by Kirk Alex
CHAPTER 314
“Go on home, Olivia honey.” Slim Jessup sounded exhausted as he yelled at last from inside the kitchen. “We can do the rest. See you tomorrow.”
Biggs looked about for something to write on. By the register, made of either a type of ceramic or light metal, a life-size jolly chef in a white chef’s hat and handlebar mustache held a basket against his prominent belly with less than fresh bagels and Danish in clear plastic bags and a sign that hung from his neck:
DAY OLD
$1
Biggs relieved the chef of the cardboard sign. Wrote on the back in black marker:
GONE TO FLORIDA
FUNERAL
Slim & Bertha
Just as the bishop was about to tape his sign to the door, he heard footsteps approaching outside, and then a knock. Biggs peered out carefully from the side. It was Olivia’s older sister Yolanda. Ballbuster extraordinaire.
Biggs eyed her. Toyed with the idea of letting her in and then maybe getting his hands on her as well. All the Duarte women oozed sex. You looked at a dark-eyed, well-built woman like that and your cock automatically got hard. Very often. At least stirred.
They had it; whatever it was, they had it. With the Duarte cunts it came naturally. Possessed it all: tits, grande culo, legs, sultry eyes, auburn hair that was thick and long and wavy, cheekbones, a large mouth and full lips (that undoubtedly made them great cock suckers).
Forget it, he told himself. You’ve got Olivia. One in the hand is worth two in the bush. Unless the two in the bush were croaked, even then . . .
“Anybody in there?” Yolanda could be heard trying the doorknob. “Olivia? Mr. Jessup?”
Olivia craned her neck, but Marvin yanked back on her scalp so hard that she went down, landing on the floor. Yolanda tried knocking again. Called her sister’s name a couple of times, and left.
Too bad, Biggs thought. Stuck the sign in the window when it was prudent to do so. A moment later Rudy Perez was doing the knocking on the diner door. He aimed a flashlight beam at the cardboard sign, and drove off in his brother’s pickup truck.
Biggs walked back to the kitchen door. He would do the knocking himself this time. The actual door itself, the real door, was wood, but that was all that was conventional about it. He stood six-foot-three, the top of the door was a couple of inches higher than that. About three feet wide, per side. Lock was down in the middle. Over the left door was the one made of tempered aluminum. It was a typical free swinging restaurant type door with a fourteen-by-sixteen-inch clear acrylic window set in black rubber molding at about shoulder and head level.
Biggs held open the aluminum door. Knocked on the one made of wood.
CHAPTER 315
“Who’s out there?” It was Slim again. “Is that you, Olivia?”
Biggs aimed the Mag at about the level of the keyhole. Had no idea how thick the wood was and if a slug from a .357 would penetrate it, or what he’d be even shooting at exactly. He held the revolver this way. Stood there. Then thought better of it. He lowered the weapon and stepped back. Prepared himself mentally for what needed to be done: the door would have to be kicked in. Magnum was noisy and might draw unwanted attention. Door would have to be busted in. Only the ’roids could not be disregarded, neither could his unpredictable back. Biggs decided to let Muck do it instead. What a flunky was for, after all.
“Looks flimsy to me.” Biggs moved to the side to make room for the mook . “Kick it open.”
Marvin looked up and down the massive doors. Higher than his head, way higher than his head. Wider than the mothafuckin’ Meat Wagon, prob’ly. Biggs kept holding that nothing aluminum door open for him. Big help. Vagina Killa didn’t care if he broke his foot. Not only that, had a tough time seein’ wiff the fuckin’ pig mask on. Thing had odor. Was tougher and tougher to take.
“Flimsy, my black nutsack.”
Marvin hadn’t liked the expression on Cecil’s face as he said it, either. Biggs gestured with the fist that he held the gun in that he follow through. What was he waiting for?
“Olivia?” It was Slim once more from within the kitchen. “What is it, sweetheart? Go on home if you’re done out there.”
“Appreciate yo’ help there, Hoss. Me.”
“Don’t appreciate it. Get to it.”
Marvin cursed under his breath. Followed through with what seemed like a good kick, only it hadn’t been good enough to force the doors open. Olivia jumped at the chance to tear away that instant. Did her best. Biggs preempted the effort by wasting no time to spin in her direction. Gave her a couple of whacks with the .357 across the side of her face that folded her up and sent her sprawling to the floor, knocking her unconscious.
Biggs cursed to himself. Hadn’t liked what just happened, only there was no time to think about it or feel anything resembling remorse.
CHAPTER 316
He was back at the door. Shoved Marvin out of the way, who had been readying himself for a second try at it, and kicked it in himself this time, fighting off the burning pain in his rectum and just the twitch of his lower back wanting to add to it and compound his discomfort. So be it. There was no time to pay attention to any of that. The doors flew open and he and Marvin rushed in. The sadistic clown makeup Biggs had on his face and the gruesome pig mask Marvin had on his did the job they were supposed to, and then some: in that both vics were not only taken aback and thrown off-kilter, but left in considerable shock. Granted, the effect lasted mere seconds, but it was enough, as far as Cecil was concerned, and well worth it—in that it gave him and Marvin that much-valued edge.
The way he had it figured, he would let Muck deal with Big Bertha, while he went at Slim Jessup, pistol-whipping him from behind until the diner owner’s head resembled a busted-open, red pomegranate (not unlike the kind the Wilburn kid liked to bite into and suck the juice out of) and was too out of it to hold onto the .38 he’d managed to get his hand on inside a desk drawer.
Marvin was all over Bertha, swinging wildly with the pocketknife. Peripheral vision was clearly impaired here, but it did not keep him from getting the job done. He sliced at her face. Shifted gears: slashed at her bare ass, drawing quite a bit of blood from both: top and bottom. He stabbed her in both thighs in a wild flurry that seemed like fifteen or twenty times, only the large woman was not inclined to go down. Reason being he missed more often than he was supposed to. What caused it was the fucking Parfrey swine mask. Got in his way. Made it difficult to see. Muck cursed. Yanked the pig mask off. Had a new problem to cope with: blood in his eyes, Bertha’s blood.
Cecil was aware of the difficulties his deacon was experiencing with her, but he had his hands full with Slim Jessup, who was putting up a fight of his own, in spite of the beating he was taking, in spite of the blood he was losing.
Well, Biggs thought, that makes it better, much, much better.
“You’re not going down without a struggle, that it? That’s human nature for you. Am I right, Mr. Diner Owner, who tried to get me to ingest them bacon bits, even though I clearly stated they make me ill. Don’t want to die? If for no other reason than that alone, you deserve to. Same thing J.J. did to me after he’d slaughtered Parfrey; let me eat that pork chop, so he could have himself a good laugh over it afterwards. Who’s the one laughing now? I come in, bring you business, tip well. Treat your people with kindness, and you pay me back by shitting on that kindness. Here is where it ends; here is where it stops!” Biggs spit at the bloody figure before him, and spit hard. “Don’t want to die? Nothing new there. Nobody seems to want to die these days. Sgt. Steele didn’t want to die, either—and didn’t have to! Neither did Parfrey and Mr. Turnbull, but they did, didn’t they? Taken out by you and your kind!”
And Biggs gave him a whack in the face with the Magnum, crushing the nose in the process. Biggs raised the revolver one more time and drove the barrel end back down again across Slim’s eyes and watched the bloodied diner owner’s right eyeball pop out. Slim’s grip seemed to loosen that tim
e and Biggs let the body drop to the floor.
He positioned himself and kicked the man in the groin and followed that up with a second kick to the stomach and watched crimson pour from Slim Jessup’s mouth, while the man gasped for air.
CHAPTER 317
Biggs looked up to check on how Marvin was doing with Bertha Lenier. It did not look good. Even though the big woman was covered in the red stuff from head down to her big feet, she still would not go down and kept her meaty hands clamped around Marvin’s neck, squeezing that way, and lifted him clean off the floor like he was a rag doll and tossed him back against a shelf of culinary utensils and pans that knocked it all down in eardrum-shattering clangor.
“Earn your keep, Free Ride! Don’t let a nasty heifer do that to you!”
Marvin leapt back to his feet and stopped Bertha from reaching her purse just in time and drove that blade in the small of her back, withdrew it and drove it in again as far as it would go. Bertha jerked off of that desk like an epileptic experiencing a seizure, and she rolled off and thudded to the floor.
Marvin stepped toward her. Kicked her once in the head, tried for a second go, and she grabbed that leg and pulled him down to where she was able to hook a heavy arm about his neck and began to squeeze the breath out of him. The way Marvin Muck saw it, his only recourse was to follow up with a flurry of stabs to the woman’s lower belly and groin area.
Her hold, at last, finally had nothing behind it. Marvin stopped to take a breather. Freed his head out from under the woman’s arm. At that point Bertha’s left hand moved up—there was a spatula in it—and came down hard inches from Marvin’s crotch, and the deacon doubled up in agony.
Biggs moved in and gave the woman a solid kick to the face that caused the back of her skull to bang against a table leg. There was no movement after that. Biggs leaned over. He needed to have her flat on her back for what he had in store for her next. He pulled and tugged at her feet, accomplishing his goal. Her eyes did their staggered, perfunctory blinking number; that was about all the activity she seemed capable of. Biggs wrapped both hands around the spatula hilt, held the utensil vertically over the center of her blood-covered, large face, not flat, but with the thin metal edge between her eyes. . . . He then lifted it well above his own head, raised it high, and brought it back down with plenty of force, and buried the spatula between right eye and nose.
CHAPTER 318
It was done. Cecil took a deep breath, exhaled, and stood up. It had taken some doing, but it was over. He was exhausted, yet knew it had been worth it. There would be some good times with Olivia coming up, sweet Olivia Candida Duarte. If the raps to the side of her head had not killed her already. At that moment, he kind of hoped that he hadn’t blown it. She wouldn’t be as much fun to him dead. Sure, he’d still be able to get his rocks off with her, but not as often, or as long. If she were dead he would not be able to keep her around as long as he wished obviously (like he had done with the others); he wouldn’t be able to use her up, and then, only then, dispose of her body.
He pulled the drawer open. Pocketed the gun that Slim had attempted to reach earlier. Dug inside Big Bertha’s purse. Pocketed the double-deuce pistol as well. Picked up Muck’s discarded pig mask and jammed it into one of his pockets. Removed the contacts. Was not unhappy about that, either. Funny part was, glancing in a mirror there that hung from the wall, readily confirmed what he expected: his eyes remained bloodshot. It happened that way sometimes. Crimson eyes, with or without the contacts. Ecstasy rated so high during these episodes on his own Richter scale that very often left his peepers this shade of glowing red. Crushing humans did it. If not every time. Just about, though.
He walked to the front to take a look at Olivia Duarte lying on the floor, still. It wasn’t remorse, so much as frustration. His fantasy was shot to hell. Interrupted. Disrupted. Destroyed.
Was she gone? After all that, cooze had to go and expire on him. He didn’t like it when they did that, when they croaked without his consent and seal of approval.
Cheated. He’d been cheated. Short-changed.
Check her pulse. See if she’s breathing. He couldn’t bear to do it. When you took painstaking means to execute a plan, and that plan got muddled . . . big time. Muddled. Didn’t appear to be moving from where he stood. Couldn’t tell if she was even breathing with the pie remnants and blood on her face. Punk had attempted to molest her, no doubt.
CHAPTER 319
He returned to the kitchen. Marvin staggered to his feet, rubbing his neck and sore jaw. The area down near his groin where Big Bertha had plowed the spatula gave him enough trouble. Biggs didn’t want to hear about it. Had enough troubles of his own.
“You done got her in the nick-of-time, Dawg. Big ho damn near put my ass on ice.”
Punk trying hard to sound like Youngblood Priest. Talking like Ron O’Neil.
“That’s not why I did it. She was getting away.”
“But we got her. Junkyard booty and all. Big heavy ho, too.”
Cecil remained perturbed at having in all likelihood finished the Duarte bitch. A great piece of ass wasted so quickly, mindlessly. All that work and scheming down the drain.
“See if she’s breathing.”
“Big ho be gone. Big time.”
“Not her.”
“Who, then?”
“Jolly Dolly in front.”
“Olivia?”
“Who else?”
Marvin left the kitchen. Biggs went through Slim’s blood-soaked pockets for money. Checked his wallet for the same reason. Extracted bills and jammed them in his pocket. Rechecked Big Bertha’s purse. Took whatever he found. Looked about the kitchen and the mess of it and knew it was going to be some job to clean it all up and leave it as tidy as possible. When he rejoined Marvin in the front, the deacon had the cash register pried open and was scooping the money out with torn latex gloves and leaving prints.
“Know what you are? You’re a liability to me. A-1 fuck up.”
“Hell, I got ability, Cecil. I ain’t fuckin’ up. No sir, Hoss. Not me. Got the touch, is what I got.”
Biggs snatched the bills out of his hand and shoved a pair of latex gloves in it.
“Now you don’t.”
Bishop pocketed the cash and wiped down the register.
“You got money, Cecil! Why you want to take from me? Get the man’s safe! Where the real bank be!”
“No time for that—”
“It ain’t but a few dollar’! You ain’t right, Brotha!”
“Keep your voice down. Give me the torn gloves and put the good ones on.”
Marvin did as told, pissed as he was. Yanked the gloves off and threw them on the counter. Got into the new pair.
“Why you doin’ this?”
“I told you to see if she’s still alive.”
“Fuck that ho! You check her. You the one was a nurse, not me! Prob’ly fakin’ anyways.”
“She better not be dead.”
“What difference do it make? You woulda ice her! Like you done all a them!”
“It’s your fault I had to smack her.”
“My fault? You a lie. Why you doin’ this? You gonna blame me ’cause the trim be chill? You know you ain’t right. Why you got to take money from me? You got Big Bertha’s money, and you done took Slim’s money—why you got to take what I find here?”
“It’s called covering one’s ass.”
“I still don’t be gettin’ it.”
“It’s not that you don’t get it. You refuse to get it. That makes you a born loser.”
“I ain’t turned on you. When did I turn on you? You greedy, is what. Always be greedy. Jus’ like all a them pimp’ out there.”
“Oh, you’ll cross me one day, Marvin, and I’ll be waiting.”
“I can’t cross no partner. We partner’.” And then Marvin was cursing and spitting on the floor. “Maybe somebody gonna cross you one fine day ’cause you keep sayin’ it all the time—like you really be wantin’ it to h
appen. Yo.”
“Where’s the lighter?”
“What lighter?”
“The cigarette lighter that set all this in motion—that’s what lighter.”
“Man, I don’t know. You took it, like you take everything.”
Biggs dug into his pants pocket. Came up with the item in question. Jammed it back down. Stuffed money into the pocket after it. Instructed the sidekick to fetch the green laundry bags out of the duffel. Once they had the bodies fully clothed and inside the bags, he reminded him to grab enough clean towels and cleaning materials out of the closet to get rid of the blood and DNA on the kitchen floor and elsewhere, latent palm and fingerprints in the front along the counter and doorknobs.
“We got gloves on.”
“Do it.”
“Ain’t gonna be easy, Brotha Trusty.”
Marvin went about getting it done. He was having trouble with his bad hand and Biggs kept urging him to hurry it up.
“My hand be all fucked up, man. I be doin’ what I can. Why I couldn’t do that big ho no better.”
“Yeah?” Biggs did his share of wiping down. “You’re slow.”
“That right? Nobody akst you to put a shank through it, homie.”
“Count your blessings.”
“My blessing’?”
“Could have been worse. Could have put a blade through that scrawny neck of yours. Would have been worth it just to shut you up.”
“Yeah? You forgettin’ one thing: yo’ fucked-up back and Ring-O-Fire ’roid’.”
“Did I tell you to clean up?”
“Did clean up.”
“Come here.”
