Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  He had her purse with him and had already taken a look inside, not for the handgun, as he’d already found it, but for something else.

  “Where’s the lighter?”

  “Good question.”

  “Gold, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what Fritz claimed. It didn’t look cheap.”

  “It wasn’t. Where is it?”

  “If I knew I’d tell you.”

  “Sure you would.”

  He needed to return to the tunnel. Wished he had invested in a biohazard suit. Money; it took money, though. Money was painful to part with. Now he had to face reentering the tunnel sans real protection from rats, roaches, worms—and all the other creepy-crawly, bacteria-carrying, flesh-eating parasites.

  It had to be done. No way around it.

  There was the floor-to-ceiling bookcase between the Furnace Room and walk-in cooler that would have to be pushed aside first. Though it was on steel casters, it still required muscle to accomplish. Not only that, he didn’t like reminding the geeks that there was a door here that led to a tunnel—and the outside. Would any of them ever attempt to go this route just for the hell of it? He doubted it.

  Had no choice but to follow through. Didn’t feel like having to lug those two other bitches through the cluttered corridor and that hole in the bathroom wall.

  Get it over with. Bookshelf was pushed to the side. Unlocked the fortified tunnel door, and went in with some of the able-bodied geeks to retrieve Lana “Da Bottom” Sepulveda and Stella “Storm” Martel. Couple of lame twats.

  Mr. Fimple regarded Lana’s bloody leg as she lay on the tunnel floor, rushed in, dropped to his knees to lap up her blood. It took great effort on Lana’s part, fighting weakness and pain, but she managed to lift the hand she held the cutter in and swing with it so that the blade sliced the geek diagonally across the face. The geek dropped to the ground yowling. The others saw it and laughed.

  Cecil Biggs could not move back in time himself as Lana Sepulveda shifted again, lashing him across the upper right thigh, inches from his groin.

  The bishop grunted, stepping back. He lifted his flashlight and smashed it down against the side of the brunette’s neck. He did it again. Watched the unconscious woman drop back.

  “Just for that, I’ve got a special treat in store for you, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 207

  “Ain’t no use.”

  Harold Crust rolled out of bed. Got into his bathrobe and peeked through his bedroom curtains for the fiftieth time. All that screaming and loud music and pounding was just too much to take. What on earth could the man be doing this late at night? Don’t he ever sleep? What kind of church can that be? Church of Re-Newed Hope, he calls it. That’s what the sign on Biggs’s door said: UNITED CHRISTIAN CHURCH OF RE-NEWED HOPE. What bullshit. Church of No Hope is more like it. Sounds like a wild party goin’ on over there, if you ask me. Listen to it.

  All he wanted to do was get some rest. Lack of rest usually made him grumpy on the job. How you supposed to make tips if you grumpy? You always lose jack when you ain’t cheerful. That was the truth. He’d been in the shoeshine business long enough to know that.

  The regulars: postal workers, motorcycle cops, bus drivers, Pep Boys stock clerks, used car salesmen in the area, all those regulars who stopped by his stand to have their shoes polished mainly did so to say hello to him. That was it. They didn’t need to have their kicks shined; they usually came by to have a nice chat with Harold ’cause Harold Crust was always up, easy to talk to, endearing.

  Yeah, he’d heard folks say that about him. He was endearing. Nice guy to be around. And he felt pretty lousy right now. Needed something for his headache; sleeping pills would have been better, except he didn’t like to take sleeping pills.

  Sleep, rest, would have been perfect (without no kind of pill), but that strange, so-called preacher wouldn’t let him sleep.

  Try calling the rollers. When did that ever do any good?

  He opened the bedroom door. Could hear the tv going in the living room. Fay had that all-night religious program on again. He shook his head. Didn’t she ever get enough of that jive? He didn’t have anything against religion. Considered himself a Christian, believed in God, always had—but these tv evangelists made him sick to his stomach.

  Harold Crust couldn’t stand the sight of them.

  If only he could have had a shot of whiskey, half a shot even, that would have cured everything, made up for it all—a taste of Jack Daniels, a line of toot, a short one. He knew he wouldn’t dare go near any of it, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from wanting it, from thinking about it from time to time. Was it his fault? Was he to blame because his brain and body craved it? Was he?

  Quacks had told him cocaine was the reason his blood pressure was in the crapper and why he needed the heart surgery. Only they wasn’t done by a long shot. No sir. Stuck a pacemaker in him for the added bonus—to their pocketbook. Fucked him once with the surgery—and then fucked him again with the pacemaker. Said cocaine was the reason. Blow. He had known blow wasn’t good for him; he had also known not everyone who fooled with toot had to have their heart operated on, either. But he had gone along. They had scared him enough. Said: Do it. Or risk dropping dead from a coronary. Cocaine had damaged his valves, they said, and booze. Heavy drinking. Fast women. Too much running around. Caught up with him. And they had also told him that he was lucky he hadn’t destroyed the mucus membranes in his nose with the powder (which often happened with heavy users).

  That was just it, he had done his best to explain: he hadn’t been a heavy user. Had liked having a good time, true enough. Heavy user? Didn’t think he rated. Not him. He’d done his share, he supposed. And Fay had tolerated it all this time, waited patiently for him to clean up his act. She had stuck to her Bible and religious programs on television, attended church every Sunday (a real church, and not the one next door, thank God. So far, anyway). Point being: she had stood by him, when so many women would have given him the boot. He loved that about her more than anything.

  Woman was loyal to the bone. There just weren’t that many left like her. He wished he remembered it more often.

  CHAPTER 208

  He reached the living room. Saw Fay sitting in her recliner in front of the color tv—and she was writing out a check.

  “We got any booze in the house?”

  He saw it coming. Knew it would happen. The look she gave him was one of silent reproach. As far as she was concerned he wasn’t funny. Harold poured himself a tumbler of ice water in the kitchen. Held it up to the light.

  “Here it is. Shot of rye. No harm in pretending.”

  He popped two Excedrin in his mouth. Chased them down with the water in the tumbler.

  “Lord, that’s nasty.”

  “Why not go back on the cranberry juice? You liked it well enough.”

  “Got any idea how much sugar they put in that stuff, Fay? Always made me sick in my belly. Way worse than this nasty ol’ tap water.”

  “Buy a filter. People I work for got one. Makes tap water taste better.”

  “Nothing can make this water taste better. Could be worth a try, I suppose.”

  “You need your rest, Harold. Should go back to bed.”

  “That man next door won’t let me sleep. Sure got to be some kind of exclusive church Biggs is runnin’ for loose women and dopefiends.”

  The set blared on in the living room, the clean-cut televangelist in black suit and tie, “as American as apple pie,” continued to implore for donations. Harold pretended not to hear. That only got him so far.

  “Shearing the sheep, fleecing the flock.”

  Knew it made no difference to Fay no matter what he said about them. Forget the televangelist. Can’t win that battle. Instead, he leaned over the kitchen sink to peer through the crack in the window curtain above it, trying to figure the impossible: what in tarnation was going on in Bishop Cecil Omar Biggs’s place?

  Something furry and quite alive
unexpectedly rubbed itself past his ankles that gave him a real start. If not a stroke exactly, close enough to it. Harold looked down. Should have known: Delonzo. Acting like a hotshot. Scowled for Harold’s benefit, then leisurely walked off. Harold wished the cat would find the front door and keep right on going. Would never happen. Cat had it made here and knew it. Free grub, and didn’t have to do nothing to earn it, either.

  “They took us off the air in Dallas, took us off the air in Albuquerque, took us off the air in Tucson. Do you want the same to happen in Southern California? Do you? Is that what you want? If you don’t want that to happen here you had better let me know that you don’t, and you know there is only one way to do that. Donations pays bills, and we got more bills than we know what to do with, friends, enough bills to wallpaper this entire house, the Lord’s House. We have bills up to our eyeballs. We are swimming in bills. It’s a crying shame we got so many bills. Send money, friends; send money. Don’t let them shut us down, don’t let them take us off the air. If twenty dollars is the best that you can do, then send that twenty right now. And as for the rest of you: I know that you can do better than that; I know that you can.”

  What with Biggs and that noise over there and the obnoxious tv hustler “selling” his jive, there just was no peace of mind to be had around here. And on top of all that, he had to put up with the cat making him jump whenever he took a step—in his own home, no less; making him feel like a stranger and giving him that Evil Eye every time he looked at him.

  CHAPTER 209

  Harold was back in the living room. Saw the check on the coffee table.

  “Woman, you know how many kicks I got to shine to make that kind of bread?”

  “It’s only twenty dollars, Harold.”

  “To you it’s only twenty dollars—to me it’s ten pair of dirty shoes. I’m driving without car insurance and you’re giving money away?”

  Fay’s eyes stayed on the evangelist. Her Bible nearby.

  “Don’t make a fuss, Harold. Reverend Goodrum says they’re going broke and won’t be able to stay on the air if they can’t pay their bills. They will be taken off the air if they can’t meet their financial obligations, Harold.”

  “Yeah, you see me cryin’, don’t you? Those people are always going broke, Fay; always asking for more money—meanwhile, they’re living in fancy mansions with gold crappers and driving luxury automobiles like Biggs over there, while people like us got to struggle just to make ends meet.”

  Unlike Marty Roscoe’s wife Petunia, Fay Crust was naturally calm, collected. Not much phased her. There was a deep faith that seemed to keep her not only rooted, but guided her in the right direction and gave her strength. She knew the Lord would provide and there was no need to get excited about anything.

  “You don’t have to shout, Harold. No need to raise your voice. Be mindful of your pacemaker and your blood pressure.”

  “Trouble is I am mindful, too much so—on account someone’s always reminding me.”

  “It’s only twenty dollars, Harold, and it’s for a good cause.”

  “You said.”

  Only twenty. Tell it to the hospital and the butcher he had the lawsuit goin’ against. Might get them to hurry up and settle. Their ship was due. Any day now. Meanwhile, they had to go on living. Pay bills. Them twenty-dollar donations added up.

  Harold was not entirely aware that he was at it again: running the tips of his fingers down the center of his chest, along the main heart surgery scar. He’d been doing it out of habit lately.

  “If you ask me, all these televangelists should be lined up against the wall. That’s right: put ’em up against a wall. Why not? They ain’t nothing more than a bunch of bloodsuckers.”

  “Harold.”

  “Ought to be thrashed, at the least. I ain’t kidding. There ain’t no worse grifter on this earth. God knows what I’m talking about. I don’t mind giving to a legitimate charity—”

  Harold aimed a finger at the tailor-cut suit on the color screen that probably cost more than he earned in a month.

  “That’s just rip-off time—big time. Thievin’ from the poor and elderly. Make the Mafia look like Boy Scouts.”

  Suddenly he made a gesture with his hands that said it was all hopeless anyway, and thought if it makes her feel better to give the twenty let her do it; let her be. Did her share around the place, did what she could to contribute. Working as a domestic down there in Bel Air for that movie producer and his family wasn’t exactly easy, not at her age, even if she only did it part-time. Got a decent woman there. Leave her alone. Your beef ain’t with her or even with the tee-vee preacher, but that rude Biggs crowd.

  “Good night, Fay. I’m going back to bed. I got to get some rest if I plan to make any money tomorrow.”

  “Good night, hon.”

  His wife never turned away from the screen.

  CHAPTER 210

  There was a semblance of order in the basement for the time being. Biggs used his experience as a practical nurse to tend to his cuts and bruises.

  He took care of his people so long as their wounds were non-life threatening and did not require serious attention. Helped patch them up with Greta Otto’s assistance. And the others? A different fate awaited them. By the time he got to Stella to pry the bear trap off her foot, half a dozen large rats had already converged on Helen Irene Sanchez, the dead victim, and were devouring her flesh.

  Stella Martel was clearly in pain and practically beside herself.

  “Brought it on yourself, didn’t you, Girlie? What I gave just wasn’t good enough for you bitches. Never enough. Always wanting more. Gave Mr. Fimple quite a headache when you clobbered him with that chair up there. Not only that . . . it’s the general disrespect that I find more annoying than anything else.”

  He located her purse. Rifled through it. Pocketed the cash he found, most of which he presumed was Olivia’s.

  “Business before pleasure.”

  Had the geeks lift her up off the tunnel floor and summarily carry her into the cooler and hung her on a hook. Biggs checked her fingers for rings, wrists for bracelets, as she dangled. Relieved her of what he found. Took her wristwatch off, the gold cross that hung from her neck, earrings. Checked her feet for ankle bracelets. Discovered one on the ankle with all the lacerations. Had blood on it. Didn’t matter. He helped himself to it.

  CHAPTER 211

  Before leaving the walk-in, he paused to turn the temperature up from thirty degrees to about thirty-five, so that she would not succumb to the cold as rapidly—and would stay alive longer.

  He stepped out of the cooler, closed the door and locked it. While a grieving Muck was in the backyard giving his dead rat pals a “proper” adios—not to mention wasting time and tears—Biggs returned to the tunnel and the oblong box the inconsiderate bitches had left on the floor.

  He knelt beside the plywood coffin. Lifted the lid. Some of the rats who had been feasting on Helen Irene Sanchez a moment ago must have left her, and other rats from elsewhere must have joined the ones here, got in through gaps in the bottom and sides, but there were about four or five of them taking chunks out of Dixie’s flesh. They were all over: face and neck, vagina and thighs. Since her wrists were cuffed behind her back, there wasn’t much the victim could do other than move her head from side to side, kick out somewhat with her feet at the other end. Rats didn’t give a damn; this was not about to deter them.

  “Bishop Biggs? Please . . . Can you stop them? Can you please, please stop them?”

  The way Biggs saw it: the rats were saving him ammo. Sons of bitches didn’t care, were not bothered by the fact that he shined his flashlight on them. They were hungry, and food was at hand. Bellies needed to be fed—and fed they would be.

  Cecil Biggs stood there, taking it in—as the whimpering went on. Her lips got chewed up and eyes. Blood ran from her groin region. Fuck, he came close to creaming in his trousers himself. He didn’t care for rats, true enough, but there was no denying they pr
ovided a service, just as the woman would be providing Greta Otto’s kettle with real meat.

  He squeezed his groin. Hard. Like bamboo.

  He lowered the lid over the rats and walked over to the stoop, the wooden steps that led to the trap door in the garage floor, relieved the severely wounded geeks of their Parfrey pig masks and put one slug apiece into their heads.

  He shone the light on Lana Sepulveda. Super Latina. Princess Likk Mi Azz, among other aliases. Lying there. Conscious enough to keep the rats at bay—and barely at that. He would need a hand with her.

  Remembered to take the shades off, the shooting muffs. Had the safety helmet where it belonged: on his head.

  He climbed the stoop to the garage floor. Cracked open the large garage doors to see what was going on. Muck was on his hands and knees in the dirt, weeping over his rodents. A serial rapist dropping tears over some dead scavenging beasts. He’d pulled weeds, made a clearing, swept litter aside. Had even fashioned small crosses from twigs and Popsicle sticks as grave markers.

  Biggs shook his head. They were rats. Fucking rats. Granted, not as low as humans, but they were RATS. Rattus norvegicus. He was distraught because a couple of mangy sewer dwellers bit the dust. Retard. Weren’t they all?

  He took the plugs out of his ears. Called him over.

  “Need a hand.”

  Marvin looked up. Wiped his eyes.

  “They was iced for nothing.”

  “They went down for the cause.”

  “Homie Snagglepuss and Homie Dizz be only ones I got left now.”

  “Pet shops are full of them. Rats are dime a dozen.”

  “They was my bud’.”

  “Life is a bitch. Speaking of bitches, I can use a hand with that Sepulveda cunt.”