Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “We? I know what that means. Up to me to do the work.”

  “I said ‘we,’ didn’t I?”

  Muck had wanted to wear his Booty Pirate hat. Biggs nixed that. Had him put on the one that said:

  GOD’S #1

  They both wore them. The message embroidered across the front. Black letters on white caps. The leather case that contained the Bible, as usual, was in place on the van’s dash where it was readily visible.

  The mattress, sprayed heavily with enzyme and doused with rubbing alcohol, was dumped in a back alley behind a known Valley porn warehouse. The van was driven to a do-it-yourself car wash and cleaned. Scrubbed inside and out.

  They drove to a rebuilt mattress store on Van Nuys Boulevard. While Biggs was inside the store haggling over price on a twin mattress with the dorky sales clerk named Al, Muck was next door at the blood bank.

  By the time the rebuilt mattress had been carried out and placed inside the van, Muck was already standing there, waiting. The guy, a transient type, who had helped Biggs carry the mattress out to the van, lingered there as if expecting to be given a tip. Instead all he got was a long stare from Cecil O. The man nodded. “Thanks.” Went back inside.

  “That was fast.”

  “Yo. They don’t want it.”

  Biggs looked at him, then climbed in the van. Marvin did likewise.

  “My blood ain’t shit. They don’t be wantin’ it. Couldn’t get no Kool-Aid. No cookie, neither.”

  Biggs had no response for the born loser. Started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. When you couldn’t even give blood . . . you might as well take a dive in front of a moving train . . . because you were just about worthless.

  He kept it to himself. No need to rub it in. Muck appeared dejected enough. Biggs offered him a can of Hawaiian Punch from the mini cooler. Muck was all over it. Biggs reached down for a can for himself.

  CHAPTER 297

  They spent most of the rest of the day traveling in the van. Made it over the hill into Hollywood, then headed west to Santa Monica. On the lookout for potential victims. They ended up in a Venice Beach parking lot, casing females on rollerblades. Biggs saw enough he would have wanted to snatch up right in the open, in broad daylight, but the risk of getting caught, of not being able to pull anything off successfully kept him from going for it. Besides, the one he could not keep his mind from thinking of was not rollerblading on the boardwalk, instead was bending over in her server’s uniform to wipe down tables and/or bending over to place plates of chili or stew or pasta or fried chicken on those same tables at the Valley diner where she worked.

  Biggs had his open wallet in front of him, flipping through pictures he had taken of Olivia Duarte over the years. Marvin stuck a smoke in his mouth and was about to fire up. Biggs looked at him, entirely unaware that Muck was about to use the very same gold lighter that once belonged to none other than Pearleen Bell, the very same lighter he’d craved that time and hadn’t been able to locate.

  “You know better than that.”

  Marvin returned the unlit butt to the pack. Biggs was focused on the photos, thinking: if she leaves for college you may never get your hands on her. Can you afford to keep putting it off? Can you risk losing her forever?

  “Think she’ll run her mouf about Peach and them other hoe’? She seen ’em wiff us last. I think about shit like that, me.”

  Biggs said nothing. Put the wallet away. Turned the key and drove out of the lot. Took them south on Lincoln Boulevard, past LAX, through El Segundo, and other South Bay towns, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa, and parked it near the beach on Redondo, eyeing the scantily clad bimbos on skates, bicycles; jogging or walking; others still lying on beach towels tanning themselves.

  The urge was there, that undeniable craving: to jump out of the Meat Wagon, grab one of the cunts and throw her in through the side door and take off. Swap the legit plates for the bogus ones, stay put and wait for a bimbo to walk past. Leap out like Batman and Robin—better yet, the Hillside Stranglers—and throw the bitch inside the van and take off. Cuff her wrists behind her back, slap a strip of duct tape across her mouth to keep her from screaming, and take off.

  Sounded simple, way too easy and simple. Was far from it.

  Sure, it’s been done—and the temptation was incredible—and the risk, the risk way too great. He had yet to attempt anything this bold. One day he would. One of these days, he promised himself, he would go for it.

  “Lookit all that trim out there. It be like a sea of nothin’ but trim, everywhere you look. Boo-tay boo-tay boo-tay. My dick be hard just seein’ ’em. I could run out there right now, jump on one of them bitches and tear they bikini off and put my dick in there: pussy, asshole, mouf. Man, I be hard. Yo.”

  Biggs looked at him. Reached down to the portable cooler for a cold can of Hawaiian Punch (Fruit Juice Red). He read the label: One hundred percent vitamin C. Cracked the top. Took a couple of long pulls.

  “You’re reading my mind.” Biggs handed the can to the deacon. “Finish it.”

  Marvin drank a good deal of it down. Wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve.

  “Plenty look good enough to bind, torture . . . and kill. To be sure. Only the Duarte cunt has them out-classed in every way. I hate fucking peroxide. Never cared for blond hair. I like it when the cunt hair is dark and plentiful. Like lots of fur on the cunt.”

  Marvin finished off the can. “Me? Don’t make me no never mind what color hair them ho got: yellow, black, brown, blue, pink—long as they got junk-in-they-trunk.” He squeezed his groin inside his trousers. “Slick snapper be good, too.”

  “Shit. This is a waste of time.”

  Biggs started the engine and pulled out. Headed in the direction of LA International. Drove east on Century Boulevard, to the 405. Aimed it north. Got on the 101 on the Valley side, and took the North Hollywood off-ramp he needed, to get them where he wanted to go.

  “I could stand something to eat. How about you, Free Ride? Hungry?”

  “We goin’ to Slim’?”

  “Why not?”

  CHAPTER 298

  Biggs found a parking space on a side street about half a block from the diner, as opposed to parking in the vast and open lot in front of the eatery.

  Having parked at this residential location also meant that they would have to walk down one alley and then another to get to Jessup’s. Muck couldn’t figure the move, but said nothing at the moment about it, instead mentioned how hungry he was, then looked at the other man with suspicious eyes, wondering if this was going to be a repeat of all the other times they’d gone to Slim’s, with Biggs ordering a grilled cheese sandwich for him, or worse, while he ordered one of those fancy omelettes for himself?

  He didn’t bother to ask. Wouldn’t have made any difference.

  Bigg’ got the green and do what he want’. Heard somebody say one time (about the golden rule): The dude wiff the gold be makin’ the rule.

  Biggs reminded him to get his God’s #1 cap on.

  Marvin pointed to the cap sitting atop his head. “Got it on, don’t I? How ’bout you? Got yours on?”

  Biggs grabbed the hardcover book-sized leather case that contained his Bible (and the items within—to be on the safe side). Both stepped down from the van.

  “Why we park this far from the diner, then?”

  “Because I like it this way.”

  Biggs made certain the door on Marvin’s side was locked, as well as all the others. They walked to the diner. Seated themselves in their usual section on the right, taking a window booth. Biggs looked up.

  “Here comes the gas bag now.”

  CHAPTER 299

  Big Bertha walked over with menus and a red pitcher. She passed out the menus and poured ice water for them into tumblers sitting there.

  Biggs wasted little time snatching Marvin’s menu from his grasp and handed it back to the woman before Muck had even so much as had a chance to go over the items.

  “He won’t be needing
that.”

  Biggs’s own face was buried in the menu in his hands. The full-figured waitress shrugged her shoulders. Had her pen and notepad out.

  “You going to order now, or you need some time?”

  “In a minute.”

  Biggs lifted his head. It was not easy to keep one’s eyes off of all that gold on her fingers, gold and possibly that one diamond ring. Then you had the glitter in her mouth. A regular gold mine on two feet. Made him contemplate just how much Kool-Aid and Pop-Tarts and Jell-O he’d be able to purchase for his crew of sanguinary geeks with all that gold she had on her as well as in her.

  Big Bertha stowed her notepad, grabbed the pitcher, and as she turned to leave, released a salvo of farts. Audible perhaps only to those in her vicinity, namely Biggs and his sidekick, it was flatulence all the same.

  Bishop Cecil O. Biggs felt as though his space had been clearly violated and that he, personally, had been disrespected.

  “It’s in poor taste, don’t you think? To release gas when a customer is about to order something to eat?”

  “You got nerve.” Big Bertha stopped and looked at him. “You and that man there comin’ in here smellin’ the way you do all the time.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Your clothes got odor to ’em. Least you can do is have them clothes dry-cleaned once in a while, instead of complainin’ about other folks doin’ what comes natural.” She walked off in a huff.

  “Can you believe that?”

  “Told you what Peach an’ them told me that time in they dressin’ room. Accuse’ me of smellin’ like a senile citizen.”

  “Not sure I want to keep coming here.”

  “Big Ass ho got a ton of gas.” Marvin took a sip of his water and wasted no time spitting it out.

  “What do you expect? Could be she’s like Petunia Roscoe: Got Mad Pig. Wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “You mean Mad Cow.”

  “Or maybe I mean just what I said. Used to be you walked into a diner and were treated with a degree of respect. Not anymore.”

  “Used to be you could walk into a diner and they give you a menu so you could decide your own damn self what you be wantin’ to eat. Remember them day’? What chu be doin’ wiff the menu, man? Thought we was gonna get us somethin’ to eat? You said, Brotha Trusty. Yo.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll order for both.”

  “Buncha boo-shit. I can read a menu, me.”

  Disappointed, Marvin was. Only there was not much to be done about it. Dude was right: His coin. Why I should be gettin’ some of my own—one of these day’. Me.

  Marvin’s mutterings didn’t rate a second thought, as far as Biggs was concerned, and he found himself stealing glances at Olivia Duarte as she worked behind the counter. He found it nearly impossible to take his eyes away from all that auburn hair, athletic thighs, to-die-for hips. She had the big firm tits, and he wondered how much cunt hair she had down there and to what extent it matched the big hair on her head? Wondered, too, if there was any hair in and around her asshole. Sometimes these dusky Latina whores had some hair down in that area. It would be good if she did. Nothing the matter with it. Hairy armpits was not a turnoff either for him. Sure, he preferred them without it, but if some existed, so be it. You lived with it. European women were liked that. Hirsute. He’d never minded it.

  CHAPTER 300

  Bertha was back. With that huge caboose. Biggs ordered his usual: omelette with green peppers, cheese, mushrooms, onions; and he ordered coffee, large Cherry Coke, orange juice, apple pie a la mode. For Marvin, he ordered a plate of French fries.

  “He’s on a special spud diet.”

  She nodded. Made no difference.

  “What chu be talkin’ about, man? I ain’t on no diet. Be fuckin’ skinny as it is. Be almost lookin’ like that mofo from Texas. Dude look like a underfed undertaker. I ain’t on no diet, me.”

  “When I’m the one who picks up the tab, you’re on a diet.”

  Marvin cursed. “What did I expec’? Dude talk’ about gettin’ somethin’ good to eat an’ then go’ an order me French frie’. Shit. Trusty got him some deep pocket’ and some short arms. Always knowed it. Thought it might happen, an’ it sho did. Fuckin’ French frie’.”

  Bertha paid no mind to the rant. She was used to it.

  “Anything to drink?”

  “Yes. Refill his water, please.”

  She was gone.

  “Spud diet? Ain’t never heard of it.”

  Biggs did not pay any attention to what Marvin had to say; he was busy checking out Olivia and that glorious rear end that he wished he could have rear-ended a few times.

  CHAPTER 301

  Their food arrived. Biggs didn’t catch it right off until after he took a bite. Spat it out into a napkin. Bacon. Stupid bitch couldn’t get anything right. They’d gone through this before. How many times now? He called her over.

  “Everything good here?”

  “There’s bacon bits in my omelette.”

  “Supposed to be.”

  “Do we have to do a repeat of the ordeal I went through the last time I was here? I can’t have bacon.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever.”

  “Didn’t serve you the last time you was here, sir. Musta been the other waitress.”

  “What difference does it make? You served me before then. Taken my order dozens of times in the past, at least. Do I always need to request to leave the bacon out?”

  “Maybe you should. Since we havin’ so much trouble with it.”

  “Got to do with Parfrey. Trusty don’t be eatin’ pork ’cause it be remindin’ him of Parfrey.”

  Bertha looked at them both.

  “You never said to hold the bacon bits. If you did, I’da wrote it down. I never heard nobody say hold the damned bacon bits. An’ I ain’t never heard nothin’ about a pig with a name like Parfrey. If I did I’d a remembered.”

  “Said it the last time you took my order. We went over it. You don’t recall? It was quite a scene.”

  “That was before. This is now. Today, Mr. Bigg’. Why give me a hard time?”

  “I could tell you, me. Trusty had him a step daddy who dun roasted his pet pig Parfrey when Trusty was knee high to a cockroach. Didn’t tell Hoss until after he done ate the pork chop it was Parfrey. Messed his head up. Bigg’ don’t be likin’ to eat swine ever since.”

  “Tol’ you mens: I don’t know nothin’ about no swine named Parfrey. Sounds like a bunch of jive you made up just to fuck with me. All you gotta do is let Marvin here have the omelette. Should take care’ of the problem. Let him pick the bacon bits out. He could do it. He look smart enough. Unless he can’t have him no bacon bits, neither.”

  “On the house?”

  “What chu mean ‘on the house,’ sir?”

  “I can’t pay for two omelettes.”

  “You the one owns that shiny new Cadillac out there.”

  “Got any idea how much it costs to fill a Caddy tank?”

  “How would I know that, sir? When I don’t even own one of them. Not yet, anyway.”

  “The omelette is on the house, or it goes back.”

  “You tryin’ to get me in trouble with Vester? Gotta be it.”

  “No, ma’am. Certainly not. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Vester.”

  “What then?”

  Biggs said nothing. The waitress picked the plate up and marched off and could be heard cursing under her breath all the way back to the kitchen.

  “Reason I never heard the mothafucka say hold the bacon bits ’cause he never said hold the bacon bits. How is a body supposed ta know what the mothafuckah want’ if he don’t let somebody know? I ain’t no mind reader.”

  CHAPTER 302

  Marvin grabbed a handful of fries and jammed them in his mouth. Biggs looked at him.

  “Can you believe that shit?”

  “I believe it, me.”

  “How many times does the gas bag ne
ed to be reminded to hold the bacon? Every damned time I come in here? Why? I’m a regular. Usually order the same thing. Or at least, when I order the omelette, I don’t want it with bacon bits. Plain and simple.” He shook his head. Frustrated and flustered. Hated the feeling.

  “Didn’t used to have anything against consuming pork. When it was available. Had my share of BLTs and pork chops.”

  “Yo life come’ down to this, what I thank, me: BBB & ABB.

  Before Bacon Bits and After Bacon Bits.”

  “Before Parfrey—and after Parfrey. That what you mean?”

  “What I said. Prob’ly. There was a time you could eat bacon. That time be history. Long gone.”

  “It’s psychological. Not only does it make me ill as a result, but it’s clearly disrespectful to Parfrey.”

  “An’ Mr. Turdbull.”

  “You mean Turnbull.”

  “Ain’t got to say it twiced. It was your step-daddy called him Turdbull. That don’t be the dude’s name. Truly Turnbull, you said it was.”

  “You get it, how come this dumb bitch can’t? How often does she need to be reminded?”

  “Lemme aks you somethin’, Brotha Trusty. Don’t it be time you got over that pet pig an’ yo problem wiff bacon bits?”

  “That pet pig had a name.”

  “I know yo pig had a name. Do I got to say Parfrey every time we talk about him? I don’t be like the gas bag. Still like to know: When you gonna get over that shit? Been forever now, ain’t it? Since you was no taller than a chihuahua.”

  “I got news for you: there’s shit you never get over—until they bury you. Ask Norbert, Greta, Sassy; Big T and the rest.”

  “Lemme aks you somethin’ else, then.”

  “Aks.”

  “Can’t have bacon bits. Cool, my brotha. I get it. Tryin’ to get it. Only I don’t be gettin’ why it be okay to eat that nasty jambalaya back at the cribby. You know what I be talkin’ about, too. We both know what Greta put in her cookin’. An’ what about all that red stuff we be drinkin’ all the time? Ain’t talkin’ about Kool-Aid, neither.”