by Kirk Alex
She slid down from her berth. Stood in the aisle. The sight of her disfigured features probably unsettled them both, but not to the point they were willing to stop bickering—until they saw the blade. It was a paring knife.
Nowhere near as sharp as she would have liked. It would do the job. And then some. She stabbed at the blanket that made the trouble-makers cower, but not to the extent they were willing to give up anything.
She thrust the blade into the pink blanket repeatedly, watched as a tear developed at the top and others below it, watched as the dueling male drips tugged with all their might to retain what they each believed was their share of said blanket, and ripped it right down the middle.
Greta spit at the Rumanian, then at the other faggot, did an about-face, and paused at Swine Vomit’s bunk. She held the tip of her blade about an inch away from Olin Goodfellow’s left eyeball.
“Take your hands out of your diaper, pervert.” Goodfellow had no choice, as he saw it, but to do as ordered. “Keep them both where I can see them—or else. I’ll do to you what Cecil does to the victims—even if it means Pit Therapy for me.”
“Please. You are making me wet myself.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Greta drove a hard elbow into Goodfellow’s jaw. She stood there a while, watched him whimper and wheeze, then made it back up to her berth.
Miss Betty was relieved Greta had stepped in and taken care of that bit of nonsense, although not all the commotion was being caused by those in the Bunk Room. Not by a long shot. No, Lord. Big Tex was out there by the pit, trying to pry that door off, grunting and cursing; and they all knew that Big T. was begging for a beating, or worse: could easily end up in the pit himself, with “shock therapy” for a bonus.
There he was, though: part-time bronc-buster from Texas, or so he claimed, in that worn Stetson, clawing at that door over the pit.
They knew Big T. was aching to be punished, because Bishop had good cause for leaving that “fornicating sinner” in that water-filled hole in the floor. What it meant was Cecil Biggs did not want her disturbed, did not want anyone to go near her—for any reason. And yet, there he was—that big dumb cowboy from Ft. Worth, that cadaverous-looking cement truck driver from the Lone Star State wanting to get that heavy door removed so he could get at that noisy, one-eyed harlot who didn’t know how to keep her big mouth shut.
She was down in the water because she had it coming and should be left alone.
CHAPTER 162
The music upstairs seemed to get louder, increased in volume, and Dione Aragon thought for sure she had heard other voices, familiar voices, sounds, through the floorboards above, sounds and voices that also filtered faintly through the bottom of the door up there at the top of the basement stairs.
There were other people on the first floor besides Cecil and Marvin and one or two of these imbalanced individuals, couldn’t tell exactly, who made up this crazy church; there were clearly other girls up there in the other rooms, moving about, dancing, it seemed; it surely seemed someone was moving on their feet up there above them on the first floor, dancing to a heavy bass beat.
Dione Aragon made every effort to urge the cowboy to hurry up. Even if she had to go through with what he wanted, within reason, of course, as she was not quite certain what that would be at this point, she was willing—that would free her and get her out of this hell and make it possible to be reunited with her baby girl. If she were pulled out of this nightmare she would take her Clarissa with her, Dear Lord; she would take her baby and she would hurry back home to Bakersfield. She would get out of LA, clear out of Southern California and never come back. If only the one intent on helping her would get on with it. She heard him say something, talking.
“Now me, I ain’t like them others in here. They’re just waitin’ for you to up and die—so they can eat you.”
“Please help me, Big Tex. Please help me get out of here.”
“Big Tex is doin’ his very best, little darlin’. We’ll get you took care of. Got my word. And when a Texan gives his word, why that’s as good as it gets. Ain’t a soul in this country, ain’t a soul in this entire world what defines dignity and honor better than a bronc-bustin’ Texas cowhand.”
CHAPTER 163
Bishop Cecil Omar Biggs’s next door neighbor Petunia Roscoe was sitting at her piano in the dining area of the living room trying to compose a song and she was not getting anywhere and it simply drove her nuts because the noise coming from Biggs’s “church” was wreaking havoc with her concentration.
Her husband Marty, on the other hand, was in the kitchen with a fly swatter and he was having the time of his life.
He would whack a moth or a fly with the swatter and watch it drop to the floor and say to the Boston terrier: “Get the bug, Darcy. Get the bug.” Incredibly enough, the little dog knew what he was talking about and those paws would patter across the kitchen linoleum in search of the moth or fly that had just dropped and the dog would lap it up in an instant. The Boston terrier loved eating spiders, moths, flies, and Marty Roscoe enjoyed watching the dog get excited at the prospect of getting more.
Petunia’s husband swatted a couple of flies near the kitchen sink, scraped them off the counter and watched Darcy eat them up as soon as they hit the floor.
“That’s right, Darcy. Get the bug. Get the bug, little girl.” And then he would cross to the other side of the kitchen where the table sat and tease her by pretending he’d just killed another one of those pesky flies just to see the little dog’s paws run after the imaginary insect.
Ziggy, the Lhasa apso, on the other hand, was lying on her belly on the living room carpet nearby, watching and wondering what all the commotion was about.
“That’s a nine-year-old dog,” Petunia said, clearly irritated. “You’re running her ragged.”
“No, I’m not. She’s having fun. Can’t believe how smart she is. She knows exactly what I’m talking about when I say get the bug. See the way she looks up? Never saw a dog what loves to eat flies like she does.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Marty smacked another fly on the refrigerator door and watched the dog lap at it before it even hit the floor. Roscoe stood there chuckling and shaking his head.
“See that?”
Petunia didn’t have time for it. Rose from her piano to peer through the living room curtains.
“He’s running a slut house next door.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, I would. He’s got those sluts from the Casbah in there again and that makes it a slut house. That’s exactly what Peaches LaBelle and those other bimbos she runs around with are, you know: sluts. Nothing but a bunch of immoral sluts.”
“One day you’ll say the wrong thing to the wrong creep.”
“At least I have the courage to speak my mind.”
“You’ll mouth off to the wrong psycho and then it will be too late. Sometimes it’s smarter not to say anything at all.”
She turned away from her curtains long enough to give Marty one of her angry looks he was well familiar with by now. “When was the last time you heeded your own advice?”
“Forget it, all right? There’s no point trying to reason with you.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“All I’m saying is careful how you talk to him. If he’s running a ‘slut house’ next door that’s his damned problem. Only I wouldn’t say anything to his face about it.”
“You wouldn’t. I would.”
“You’re never satisfied until you got yourself all worked up. Always the same thing. Like a broken record.”
“Don’t you have any sympathy for me? I can’t take the noise; I can’t work like this.”
“It’s a free country, Petunia. Why is it acceptable for you to tickle the ivories and not acceptable for him to play his music?”
“Whose side are you on? Why does it have to be so loud?”
“I don’t know why it has to be so loud and I do
n’t care.”
Petunia opened the front door and stuck her head out.
“Now Rudy Perez is out there. I wonder what’s going on?”
“Could be he got religion.”
“This late at night?”
“The Good Lord don’t mind what time it is, woman. Man can be Saved anytime. Day or night.”
“You know you’re full of it, don’t you?”
Roscoe had a grin on his face. Couldn’t help it. She turned to look at him.
“You do this just to annoy me.”
CHAPTER 164
Rudy Perez had fortified himself with a forty ouncer and was outside Biggs’s church, shaking the gate and kicking at it, raising Cain, wanting to know what the hell was going on inside, wanting to see his girl, wanting in; only no one was listening, or maybe no one could hear him because the music was beyond loud.
A pair of car headlights coming up from his left drew his attention briefly. Harold Crust had pulled up in his old Falcon. Parked it in his driveway, and walked over.
“How-do, Rudy?”
Rudy greeted him with a nod. Was about the best he could do. His mind was set on getting inside that house there. What kind of preacher was this Biggs anyway? What kind of preacher runs around with dopefiends and lap dancers? What kind of sense did any of it make? That was the point. It made no sense.
Harold Crust cleared his throat.
“Think you or your brother might find some time this weekend to take a look at my car? Runs kinda rough lately.”
“Sure. Just bring it by, Mr. Crust.”
Rudy was about to climb over Biggs’s front gate. Harold Crust did not think it was such a good idea, at that.
“Man could get shot. Mr. Biggs packs heat. Seen it with my own eyes.”
“I need to talk to somebody in there.”
“Suit yourself.”
Harold Crust walked away. He climbed his front porch steps. Stood there, searching for the key, when the door opened, and his wife Fay greeted him. Harold went in, turned to close the door behind him, paused there, taking into account that beat-up bucket with Ace Ortiz and his flaky buddy creeping along down the street. Rudy noticed them, too, as they crawled right on past him.
“Those two are always up to no good,” said Harold to himself, and closed the door behind him.
Rudy paused, considered Harold’s words of warning, and decided to scale the gate just the same. He reached the front door and started kicking and pounding on it until Marvin R. Muck opened it.
“Where’s Olivia Duarte?”
Marvin did not answer him, turned, and had Rudy Perez follow him up the stairs to the Prayer Room. Showed him in.
Livia was still there, sitting next to the shivering black woman. Marvin left the room.
The first thing Rudy had picked up on was the odor; the weird, sickening kind of stench that did not agree with him.
Biggs usually reeked anyway, but this was far worse. Nearly impossible to take. What the hell was it? Dead cats? That’s what it smelled like, dead cats and ammonia cleaner.
It was strong stuff whatever it was.
Olivia turned, and was not at all pleased at seeing him here. Undoubtedly he’d been following her. She hadn’t cared for it at all. She was old enough to take care of herself, and besides, if she had needed somebody to watch over her there was her family. That was plenty. More than enough. She did not need Rudy Perez to start telling her how to live her life. Who did he think he was? He buys you a ring and starts acting like he owns you.
Patience saw this as yet another opportunity to put in her (by now familiar) request: “Mister, could you please, please turn up the heat?”
Rudy did not know how to respond. Was this woman all right? He didn’t know. Didn’t care about turning up the heat in this house. He didn’t live here. Just wanted to take Olivia with him and leave. That was it.
“I don’t appreciate being followed by you.”
Rudy could not believe what he was hearing.
“What are you saying, Liv? I was worried.”
“You’ve got a big problem, Rudy: Jealousy.”
“Jealousy? You’ve been watching the soaps again, or maybe you’ve been hanging around Peaches LaBelle and her friends too long. Those people are so screwed up they don’t know what normal is. I love you and I worry about you.”
“I’m fine.”
Rudy took her by the arm. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”
Olivia saw to it to break free. “I don’t appreciate being man-handled.”
“What do you appreciate? You want to stay here? Is that what you want?”
There was silence. Neither of them spoke.
CHAPTER 165
Downstairs, in the living room, Pearleen had worked up quite a sweat, and since Biggs and Marvin were still absent, she decided to give herself a well-deserved break and sat down.
The lack of love between Stella and Lana continued to be evident. The way Lana saw it, Stella should have been able to come up with something. Instead, she had returned empty-handed and had the nerve to pretend to be interested in Cecil’s and Marvin’s whereabouts, asking where they were, just so she wouldn’t have to listen to her go over what she’d had to put up with in the john with Reverend Odor and his less-than-conventional approach to sex. There had been a chicken, and blood—and choking and shit. And as far as Lana was concerned, her anger was more than justified.
“I provide you with a distraction, keep him occupied—and you come back with excuses. You didn’t look hard enough. What the whole problem is right there.”
“How the hell would you know? Every goddamn door I tried was locked, except the door to the kitchen—and guess what I found in there? Should make you real happy: birdcages hanging from the ceiling, with chickens in them. That’s right. And one of Cecil’s evil simpletons standing on a chair trying to beat at them with a wooden spoon. Until he fell off. Psycho fell right off, then noticed me. Got his fat ass up and sat in that chair like I wasn’t even there. Ate slop from a bowl—with a dead stare like he was the only one in the room. Just like that black woman upstairs. Same thing. Fucking bipolar loons. Only his staring wasn’t the problem; that didn’t bother me. Half expected it. Didn’t expect to have my face sprayed with that pig slop he ate. Hear me? Hear what I’m saying? Demented asshole sprayed me with slop and you got some nerve trying to claim I didn’t try hard enough. ‘Brother Trusty’ keeps the rooms locked. I tried my best; tried real hard to talk that square Duarte bitch to come down at least, just spend some time with him, take a few of her clothes off for the man. She wouldn’t do it; refuses to even discuss it. Effing cunt. Had to slap her, too. Who does she think she is to disrespect me.”
Pearleen did not want to believe what she just heard.
“Let me get this straight: you hit Olivia?”
“You heard me.”
“You—slapped—her?”
“Bitch fought back. Only I got the first one in.”
“What gives you the right? We should be grateful that she decided to come with us in the first place. She didn’t have to do anything, period.”
“I don’t want to hear that ‘boo-shit’. We coulda got the man’s stash. Got him to give us some to take with. Stuck up cunt won’t play the game. Won’t help out.”
“You just better keep your hands off that girl, Stella.”
“Or what?”
“Or you deal with me.”
Lana was glaring at them both. “I’m the one’s got every right to be pissed. If you want to know the truth. I’m the one had to do it all, had to get that creep off. I didn’t see none of you suckin’ his ugly fat dick. Did I now?”
Pearleen and Stella exchanged glances and had to laugh. Lana hated them for it.
“You think that’s funny? I don’t think any of it is funny. I do the dirty work and you two think it’s fucking hilarious. I didn’t see either of you go down on him, did I now?”
“You saw me give Marvin a hand job, then give him a BJ.�
�
“So what? That ain’t shit. I sucked Cecil’s dick and then had to fuck the dude—that’s work. Fucker got rough, too. You know he likes that rough shit. Choked me in the shower. Choked the shit out of me and still couldn’t get it up.”
Pearl looked at her.
“Why did you take it? Why let him do that to you?”
“Maybe she secretly likes it.”
“Fuck you, Stella. Nobody likes that shit.”
“Some do. Ask Mona Payne.”
“Drop dead, bitch,” said Lana Sepulveda. To Pearleen Bell, she said: “You know why I took it; you both know why. Had to let him—if he was to ever get off. Sick a-hole. Had one of his chickens running around in the tub, too. Strangling me half to death wasn’t good enough for him, didn’t do it for him. It wasn’t until he cut the chicken’s head off and the blood sprayed him that he was able to get his weenie up.”
“You got him to shoot his load,” said Stella. “Like a real pro. Should be proud.”
Lana rubbed her neck to ease the stiffness. She held up the hand mirror to check for bruises. “I warned Marvin about that chicken business. I told him I didn’t want to see any chickens get killed. Shit is way the fuck out there.”
“You’re holding up fairly well,” said Pearleen. “All things considered.” Obviously fought to keep a grin from breaking through. Lana caught on and her anger resurfaced.
“All this is amusing to you. That’s it, isn’t it? One big joke. What I want to know is: How come you don’t ever do some of the down-and-dirty work, ‘Ms. LaBelle of da Ball’? That’s what I want to know.”
“Because, Lana honey, it just ain’t my thang, that’s all. And you done well. We all got high, good and high, didn’t we? And I know that you both know I did my share; always do. You wouldn’t have got nowhere without my act.”
“I got somewhere all right. My mother’s gonna freak when she sees the bruise marks on my neck. Doesn’t take much for her to go ballistic, either.”
