Black Leather Required

by David J. Schow

  Deeper down, Renny was enjoying himself. He thought Barb watched too much cable. When he had first proposed murdering Victor–just as a hoot, mind you, nothing serious–she burdened him with probable cause and airtight alibis and where-were-you-on-the-night-of. Ridiculous, in a world where people simply dropped off the planet on a daily basis, never again a peep. You break his neck, you dump him in the first available manhole, the sewer is a disposal system, end of story.

  Barb had wanted to play faithful and loving right up to the climax of the drama. Loving, hah. Faithful, not since she'd met Renny.

  In the end it hadn't come down to murder, but right now Barb sure was reaping some drama.

  Things were so lively right now that Renny had busted a workout sweat and Barb's vocal cords were rawing. He finally turned around and told her to shut up while what was left of Victor Jacks twitched in a pile on the floor. The business end of the bat was a real mess.

  "Is he dead?" said Barb, cowering.

  "I don't think he's gonna move no more right now." Renny would have wiped his be-gored hands on his pants; his pants had been off since just after dinnertime. He let his hands hang in the air as he looked around, uselessly. He said sheeeit, slow and weary. It didn't help.

  "How? How did he? He. . .we. . .I don't. . .it just." Barb was still having a bit of trouble being coherent.

  "Victor was always a stubborn sumbitch, you know that one, babe."

  Barb stood up and risked moving a little closer to what was left of Victor. "Maybe he, you know, didn't really die. Went into a coma or something."

  "Barb, Victor was dead. He was dead last week and he was still dead when he walked in on us. He is the deadest thing I ever saw."

  "You knocked his head off," she said, dully.

  "Stopped him, didn't it?"

  "What're we gonna do, Renny? He's all . . . ehh."

  "Shush. What we're gonna do is call the morgue and tell them some pervert snatched the body and mutilated it, and dumped it here as a joke. Some old boyfriend of yours. You can make up a description. Nobody'll bug us."

  "What makes you so smart?"

  Renny had to stop a moment to ponder a good answer to that one.

  "I mean, you think they'll buy it?" There she went again. Barb was one of those people who strolled through life obliviously, thinking a call to the police would sling her free of any sort of trouble. Now she was just as convinced that the Authorities–capital A–would swoop down at any moment to point j'accuse.

  "Babe, just dream up a good description. Say he was a Mexican in a green windbreaker."

  "But Renny, I'd never go out with no Mexican, and how come I have to say he's my old boyfriend? I mean–"

  Renny sighed, held her by the shoulders, met her eyes. "We'll deal. Trust me. Please." He forced a smile for her. It was like jamming a finger down his throat to chuck up an emotion. He needed to divert her, to say something that would get her mind off police procedure, so he said, "Uh got any towels?"

  Renny mopped off. Barb brought a big Hefty bag. Renny stuck the bat back under the bed. Touching it again made him re-experience the sheer satisfaction of pounding ole Victor right back into death, and this gifted him with a healthy and urgent erection.

  Barb glimpsed what was coming up, and managed to finish him off before the police came knocking. Once again she told Renny that she'd never done that with Victor, and Renny smiled and stroked her head, keeping to himself the private notion that Barb could probably suck the stitches off a hardball through a flexi-straw. Victor Jacks would never have hung with a china doll. Renny would never have been tempted by one, either.

  Then the Authorities arrived, and Renny and Barb set about making up stories.

  Funerals never were much of a hoot. Neither Barb nor Renny had RSVPed many in their combined forty-odd years, but this time they dutifully duded up in basic black, and held hands, and dabbed at crocodile tears as the rearranged remains of Victor Jacks were boxed up and delivered six feet closer to Hell.

  Half an hour after the services, both of them were naked and neither of them was very depressed.

  Most annoying of Barb's bed play habits was her wont of lighting off to the toilet as soon as. . .well, right after. Renny had once joked about it:

  "I make all that effort to give you something, babe, and you just go piss it away." Barb had made a face. Crude, her face told him. Not funny. Then hi-de-ho, off to the can again.

  Fine. Renny grunted manfully and rolled to his right side, his favored side for dozing. Swell.

  In the bathroom, Barb watched herself in the mirror for a long time, not quite sure what her surveillance was in quest of. Victor had hit her in this bathroom. He'd also done it to her, same day, in the tub, which was too small for love. Victor's tendency to boil over all at once was frightening, a pit bull on a very iffy leash, thought Barb. Whether it got hostile, life-threatening, might depend on a dozen factors. When it last ate. Whether it was pissed off. Whether it liked you. Whether it liked your smell. Victor Jacks had been like that.

  But when Victor got to the part where he put his big hands all over her; large, powerful, warm hands, unbuttoning and unzipping her, making her naked and telling her she was wanted, touching her in places only she touched–curve of ass, inside of thigh, underside of breast, smooth-shaven armpit–oh, my. He made her moist, filled her up; she would practically hallucinate and she had always slept gorgeously afterward. The sex was never violent between them; only the occasional backhand was.

  Barb knew she would never get around to enjoying the way men apologized, every time, after they smacked her.

  When she had met Victor Jacks, she was a waitress-newly-turned exotic dancer. Petite-chested, with good hips and sturdy, if not long, legs, she figured it was virtually the same aggravation for better tips and weirder hours; she fancied she needed more weird in her life. She got Victor. All he lacked was a puff of smoke to appear in.

  When Victor had met Barb, he was comfortably into pharmaceutical Dexedrine pops and on the cusp of crystal meth. He made do with the odd frame-weld for RUBs–Rich Urban Bikers–and bashed big-blocks for muscle-car meatheads with too much leisure cash. He paid Barb to table-dance and made her sit, just sit, while he looked at her. Management did not approve. Victor did not make a scene. He merely smiled and showed Barb's bosses more money. To Barb, whose concept of foreplay was someone bigger than her saying shut up and lay down, this was romance with a big R indeed. After a week of this bizarre courtship, she went out with him. . .and he stayed in with her.

  When Renny Boone had met Barb, he was so chemical-free you could almost see his halo. To Barb, by this time shell-shocked by two years of biker-speed tantrums and eight-ball insomnia, Renny's well-cut bod and addiction-less turn smelled like that myth come true, the Better Life.

  "You look like you could use a rest," Renny had told her, and so telling her, he took her straight away to bed.

  Five days later the two of them were still trying to dope out some rationalization that might convince, say, a jury that she, Barb, and he, Renny, were Meant To Be. But Barb lacked the heart to dump someone as spontaneous and romantic as Victor Jacks.

  Truth was, Renny preferred Barb as a rental. And that Victor wasn't such a bad dude. He'd even nailed the chronic carburetor wheeze suffered by Butch, Renny's black '66 Impala.

  Truth was, Barb preferred Victor's flashfire spats to shaking her ass for the beery swine who bellied up to the runway at Nasty Tramps.

  So Truth held sway, and Victor stayed ignorant, dangerous and sexy. Barb had Renny for the topics she could never broach to Victor. And Renny had Barb, the way cowboys have spittoons. And they all lived happily ever after for about two more weeks, until Victor came back to the house, unannounced, to fetch his set of Allen wrenches, and . . .

  . . . well, you can imagine.

  The "tool excuse" had been Victor's cover story. That afternoon, unbeknownst to Renny and Barb, Victor had fallen in love again–this time, with a smokable amphetamine call
ed ice. He was pretty saturated, on top of his morning fistful of vitamins, and when he walked through his front door and caught Renny and Barb doing the bone dance on his sofa bed, the speed made his anger instantaneous; his reaction time, zero.

  Victor had snarled. Literally snarled, lip curling. He came for his betrayers, his face bright crimson, the sclera of his eyes pinking. Two steps closer he stopped, stiffened, pawed at his left arm, and fell stone dead of the most concussive goddamned heart attack his mesomorphic build could contain. Victor's fulsome, romantic-if-crazy heart shut down like a phone sex line with no callers, and all that remained was for the coroner to scribble death by chemical misadventure into the appropriate box. . .while Victor himself was trucked away to fill up another appropriate box.

  Which brings us back to Barb, in the bathroom.

  She flushed the toilet. Flushed, then blushed, in a match-head flare of anger as she remembered Renny's idiotic joke about her having to urinate after sex. She would never forget it. Crude, Renny could be so crude. Maybe dumb, too–dumb enough never to have heard of Honeymooner's Cystitis, an inflammation of the bladder that was easy to get when you had too much foreign juice rammed up your tubes. And perhaps uncaring, as well–maybe Renny didn't give a big manly damn what havoc forty-five minutes of the missionary position could wreak on even a healthy girl's poor need to pee.

  In her mirror, by nightlight, she spotted a hickey on her neck. Crude.

  But she loved the way Renny liked to chew on her, just nibble and bite and suck all the right places, as though he was desperately hungry for her, physically starving. She always orgasmed first, even when she tried to outlast him, and once she was coitally zoned, she really did want him to leave marks. Little ones she'd see in the morning, when she felt the delicious residual ache of their workout.

  She liked to tease Renny about all the women he must have learned his bag of tricks from. If she had a headache or a rotten mood, Renny could bang it right out of her. Victor would never even touch her at her time of the month; Renny did not have that particular cultural problem. He made her feel more desirable on her doggiest days, and feeling desirable made Barb feel womanly indeed. Renny even understood about her having to go back to work at Nasty Tramps, now that Victor was no longer winning the bread. In fact, Renny had suggested Barb rejoin the working world. What a guy.

  Crude, dumb, uncaring, and boy-howdy opportunistic. Yeah, Renny was a prize, for sure. Prize catch of the day.

  Except that this day, somehow, Victor had found time out from his busy schedule to come back from the dead. This did not shock or befuddle Barb overtly. Maybe she'd seen too many monster movies, and lacked the emotional capacity for astonishment. She stared down her reflection eye-to-eye and reminded herself that Victor had done a lot of uppers in his thirty-odd years on the planet. Hell, he was probably spinning in his new grave right now–at 78 RPM.

  The bathroom light was harsh. It made her feel lonely. She was fortunate to know that it was a loneliness she could drive away. She wanted Renny on her, inside of her, the fastest way she knew not to feel lonely anymore.

  She found him semi-conscious and semi-erect. Renny functioned best with a five-minute nap between rounds. Barb woke him up with her mouth. She didn't say a word, but he awoke anyway. They made a great deal of noise over the next half-hour. Renny always lasted longer once he'd "primed his pump"; his words.

  They were both on their backs, kicking away sheets to let their own sweat cool them off, when Barb said, "Did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?"

  "Little scritchy noise. Like a mouse."

  "Probably that stupid cat of yours."

  "No, he doesn't make noises like that."

  "Then it probably is a mouse. This house is–"

  "No, listen."

  Renny listened. If the thing making the noise was a mouse, it was dragging off a dog for a bit of fun.

  Barb pounded his shoulder. "It's under the bed!"

  "Jesus Christ." Renny stayed calm and leaned overboard for a look-see.

  From beneath the dust ruffle, the baseball bat shot out like a piston, hitting Renny foursquare in the chin and making him see night sky. It still had clots of Victor drying on it. Then something whipsnaked tight coils around Renny's throat and dragged him down to tussle.

  Renny made a gargling noise in the dark as he was reeled in. Discombobulated, he thought he was being engulfed by a giant wiggle-worm with a whole lot of little worms attached. He dug his heels into the rug and fought to breathe. Barb was already making those screamy gasps that truly bugged him, deep down.

  It was a hand on his throat. He peeled it off. As he did, another appendage trapped his hand.

  Renny pulled back and dragged his rubber-limbed assailant out from under the bed–the preferred place of concealment for seasoned, traditional boogeymen.

  It was Victor again.

  Moreover, it was Victor as he had been buried that afternoon. Bones all smashed. No head.

  Renny was instantly mummified in a barbwire-tangle of leathery muscles and nonliving rubber flesh; it was like trying to wrassle a waterbed. What used to be Victor's arms and legs–now freed from bones and framework–coiled and constricted into tentacles that were much quicker than Renny's fist, They slithered snug around his windpipe, his chest, his stomach, and Renny could feel it coming–the big squeeze that would make the life jump right out of him.

  Now Renny was making those screamy noises.

  He was clawing at his own face when Barb, no longer wailing, charged back from the kitchen, brandishing the biggest meat cleaver Renny had ever seen.

  Victor had threatened her with the cleaver once; that was how she'd known where to find it.

  And Barb had, in fact, seen too many monster movies. Especially the ones about psychos and kitchen implements; you could get every-damned thing on cable nowadays. She hacked and chopped and slashed and hollered and only nailed Renny by accident once.

  The grabby Victor-thing began falling to pieces faster than a clay vase run through on the wheel with a cutoff needle. Tearing a suffocating creeper of skin free from his mouth, Renny flailed to a sitting position and sucked air.

  "Barb–you cut me open, goddammit!"

  "I missed, honey, I'm sorry, okay? That thing was all over the place!"

  She helped him stand. He was wobbly, unused to needing help, to being nearly beaten. Their feet buried in the desiccated meat on the floor, she felt him shake. He hugged her tight and genuinely.

  "I know. I know, babe. . .but that thing is ole you-know-who again."

  "Can't be. No way." She pressed her face into his neck, not looking. He lifted a scrap of now-inanimate flesh and turned it to the faint light, so Barb could see the tattoo. A cherubic, comic book devil-child looked back at her from a corona of flame.

  "Aww, shit–it's Hot Stuff, Renny!"

  "Yep." Jesus, wasn't there anyone whose life hadn't been touched by Harvey Comics?

  Victor Jacks had gotten his ink at a Sunset Boulevard parlor called Skin Illos, at the behest of Nikki, who had been his girlfriend of record prior to Barb. Barb had heard you could bleach tattoos by using a laser.

  She hadn't been able to work up the spit to suggest this to Victor prior to his very timely demise.

  "Renny. . .hon. . . I don't want to make you mad or nothin, but–"

  "But?"

  "What if Victor. ..you know, keeps coming back every time we, you and I. . .you know."

  "Victor ain't coming back again."

  "What're we gonna do?"

  "What I wanted to do originally. Dump him in the sewer. What's left of him. Let the rats chow down."

  "Guess we're gonna need another Hefty bag, huh?"

  Barb grimaced at the sliced-and-diced assemblage of tissue on the floor. It relaxed and settled, shifting softly. Renny stared at it, too, panting, with shiny eyes, the sweat leaving his chin in droplets.

  "But first, babe–hand me that meat cleaver."

  The manhole cover weighed ni
nety-five pounds, give or take. Renny had the advantages of a pry bar and good upper torso strength. Thus were the headless, autopsied, dismembered, broken-boned earthly remnants of Victor Jacks consigned to LA County waste disposal network.

  Hacking Victor into itty-bitty bite-sized morsels had given Renny a peculiar thrill–the same excitement that had granted him a full-on chubby while bludgeoning Vic-baby the first time.

  Sucker just wouldn't give it up. Renny had to admire that, begrudgingly.

  And if Vic-baby somehow managed to make a third curtain call, why, that'd be the tits, too. Because Renny was starting to enjoy the new, fun things he could do with his hands.

  Like what he might do if Barb lost her marbles and started that gawdawful shrieking again . . .

  Nahh. Just a vagrant thought. No problem, there.

  Renny yanked his fingers clean and the lid seated with an iron clank. An old pal of his had once broken three fingers by not letting go soon enough, after chasing a Frisbee into the sewer. That made Renny think again of Barb. Maybe it was getting time to let her go. True, she'd come to his rescue and handled herself well enough tonight, but what if Victor was some kind of curse or something, specific to her?

  You don't pull back your hand in time, you lose. And it wasn't his fingers that Renny had been parking inside of Barb, most of the recent past.

  Just now, in fact, he was up for another bout. His body urged him to hurry home to her. She would be fresh out of her bath, tasty and scented, and Renny wanted to ride her until she screamed for real.

  "Do you hear something? A noise, or–"

  "Oh for Christ's sake, Barb!"

  "I'm serious. Stop it."

  Feeling like a wiener, Renny backed out and listened to the double-time of his own heart, back-draft from his urgent need to climax, soon sorta-like-immediately. Barb listened intently–she resembled a grade schooler trying too hard to concentrate–not for sounds from the heart, but tell-tales of nearing monsters. She was still head down, ass up after coyly asking Renny to do her that way, and she clung to the mattress as though it could render her some psychic truth.