My pills are homemade, and pretty damn potent. Pure lye coated with a thin layer of flour, followed by a glistening gelatin coating. Makes them go down easy. My pills are also very difficult to make. Lye and moisture don’t mix well. The flakes will heat to over two hundred degrees when they come into contact with water. I’m not sure how it will react with stomach acid, and frankly I’m not going to be around to find out.
“Got any extra?” one asks.
I throw the rest of my painted poison into their palms.
“Go nutch,” I tell them.
I never thought drug addiction would make me smile, but the sight of those two guards popping palmfuls of certain death is too good to resist.
I have thrown down the gauntlet and started a war. Sure, it was in Caligula’s name, but what’s the difference? There will be backstabbing, fighting, a power struggle. And while everyone fights, I will take care of business. Get some info from the stacks downtown, a few more trips to Joe’s to reload, and then it all ends. There are a lot of bridges between here and there. Ammunition to buy, weapons to conceal.
In my rearview mirror, the first thug falls down clutching his stomach. His friend bends to help when the cramps hit him, too. I accelerate, and I laugh and laugh, and I don’t care how out of control my mouth is, how much of my spittle sprays the windows. I haven’t been this happy for a long time.
Chapter Fourteen
I’ve been sitting on the workshop table in Joe’s place for a good forty-five minutes. He filled me in on the success of my courthouse delivery, how his client was very pleased with the product. We moved on to other topics; local politics, weather, sports, killing. We’ve been talking about number six. Caligula, our city’s answer to Archbishop Don “Magic” Juan. He’s not a pimp. Out here, he is The Pimp, author of two nationally published books, both bestsellers. His first effort, Pimptastic, was written while he was in his Franco-asshole phase, under the name Pompidou. Now he’s moved on and become goth, calling himself Caligula, penning the number-one book, Pimpin’ on the Dark Side. The man is pure sleaze any way you cut it. But man, is he connected.
Caligula is the man to go to for a good time. Not just for women. Big C is the central clearing house when it comes to vice. He sizes up his customers by their wallets, directs them to the appropriate drug cult, the brothel that fits their budget, the gambling garages and underground fight clubs where they can afford to lose.
Caligula is the emperor of the overstreets. He changes with the times, keeps his product fresh, his leads connected, and his women reasonably well-protected. He’s in bed with the mayor, the governor, the chief of police, anyone who has power. Granted, Big C can’t touch the heads of the drug cults. He has no power to intimidate syndicates or the families. But the everyday populace, he owns. Long as he keeps sharing, then those who are more powerful will continue to tolerate him.
I think the police tend to ignore his presence because he’s consolidated so much of the prostitution industry. They only have to go after the fringe players while Caligula regulates his McBrothels. They would love it if the same thing could happen with the drug cults.
Joe’s been working on my legs, patiently listening to my plans and filling me in on small details. He’s polite enough not to interrupt, even though he seems a little agitated tonight, like he’s got big news. So, as I wind up what should have been ten minutes of talk, he finally stops to take a break from grinding metal to offer his opinion.
“It’s wonderful. You’re doing great work. The Lord’s work. He’s going to smile down on you when it’s all said and done, kiddo, you trust me.”
“I chhst you conkleetee.”
Joe taps the leg pipe he’s working on gently, trying to get the joint to seat just so. “I can’t tell you how proud you make me,” he says, moving next to me. “You’re an inspiration. Make a man want to pick up a rifle and stand a post. If you can do it, why can’t I?”
I smile at him. Why not, indeed? I’m sure he’s got plenty of axe to grind and plenty of people to use as grinders. I chuckle and ask him:
—Is this town big enough for two vigilantes?
“This town is big enough for anything. Think of what we could accomplish. Two cripples like us, nobody would see us coming.”
I pause. I know what’s coming here. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but he’s crossing a line. My list is my list. My reasons are mine alone. Nobody else touches the list. And I don’t move beyond the list unless it’s necessary. I try to cut him off before he makes the offer.
—This is an angry woman thing, not a Batman and Robin thing.
He laughs. “I don’t want to be your partner. Naw, I got things of my own to do, and I respect your work. I know I’m beating a dead horse here, but you gotta listen to me. I think the list is out of order. I think you need to hit the Doctor before you go after Hooded Jack. You know my clientele. I’ve been putting out feelers, seeing which way the wind blows…”
—We’ve been through this, I tell him
“I know, I know. But listen. The Doctor is primed to take a fall. He thinks he’s untouchable. That’s the best place for a target to be. Comfortable. And Hooded Jack…well,” and he gets close to me and lowers his voice, even though we’re in a place where nobody could hear, “Hooded Jack has security like you wouldn’t believe. If you give me time, I might be able to find a way in for you, make things easy. But trust me, you rush in there and they will deal with you.”
—The list is the list. The Doctor comes after Hooded Jack.
“Why?”
—I don’t know why, but I know that’s how it goes.
“Have it your way. I still have a few more kills to try and change your mind, right?” And he smiles at me.
No harm, no foul. Just a big, overprotective father figure.
—What do you have for now?
I can tell Joe is dying to impress me with a plan and a massive amount of ordinance. I cock my head at him to let him know I’m listening.
“My grapevine tells me people out there aren’t too happy with Caligula. It wasn’t cops that found the olive branch at the scene of Shakes’s murder. Not a word breathed to the press. But within three hours, everyone’s looking for answers. The big dogs want to yank his chain, put him back in line. Maybe take him down for even thinking of going after a drug cult, no matter how small. You need to move fast, for two reasons. One: You don’t want him finding any friendly ears. Everyone wants to know what he’s up to. And I have it on good authority that Caligula is panicking. So, in the immortal words of Ricky Ricardo, Joo need to wax the motherfucker before he has a chance to ‘splain.”
Joe jogs across the room, starts throwing blankets and pipes off of a huge crate in the corner.
He shouts back over his shoulder. “Two: You need to destabilize the Breeding Ground. You need cops looking one way, higher-ups the other. You need everybody moving. Caligula is the keystone. See, what nobody wants right now is a war. Nobody’s ready for it, and everyone’s going to have to come out throwing punches. Shoot ’em all, let God sort ’em out, that kind of thing.
“We need to keep playing this card up the list. Take Caligula’s whole operation out, blame it on someone else, keep this ball rolling…You see where I’m going? Trouble is, everyone is too scared to take that first shot. But when it does happen, they’ll all start killing each other off.”
I’ve dreamed of that. The night would be truly wild. Complacency will die, the law of the jungle will return, and all of the hungry tigers out there will have to start fighting to figure out who’s king. The cops will be busy. Overwhelmed. The drug cults will be forced to put extra effort into protecting their routes, and protecting their higher-ups. Everyone spread thin. Nobody moving. Fairy tales can come true.
Joe steals a glance over his shoulder and lowers his voice to a more conspiratorial tone. “I never rat on my customers. You know me, I’m loyal to a fault. But I’m going to give you some inside information. And only because I don’t want to
see you get hurt.”
“It’s…” Joe looks around one more time. “If Caligula’s empire folds, and Delia has an agent on the scene, then everyone will move towards her for answers. And everyone else on the fringes will get nervous. Develop itchy trigger fingers. Kill or be killed. And you get enough of that going, you’re going to see the big players try to leave town. Dr. Robert will have to move to stay safe. Moving targets are harder for you, right?”
—I’m not changing the order!
“I know, I know. I’m not asking you…what I’m saying is, you need to do something so big that everybody is going to stop and take notice. Something huge. Something that tells everyone that leaving town could mean giving up everything to a new power player.”
He looks truly excited now. I can see flames dancing in his eyes. I have visions of him fighting bravely overseas, pushing his men, maybe even burning down small villages for God and country. I love it.
“Honestly, Caligula getting killed is one thing. A couple of people might take offense, but there are plenty of pimps-in-waiting. Here is how you make people stop and look,” he says, wheeling the crate over to me.
—You’re going to hide their bodies in there?
Joe laughs, long and hard as he unlocks the crate and pops the lid open. There’s a sheet of gray plastic stretched tightly over whatever’s inside. He sees that I haven’t quite gotten it, so he laughs even harder. “We light up the night.”
My brain doesn’t make the connection until he takes the palm of his hand and pushes on the plastic, leaving a perfect impression of his handprint.
Joe, you shall deliver me. The crate is at least four feet wide and three feet tall. And from the way Joe is laughing, I can tell that it’s all full of the same thing. It’s grey and plastic, alright. Pure C4.
“I trust you enough to let you know that this is partly for me, too. I owe Caligula. Long story, I’ll tell you afterwards. I ever tell you I used to work UDT back in the day?”
Underwater Demolition Teams. About a million times.
Joe smiles. “You give me one night, I can sneak in there and rig the whole place up. You get out into the alley after taking care of Caligula. Then his house falls. I just thought you should know before you go in there. You get moving on your list, I get to stretch my leg, make some fireworks, everybody wins.”
I push myself off the table and into Joe’s arms, hugging him hard. I hope he’s not too startled, because I have no legs at the moment. Wouldn’t want him to drop me. He hugs back and sets me down gently.
“Now what say you get out there and deliver us from evil, huh?”
Chapter Fifteen
Back to the library. So much to do and so little time. I’m making a point of being overprepared. Frances is puffing away somewhere in the basement, probably looking up “real neat” facts about historical data and things of that nature. This in between takes of the performance of his life. It is what I asked for, after all.
And he understood. It was a little refreshing to be able to look someone other than Joe in the eye and speak. I usually hate it, but after last night, it felt good. Frances listened, didn’t try to finish my sentences for me…stared at my mouth a little too long, yeah, but he hung on every word.
His clumsy, creepy attempt at showing affection left a mark on me. Beggars really can’t be choosers. Not that I’m begging, but if I was, it’s nice to know that someone out there isn’t only interested in me for what’s missing. Frances is convinced there’s something buried inside of me. Which, really is the same thing as something being missing. At this point I’m too exhausted to get angry at the whole thing.
Frances is just all right with me. I have him convinced that I’m taking an acting class through an extension at the university. Brave little me. Such courage to get up in front of all of those people. Putting myself on the line like that. What a load.
I have a monologue typed out. From a non-existent play called “Bitsy Christ Light.” The title makes no sense, so in an artistic way, I explained to Frances, it makes perfect sense. Especially when you examine the larger scope of the struggle that Bitsy must go through. It’s a very touching play, I told him. This small naify waify woman rises from an abusive relationship to confront the husband who so kept her oppressed for years and years. I typed most of this out, because I’m sure that saying “Bitsy” would mean spitting directly in his face, and I do need his help.
This monologue, it’s from the part where Bitsy has her husband pinned to the living room floor and has a gun in his face, and she confronts him about everything he’s done to ruin her life. He’s been horrible to her, and she says she doesn’t have to kill him to hurt him. She’ll go to war with him, take him to Hell and back.
Frances knows I just can’t memorize lines unless I hear them. And it would be a lot easier if I could hear them clearly. He didn’t even question it. I can hear the echo of his voice rising up the open elevator shaft.
“No, Gavin, you are going to listen to me. There are things as a man you can’t understand. Menstruation, Gavin, imagine it. Imagine!” I pray to God Frances isn’t method acting down there.
There’s some fluff at the beginning, but if I can pull off another act like I did at Shakes’s place, make Caligula think I’ve been sent by the Doctor, then maybe I can get some intimidation going. Maybe he’ll name names and places, tell me how to find other people to save his sorry ass. It’s all there in my monologue, no backwards masking necessary, just a little set dressing.
While Sir Frances is going through multiple takes, I kill time by studying for the future, the ins and outs of St. Jude’s Hospital. The doors, who installed them, how do they work in case of a fire? What kind of tile did they use on the floors? How many exits are there? Where are the metal detectors? The Doctor’s office? Security shouldn’t be hard. They’ll be looking for gang bangers, dealers, the rough crowd. Crippled white chick? What’s she going to do?
She’s going to do a lot, that’s what, and damn the media. Let them tell all the falsehoods and incorrect stories they want. Let them direct wrath and fury and indignation to those already under suspicion. Who cares?
It grinds on me. I never got my ten minutes on the news when I was immolated, but now I own the first fifteen minutes of every broadcast. I’m jealous of me because I don’t get my attention.
Another drug lord taken down. No leads. New leads in the Vasili slaying. Little Debbie clinging to life. No leads on the case, but witnesses reported a dark-skinned heavyset man running from the scene. An extra room at the hospital has been opened to hold all of the cards, flowers, and gifts from well-wishers. If stuffed animals could restore a child’s health, Little Debbie would be immortal.
All of this because of me.
I shake my head and wonder what the other kids in the sick ward are thinking. What about those other sad sacks that were Wednesday’s Child, or Tuesday’s Special Focus, or a previous cause that only got five minutes before sports. I feel for you, kids.
I glance over to the table on my right, where my list, crumpling and fraying and sweat-stained and blurred, sits. It says:
10. Vasili
9. Susan Schrader
8. Grace Brooks – need camo webbing and paper bags. SLOPPY BITCH!
7. Shakes – maybe sooner Learn restraint.
6. Caligula – Familiar address?
5. Delia Sugar – News story p7 linked, growing
4. Hooded Jack (?) – could be driver – shipping a lot – wharfs?
3. Dr. Robert Fortescu – could afford black car – leaving town soon
2. Veronica Madden – vehicle? –
1. ??? – How do you know someone’s here? Because there’s always a number one.
I have to stash it fast when I see little ripples forming in my water bottle, announcing the imminent arrival of Francasaurus Rex.
“This play is pretty good. Gritty, you know? I like it a lot. It’s good. I mean really good.” Frances must have guessed that I wrote it. He’s pa
nting a little. Maybe his heart is racing for my approval. Maybe he just took the stairs too fast. “I really like the part at the end. It’s, uh…it’s neat.”
Christ, Frances, you work in a library. There are dictionaries here. A thesaurus right there by your desk. Come on! Neat.
“Hey, did you see the latest victim on the news?”
Oh, Frances.
“That drug-cult guy? Boy, somebody messed him up.”
Let’s not discuss this.
“They say it was a ritual slaying, the way his legs were mutilated.”
Ritual slaying? There’s a new one. Can we talk about something else?
“And you know the weirdest thing? It happened at one of those buildings you were looking at the other day. Remember when you got those blueprints?”
This is a road Frances shouldn’t travel. I point to the tape recorder in his hand.
“Oh. You want to hear? Should I leave? It’s kind of embarrassing to hear my own—”
For a moment I hear the distorted sounds of double Frances as I hit play. The real Frances stops talking after a bit, so I can hear the recording of the important questions.
“Menstruation, Gavin, imagine it. Imagine! I know about her, Gavin.” And here I wrote in a long pause, for dramatic effect, “Delia. She’s angry. She’s going to eat you alive, and I think I’ll let her. Unless you start doing things for me. You want to go to war? Fine, let’s go to war! But you won’t be able to take it! No chance. It’s her or me, what’s your decision? Tell me what you know about Jack. And Delia. Now!” There’s a pause, then, “What, you want coffee? Coffee, Gavin? Yeah, you think. You know…I. I tried to. You know. Gavin, motherfucker!”
I hit stop. Frances handled my tribute to Mamet at the end quite nicely. A bit melodramatic. Some stress on the wrong syllables. And he completely ignored most of my stage directions. But, you take what you can get.
Here are some of the difficulties inherent in my plan. I have to time it right to make Caligula believe this is a message from the Doctor or one of his very close associates. Which means we can’t have any business about menstruation slipping out. I plan to break the tape recorder. He only needs to hear it once.
Miss Massacre's Guide to Murder and Vengeance Page 11
