Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

  “Yeah, like the murder we had yesterday, and ten to one it was the same magic markers used on the fuckin’ junkie chick.” Slouch bit his lip at the expletive.

  “We’ll do a little workup ourselves,” Vernon said, “then they won’t be calling us the Two Stooges at Headquarters.” His eyes turned critical. “You’re not very observant, are you?”

  Slouch ground his teeth. “If there’s hot chicks around, sure. And you know, you can say what you want but I think the headmistress or what ever she is is hot.”

  Vernon lifted the hem of the altar cloth up with the tip of his shoe.

  “Well how do you like that?” Slouch said.

  “Bag it and mark it.”

  Recessed there lay one green magic marker. Slouch turned an evidence bag inside out over his hand and picked it up. “Sounds like Bouncing Betty’s coming back.”

  Ms. Lancre’s footfalls grew louder as she re-approached. Her lips seemed pursed in a manner that denoted satisfaction. “An interesting phone call, Inspector.”

  “Church business?” Vernon asked.

  “Police business, I would think,” the woman said. She crossed her arms beneath her bosom. “That was the school’s secretary, letting me know that earlier today a Mr. Mills called the school to report a curious observation. You see, Mr. Mills’s ten-year-old daughter, Grace, is a student here.”

  “Yes?” Vernon said, scribbling notes.

  “Last night at shortly past nine, Mr. Mills was driving Grace home from the skating rink and their journey happened to lead them right past the school.”

  “Yes, yes?” Vernon tried to hurry her along.

  “And they both happened to notice several homeless women loitering in front of the school.”

  Vernon and Slouch looked at each other.

  “That could be very helpful. I’ll need Mr. Mills’s phone number, ma’am,” Vernon said.

  “The secretary will be happy to oblige,” the woman said. “Mr. Mills and his daughter took note of this because it seemed uncharacteristic and a bit odd.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “But that’s not all,” the woman continued as if unfolding a great puzzle. “You see, it wasn’t only these homeless women they saw loitering. They said they also saw a woman who appeared to be a nun.”

  “A nun?” Vernon questioned. “So it could be someone connected with the school?”

  “No, no, Inspector. For this nun, according to them, was dressed in the old pre-Vatican II habit and wimple, something most orders were allowed to dispense with a long time ago—since 1965 as a matter of fact. You simply don’t see it much these days, not in America, at any rate. Only the most austere orders still subscribe to the old dress codes. What I mean is it’s very unlikely that a nun dressed specifically in these sorts of raiments would be seen near the school, especially at such a late hour.”

  It’s something, Vernon thought. Now if I only knew what to do with it. He frowned when he caught Slouch’s eye cast toward the woman’s bosom. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am…are you a nun?”

  Her aquamarine eyes glittered. “I’m a Bride of Christ, yes. But if you’re inquiring as to my whereabouts at the time this other nun was seen, I was attending a blessing at the Cathedral last night—”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I was just curious. When I was a kid, we always addressed a nun as ‘Sister,’ yet you introduced yourself as ‘Miss.’”

  “The old formalities are fading, sir,” she said. “In church, I’m Sister Mabille Lancre but at school I’m Miss. It’s considered less authoritarian, for the students, though I’m not sure what to think about the efficacy of such modern liberalizations. We simply do as the Holy Father bids. But I’m pleased to know that you’re a Catholic, Inspector.”

  How’d I get into this? Vernon wondered. “Well, to be honest I was raised that way but…”

  She gave a knowing smile. “It’s easy to lose sight of God in this wicked age; however, once you start looking again, the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven will be back in your hands.”

  Jesus. Slouch was grinning at him over the woman’s shoulder. Get back to business …“Who was the first person to discover the break-in, ma’am?”

  “The janitor. If you’d like to speak with him, just ask the secretary.” She looked back at the denigrated altar linens. “Regrettably, the school’s chancellor, Father Bosch, has not yet been notified. He’s out of town. He’ll be repulsed when he hears of this offense.”

  Vernon tilted his head. “I’m not belittling what happened here, Ms. Lancre, but it’s really not that serious. Just some light vandalism and one pried-open window.”

  “A crack gang would’ve torn the place apart,” Slouch commented.

  Ms. Lancre looked slapped in the face. “Not that serious? Really, Inspector, and with you raised in the Faith.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am but I’m not sure what you—”

  “Something much more grievous than mere vandalism has occurred here, sir.”

  “Really?”

  She looked at him, yes, like a nun scolding him in school. “You’re not very observant, are you?”

  Slouch silently hee-hawed at him behind her back.

  “Come here!” She led them to the other side of the altar. On the floor lay several pieces of—

  “Wax paper?” Slouch guessed.

  “Not quite,” she said, effusing sarcasm, “but I’m sure Inspector Vernon knows, being the stalwart Catholic that he is, hmm?”

  Vernon did know what the papers were; he remembered from when he was an altar boy. “The wrapping from the rolls of Communion wafers, right?”

  “For the Host, yes,” the woman explained as if sickened. “And seeing that the wraps are empty we can only come to the most repugnant conclusion…”

  “The homeless girls ate the wafers?” Slouch assumed, confused. “Since you call that repugnant, I guess the wafers taste pretty bad, huh?”

  “That’s not what she means, Slouch,” Vernon told him.

  “Indeed not,” she snapped, “and please remember that they’re not merely wafers, Officer. They represent the Body of Christ.”

  “Transubstantiation and all that,” Vernon said.

  “Yes, the ultimate mystery of Faith. For the Host to be consumed beyond the act of Holy Communion is to represent the most appalling offense. They hadn’t yet been blessed, of course, but still, the very idea.”

  “Of course,” Vernon tried to accommodate her, “but where there’s the Body of Christ, isn’t there also the Blood—in other words, the wine?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “If they consumed that, too, there’ll be some really good fingerprints on the bottle,” Vernon informed her.

  She walked to the opposite side of the altar, to a wooden cabinet mounted to the wall. “But as you can see…” She opened the cabinet to reveal several unopened bottles of wine. “They haven’t been touched.”

  Fuck, Vernon profaned, then felt a little guilty when the figure of Christ aloft seemed to frown at him. He bagged the empty wrappers. Iodine fuming, he thought impulsively. “Ma’am? And where are the wafers stored?”

  She walked to an identical cabinet on the other side, began to reach for it, but—

  “Don’t touch that,” Vernon commanded. He put another evidence bag over his hand and opened the cabinet. “Nothing left,” he said. “May I take this knob temporarily, Ms. Lancre?”

  Slouch stepped up. “You have his stalwart Catholic promise that it’ll be returned after we tape it for prints.”

  “By all means,” she said.

  Vernon unscrewed the knob inside of the bag, then inverted it. Now, however, the woman stooped over, hands on knees. She seemed to be peering at something in the back of the cabinet.

  “Ms. Lancre?”

  “My great Lord. More despicable vandalism.”

  Vernon took out a cheap penlight on his keys and shined it inside.

  “What is that?” the woman asked. “It’s har
dly Latin, like the other writing. It looks Slavic.”

  The backing board at the rear of the cabinet was white foam-board, and on it, in the same alternating black, green, and red, the words appeared: TARA FLAESC WALLKYA.

  “The hell is that?” Slouch asked.

  Ms. Lancre stared at him, outraged.

  “Sorry.”

  Vernon transcribed the words in his notebook. “What ever it means, I’ll find out.”

  “If it really means anything,” Slouch amended. “Homeless schizos like to write and talk in imaginary languages sometimes.”

  This was true but…Not this time, Vernon felt. “I’ll be in touch, Ms. Lancre,” he said, his mind cluttered now. “I’ll have vehicular patrols stepped up in this area for the time being.”

  “Thank you. Godspeed in catching these corrupted souls. I’d very much like to meet them once they’re apprehended.”

  Vernon half-smiled. “To give them a tongue-lashing?”

  “Of course not! To remind them that God forgives all.”

  Vernon stalled. “Right. Good-bye.”

  Slouch stole a last glance at the woman’s bosom, then followed Vernon toward the door.

  “Oh, and Inspector?” she called back.

  Vernon turned back. “Yes?”

  “You’ll find God again, one day.” She smiled very thinly. “I feel certain.”

  Vernon got a chill and left the chapel.

  (IV)

  Doke was the Man on the Scene, black and bad, and no shit for brains. He never touched his product. Never get high on your own supply ’cos if you do, you fuckin’ die. He knew the score. And just as fast as he could bust a move, he could bust a cap in a froggy junkie’s coconut. Business was business.

  He was the main bagman on Broadway, from 79th to Columbus—or…at least he thought he was. He’d started out as a clocker at six, and had been dealing rock and black tar for five years, mostly rock. Twenty-three now, but he had the nose for the street like a player twice his age. He knew how to work the trash out there, he knew how to get someone to need his product, and he could always tell when someone was ready to tip.

  He sold for the Kings. Z-Mob had been moving on their turf but so far, tough shit. The Kings knew how to take care of their gig; couple of times they’d caught Z-Men punks selling in the zone and these poor fuckers were found a week later in some cubed cars. Boo-yah, Doke thought, hitching up his baggie pants. I’m with the right crew, not these poo-put motherfuckers. He had $120 sneakers that blinked. Cool. Doke was a cliché and didn’t even know it.

  Lotta dime-dealers and assholes said working West Side was a ball-buster ’cos so many people here were rich. “Ain’t no good crackheads Upper West Side, man,” a fence told him once and he’d pronounced crackheads as “crackhades.” “They all rich, man. They all pill junkies, man. Oxy, Vyky, that shit, man. They ain’t on the pipe or the needle. Don’t you know nothin’?” Shee-it, Doke thought, laughing. WHO don’t know nothing? He sold to a lot of rich white house wives, as a matter of fact, but of course, he’d sell to anyone. Fuckers coming right out of rehab gave Doke some quality satisfaction in employment. He was always there waiting with a free bag, get ’em right back on the Devil’s Dick. Kids were fun, too,’ cos he liked the idea—he liked the ideology. Tip ’em with a few free rocks and next thing they knew they were ripping off cash out of their rich parents’ wallets and selling shit in the house. They’d take the $80,000 Audi and sell it to a chop shop for five grand and just say some “bad man” stole it, then every penny of that five would wind up in Doke’s kick. Kids tipped the quickest, see, and the earlier you got the hook in ’em, the harder it was to get out and the more it cost the motherFUCKIN’ U.S. taxpayer in the long run. Fuck them, Doke thought, bopping. What they ever do for me? But the rich house wives were always the best. While Hubby’s busy with his job on fuckin’ Wall Street, his squeeze is chipping away at the checking account, lying about the bills, selling the jewelry, and next thing you know Hubby comes home from work one day to find out Junior’s college fund is bone-dry and his “high-class” wife has been a closet crackhead for the last two years. Doke nodded as he continued down the sunny street. Shit-yeah.

  And Doke considered himself an equal opportunity drug dealer. He did not discriminate. Rich, poor, young, old, niggers, spics, kikes, white trash, whoever you are—I got what you need …

  Worst customers, however, were longer-timers on their way to what they called Rock Bottom. Get it? Mostly chicks who’d been working the street ten or twenty years but by now they looked like such shit they couldn’t snag a john in a million years. Next stop? Homeless City. Lot of ’em were moving over this way ’cos—shit—try being homeless in a crack hood. You’d be dead in two minutes. They kill bums there, cut your throat just for the dirty clothes on your back. Doke had a couple packs of these girls who were sleeping in the closed buildings ’cos it was safer here. They were always a harder sell but if you roughed them up, sometimes you could motivate them. Then give ’em all a free toke on the pipe to remind ’em what they’re missing. They’d find ways to get money. It was never much but Doke’s point guy with the Kings? Dude named Archie. One time Archie told him this: “The smart businessman pursues all profit, large and small.” Straight up. Come on, Doke wasn’t some piece-of-shit player dealing on the street.

  He was a businessman.

  Cop gave him the eye as he was turning off 72nd, near where some guy he never heard of named Lennon got shot. Doke would’ve given him the eye back ’cept he was carrying so he just went on his way ’cos, thank God, it was a free country and a dude shouldn’t be shook down for walkin’ the street just ’cos he looked like a crack-dealing scumbag. I’ll fuckin’ SUE, and win! It happened all the time these days. I got my rights, motherfuckers. Then, a couple blocks later:

  Well, well, well, well, well, he thought.

  Up the street two familiar faces turned into an alley, a pair of the same homeless trash he was just thinking about. Haven’t seen those two in a while nows that I think about it. Thought they must’ve croaked by now. If they had, that would be fine with him,’ cos if you asked Doke, white hoes too beat to make crack money had no right to exist. But then he remembered what his main man Archie had said…

  Doke picked up his pace.

  “Yo! You two!” he called right after he stepped into a side alley. “Hold up!”

  The two girls turned. Big eyes in drawn faces showed something like terror. When they turned again, Doke shouted with authority.

  “Hold UP, I said. Don’t MAKE me have to run.”

  They stopped, leaning against the alley wall.

  Yeah, those two. He remembered them. The one that stuttered and he could never tell what color her hair was ’cos it was so dirty. Looked like she was wearing the same jeans he last saw her in over a month ago, but now she had a new T-shirt that said THE DAMNED on it, what ever the fuck that was. Doke had slapped her up a couple of times, not ’cos she ripped him off,’ cos…it was just fun slapping her up. She just LOOKS like she needs it. Other one was the one with pink glasses and missing a bunch of teeth. Shitty orange halter and blue jeans brown with dirt.

  Doke loped up, giving them the Look. “Where you think you’re goin’, huh?”

  “Home,” Glasses said.

  “Home, shit. You ain’t got no home. Ain’t seen you two in a long time. Don’t you owe me for some Bits I slipped you?” he bullshitted.

  “Nuh-nuh-no,” the stutterer said.

  Doke paused. They still looked like shit but…not quite as shitty as last time. Like they gained some weight or something. “Yeah? Well, maybe I’m thinkin’ of someone else who ripped me off.” But now the stutterer was staring at him, half in fear and half in something Doke didn’t like. Like maybe…loathing? “What’choo eyeballin’, ho?”

  “Wuh-wuh-we don’t smoke no more,” she huffed out with a great effort.

  Doke laughed. “Only way either of ya don’t smoke no more is ’cos you’re too skanky to t
urn tricks. But I can tune ya both up right now, if ya got cash.”

  The stutterer stiffened up again, “I-I-told you, we don’t do crack no more-no more-no more—”

  “Be quiet!” Glasses blared, little boobs swaying in all the halter’s play.

  “We ain’t got no money neither!” the stutterer added in a testy tone.

  Doke didn’t like this. They were being rude, and no crackhead was rude to him. When he stepped right up to them, they moved back against the wall as if pressured by the distance between them.

  “I’d kick both of your white-trash asses ’cept I’d get my shoes dirty.” He tipped up a Nike. “And just one of these shoes is worth more than both of ya and all them other little dirtbags ya’ll hang out with. No money, huh? Well I guess that means I gotta search ya, and I’m keepin’ everything I find.” And then he shoved the stutterer back hard against the bricks and rammed a hand down her pockets.

  Fuck. “What’s this shit, cunt?” The only thing he found in her pockets was a can of anchovies.

  Did Glasses smile ever so slightly? She actually took a step toward him. “We got some money, Doke, and we’ll crack it up some. We got enough for two rocks.”

  “Francy!” the other one exclaimed, looking appalled. “We don’t do that shit no more! What would the New Mother say?”

  Doke stared poker-faced. New Mother? Fuckin’ loonies …“Don’t know what you hoes are talkin’ ’bout and I don’t care. Two rocks is fifty bucks, same as always. Lay it on me.”

  “It’s at home,” Glasses said.

  Doke laughed. “I’m standin’ in it, ain’t I?”

  “We live right down here in the old clothes store. There’s a hole. You have to come with us.”

  “Francy!” Stutterer shrieked again. “She’ll kick us out of the convent-the convent-the convent, the—”

  “Be quiet!” Glasses shoved the other one ahead of her, down the alley.

  The convent? Doke loved the shit some of them said once their brains were gone. Man, this is a hoot.