by Kirk Alex
Biggs looked around.
“How about if we get off the subject? This isn’t exactly the time or place.”
Marvin let it go. He had a different issue right before him—and it had nothing to do with a pig named Parfrey—or bacon bits.
“Let me aks you somethin’ else, then.”
“Full of questions today, aren’t we?”
“All right wiff you if I have catchup wiff my French frie’, homie? That be okay wiff you? Seein’ as I’m on this new diet I ain’t never heard of ’til today.”
Biggs reached over for the red plastic bottle of catchup sitting between the napkin holder and salt shaker, and placed it in front of Marvin’s plate.
“Knock yourself out.”
CHAPTER 303
The heavy waitress was back with Biggs’s modified request. Practically slammed the plate down in front of him.
“Your omelette, sir. Without bacon bits.”
“You’re very kind, ma’am.”
“You a pain in the behind, is what, Mr. Bigg’. What it come’ down to.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“Cook be the one all upset.”
“Now that bothers me.”
“It should. Dude spit on your order.”
Biggs looked at her, hard.
“I’m lyin’.”
Biggs didn’t know what to think.
“Sides that, Mr. Jessup don’t like to waste food. Ain’t no way to stay in business.”
“I understand. I do.”
“I hope it’s to your likin,’ sir.”
“I’m sure it will be. I appreciate the chow here—almost as much as the service.”
She walked off.
Biggs added salt and pepper. Dug into his omelette. It was tasty. Marvin uncapped the catchup bottle. Poured catchup generously over his fries.
“Yer all heart, ain’t you, Trusty? What it come’ down to. Was you like this wiff Parfrey? Could be why he ate the Beagle.”
“The Rotty ate the Beagle; Parfrey ate the chihuahua.”
“Thought it was the other way ’round.”
“Actually, Parfrey didn’t do anything of the sort. He run off, so J.J. and the witch claimed. Two days later we’re in the backyard full of people, having a party with J.J.’s hustler boyfriends and the whore’s hooker pals, eating ribs and drinking beer; having a real party. It wasn’t until after I ate my pork chop that J.J. had a real laugh letting me know I’d eaten my pet. All up until then Mr. Turnbull provided me with an allowance for Parfrey’s upkeep, as he did for the Rotty’s. Did my very best. Only, very often, J.J. or the wicked witch, my mother, would beat me until I gave it up—so they could squander it on booze and dope. That answer your question?”
“What become of Mr. Turnbull? You never said.”
“But I did say. Kindly Mr. Turnbull? His kindness did him in. J.J. and the whore saw to that. Beat a half-blind, arthritic old man senseless one night and left him to die in his own vomit and waste. They ransacked his place, ripped off his extensive rare coin and stamp collection. Took all the jewelry they could find; his late wife’s jewelry. Mr. Turnbull was a widower. Like I said: his kindness did him in. He should have wasted them both. Willed me the haunted house: Lizzy Borden’s Bordello of Fear. Some money. Law firm ran and operated the haunted house until I was old enough to take over, the times I was able. About the only human who was ever truly kind to me: Truly Turnbull.” Biggs shrugged. “Things may have turned out different had he lived. Been able to rescue me from the clutches of the warped fucks I was stuck with.”
“I get why you be callin’ it Trusty Lusty’ Bordello of Fear now.”
“The least I could do.”
“An’ the old dude never tried no funny shit?”
“Molest me? No. He was not like that. That was JJ.’s way. Yet he was always the one who couldn’t wait to accuse the old man of it. There was no funny business at all. Nothing. He was one hundred percent. And yet made his living scaring the crap out of people to the point they shit their pants when they paid their money to enter Lizzy’s.” Cecil didn’t say anything for a long while.
“I’d rather not go into it.”
“Do it bother you still? After all them years?”
“Not much. Not anymore.”
Marvin didn’t know what to believe, not that it mattered. He sipped some of the tap water from his glass. Made a face.
“You can have some of my Cherry Coke. How’s that?”
Marvin grabbed an empty glass from the table in back of him. Held it out for Biggs to pour soda into. Cecil did that. Gave him close to half of it—only because he knew he didn’t want to consume it all himself.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” As an afterthought, Cecil decided to let him have a portion of his omelette as well. Marvin liked that. Could have gone for more, not that it was about to happen.
CHAPTER 304
No matter how often Biggs ordered this type of omelette, more like eight out of ten times, it never failed to please and satisfy him, so long as they kept the bacon bits out of it, and yet there was no way to completely concentrate on his food, not when a hot bitch like Olivia Duarte was up there parading her goods. There was no way to stop fantasizing: What did that cunt look like down there and what did her cunt juice taste like? As tasty as the omelette? Her cunt juice had to top it when it came to flavor. Had to. What would it be like to put your tongue inside her bush, wiggle it around in there, tongue her clit and drive her wild; what would it be like to stick your tongue deep in her crapper?
Think of it. . . . What it would be like to watch her suck you off? What it would be like to shoot cum all over her mouth and face; all over those golden hangers. What it would be like to watch her lick sperm off those great tits. And finally: What it would be like to stab her about fifty thousand times right in her pee-hole and asshole, while she sucked your cock dry. What it would be like to cut that whore up into a trillion little pieces after you’d fucked her a few times, had your fill of her, and then to whiz all over her butchered remains and drop a load on her grave, the way you did the one up in Lopez Canyon.
He ate slowly, sweat rolling down his face as he stole glances and thought about all this. He pulled a napkin from the holder. Wiped his brow. It was torture. To be sitting this close to IT and not be able to get his hands on IT.
He shouldn’t be the one tormented this way, the one clearly being tortured; instead she should be the one being penalized by him for doing this to him. What gave the whores the right? Cunts, whores, sluts, bitches, were put on this earth to torture the likes of him.
The urge was there, a deep, undeniable desire to jump up from the table and jab a sharp dagger into her throat and bend her over the counter and fuck her shitter here and now, in front of all of them. Hell, yes. This is what he wished for more than anything at the moment. Question was: Did he have it in him? There would be no way out of it if it happened, if he followed through. Too many witnesses. Forget the gun; that won’t fix it. And while this was going through his mind, the imbecile Marvin had a smoke out and was lighting up. He knew how much he hated cigarette smoke, and the moron was firing up. Didn’t matter how many times he’d warned him about smoking around him.
CHAPTER 305
Biggs reacted on instinct, reached over and slapped the cigarette and the lighter out of Marvin’s hands. The lighter went flying. Landed on the tile floor somewhere at the counter. Was picked up by Bertha Lenier, who had been on her way back to their table with a pot of coffee and Biggs’s slice of apple pie.
She had lowered the coffee pot onto the counter, bent down to retrieve the familiar-looking gold lighter. Did a double take upon reading the inscription:
To: P.B.
Classiest lady
I know.
In gratitude,
Fritz
There was the easily recognizable logo: black cat sitting up on its ass. Ahmed.
Bertha and Olivia had exchanged looks. The big w
oman had dropped the lighter in her apron pouch, picked up the coffee pot and continued on to where Deacon Muck and his Sahib sat in their booth. The waitress placed the pie at Biggs’s end. Dug the lighter out of her apron. Held it up.
“P.B. Pearleen Bell’s lighter, ain’t it?” The rhetorical question had been put to Marvin.
“Pearleen? Don’t know nobody name’ Pearleen.”
“You know Peachy, don’t you? LaBelle? What you doin’ with something belongs to her?”
“Doin’ wiff it. Peach give it to me. What I be doin’ wiff it.”
“Give it to you? That there is a gold lighter.”
“Naw, it ain’t. Only look’ like it. Got the ho high—an’ she let me have it.”
Biggs glared on in silence. The waitress dropped the cigarette lighter on the table, then proceeded to refresh Cecil’s coffee. It was all Biggs could do to thank her.
“Olivia say’ she seen Pearleen and them at your place last. Fritz McCoy, owner of the Casbah Hideaway, say’ they ain’t showed up for work, none of them: Pearl, Lana, Stella. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of them.”
“They were at my place. That’s true, and left in a taxi shortly after Olivia. They would have left with Olivia Duarte, but the cab she was in took off before Pearleen and the girls could make it outside. You know how impatient cabbies are these days, in a hurry to make tips, always on the move. These guys work long shifts. Always on the hustle, on the go.”
“They say where they gone off to?”
“Not certain. Pearleen did mention Vegas. Word is they found work there. Making money hand-over-fist. Last I heard.”
“Last you heard? Who from?”
“Vegas?” Muck butted in. It was directed at Cecil.
Biggs kicked him under the table. Muck did not waste time correcting himself. “Vegas be a good place. Hoe’ make nothin’ but bank out there; takin’ they clothes off; workin’ them high class outcall, too. Where the hoe’ got anything goin’ be at, ’stead of workin’ Hollywood Boulevard, or up and down Ventura lickin’ weenie for chump change.”
“Heard McCoy received a card from them.”
The skeptical waitress gave Cecil a look.
“He did, Mr. Bigg’?”
“He did, Mr. Bigg’?” Marvin was parroting her reaction. Biggs glared at the backslider. Felt like smashing his stupid face in for him.
“If he ain’t, he could—any day now. Hoe’ should let the man know where they shakin’ they booty—so he can hire some other booty to take they place.”
“Rumor is they checked into rehab.” Biggs stayed calm enough—on the surface. “Those places are known for having strict rules about divulging information. Evidently the girls needed to clean up in order to land the lucrative Vegas gig. Dope and business don’t mix—is the attitude they have out there. Can’t really argue with that.”
The big woman walked off without further comment (or flatulence this time).
Marvin was about to jam another cigarette between his lips. Cecil felt like twisting his skull off for him.
“Unbelievable.”
“Could be we in hot water, homie.” Marvin had glanced back at Big Bertha, where she stood behind the counter chatting with Olivia Duarte in clandestine tones and manner.
CHAPTER 306
Biggs leaned in. Reached out with his hand, and in as discreet fashion as he was able, in this most delicate of circumstances, clamped it over the other man’s that held the lighter, and forced it down against the table top.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Where you thank? Tunnel, where else? Ho musta drop’ it.”
“Fucking liar.”
Biggs snatched the lighter. Wanted to kick him again for good measure and to keep his voice down. Marvin sensed it coming this time and was able to avoid the footwork that followed.
“What chu doin’, Hoss? You know you don’t be right. Makin’ me eat French frie’ while you be eatin’ apple pie wiff ice cream.”
“Shut up.”
Biggs looked in the direction of the counter where Big Bertha remained talking with Olivia. Could be they were fucked. The pendulum was coming down. Thanks to the imbecile sitting across the table from him.
What was he going to do now? Let it go? Forget about it, and hope it went away? Only shit like this never went away. Well, he’d been aching to get his hands on the Duarte cunt, wasn’t sure when or how to spring into action, and it looked like that decision had been decided for him.
He took his time eating his pie and sipping his coffee. Felt like waving Big Ass over for another scoop of ice cream, only Big Ass was busy yakking it up with the other twat. Noticed it was near closing time. Sun was going down. Two white truckers who had been sitting at the counter got up to pay their checks, and left. A Mexican couple rose from a booth and did likewise.
He watched Olivia wipe down the counter, while Bertha cleared the table after the Mexicans. One individual remained, a wino/drifter type left at the counter still working on his meal, glancing about nervously—as if someone at any minute were about to grab him by the scruff and toss him out on his dirty butt as soon as it was discovered that he didn’t have the funds to pay for the food he was putting away.
Biggs kept watching, wishing the drifter would get the hell out—on the other hand, if he didn’t get out in time it would be too bad for him—because the old guy would just get his brains blown out then. If he was still in the place when Cecil made his move, the wino would be shot. An inconvenience, but one that Biggs was prepared to handle, if need be.
CHAPTER 307
Slim Jessup kept checking his watch and then looking outside, getting a bit impatient himself; he wanted to close the diner and get back in that kitchen now where Big Bertha was ready and waiting to serve him her own “special of the moment.” Yessir. It had been another long, hard day but a good day, a busy, money-making day, and although he should have been feeling tired, he felt, instead, elated.
He put some coffee cups away, tossed some silverware in one of the drawers. Slim wondered why that strange-acting Bishop Biggs and that goofy-looking nigga punk Marvin hadn’t left yet? What were they waiting for? He wanted to close the damn place. He’d gotten Bertha in the mood and wanted her to stay in the mood, and then Slim noticed the derelict at the other end of the counter and he saw Olivia refilling his cup for the third or fourth time, and in his gut Vester Jessup knew that the professional panhandler did not have the money to pay for the meal he had just consumed.
Son of a bitch. They were at it again. Go to Jessup’s for free grub. That man ain’t got no money, bet you anything. Bet you a million damn dollars that man ain’t got no legal tender on him. Lookit that alcoholic nose.
Slim watched out of the corner of his eye; watched, waited, wished the bum and Biggs and his brain-dead lap dog would clear out so that he could send the Duarte girl home and then join Big Bertha Lenier for the only “special” that meant anything.
Slim walked to the front door, flipped the sign so that it read CLOSED. This was a good time to lock the door, too; and he did just that. At least there won’t be anymore of them coming in now.
The transient rose from the counter. Was not in any real hurry to walk on over to the cash register, either. Slim had his eyes on him and watched the haggard-looking character go through the motions of searching through pockets for money that didn’t exist.
CHAPTER 308
The man stared down at his shoes, then up again at something past Olivia, while she waited to get paid. The bum scratched his sunburned, bulbous nose, picked at the black moles on his right ear and the back of his neck.
“I can’t pay you.”
“Great.”
Olivia noticed Slim Jessup watching and she got nervous.
“Ain’t got but two bits on me.”
What do you do about it? Keep calm, Olivia said to herself. Don’t let it get out of hand. This was only the second time it had happened to her all summer—but with Slim even once was too often, more th
an enough. He didn’t like certain “customers” to get the idea they could freeload in his establishment—and he had taken the time to explain it to her right after that other wino had managed to finagle a free meal out of her a while back.
What would Mr. Jessup do to her now? Fire her? Did it matter? Yes, it mattered. Even though this had only been intended as a summer job to tide her over until she started college, the tips had made it worth her while—and finally if she decided to attend a local university there was no reason not to try and stay on. The money would surely come in handy.
The bum stood in front of the cash register and kept fidgeting, picking at his moles and warts with his dirty fingers.
“You ain’t gonna tell the boss man on me?”
Olivia glanced at Slim Jessup, who was clearly eyeing the entire affair from a distance. Her eyes shifted back to the weathered face before her.
“Nope.”
Olivia dug around in one of her apron pouches for enough money to cover the man’s check.
“Bless you.”
The bum walked toward the exit. Waited for the owner to give him a look of reproach and unlock the door, and he was gone. Slim Jessup locked the entrance back up. Was at the cash register just as Olivia Duarte was putting money in to cover the transient’s meal.
“I told you how to handle bums like that.”
“What could I do, Mr. Jessup?”
“He’s a professional beggar. You know better than to serve somebody like that.”
“I paid for his order out of my own money.”
“I know that. That’s not the point. You don’t want these characters to get used to the idea that all they got to do to bum a free meal is go to Jessup’s. All I need is for word to get out that I have a gullible waitress working in here and the whole lot of them will show up trying for the same thing, and before you know it the respectable, paying customers start going someplace else. It’s not good business practice, honey. Got to be tough with these professional panhandlers. Let ’em go to work—like you and me and everyone else who works for a living.”
