by Kirk Alex
They were inside the Furnace Room. Bishop unlatched the incinerator gate. Opened it, lifted the bucket loaded with bowels and other entrails and waste and dumped it in there. Try as he might, the odor was not particularly easy to ignore. Muck made a face, too. Stench was a bitch. It worried the bishop; it was a concern. Not Marvin’s reaction to it, nor even his, but the repercussions it might result in eventually throughout the hood.
Marvin tossed the contents of one of his buckets in, then the other. Biggs had left the gate open. Stood there watching it all burn: cartilage, hair, entrails—and whatnot—watched it go up in smoke. There was no denying it left him with a certain satisfaction, gave him a feeling of victory, accomplishment: He had triumphed, they had not.
Their loss, his victory. Proof was in the smoke. There it was: End of the line. He savored moments such as this, always would—for the human race, all of the assholes of the world, deserved to end up in this manner: Fried. To end up wafting in smoke, or else streaming down into the grease trap as sludge. There was plenty of that: sludge, fat. And it was yellow. Human fat was yellow. One did not realize how much of it a body contained until you cremated a few of them.
Although it was a moment clearly to be relished, they always were, he could not disavow the concern: What problems would the odor cause for him again? Smoke carried it a fair distance. People had made comments in the past.
Some of the a-hole neighbors were sure to notice and make comments regarding this current disposal effort. Made him nervous. Edgy. Did it anyway, though, didn’t you? Wasn’t up to driving all the way out to Lopez Canyon every time he had some refuse to unload. Let the neighbors cluck. They weren’t exactly smart enough to add it all up. They can grumble all they want, talk shit behind his back. Not a single one was clever enough to figure anything out.
“We can’t keep using the furnace.”
Muck looked at him.
“Be easy this way, don’t it? Ain’t got to dig no grave, ain’t got to carry all that nasty, smelly shit out to some wood and bury it. Smell’ up the car, too. I be the one got to clean up. Exactly be why them hoez give me a hard time, ’cause my wardrobe got that smell like the undertaker.”
“Don’t you understand? It takes two hours and change to cremate a body. Assholes like Lloyd Dicker are starting to gripe about the odor.”
“Fuck ’em. Let ’em gripe. Odor don’t be nothin’ new. There be all kind’ of odor, ain’t there? Why this odor got to be more nasty or any worst than odor in they own cribby? They own cribby smell like the city dump. That be a fac’. All of Valley, includin’ LA smell like that, if you aks me.”
“Then I have to listen to you whine when I ask you to scrape ash inside the furnace and clean out the grease trap.” Biggs knew Marvin wouldn’t have a comeback for it, and he didn’t.
“All I know Lloyd Dicker got to stop puttin’ his tired weenie where it don’t belong. What I thank.”
Biggs stared at the purple flames inside the furnace. Watched all of it, with the exception of some of the larger bones, burn down to a crispy nothingness, down to ash, a pile of ashes. He would have to remind himself to have Marvin pull the bones out later and crush them with the sledge. It was just better that way. No need to make it possible for some wild animal to dig anything up out there in Lopez Canyon that resembled a human bone, or should they discard the remnants elsewhere, why risk anyone discovering anything that may have been part of a Homo sapiens once?
Biggs found himself grinning just then.
“She sure put up a struggle. Didn’t want to go, didn’t want to die. Kept saying: I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me.” He replayed the precise moment in his mind’s eye. “The more she pleaded, the more I liked it. She kept screaming and beseeching; fighting, kicking, trying to bargain, didn’t want to give up the ghost—and the more she carried on the more I kept trying to convince her that, hell, we all have to go sometime.”
“That be the trouf.”
“We all got to go sometime, and her time had come a little earlier than she expected, but so what? She needed to accept it, that’s all. When death comes calling you should give in to it. I know I would. What’s fair in this world? No one beats death. No one. That’s just the way it is.”
“I ain’t goin’ against what you say, Trusty. Kinda feel like it was a waste of good vagina myself, good trim.”
“I love it when they put up a fight, though. She was a good fuck, too. Got my rocks off thrice. She was good. Maybe I shouldn’t have finished her off right away. Could be you’re right. I could have held onto her a while longer, gotten some more mileage out of her.”
“Kinda what I be thinkin’, Brotha Trusty. Waste of pussy.”
“Killing them off causes problems when it comes to disposing of bones, parts we can’t use—then again, the best way to get off is to torture them and then chop them up. Not to mention: Dead bitches tell no tales. She was getting to be too thin anyway. Not much meat left on her.”
CHAPTER 130
The temperature had dropped down to about eighty-two degrees and it was sunny and just about great weather, as far as Rudy Perez was concerned, to be working on cars in his family’s driveway and earning money. And that’s exactly what he was doing this Monday afternoon, proudly finishing up his latest effort: a battered ’84 Yugo GV hatchback. He’d had the hood up, engine idling. He was wiping handprints off parts of the grill and other areas with a rag while listening for telltale signs that something might be amiss. Heard none.
Just as he decided he was pleased with himself and did some more wiping down with the cloth, the car’s owner, a disheveled, pot-bellied thirty-year-old Chico Mancini rode up on a kid’s bike. A Santana tune blasted from the boom box that dangled freely from the handlebar.
Mancini greeted him in his usual, boisterous manner. Asked how it was going.
Rudy slammed the hood shut.
“Fine. So far.”
“You da man.”
Mancini tossed the boom box in the front seat. Pulled the keys out of the ignition and had the hatchback unlocked in quick succession. Tossed the K-Mart bike in there. Jammed some paper money in Rudy’s shirt pocket and jumped in the front seat. Turned the key. Raced the engine. The grin on his face said he was satisfied. While Mancini was doing that, Rudy had the bills out, counting. Wad was light a ten-spot.
“I thought we agreed on forty bucks, Chico.”
“Are you sure, Homie? ’Cause all I got is what’s there.”
“We agreed on forty. I spent money on parts, Chico. There’s labor. Not to mention gas to and from the junk yard—”
“I’ll make it up to you next time, Rudy. That’s a promise.”
“Like my dad used to say: You can hit me, just don’t shit me.”
“You got my word. Keep the thirty. Por favor?”
Mancini revved the motor. Junk heap never sounded better. He fiddled with the radio until he found the same tune that played on the boom box. Left it on. Something about somebody’s pots and pans not being clean. Turned up the volume.
“You’re the best. You and your family. I mean it. You saved my life. I couldn’t get to my nine-to-five without wheels. You know how it is: no money, no honey. If you ain’t got wheels you can’t run your old lady to the hospital in her time of need.”
“Your old lady? Which one? And what for?”
“You a funny guy. You know which one: My main girl. Looks like it’s gonna be twins this time, too. Glad it’s finally gonna be over. Woman’s eatin’ me out of house and home. Having a hard time keeping food in the refrigerator. Seems like I’m always loading it up—and it don’t never stay full for long. Mamacita’s addicted to Rocky Road ice cream and sauerkraut. I must be out of my mind, man. Got four young ones right now. Two in the oven makes it half a dozen. Doc says it’s two boys. They got a way of figurin’ these things out. If it’s true, gonna name ’em after you and Roe—just for the hell of it.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I
know we don’t. Me and Luz want to name ’em after you dudes. The least we can do. After all you and Monroe and your daddy, rest his soul, done for me and my family over the years.”
“Okay if I let my brother know?”
“No problem. Only it might be better if we sprung it on him after she delivers, after we brung the babies over for Monroe and your grandparents to see ’em—and surprise them. If you know what I mean.”
Olivia Duarte walked up the driveway. Kissed Rudy on the cheek.
“What I like to see. Lovebirds being affectionate. Makes me happy; makes me feel good inside.”
Rudy looked at Chico. “Later.” To hell with it. He didn’t feel like haggling over ten bucks with Mancini right now. Besides, he was happy that his girl was here.
“He saved my life.” Chico was still grinning and nodding his head, pointing at Rudy again. “You saved my life. I ain’t bullshittin’, either. Saved my ass. I’ll get back to you. That’s a guarantee, homeboy.”
The Yugo backed out of the driveway, and Chico Mancini was gone. Rudy stood there, shaking his head. And he couldn’t help it, he was smiling.
“What?”
“His wife’s expecting.”
“Again?”
“Twins this time.”
“They can hardly keep the kids they have now clothed and fed.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny, though, if the father turned out to be somebody else?”
“I swear I don’t get you sometimes.”
“Mancini’s got kids from Van Nuys to East LA—and I’m talking about some of these women being married, or got boyfriends—and the husbands and boyfriends don’t have a clue.”
“That’s amusing to you?”
“Sort of.”
“That would be amusing to a man—”
“Now wait a minute. Chicks are always saying how they want a guy with a sense of humor—”
“How much did he gyp you out of this time, Rudy?”
“Not much.”
“How much is ‘not much?’”
“Ten bucks.”
“Why do you let him do that to you?”
“I didn’t let him do anything. He’s just a sharpie.”
“I bet.”
“You heard him: Saved his life. No money/no honey. And he’s naming his twins after me and Roe.”
Olivia pursed her lips, and was not able to suppress a grin. She made a fist and playfully drove it into her boyfriend’s right shoulder.
“Wise guy. No money/no honey. Should kick your butt for allowing yourself to be such an easy mark.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who got yelled at by Slim for letting bums walk in off the street and con you out of free meals?”
“One time. Two months ago—when I was still new on the job. No one’s conned me out of anything lately.”
Rudy locked his arms around her waist and pulled her into the house through the side door—and neither of them had been aware of Biggs sitting across the street in his Rolls, watching them. A second after Rudy and his girl entered the house, Biggs started the Rolls-Royce and drove off.
CHAPTER 131
Rudy was in the bathroom hurrying to wash his face and hands in order to get back to Olivia who waited for him in the living room.
He dried off, slapped English Leather on his face and armpits, got some on both sides of his neck and came out.
Olivia was sitting on the sofa and looking at the aquarium directly behind it. She gazed at the cichlids. Had never really cared for this type of fish, and yet there was something that fascinated due to their obvious predatory nature. The cichlids were dark and mean-looking and chunky, about five inches in length. There were four of them in the medium-sized tank. She kept looking at them, the way they swam around like they had a chip on their shoulder and wanted to “kick butt,” anyone’s butt, not unlike so many of those doped up hooligans throughout the neighborhood. Olivia also knew now that she was here she was sure Rudy would pull the same stunt he always liked to pull: Would come up with a plastic bag full of water with maybe five or six tiny goldfish in it and feed the goldfish to the cichlids in the tank. And the way it usually went the harmless goldfish would try to hide behind the artificial seaweed in the tank, attempt to hide behind the skull-shaped tank ornament sitting on the bottom in the pebbles—but as often was the case, the cichlids eventually crept up to the goldfish and gobbled them right up; every single one of them, every single time.
“I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Rudy was hiding something behind his back. Probably the goldfish. Olivia shook her head.
“Little boys have to be little boys, don’t they?”
“I ain’t so little where it counts.”
“All right. Let’s see the goldfish, Rudy.”
Rudy held up the plastic bag with the goldfish. He moved to the tank with glee and dropped several goldfish down in it and waited for the nasty, all-business cichlids to react.
The cichlids had a system that never failed: they moved around in the water with what seemed like genuine indifference, taking their sweet time, in order to throw the goldfish off guard. Gradually, and in time, having gotten close enough to the intended prey, the larger fish would gobble up the goldfish.
Soon the goldfish in the tank were gone. Olivia did not necessarily need to witness what was going on; in fact, she did not want to see any of it. Rudy, on the other hand, continued to be amused by her reaction, and dropped the remaining two goldfish in.
“Look, you take everything so serious. What’s the big deal? I only paid a buck a piece for them.”
Olivia had risen to her feet and walked to the other side of the room where Rudy’s grandparents dozed in rocking chairs next to a radio tuned to a Mexican station. There was a tv console in that corner in front of them and next to it a birdcage with a cockatiel named Papo. Olivia handpicked several sunflower seeds from a glass jar that sat on a bookshelf to the left of the birdcage. She fed the sunflower seeds to the cockatiel.
“Hey, that’s life. Dog-eat-dog.”
Rudy was still chuckling about the whole thing.
“That’s really profound.”
“Maybe I’m not trying to be ‘profound.’ Hey, you know the family next door gimme the tank before they moved. The jerky kid lost interest in the fish, wouldn’t feed ’em, so they give ’em to me. What am I supposed to do? Flush them away? Come on.”
Olivia said nothing.
“What do you think sharks eat? And whales? And seals and eels? They eat other fish. What’s gross about that? What do eagles eat? What do tigers eat and lions eat? What do coyotes eat, and jackals? All of them—they eat other animals. Maybe it’s gross—but it’s life. People eat cattle, pork, turkey meat; dogs eat horse meat. Some people even eat people. Ever heard of cannibals?”
“Stop.”
“All right, all right. Quit being so squeamish, quit trying to make me feel guilty.”
“Just wish you didn’t have to enjoy it so much.”
“I told you, Olivia: They have to be fed goldfish once in a while. I didn’t make them that way—God did.” He smiled. “Why don’t you come on over here and sit down? You don’t have to worry about the goldfish—they’re all gone anyway.”
Olivia was back at the sofa and Rudy did not waste any time pulling her down by the hand and maneuvering himself on top. Olivia made what looked like an effort to get him off of her; she kept looking at his grandparents dozing in their rockers.
“Don’t worry about them. If they can’t hear Papo and the stereo, they ain’t gonna hear us. Take my word for it. It’s their nap time. Like I told you—every day like clockwork. The Mexican ballads remind them of Cuernavaca, where they were both born. Put them to sleep. They love it. They ain’t gonna hear us.” And then he began to unbutton her blouse—one button at a time. Olivia resisted, but Rudy would not let up until he had every single button undone. He parted the blouse and had to stop and take a real good look at the pink b
rassiere and all that it contained. He wrapped his hands around both cups, and squeezed nervously. He kissed her on the lips, and then his mouth traveled upwards to her forehead, dropped down to her eyes, kissing them both . . . and his lips made their slow descent back down toward Olivia’s open mouth and those moist, ever-so-moist and warm fuchsia lips. . . .
His tongue slid inside her mouth, sought out her warm breath, circled the tip of her own trembling tongue and their lips locked, parted briefly, and connected again as they continued to kiss.
Rudy got up, discarded his own shirt, and was back on top of her again, getting Olivia’s brassiere unhooked, taking it off, removing it and then just held her full breasts in his hands like that and looked and gazed and then lowered his face down against them, rubbing the nipples against his cheeks and nose, rubbing them against his lips and his lips parted and took in a hardened nipple and sucked, and he did the same with the other nipple, totally lost in the moment, wanting Olivia more than anything right now, wanting to tear her jeans off and go down on her, wanting to part her legs and taste her down there and possibly get his own pants undone in time and slide it in. . . .
Would she let him? How far would he get this time? I’ve got to try, he thought. Have to. I want it. I want you, Livia. I want to make love to you, Livia; I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my whole life.
And Olivia Duarte held onto him. She liked it, for sure, but she also knew just how far she would permit Rudy to go . . . and both were completely unaware of the pair of haunting, dark eyes that stared at them, peeped at them through the parted curtains in the open window and screen on the other side of the fish tank, as Cecil Omar Biggs ogled and scrutinized their every move.
CHAPTER 132
