Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  CHAPTER 229

  Biggs was in the kitchen wiping blood and crud off the .357 with a rag. Marvin was there with him, wiping down the ball bat.

  “Fucked them up pretty good, Cecil. They ain’t comin’ back. What they get for messin’ wiff my bro’ ride. Done ’em real good. Only I thank some of that puke got on me.”

  “Oh, they’ll be back. Those two are gluttons for discipline—something like Mr. Fimple, and that Olin Goodfellow, the inbred swine molester. Then there’s Sassounian.”

  “Yo. Could be you right. They keep comin’ back. Don’t never get nowhere, neither.”

  “All it takes, you would know this, you pop the lock in the door with a slim-jim; you use a slam-hammer to break and extract the ignition—in no time at all, seconds—only with a couple of rank amateurs like Ace and Felix it takes long enough to get nailed by the owner. Actually, pros don’t bother with any of that. Too smart. Have access to keys. That’s how that’s done. Keys.”

  “They was tryin’ to boost the stereo.”

  “Couldn’t even do that.”

  “See, Ace got that eye that go the wrong way; lazy. That be why.”

  “Lazy? Like someone you know?”

  “No, man. One eye be lookin’ right at you, while the other one be checkin’ out something way the fuck over there.”

  “Glass eye.”

  “Say what?”

  “It’s a glass eye. You weren’t aware of that? That’s why it appears weird. Why do you think they call him ‘Glassy’?”

  “Don’t know, me. Thought the dude was like Norbert Pimple: Ate glass.”

  “You didn’t catch me feed it to him?”

  “You did?”

  “Norbert’s name is Fimple, by the way. It’s Norbert Fimple.”

  “What I said, ain’t it? He the one be eatin’ lightbulb’.”

  He handed the bat to Biggs. Rinsed out the rag in the sink and brushed the front of his flannel shirt down with it. Cecil grabbed the bucket and made it to his room. Returned the bat to its place in the closet, tossed the .38 he got off the failed car thieves in a dresser drawer. He withdrew the .357, emptied the chambers and dropped the rounds in a breast pocket. Re-holstered the Magnum. He worked the combination on his safe. Got his hands on a .380 auto. Five round. It was a small handgun with a two-inch barrel. It would do. It was loaded, with a round in the chamber. He jammed it in his left jacket pocket.

  Biggs slipped on a pair of latex gloves. There was a typical greeting card box with some items in it that he picked up and stuffed in his other pocket.

  “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” Talking to himself this way was nothing more than a reminder to bring along a Bible. Say the retards, the “righteous” ones in the group, got wind of what was going on, with what he was up to with the hot cunt. It just looked better when he had a Bible with him. Heathen fornicating strumpet was being aware of the Good Book and how J. Christ intended for us to live in this world rife with temptation and sin.

  He grabbed the foot-long black flashlight that looked more like a baton than anything else. Stepped in the hallway. Locked his door back up. He crossed the hallway to the john to pick up a few additional things: first-aid kit in the cabinet under the sink, found a bottle of Listerine in the medicine cabinet above, bar of soap, sponge. Tossed the items in the bucket. Added a clean towel to the pile.

  “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” Was at it again while taking the hallway back to the kitchen. “One thing you can count on: those two pulling an encore.”

  CHAPTER 230

  Biggs unlocked the lock that hung from the chain wrapped around one of the refrigerators. Took a jug of cold water and placed it on the table. “They’re like flies: can’t help but fuck with people. Until you nail them, swat them out of existence.”

  He grabbed a wooden bowl from the cupboard, a ladle from the wire dish holder. Dipped the ladle into the kettle that sat inside the refrigerator a couple of times and emptied it into the fryer on the range.

  Added one more ladleful and heated up the jambalaya. Stirred it in the fryer.

  “Cold water and hot mulligan. You goin’ downstairs to see that ho Peach?”

  “She’ll need food and something to drink. I’d like to keep her around for a while—breathing.”

  Biggs locked up the refrigerator and emptied the stew into the bowl. Turned the range off. He noticed that Marvin had taken the items out of the bucket and was presently holding the bucket under the tap and was about to fill it with water.

  “Why do that when there’s a spigot in the basement?”

  “Don’t rightly know.”

  Biggs had to remind him to put the crap back in the bucket.

  “Grab the dog biscuits.”

  Marvin did.

  “And the chow bowl.”

  Had him step into the hallway with it all. Biggs grabbed the plastic jug. Stepped into the hallway himself and locked the kitchen door behind him. He was reciting “Hate the sin, not the sinner” line as he walked to the basement door where the sidekick stood waiting.

  Bishop unlocked it. Looked at him. “Hate the sin, not the sinner.” It was stated with some resonance this time. Marvin did not seem to get it.

  “Say it.”

  “Why come?”

  “Say it, Deacon. Hate the sin, not the sinner.”

  “Whatever you say, Hoss. Hate the sin, not the sinner.”

  They descended the stairs, all the while repeating the line. As they neared the bottom steps, Norbert Fimple could be heard making all sorts of nasty sounds, sounds that emanated from both: his rectum as well as his mouth.

  Reaching the basement floor, Biggs aimed his light in the direction of the john. Crazy Norbert had left the door practically wide open as he sat on the throne, defecating and farting up a storm. Brought forth memories of Goodfellow behaving no differently the other day. No sense to close the door while they did their business. He didn’t mind watching bitches take a dump, especially after he’d fed them Ex-Lax and beer, but this was not pleasant. Hearing it and seeing it. Not pleasant at all.

  “Sound’ like Norbert got the runnin’ shit’ again.”

  “That’s what happens when you consume mice and cockroaches. Not to mention pulverized lightbulbs and raw meat. Not to mention all the silverware and who knows what else.”

  “Yo. He the one like’ them lightbulb and mice. Dude be likin’ them mice way more than the Ripper ever did.”

  “That’s all right. He’s learning. He can shit all he wants, so long as he does it in the john.”

  “Mothafuckah better not be gettin’ no idea about eatin’ my pet homie’, neither.”

  Biggs handed him three double-A size rechargeable batteries to pass on to the Bible-thumper in the wheelchair. Reminded him to distribute the dog biscuit treats among the retards.

  Muck proceeded to do so.

  CHAPTER 231

  The small black-and-white tv perched on a shelf high on the far wall in the Bunk Room hardly yielded enough light. And that other, the blood-red nightlight in the play area to the right, the Roscoe side of the basement, with the steel round table and patio chairs bolted into the cement in front of the walk-in, wasn’t much of an improvement. It was better than no light at all, he supposed. And “Mademoiselle Betty?” And that flashlight of hers? (A mini version of the impressive black horse cock Maglite that Cecil carried around with him) was used sparingly by her and usually aimed directly at the passage she happened to be immersed in in the oversized open Bible before her.

  Just one more thing that annoyed the deacon: that the “bag of bone’” could have her own flashlight, and he couldn’t.

  He walked over to where the old ho was sittin’ at the table and had her open Bible in front of her. No sooner did he drop the batteries in her lap, did Miss Betty start in on something that was troubling her.

  Yo, thought Marvin, everybody got they problem’. He didn’t want to hear it, and went about passing out the dog biscuit treats to the others.

/>   CHAPTER 232

  Having done an about-face, Biggs walked about thirty feet in back of the stairwell. He was at the door to the Mattress Room and looking for the key to unlock it, when Muck rejoined him.

  Biggs asked him if Mr. Fimple was done in the john, in case others had to go. He didn’t particularly like seeing the geeks go in the honey buckets—or on the floor. Because that’s what happened on occasion when they used the buckets: they missed the bucket and the waste hit the floor.

  “Guess who moans about having to clean up after them?”

  “Pimple? He done.”

  “You mean Fimple.”

  “What I said: Fimple. Be done shittin’. Only now he sittin’ there. Can’t make up his mind which hand to wipe wiff.”

  “He’s conflicted. Who does that remind you of?”

  “Wouldn’t know, me. Don’t know nobody like that dude—’cept Goodfellow an’ them.”

  “You give Mademoiselle Rutterschmidt the batteries?”

  “That remind’ me: nasty ol’ Mildred be suckin’ on Leo Nix’ carrot. Back there by Siberia, in the dark—so don’t nobody know they be doin’ it.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I give ’em to her. Old ho be complainin’ about anal wart’ again. Don’t want to hear it, me. I ain’t the croaker. Tol’ her to go see Sassy. He the head Doc, ain’t he? I don’t know nothin’ about no anal wart’. Never had ’em. Some peep’ got ’em. I ain’t sayin’ who. I ain’t one. Only look’ like Sassy be kissin’ Leo Nix culo—at the same time Mildred on the other side suckin’ on that skinny dick.”

  “Not your concern.”

  “All I can say: if Greta catch ’em at it she gonna kick some ass. Betty Lou, too. Old ho hate’ them queer chump’ doin’ that nasty shit.”

  “I have far more valid concerns to deal with: mortgage, food and light bill, car insurance. Dog biscuits don’t grow on trees.”

  “Sassy ain’t nothin’ but a low-class sissy to be doin’ that, if you aks me.”

  “Beats gnawing on your limbs. I’d much rather see him pole smoking, than chewing off his fingers.”

  “You right. ’Cause if you ain’t got yo hand, how you gonna be able to wipe yo behind that way?”

  Biggs shined his Maglite where the action was supposedly going on. It sure was. He didn’t give a damn what the retards were up to. Let them stay preoccupied.

  Over in the play area, Betty Lou was replacing the old batteries in her flashlight with the new. She had the old ones in the battery recharger and was fiddling with it.

  He hoped she had it plugged in. Had previously reminded her that the recharger needed to be plugged into the socket in the wall for it to work.

  He couldn’t quite make out where the rest were: Greta and the others. Looked like they were in the Geek Room lying in their bunk beds. Watching the black-and-white tv.

  “Let them be. Whatever makes them happy. See, that was something J.J. never could stand: people being happy; me smiling, hugging Parfrey, playing with him. Having fun. The old lady was jealous of the love I had for Mr. Turnbull and his hog.”

  “Yo. Hate the sin, not the sinner.” And both could easily hear Betty Lou Rutterschmidt echo same.

  Biggs unlocked the door to the Mattress Room. Went in.

  CHAPTER 233

  A startled Pearleen Bell sat up, huddled, on a mattress in a corner to his right.

  Biggs had Marvin bring in the first-aid kit, pussy plugs, and the other items and place them on that rickety coffee table that Dione Aragon had wrecked earlier and that he’d had Big Tex painstakingly reconstruct.

  Probably would have made more sense to pick up another at a garage sale somewhere—or even dig one out of the storage corridor, although the corridor was a shambles, courtesy of Pearleen and friends.

  You did your best to save a buck whenever possible. Besides, the feeble-minded ones should be pulling their weight, paying their way. Having Big T. mend broken furniture from time to time served that purpose.

  “Now leave, Marvin.”

  “I wanna hang and watch, Cecil. Been wantin’ to take a real good, up-close look at the hot trim a long time now. Yo.”

  “It’s not what you think. Her cuts and bruises should be gone over.”

  “You ain’t got to boo-shit me, Cecil. This be Marvin Muck you be talkin’ to, Brotha.”

  Biggs detached a key from the carabiner on his belt. Handed it to him.

  “Key to the tap. Fill the bucket, and then screw the hose on. Drag the nozzle end in here. Bring the lock back. I want you to turn the water on, then get yourself some sleep.”

  Marvin did the bit with the hose: had it screwed to the tap in the wall by the pit, then dragged the end with the sprayer handle into the Mattress Room. Handed the lock and key over. Lingered. Not eager to leave.

  “The water on?”

  “Water be on.”

  “What are you standing around for? Go get yourself some shuteye. You like to complain about being tired.”

  “Like you: can’t sleep. Had me a hard time gettin’ to sleep all the time. Why all a them mofo had me on Ritalin an’ shit.”

  “In that case, go keep an eye on the cars, then.”

  “Them pepper belly ain’t dumb enough to be back right away. ’Sides, they be hurtin’, more than likely. In a world of pain. They be lookin’ for a croaker right now.”

  “You’re about to piss me off. Get me?”

  “All right, then. Ain’t got to tell me twiced, Brotha Trusty. Ain’t got to rag on me like you doin’. Only I thought we wuz partner’, and we wuz supposta share like partner’. Bro’ before hoe’. Somethin’ like that.”

  “Never satisfied, are you? You had Dixie, the others.”

  “What about the basement door? Don’t it be locked? You lock every damn door, every time.”

  Biggs stood there, glaring at the hopeless fool until he left the room.

  CHAPTER 234

  He faced Pearleen. She had plenty of scrapes on both arms, neck, and a few on her face. There was enough blood on her legs; blood and grime. Practically a horrid sight. Nothing that a little soap and water, dab of peroxide, and a butterfly Band-Aid or two wouldn’t fix.

  There was no denying the sudden surge of annoyance that swept through him, nor could he put his finger on why exactly it was happening. Something about the way she sat there pressing a worn blanket against her chest and crotch.

  It dawned on him: the false and blatant modesty of it. The whore showed off her privates to perfect strangers for a living, and here she was covering it up. What hypocrisy.

  He yanked the blanket away. Ordered her to stand up. She did so, taking her sweet time. Not here, thought Biggs.

  “When I give a command, you hop to it.” To see that she got the message, he reached out with his right hand, gripped her by the throat—to the extent that she was gasping.

  “Let’s get one thing straight: We have rules around here—and I’m the one who makes them. The all-important rule is you do as I say. Fail to comply, disappoint me in any way—and the punishment will be severe. Do we understand one another?”

  She may have been defiant initially. No longer. She was batting her eyes and made the effort to nod. His grip was powerful enough that he practically lifted her off the floor.

  He held her this way, wanting the vic to absorb the words and allow the message to sink in—then just as suddenly let go and watched her fall back against the wall and drop to the mattress.

  “I want you to get cleaned up. Are you thirsty?” It took her a moment to recover and catch her breath. She said she was.

  “I thought you might be.”

  He handed her the Listerine.

  “Gargle the vomit out of your mouth.”

  She did as told. Spit it out into the honey bucket. He handed her the jug with tap water. There was hesitation on her part, just as he had expected. Not that he could blame her.

  “I don’t poison my victims. That’s for screwy murdering bitches
without balls. It’s nothing more than a cowardly way of taking someone’s life. If I want to kill somebody I just do it, using my own tried-and-true methods. No poisoning of water or grub.”

  She drank from the jug. He waited for her to have her fill, then held the bowl of stew out. The stripper took a whiff. Wouldn’t be interested.

  “It’s jambalaya. Perfectly nutritious.”

  Pearleen Bell wasn’t about to change her mind.

  “Suit yourself. If you don’t eat you’ll starve to death—not to mention your tits will eventually shrivel up and so will that great ass. What good would you be to me then?”

  He shined the Maglite on her face. “You look weak as it is. Lack of food will do it every time. I know what I’m talking about.”

  He placed the bowl on the coffee table. Extracted the greeting card box from his jacket pocket. Handed it to her. Told her to open it, and take the items out: pen, generic greeting card, white envelope, postage stamp—and a sheet of paper with some writing on it. He asked her to read the writing.

  Fritz,

  A brief note to let you know I found work in

  Sin City. The money is too good to pass up.

  Lana and Stella are with me. We’re checking

  into rehab to get clean before we start the new

  gig. We’re not coming back.

  Best wishes,

  Pearleen

  She looked up.

  “What is it?”

  “I wouldn’t sign it that way.”

  “What way?”

  “I never could stand him and his smelly cigars. Up yours, sounds more like me.”

  “It does at that. Only it’s too harsh, in my opinion. Why not compromise and sign it simply: Pearleen?”