of shot the myth to hell: Duarte kids were raised with values and principles.
“Just a friend—”
“I bet. You can tell Rudy Perez we’re onto his little tricks around here and that he can stop bothering you.”
“Why don’t you lighten up, Yolanda. You’re not my mother.”
“Don’t make me talk to the folks about this, Liv. You know damn well where they stand on the subject.”
“You better not be screening my calls, sister.” Olivia slammed down the receiver and turned out the light.
“Show’s over.” Biggs lowered the field glasses. “Let’s go see what’s shakin’ at the Casbah.”
CHAPTER 48
Parking lot to Fritz McCoy’s CASBAH HIDEAWAY– Cabaret & Nightclub was filling up nicely, with more than a few party-goers sporting their Halloween best—or worst; depended how you looked at it. Made Brother Trusty, in his favorite alter ego persona, feel right at home for a change. And Muck? Couldn’t stop whining about the rancid reeking Porky Pig mask he was tired of wearin’ for no good reason.
“Halloween be boo-shit anyway. All these old mothafuckahs actin’ like Wilbur Flinger.”
In order to shut the punk up, Biggs yanked the damned thing off of him, that unfortunately resulted in tearing a section somewhere in the back. Biggs cursed under his breath. These things were always tough and tedious to sew together. Marvin had been eager to grouse about something else again, when Biggs shoved him in the direction of the canopied front entrance and the line of people waiting to get in. There seemed to be a vetting process in progress: folks had to pass muster first. A six-foot-five Afro-American in Ali Baba pants and vest with powerful arms that sported tats of Malcolm X and Reverend Martin Luther King gave everyone the once-over to make sure they were not excessively wasted on drugs or booze before allowing entry.
Once inside the foyer, you paused at the cashier’s counter where a cover was paid and the back of your hand “branded” with a rubber stamp, whereby you proceeded on to the next phase: another weightlifter/bodybuilder type with impressive arms and chest, thick neck and shaved head wearing a similar type of getup as the guy out front, double-checking your hand for the blue ink silhouette of a tom sitting up on its hind end.
This guy was Hispanic. Not friendly looking at all. An earring in the shape of a gold cross dangled from one ear. The tattoo on his torso was that of Cesar Chavez.
CHAPTER 49
Biggs had had to fork over twenty bucks to cover his and Muck’s entry fee. That hadn’t made him feel good at all. The two drink minimum (each) he would soon be required to pay for in addition felt like a stab in the heart. It killed him inside.
He paused there, had Marvin do the same, to allow their eyes to adjust to the low-key lighting and were soon approached by a waitress. Cecil ordered two bottles of beer for the perpetually broke sidekick, two Ginger Ales for himself. Bitch was gone with her plastic smile and exaggerated shake of the hips.
Place was packed. Stage, with its red velvet curtains, was to the right and there was a skinny comic up there delivering jokes. Far wall and the wall he and Marvin stood against had painted likenesses of icons from music and film: James Brown, Aretha, Etta James, B.B. King, Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley, Gene Pitney, Gene McDaniel, Roy Orbison, Barbara Lewis, Sarah Vaughan, Dinah Washington, Big Mama Thornton; there was Sidney Poitier, James Dean, John Wayne, Richard Pryor, Donna Summer, Diana Ross, tv’s Fugitive David Janssen, Charles Bronson, Edward G. Robinson (in his Little Caesar derby and three-piece suit).
Over at the far left and that entire back wall was taken up by the bar, bar stools, dining tables—with not a single vacant stool or chair in sight. The tables themselves in that area, as well as the far part of the nightclub and floor Biggs and Marvin stood on, was a good foot higher than the dance floor (located in the center of all this), so that the patrons had a clear view of the stage no matter where they happened to be seated or standing. There were handrails as a safety measure and to protect the owner against lawsuit-happy patrons.
There wasn’t an empty seat in sight, nor one foot of available dance floor space. Waitresses were constantly forced to elbow their way through the crowd balancing trays of drinks in order to reach their destinations.
Among other things, Casbah Hideaway was known for its steaks and baked potatoes, fried chicken, burgers and french fries. “The Hideaway” was also famous for its variety of home-based sauces: steak and barbecue; Kickin’ Ketchup; mustard and mayo; various salad dressings.
Then there were the drinks: Casbah Hideaway’s version of Coco Loco: dumped into a coconut shell, two ounces each of tequila, vodka, gin, Grenadine, and 150 proof Mexican rum—filled with ice and coconut water.
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br /> Variety of others: Pina Coladas, Margaritas, Daiquiris, Martinis and “flirtinies,” Mint Juleps, Mai Tais.
There was a huge popcorn machine in the center of the dance floor. That was free. It was always popping. All anyone who wanted popcorn had to do was grab a paper sack, reach inside the plexiglass enclosure for the scoop and shovel the popcorn in. It was buttered, too. Real butter. None of that imitation crap. Fritz McCoy’s customers mattered to him. All else he charged an arm and a leg for.
Marvin couldn’t wait. Nudged Cecil in the ribs. Wanted his share of popcorn. Would be nice to have something to chew on other than that nasty food Greta make. Biggs nodded the go-ahead, then followed himself. Why not? Look at the cover he had to pay. McCoy was an A-l gouger. Bastard and pimp.
It was tough to get to the popper, though. Seems everyone had to come out this night. Yeah, well; it was Halloween. Many a table, if not quite all, sported a jack-o’-lantern with a glowing candle inside that enhanced the festive tone, as did cardboard cutouts of broom-straddling witches in black conical hats and attire that dangled from wires above the revelers’ heads. People on the dance floor were not dancing, either, presently, instead stood around impatiently taking in the goofy-looking stand-up on stage. Like Cecil Biggs, they were here primarily for the dancers, strippers; the girls. Tits and ass. Pussy. Audience, for the most part, consisted of working stiffs who favored their women on the voluptuous side. They were truck drivers, plumbers, house painters, studio grips, assistant directors, bit players, ditch diggers, brick layers, ice cream vendors, 7-Eleven store clerks, factory workers.
What pulled them in, more or less, was the ebony bombshell named Pearleen Bell, better known by her showbiz moniker as Peaches LaBelle, not that the other dancers did not have their share of fans in attendance. Problem was the ball-busting diva, who was the featured act, was not on stage yet—neither were any of the other T & A beauties, instead the lame-o opener was a dorky-looking, raunchy white guy who called himself Manic Jello. Fit the Halloween motif, no doubt.
Effeminate and skeletal, this was Manic. Dark hair cut Page Boy style. Checked pants too short. Then you had the purple socks that were not of the same shade of purple; green blazer, pink shirt (with too many buttons that needed buttoning up.) All of it loud, and none of it matching up with anything else.
His chest hair was probably store-bought and had been pasted on. On his feet he wore black combat boots that weren’t properly laced. It was possible he had stuffed balled socks inside his crotch.
The man’s appearance was downright baffling. People never knew if they were being put on, or if this was truly how imbalanced this character was in real life.
However, if he had anything, he had timing. Jello’s was a dry delivery; he never cracked a smile—and the raunch was served with a deadpan face that drew more than a few chuckles. Trouble was the restless crowd had no time for the pathetic loser or his shtick. They wanted one thing and one thing only: LaBelle’s wide hips and narrow waist; they wanted her muscular thighs and to-die-for caboose, not to mention those mouth-watering double-E naturals with the thick nipples.
The pelting began soon enough: eggs, pocket change, popcorn, fries, chicken legs. Someone pitched a partially-consumed steak, the comic’s face clearly the intended bull’s-eye. The thrower could not have been more pleased when he saw it smack Manic on the kisser. Not one to pass up a free meal, the put upon stand-up held on to the T-bone. Took a bite, after he’d recovered.
“Say what you will, the buffet’s what I like best about the Casbah. All you can eat—for the same low price.”
“Your ass gonna be fed wood if you don’t get off the stage, queer mothafuckah.”
“Is that love or is that love?”
A black punk in his twenties scrambled past the beefy Ali Baba bouncers standing guard at the foot of the stage, jumped up on stage, and ran up to the comedian and cold-cocked him. Was about to face the audience to take, what he was convinced, was a well-deserved bow, and was dragged off by security.
CHAPTER 50
Stage band, SweatBone, went into their version of Take Five. Not that they were able to equal Paul Desmond and Dave Brubeck’s original, still, the tune did what it was supposed to: calmed the rowdy crowd.
A black MC in a spiffy electric blue suit and slicked back Chuck Berry hair stepped up to the mic.
“You know exactly who I mean when I say: Mama got major junk in her trunk. Gonna make your jaw hit the floor and your jones hard as a lead pipe; diva gonna make you squirm like a worm and growl like a tiger. She gonna have you droolin’ like a fool; leave you sweatin’ like that monk what ain’t had him a taste of trim in such a long time dude was about to have a mothafuckin’ meltdown. I wouldn’t lie to you. To hell with this vow of celibacy, is exactly what he said when he laid eyes on a magazine spread of this fine lady that I’m talking about. Dude busted out of the monastery the other day just to be here. That’s right: he’s here tonight. Promised the homie I wouldn’t point him out; give him my word of honor I’d spare him the embarrassment. Let him enjoy the show incognito. He had to be here. It was either that, or have a nervous breakdown—like that fool Manic Jello; only difference being Jello’s falling apart because he ain’t had a chubby in his skinny culo in the last twenty-four hours. That’s right: I said it. Fuck all that political correctness bullshit. You heard me. This ain’t a fag-friendly venue. They got enough of their own fag joints to go to—and need to stay there, because that’s where sissies belong. Them motherfuckers hate, HATE these women that the rest of us love and would gladly die for: big tits and wide hips. Leggy babes with the grande culo. You know what I’m talking about. Yes, you do. And as far as Manic Jello is concerned, dude just got escorted to a wagon by some serious-looking gentlemen in white coats. Anyway, enough about that punk and his kind. Frankly, I don’t know who booked him. Claimed he was straight. Maybe he is. Who gives a damn? Got a super great lady about to come out here and entertain you folks. You know who I mean.”
He waited for the applause to die down. SweatBone switched to Harlem Nocturne, hitting it hard and heavy. Diva deserved the biggest intro they had in them, per the owner’s emphatic instructions. “The one, the only: LaBelle of the Ball: Peaches LaBelle!”
Crowd went nuts.
“‘Bout time you brung the pussy out!”
“Got wood just thinking about that ho!”
Curtains in back of the MC parted and he made himself scarce.
Fog rose up from the stage floor. When it thinned out there she stood: the goddess herself. In high heels, fishnets, black spandex mini skirt, metallic gold, mid-thigh raincoat—and a shimmering gold bustier under the raincoat that she only allowed brief glimpses of (for now).
The stripper made a minor adjustment to the mic part of the wireless headset as she strolled about halfway toward the foot of the stage, swinging those hips with each and every step that she took. Paused there, arms akimbo. She owned not only the venue and the lust-filled crowd who came to see her, but the entire galaxy and everything in it—and she knew it.
The band turned up the heat a notch or two. There wasn’t a Stan Getz or Buddy Rich or Barney Kessel among them, not that any of it mattered, not to the crowd; they played loud and had energy and easily segued into what had become the stripper’s most recent signature tune: HOTTER THAN A HOT FUDGE SUNDAE (And Just As Delicious).
Ooh Baby, sometimes I like to tease . . .
Ooh Baby, sometimes I like to please . . .
Lover-Boy, say you love me a whole lot . . .
Lover-Boy, I’ll show you what I got . . .
Line hit home. Cabaret crowd went ballistic. Wanting her to follow through. She knew what she was doing. Work them; have them beg for every piece of clothing you peel off. With her right hand, she reached the top of her zipper on the raincoat. Held it there.
And held it. Grinning, teasing.
They hooted and hollered for her to start discarding the outfit, and not stop until the entire getup was gone.
Peaches would not have any of that right now. She would not be rushed.
“Good things come to those who wait.”
Peeler had a way of sighing lasciviously into the mic like some bronze version of Marilyn Monroe—only hotter, way hotter. What this Amazon possessed the vastly overrated Marilyn couldn’t touch.
“Been waitin’ a lifetime, baby. That long enough for you?”
“Was it worth it?”
“You bet your sweet bucket seat.”
She tugged on the zipper to about a third of the way down. Stopped, turned, so that her backside was to the audience. Hiked up the raincoat, exposing inviting hips inside that ever-so-tight-to-bursting spandex skirt. The hips floated from side to side, as the band played on, underscoring her every move. Although obviously no Bix Beiderbecke, the horn player blasted that horn with a lot of heart. Even the legendary cornet player, were he alive and had not tragically passed at twenty-eight back in 1931, might have been moved enough to take notice.
