Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “Balloons?”

  “Birthday balloons, party balloons. Hundreds of them. Party revelers get carried away and pop the balloons with cigarettes and stogies, toothpicks and forks. This is what causes the ‘loud’ bangs. And they are very loud, I must admit. It’s all quite harm-less.”

  “Balloons? Birthday party balloons?” And Harold cursed himself inside for being stupidly repetitious. He wondered if they would be allowed to leave? Wanted air. The smell was too much; the smell, the demented souls who reminded him of Charlie Manson and his hippie freaks who butchered all those people years ago. Harold traded furtive glances with his wife from time to time and readily understood that the feeling was mutual. Both may have felt a degree of compassion for the loony bunch—still, the idea was to get out. Fresh air was needed. They’d seen enough.

  If Biggs and his “church” were for real— and one could not tell either way—it was good enough for him. He remembered the speech he’d prepared, what to say to Biggs about the loud music at all hours of the night, and decided to leave it alone. He had a pacemaker to think of.

  “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fimple.” Mrs. Crust did offer a warm smile. “As well as the rest of you folks.”

  Harold joined in. “The pleasure was all mine, Norbert.” And then the two of them thanked the bishop.

  “Thank you for the fruitcake. I’ve got my cook Greta Otto just about ready to serve the rest of us some of her delicious beef stew. Would you good people care to join us?”

  “Norbert sure love’ that stew, don’t he?” Deacon Marvin was the one with the astute observation. Fay and Harold had to decline.

  “No, no. Thank you. Truth is we should get going. We sure would love to take you up on that some other time, though, Bishop Biggs.”

  They kept their eyes on Julian Ionesco. Would he make a second attempt to leap at them? And what about the woman in the mask? And the cowboy? The man in the blond wig was banging his head against the wall.

  The Crusts walked out of the Bible Room and down the hallway. Waved good-byes to the people behind them as well as the people in the Prayer Hall. They made it down the stairs to the first floor. Marvin R. Muck stayed right behind them. They reached the front door and waited nervously for Marvin to unlock it, only it seemed to take him forever: going through so many keys on the key ring.

  Finally, the front door was unlocked and the Crusts thanked the man again for his and the bishop’s hospitality, and stepped outside. The door closed behind them, and only then did they allow themselves great sighs of relief as they reached the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER 262

  Biggs had left the worshippers upstairs among the staff with crackers and cookies and Kool-Aid to chase the treats down with, while taking Marvin R. Muck–the fuck, by the sleeve and yanking him downstairs to the living room, whereby the bishop slammed the door shut and had his deacon by the throat.

  “Told you before: Don’t ever mistake kindness for weakness, Brother Marvin.”

  Muck was clearly having difficulty breathing.

  “If I made mistake. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hoss. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? You don’t use that kind of language in the presence of guests. There is such a thing as decorum. That’s how I try to run this parish, especially when we let outsiders in. Get me? I must have explained it to you at least a dozen times. You have to behave like a deacon if you intend to remain my deacon.”

  Marvin was nodding, readily agreeing. The bishop didn’t exactly throw him down, nor was it a clean release—that resulted in Marvin dropping to the floor all the same, trying to regain his breath.

  Biggs drew his switchblade.

  “What chu gonna do?”

  “Something I should have done before.” Cecil’s expression betrayed the slightest trace of a grin. Then he walked to the mini fridge and took the fruitcake out. He set it on the coffee table in front of the futon. Cut a slice.

  “Go on.”

  Marvin was uncertain for a moment. Shook his head at last, not knowing what to think.

  “Dawg. Yo. Sometime you the best, other time’ you be actin’ like a mean mothafuckin’ pimp.”

  “Take your slice of fruitcake and shut up.”

  Marvin did that. Stayed on the floor. He ate.

  Cecil unlocked the indoor shutters over the window and opened them. He cut a slice of cake for himself and ate at the window, while peering through a vertical crack in the outside shutters and could easily make out the Crusts headed in the direction of Marty and Petunia’s place.

  “There goes Mother Teresa and John the Baptist.” He bit off a chunk of fruitcake. “Snoopers. On their way to yak it up with Prince Charming and Cinderella.”

  “Gonna tell ’em what they seen in here, Cecil.” Marvin coughed, clearing his throat. He was finished with his slice of fruitcake and scooted on over on hands and knees to get at the rest of the cake—if possible—before Cecil noticed. He was hungry. Wouldn’t eat all of it. Would leave some for Cecil, too.

  He managed a good bite out of it without ever touching the fruitcake with his hands. Biggs kept eyeing the action outside and had no idea what Marvin was up to.

  “What I tell you?” Muck was enjoying himself. Fruitcake was good. Whole lot better than what he usually had to eat: stale bread, peanut butter, dog biscuits, bean’ in a can, and Greta’ lousy cookin’, what give him diarrhea half the time.

  “That’s fine. Just fine. They can’t hurt me. What did they see? Let them spread the good word. Sits well with me. It should squelch some of those negative rumors floating around out there regarding the Church of Re-Newed Hope. . . .”

  “Yeah. Them rumor’ be like a balloon: get bigger wiff every puff.”

  Biggs turned his head to look at the wise-ass. Noticed finally the damage Marvin was exacting. Imbecile was on all fours like a slobbering hound. Had his head on the coffee table, face resting on one side, while he continued to bite into the fruitcake, attempting to devour as much as possible this way, and basically managing to destroy it in this fashion. Reminded him of jackals feeding on carrion he saw once in a Wild Kingdom episode—only Marvin’s frenzy and vulgarity of it far exceeded anything the rabid beasts had exhibited.

  “Are you sight impaired?”

  “Yo. I ain’t that.”

  “Why act like it, then? Is the fruitcake close enough to you?”

  Muck wasn’t about to respond. Had no time for it. Problem was whenever he took a bite he inadvertently pushed the fruitcake farther away from his reach. Didn’t have time to talk. He was busy eating right now.

  “Let’s bring you and the fruitcake closer together, why don’t we? How does that sound? How’s that for logic?” Biggs walked up from behind. “Here.” He clamped both of his hands across the back of Marvin’s neck and head and pushed his face down into what remained of the mutilated fruitcake, and watched Marvin Muck kick out with his legs in desperation: arms flailing, head twisting, as he gasped for air once again.

  “How’s the fruitcake, Marvin?”

  Marvin was unable to breathe, let alone speak. Needed air.

  “Like the fruitcake, cocksucker? Huh, motherfucker? Sometimes you’re the ‘best’—other times, you eat like an animal. How is it? Seems to me you clearly like it. The Rumanian cab driver is right to grouse about your lack of manners. Sure is.”

  Biggs let him up momentarily, then reapplied pressure, shoving his face back down in it.

  “Have some more, then, why don’t you? Home-made. By that four-eyed, gray-haired, cake-baking old cooze next door.”

  Marvin yelled to be released. Biggs decided to let him up for good this time, before the ill-mannered a-hole expired on him, not that in and of itself would have bothered him in any way. Only when you had a fucked-up spine it paid to have a moronic water-carrier like this around to help out with some of the heavy lifting.

  Marvin rolled on his back. Subsequently flipped over on his stomach to cough up some of the chunks trapped in his
gullet.

  Biggs was back at the window. Placed the headset over his ears.

  “Lucky for you there wasn’t a ‘Baby Ruth’ in that cake box. Because if there had been . . . you’d be choking on it right now. . . .”

  He pulled the bottom window up a few inches. Aimed the shotgun mic in the direction of the couple outside on the sidewalk: a man and a woman he genuinely doubted had his best interest at heart.

  CHAPTER 263

  Harold Crust had paused to shake out a piece of Nicorette gum from the tiny box it came in. Took his sweet time about it, too.

  His wife waited patiently while he went through the routine.

  He popped a piece in his mouth eventually. They moved on on the sidewalk.

  “I ain’t got no idea what that Norbert cat was eatin’, but it sure looked disgusting the way he was eatin’ it. Made me sick.”

  “I feel sorry for the poor man.”

  “I do, too. Sick and sorry. Had my belly doin’ flip-flops, no lie. Talk about odor. Then that dude Sassy started eatin’ his fingers. Lord Jesus—I thought I would puke for sure. Had a hell of a time holding it all down.”

  “I do feel relieved to be out of there.”

  “You kept after me to see the inside of Biggs’s church and so we did. You happy now, Fay? We shot the shit with the man. Kinda peculiar, other than that okay.”

  “Harold—”

  “What?”

  “The language.”

  “Oh. You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  “Tell it to your Maker on the Day of Judgement.”

  “Now, Fay. You gotta lighten up some, gal.”

  “I surely will, the day folks stop using the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Don’t seem to me you’re as happy to be out of that place as I am, that’s all. Didn’t seem to me like you was in any hurry to leave.”

  “You can joke all you want, Harold. I’m just glad to be out of there. Smelled awful in there—”

  “You said it right there: smelled nastier than Delonzo’s litter box. Something like roadkill, maybe worse. Tried to hold my breath long as I could without breathin’. Wasn’t easy. Didn’t want to cause for another stroke to happen, neither.”

  CHAPTER 264

  They reached Marty and Petunia’s front porch. Climbed the stoop. Petunia Roscoe was quick and eager to let them in and did not waste time bombarding them with questions regarding the trollops, and if there had been any evidence of “unsavory behavior.”

  Harold shrugged. “Don’t know nothin’ about no ‘unsavory behavior,’ Mrs. Roscoe. It sure was putrid, though. Puzzles me how them folks can live that way. Smelled like something died in there.”

  “See? What did I tell you about that, Marty?” Petunia waved her finger at her husband for effect. “What did I tell you?”

  “Hold your beans, woman. Ain’t nobody argued with you about the stench. Harold here is saying it smelled like something died in there. Smelled like it. That don’t mean nothing else. He never said he saw nobody dead in that damn house. I told you myself it smelled like a dead dog or something when I was at their door the other day talking to them.”

  “Why don’t you zip it?” Petunia snapped at her husband. She had her nose back in Harold Crust’s face.

  “Sure he’s not running a slut house next door, Harold?”

  “How do you figure, Petunia?”

  “You men both know what Mrs. Roscoe is talking about. All them young hussies in tight skirts—”

  “Sluts with tits out to here.” Petunia Roscoe’s hand gesture exceeded the enormity of her own imposing bosom to indicate breast size. “Street-walkers, hookers, prostitutes. How many different ways do I have to spell it out, Harold?”

  Marty Roscoe couldn’t help himself. He was chuckling at this point. Harold himself was amused. “I know what a street-walker is, Petunia. You ain’t got to spell nothing on my account. Truth is, we saw nothing of the sort. My wife was with me the whole time.”

  Fay Crust was agreeing with her husband. “We didn’t see nothing dirty going on in that place, Petunia honey; thank God.”

  “Except the slop that sorry character Norbert Fimple was shovelin’ in his mouth. Not only looked dirty, but nasty as hell. Then there was this other dude that beat that, easy: called him Sassy. Chewed his fingernails right off his fingers—and that ain’t all. Swallowed ’em, and liked it. Blood and all. Sucked his own blood; ate parts of his fingers. You heard right: was eatin’ his own flesh. Now, that was nasty. It may not have been dirty, unless his fingers was dirty, but it sure was some nasty business going on. Enough to give a man nightmares. I cracked a joke right about then. Guess I was nervous, we both was, and tried to make fun of it. Not of Sassy or any of them, but the situation.”

  “Needless to say, it didn’t go over.”

  Harold glanced at his wife just then. “No, it didn’t.”

  “Loco. Just as I suspected. Explains why me and Pet ain’t never seen none of them: never step outside—except Biggs and his flunky.”

  “Loco?” said Harold Crust. “You might say that. Then again, who ain’t loco these days?”

  Roscoe turned to his wife. “You happy now, babe?”

  Petunia wouldn’t/couldn’t let it go. There had to be more, more than some worthless tales she was getting about some swine who was a sloppy eater, and a certified idiot who had a habit of biting his fingernails. Who didn’t do that? She needed dirt on Biggs. She was certain there was more to the scenario than was being presented.

  “I tell you there is something that just is not kosher about the man. What about the wild parties, orgies, for all I know? What about the music? The creep is always hammering away. Then there’s that chainsaw at night—”

  Roscoe was starting to get a little impatient with it all. His wife had a one-track mind. He knew that well enough by now—and once she got on it, there was no letting up.

  “I told you, woman, he likes to build things—”

  Petunia’s finger was working again. Aimed right at him, for emphasis. “Shut up, idiot. I want them to tell me.”

  Her husband’s face turned a quick red just then. He did not like being disrespected, not like this, especially not in front of other people. He decided to let it ride. He would deal with the psychotic later.

  Harold Crust hadn’t cared for the way Petunia was treating her husband either, felt uneasy for the dumb bastard, and did the only thing there was to do at this moment, kept the conversation going.

  “Like Marty says, Mrs. Roscoe: it’s true. The reverend likes to work with his hands, prefers to build his own furniture: tables, chairs, things like that, for his people, for the church. Rebuilding the altar, too. He’s a busy man. Likes to play music when he works and he plays it loud, as you mentioned. Motivates him. Heck, I got a little radio myself at the stand. Like to leave the blues on, some jazz. Makes work more enjoyable.”

  “There is something in the pit of my stomach that tells me that is a bunch of horse manure—”

  “All right.” Roscoe was just about glaring at his wife. “Were you ever inside that house? Did you ever actually see the inside of that church?”

  “You know the answer to that. You know damn well I’ve never set foot inside that creep’s smelly dump and I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Well, I’m telling you these people was there—inside. They saw the place, with other witnesses there.”

  Petunia was shaking her head, totally annoyed with this hick she’d gotten stuck with. “Would you please shut up and let them talk?”

  CHAPTER 265

  Fay Crust cleared her throat. She didn’t know whether to take her husband with her and leave right now or stay a bit longer and then leave once the fighting had subsided.

  “If you ask me, man’s got his hands full with that staff of his.”

  “That cat Norbert Fimple didn’t stop eatin’ the entire time we was there. Must cost the reverend a small fortune.”

  “What about the guns?”
<
br />   “Huh?”

  “We talked about this, Harold. What’s he doing firing guns?”

  “Firecrackers, you mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “Balloons. Leastways what he claims.”

  “Balloons?”

  “Yeah, dude. Birthday balloons; large ones. Bein’ popped with butts and stogies. Birthday party balloons. Got enough folks in there, I suppose, for them to be celebratin’ all the time.”

  “Sounds like a line of bull. I know you and your woman ain’t that naive. You can’t be.”

  “Never claimed I bought it. All I said was that’s what the man told us. Fay was right there, stood next to me. Heard all of it like I did.”

  “Balloons and firecrackers. What a crock.”

  “Anyway, that’s about it. We’ll see you folks later.”

  Fay joined her husband in wishing the Roscoes a lovely afternoon. Roscoe and Petunia thanked the Crusts for stopping by. Walked them to the door.

  “You bet.”

  Pretty soon Harold and his wife were descending the porch steps and were out of sight. Marty Roscoe slammed the door shut and spun toward his wife. He was fuming.

  “Don’t you ever humiliate me in front of others that way.”

  “What is it now? The strange goings on next door are of great concern to me—as they should be to you to the same extent.”

  “Bullshit. You called me an idiot in front of the niggers and I don’t like it.”

  “What do you care what some negro who shines shoes for a living thinks? She’s no better. Cleans toilets for some schmuck movie producer in Bel Air. In fact, just might offer them both a job once we move to Beverly Hills, to clean and do the cooking; feed and exercise Darcy and Ziggy.”

  “You’re not changing the subject. Not this time. You insulted me by calling me an idiot in front of them jigs who are laughing behind my back right about now.”