Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  Rudy kept them moving as fast as he thought they could possibly go without getting them too exhausted. It never took long, though, because pretty soon it became evident both dogs were struggling to keep up. He realized he needed to ease up and did so.

  Can’t run these poor things ragged. Sure, he wanted to spend time with Liv, but not at the risk of the dogs dropping dead on him. Slow down. Slow it down some.

  Couple of blocks later, and he was there. The goal was to sneak up without being spotted by her or her family, hide behind the topiary, and leap at her from behind and fold his arms around her waist and lift her clean off the ground and tell her how much he loved her and that he could hardly stand living without her.

  He had an incredibly strong desire this morning to get a good whiff of her, to inhale that wonderful smell of her and that intoxicating perfume that she liked to use—and he thought he would steal a couple of kisses while he was at it, too. Why not? Only he’d have to be careful she didn’t get upset by it. Olivia didn’t go for any of this boyfriend-girlfriend business so close to where she lived.

  CHAPTER 82

  Olivia reached for a cashmere sweater and tied the sleeves round her waist. She tossed Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead in her purse, took the flight of stairs down to the first floor, and saw to it the front door was locked on her way out.

  She walked down the narrow concrete path, past the manicured hedges and lawn, rose bushes. It was still early dawn, the temperature tolerable, and in about an hour or two the stifling Valley heat would be upon them. Bringing the sweater hadn’t really made much sense, but she liked to wear it on the job because it made her feel “safer”; the sweater was loose enough to make her larger-than-average bust less noticeable and did not draw as much attention from the customers at the diner, not that she was personally bothered by the size of her thirty-eight-inch bosom; it was merely a way to curtail comments from certain uncouth types who came to eat at Mr. Jessup’s diner.

  She turned right on the sidewalk, passed a second row of hedges, when a male figure bounded at her from behind and swung a pair of arms around her middle and gave her a hard squeeze. This was followed by a kiss on the neck. Of course by then she realized who it was. She looked down and the Lhasa apso and the smaller Boston terrier were not far behind on leashes, and neither was Rudy Perez’s English Leather. She’d gotten used to the cologne; in fact, liked it. It was this other thing that she felt quite uncomfortable with.

  Rudy was not paying much attention to her reaction.

  “Good morning, beautiful.”

  Still had his arms about her waist. Olivia broke free of the embrace, and did it as gently as she knew how. Granted, the way he liked to sneak up on her had to be pretty childish, if you thought about it—but even that was not as bothersome as the possibility of being discovered by her parents in this type of situation—especially with Rudy Perez. Those were her circumstances, circumstances she constantly had to be mindful of, like it or not.

  How would she have explained what was going on? She put an end to the hugging, and walked on. Rudy and Co. followed.

  “What’s the matter? Did I scare you? God, you look great.”

  “One of these days my parents will see us and I’ll really be in trouble.”

  “Well, good morning to you, too.”

  “I mean it, Rudy. I’m having enough to deal with from Yolanda as it is. She knows something is going on. She’s suspicious.”

  “Whose fault is that, Livia? I keep telling you to just level with your family. Tell them the truth. It usually works for me.”

  “How do you tell someone ‘the truth’ if they don’t want to hear it? If they refuse to listen?”

  “Don’t waste your time then, is my answer. Like I said before: we can always elope. That would really make them happy—”

  “Rudy—”

  “I know, I know: these things take time. That’s what you keep saying. They don’t even know me but they hate me. Right? That’s terrific.”

  Maybe there was a way to change the subject. Olivia glanced down at the happy campers: tails wagging, thrilled to be out. Well, Ziggy’s tail was wagging, the other one didn’t have much of one.

  “Don’t you ever get embarrassed walking those dogs?”

  Rudy shrugged. “What do I care what people think? I like to keep busy and my family can use the money. It’s an easy fifteen bucks a week. You want anything in this world, you gotta work for it. What my father used to say.”

  “Those are Marty Roscoe’s dogs, am I right? I never see Mr. Roscoe walking his own dogs. Doesn’t it make you feel just a little silly at your age? He’s using you if all you’re getting is fifteen dollars a week, Rudy. It’s a joke.”

  “It’s not a joke to me. What does anybody care? It’s my business, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t say ain’t.”

  “God, you sound like every English teacher I ever had when you say that. I hate it when you correct me as much as teachers hate hearing the word ain’t.”

  “You are hopeless. Really, Rudy.”

  “Hopelessly in love with a girl named Olivia Duarte who ain’t got the guts to tell her parents she’s at least dating a fabuloso guy with prospects, real prospects; the way I see it.”

  “I will talk to them, Rudy.”

  “Right. One of these days. Which could mean anything: a year from now, or five years from now. Who knows? Meanwhile, I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Poor baby. Going on twenty. That’s really old.”

  “Twenty-one in three months. A buddy of mine got married at eighteen—and another friend got hitched who wasn’t even eighteen.”

  “Yeah? That’s not smart, if you ask me. Bet they got their girlfriends ‘in trouble.’”

  “Pregnant? They didn’t get married ’cause they got their women pregnant. They got married ’cause they were in love. Try explaining that to your mother and father—especially your sister.”

  They reached a corner, and a large black woman wearing the same type of brown Polyester dress as Olivia joined them. Bertha Lenier gave them both a cheerful greeting, and all three people and the two dogs continued on.

  CHAPTER 83

  They heard the rattling, noisy muffler long before the familiar, ugly junk heap appeared, fouling up the already foul Valley air. The pesky duo in the multi-colored wreck, namely Ace Ortiz and his bosom buddy Felix Monk, were about the last two unfunny jokers in the world anyone in the group wanted to see. In addition, the dogs carried on enough to the extent their opinion of the scamming backsliders was even less than what the humans thought of them.

  The pachuko with the red bandana across his forehead double-parked the Toyota long enough for Ace to stagger out in a stupor, nearly going down—but not quite. Ace held on to the door for support. Heavy sweat poured from his face and neck as he walked over to the group. Ortiz had something to say, as well as something to peddle. He was desperate and in sorry shape, as usual: a pathetic, emaciated mess.

  He looked at Rudy and the leashes in his hand and the barking dogs at the end of those leashes.

  “What kind of bread you make walking them dirty pooches for that lazy redneck, anyway? Gotta be makin’ a mint, bustin’ your ass like you’re doin’.”

  “Grave robbing again, Ace?”

  “Hey, you ain’t even funny. But it’s an idea.”

  Ortiz culled a handful of rings and watches that he had in a clear plastic bag. Held them out for Rudy and Olivia and the other waitress to see.

  “Lookee-here. This is quality merchandise, baby. Give you my best discount.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Ace was looking at Bertha. Giving her the attention now. “How about you, pretty mama?”

  “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up? Get a job.”

  “Why don’t you drop a hundred pounds and you just might be able to get yourself a real man?”

  “Like you?”

  “You got it.”

  Bertha dug a hand inside her purse.
When it came back out it had a .22 in it. She was not shy about sticking it in the junkie’s face, either, nor was she shy about breaking wind—and did so: releasing several loud farts. No one thought there was anything remotely comical about it. Least of all Ace Ortiz.

  “I shoulda expected that.”

  “Always askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

  “It only looks that way.” Ortiz wanted no part of the double-deuce, or the gas, and took a step back. “Lookee-here, Bertha: I don’t want no trouble, mama. Just trying to make a buck.”

  “Sure could use you some manners in your technique.” Bertha’s gun went back in her purse.

  “Slim is always looking for a dishwasher/short order cook,” Olivia said.

  “He’s too good to wash dishes. Ain’t you, Mr. Ace Ortiz? Too cool, fool.”

  “Too cool for Slim’s greasy spoon. How about it, Rudy? Buy your number one girl a nice engagement ring, man? Lookit this: fourteen karat gold, homes. Can’t beat it. Show your baby how much you love her.”

  “She knows how I feel. I don’t buy hot rings, or watches.”

  “Told you, brother, merch ain’t ‘hot.’ It may look ‘hot,’ ’cause it’s quality, is what it is. Me and my partner’s legit, everybody knows that. We’re clean. Give you a bill of sale, even, and a life-time guarantee. You ain’t happy with it, trade it in for something else, no extra charge. Lookit that look of pure devotion your kind-hearted baby’s givin’ you, man. Ain’t you got no romance in your soul, Perez? Tell him, Olivia. Dude’s got to start acting like a real man. Ain’t that right? Makin’ all that jack walkin’ them dogs for that good-for-nothing Arkie and too tight to spend any of it on your lady. Just don’t seem right.”

  All of them turned another corner, Monk trailing along in that noisy, beat-up junk heap, staying with them. They were on Biggs’s block.

  CHAPTER 84

  Biggs’s Cadillac idled in his driveway, as the bishop sat in the front seat with the sidekick, waiting and watching the group through his windshield.

  When Olivia and the others walked past his place, heading north, Marvin was quick to hop out of the car to unlock the front gate, waited for Cecil to pull out to the curb, locked the gate up the way he always did, and was back in the front seat.

  Biggs turned left onto the street, trailing the group at a deliberately slow pace, his hungry eyes on Olivia Duarte, those out-of-this-world legs and that fine ass those out-of-this-world legs led to under that brown server’s dress. He was just about salivating the way he always did when he saw her, as well as when he laid eyes on any woman who looked like this and was built this way.

  And it was safe to keep staring, the lightly tinted windows made it possible by providing anonymity: he and Marvin could see out, Rudy & Co. could not see in; they were not able to see Biggs’s hanging jaw and those haunting, deep-set eyes that ached with regret, regret triggered by images in his head of that night he crawled in through her first floor bedroom window, before her family (soon after) got wise and moved her up higher and made it impossible to get near her.

  He had knocked her out with chloroform (to make certain she remained immobile), fondled her, eaten her cunt and asshole out, finger fucked her. That had been the extent of it. Should have carried her out. Would have been so easy.

  It bothered him still. It always would. Regret was a bitch.

  “I’d like some more of that.”

  “Like to stick my tongue up Big Bertha’ booty myself.”

  “Who cares about her, dipstick? I’m talking about the Duarte whore.”

  “Can forget about that one. Got lucky that time. Her family be watchin’ that bitch like a hawk. She don’t get high, don’t hardly ever go clubbin’. I know about that ho. All she do is study and work. Virgin vagina. She be clean.”

  I’ve been keeping an eye on her for years, thought Biggs, and this punk is going to tell me about her?

  “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

  “You know Perez be goin’ batshit ’cause he can’t get none. Been tryin’ for months now. His time be runnin’ out, too. Ho gettin’ ready to go to college, maybe out of state. So if you want that piece of chicken you ain’t got much time left.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Marvin—your positive attitude.”

  Biggs took his eyes off of Olivia’s rear for a moment and looked at the goofball sitting next to him.

  “Haven’t you learned anything by now? If you want something you go after it. You think about how to accomplish your goal; you think that it can be done—have yourself convinced, absolutely convinced that it’s doable—as opposed to impossible. Nothing is impossible. Nothing. Don’t ever trap yourself into thinking that way. It’s self-defeating. You won’t ever get anywhere like that, Free Ride. I didn’t get this Cadillac and the Rolls, the Rolex worth big bucks, the house, and everything else that I have, by being negative. No one out there is any better than you.” Biggs stopped himself. Reconsidered what he’d just said. “Maybe some are. Yeah. In your case. Some would have to be.” Indicated Olivia Duarte. “That piece of ass, as fine as she may be, is in reality no better or worse than any other piece of ass out there. She’s not beyond reach.”

  Marvin was nodding his head. Agreeing.

  “You know what you be talkin’ about, Cecil. Why I dig hangin’ wiff you. I be learnin’.”

  “You’re learning shit.”

  Biggs’s eyes were back on the group. He kept the Cadillac rolling and was careful not to be too obvious about what he was doing, and yet he needed to get closer. She did look fine.

  Ace would not take no for an answer and kept pressing Rudy to buy something from him.

  “I’m not going for it, Ortiz. I need my money for other things.”

  “Can’t you see I’m in a bad way, homes? I need my shit, a line. . . . I got bargain basement prices for top-notch, super quality, over-the-counter merchandise here.”

  Rudy kept wanting to move away every time Ace shoved his cheap-jack crap at him and was getting pretty disgusted by now.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of shooting that garbage in your veins?”

  “Lookee-here, I wouldn’t talk if I was you. You’re the chump who walks dogs for chump change. How small time can you get? Ace Ortiz wouldn’t be caught dead carryin’ a pooper-scooper or scrubbing greasy plates. No way in hell.”

  CHAPTER 85

  Ace was just about making a spectacle of himself: shaking his head, jabbing a bony thumb in his chest.

  “I don’t wash dishes. I ain’t no sud-buster.”

  “Slim got other jobs open: bus boy, fry cook, waiter.”

  “Fry cook, Bertha? What’s it pay?”

  “Minimum wage to start. And you get a fifty cent raise in six months. Don’t sound too shabby to me for a part-time job.”

  “I’m gonna blow my rep for a lousy three-fifty an hour? You gotta be out of your mind, ma’am. ’Sides, you know the dude would never hire me. Got a plan to talk to Harold Crust—see if I can hook up with him. Pullin’ in tips; makin’ money hand-over-fist.”

  “Shinin’ shoes? Who you jivin’?”

  “Shinin’ kicks and eyeballin’ chicks. What’s wrong with it?”

  “You talkin’ out of your bee-hind, is what’s wrong with it.” Bertha happened to look in Biggs’s direction just then. Ace caught sight of the shiny hooptie himself: Biggs in his crawling Cadillac. All it took to unnerve the needy hype.

  “What the hell is your problem, man?”

  The Cadillac stopped. The group stared at the hard to read ominous shadows behind the tinted windows without ever expecting a response. They all knew that the driver of the Brougham ought to be left alone—all, that is, except Jesus Ortiz. Rudy suggested he cool it.

  Ortiz wouldn’t hear of it. Hadn’t been doing too good lately, hadn’t been able to unload any of his trinkets, and he was pretty desperate for a fix, some toot, just about anything that would provide him with a good enough buzz.

  “Hey, you! In the Cadillac! P
endejo! I’m talking to you! How come you always watching somebody? How come you always so creepy? Gonna step on you good one of these days!”

  “Leave the man be. Could be the reason he don’t want to talk to nobody is because the devil stuck another cookie in his throat.”

  Meth Mouth looked at her. What in hell was “Godzilla” talking about now?

  “The devil what?”

  “You heard: Shoved a cookie in his throat. What I remember ’bout him; what the papers said years ago and on tv, when he got sent up to that place: Camarillo. Gave a note to the police. Said he couldn’t talk no more ’cause the devil stuck a cookie in his throat.”

  “What’d I tell you? Didn’t I tell you he’s loco? Didn’t I? I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Fed his victims dog biscuit treats, bread, and oatmeal. But he’s good these days, got his head on right. Got himself a church, got religion. He’s a pastor—and you should treat the man with respect. Took Marvin off the street and made him deacon, too. Cecil’s a man of god these days. He got a right to live his life.”

  “That don’t give them the right to creep, Big Mama. They creep. I see ’em all the time, at night, creepin’. Why’s he gotta follow us? I don’t like him around, or Deacon Moron.”

  Ace was back facing the Cadillac, moving toward it.

  “Hey, you! With the cookie stuck in your throat! Yeah, you! I got this feeling the Devil musta shoved something else in your mouth, and in your culo, too!”

  The Cadillac was rolling again. Picked up speed as it passed them. Ace Ortiz was in the street waving obscene gestures after it.

  “I got your cookie! Right here! Give you two cookies for the price of one: my balls, a pair of balls! Huevos!”

  The Cadillac drove off, disappearing down the street. Ace Ortiz couldn’t shut it off, going full force. “Hey, I’m talking to you! HEY, YOU! MARICON! Come back here!” And he topped all the wild waving with a final, lewd arm gesture. Thoroughly worked up and beside himself. Monkey on his ass craved to be fed. Made him nuts, a loon.