by Kirk Alex
Speaking of Big Bertha. Remember the gold teeth. Don’t forget Slim’s glittering choppers, either. Marvin was supposed to remind you, but didn’t. The day you start relying on a halfwit like that is the day you might as well put a bullet in your own skull, he thought, as he worked his way back in the direction of the van.
You stayed ahead because you relied on one man: yourself.
Rustling sounds forty or fifty feet in back of him (or was it in front of him?) made him take pause. Somebody walking, stepping on gravel, dead leaves and twigs. Footsteps. Or was it something up in the trees? Rustling of leaves? Branches? Could be anything. Goddamned owl, dog? Possum? Those cats? Maybe something else?
He spun with the shotgun. What was it? Wild pigs? Glassy and that brain-dead wannabe pachuko with the do-rag he runs with? Those two fucking beaners were always in his hair. Or was it Olivia’s punk boyfriend? Hung around the diner, or maybe came back, returned to the diner, took a peek from behind the corner and spotted the van parked in the alley and followed them out here? Who the fuck knew? Who knew?
“Who’s out there? Show your face, asshole. . . .”
Bishop had the shotgun up. Ready to blast. No one answered back. The sound went away. Gotta be the pepper bellies. Gutter junkies, speedball freaks; Mex dog turds, or was it the neutered sissy who didn’t know how to get him some?
He waited. Silence was all he heard.
Could be Marvin was right: it’s spooky out here. Never realized how spooky it could get in these graveyards this late at night. Fucking graveyards, especially this graveyard, this potter’s field dump for the sorry and the nameless who never accomplished a damned thing in their miserable lives, can make you paranoid.
He took no more than a couple of steps when two of the largest coyotes he’d ever laid eyes on strolled no more than twenty feet past him. Not fearing him at all. About as big as Rutherford. The one in the front had an animal about the size of a jackrabbit or cat clutched in its jaw. The damned coyote in front didn’t even bother to look at him, that’s how much they feared humans these days. And the other one, three or four feet directly behind the one carrying their dinner, might have given Biggs a casual once-over, but that was all.
Cecil stood there. Watched them bounce off the way coyotes had a way of doing, toward an opening in the fence, and vanish into the night.
CHAPTER 337
It had taken a lot out of him, but Marvin was finally there: he’d reached the coffin. Had the gas mask on. Couldn’t see much with it. It was like havin’ to wear that nasty mothafuckin’ Parfrey pig mask back at the diner. Maybe worse. His peripheral vision was shot. Gas mask was defective. Figured. Cecil would buy the cheapest he could find.
There was odor coming through. Grave was old. . . . Still, there be a smell. Place’ like this always got the smell. What was you expectin’? Don’t be his idea to come out.
He took a closer look at the coffin. Was supposed to be a “cracker box.” What Cecil call’ ’em. Cardboard wiff wood frame.
He tore the gas mask off.
It was wood all right. Don’t look cheap, though. Sure as shit don’t look like cardboard. Tried to lift the lid. Could’t get it. Lid was screwed down tight. Every effort he made to pry it open with the shovel failed.
He grabbed the pickaxe and gave the coffin lid a series of solid blows and watched the lid give. Blood seemed to seep through the gauze his injured hand was wrapped in and was contained by the latex glove.
It was worth it, though. Had the top cracked down the center. He stayed with it until the opening was large enough. Shined the flashlight down there inside the coffin. Held it on the corpse.
Checked for gold teeth, rings, anything of value. There was nothing there, not even wordrobe worth taking. Old, not to his liking. Dude looked like a wino what got buried in Goodwill “senile citizen” rags and cheap kicks wiff holes in ’em. They had enough of that shit back at the cribby.
He checked the teeth again. Cecil had aksed him to find some fake choppers for Norbert Pimple and Miss Betty.
He got his fingers inside the jaw. Choppers was fake all right. Broke into a bunch of pieces as he pried them out of there. They was no damn good.
“Sorry, old dude. Wasn’t none of my idea. Omar be the one say to do it.”
Marvin tossed the broken false teeth aside. Wished he could do the same with the chills that ran up and down his spine. The stench at this point was so strong and nearly unbearable that he was forced to reach for the gas mask once again and slip it over his face. While he did this, he noticed it, the source that had doubled the odor: the next grave over. The coffin, another one of those cheap-ass boxes made of cardboard or something like it, had been buried so close to the grave he had dug that he had accidentally punctured the crappy coffin.
Body must not a been buried that long ago. “Just my luck. Shit.” Don’t feel like “escavatin’” another grave, neither.
He scooped up some dirt and did his best to jam it into the side of the other coffin, plug up the gash. Seemed to help some.
Yanked the mask off.
He got the lid of the coffin he was working on open. Left it that way so he could try to pile some of the other bodies on top of the corpse. And then he thought Bertha and that Duarte ho he would have to leave on top of the coffin lid probably.
That Big Bertha was just too damn big. First thing you got do is get Slim’ gold outta his mouf; Slim and that Big Mama still got all that bling. Gotta get it out like Cecil aksed you to.
“Maybe I should check Livia’s mouf, too. Beaner could have some gold in her mouf. Never know.”
“Howdy, friend.”
It was a male voice he’d never heard before and gave Marvin a real scare. He cursed under his breath. Looked up to see a transient standing on the edge of the grave, peering down, and he was holding what looked like a homemade club in his hand. He’d never heard him walk up. Now we got trouble. Where Dawg at?
“Hell you come from?”
“What are you doing down there, amigo?”
“Minding my own damn business. What do it look like?”
“That right, buddy?” Man turned his head casually to look at the van behind him, then back at the pickaxe in Marvin’s hands.
“Looks like grave robbing from where I’m standing.”
“Pet died on me. Want to bury it. One graveyard be good as another.”
The transient was in his late forties. White hair down to his shoulders. He did not have a shirt on underneath what appeared to be a well-worn red blazer. Had on baggy white cotton pants too short for his long legs. Huaraches without socks.
“Mighty big pet you got. Not that I give a rat’s pud. Just need a drink.”
He held a pocket watch in his other hand now.
“I can let you have this gold timepiece for ten bucks. . . .”
“You got the wrong homie. Be broke. Always be broke. Don’t know what it be like to have coin. Be broke my whole life, me.”
CHAPTER 338
Olivia stirred inside the laundry bag. Moved her head about at the opening. Though her wrists were cuffed behind her back, she was able to hold on to the fabric of the laundry bag with her fingers long enough to force her face to emerge through the opening and see what was what. By using her feet, as well as her hands, she was able to hold the laundry bag back to the point she was able to crawl out of it gradually and shed it entirely.
She crawled on her side toward the open rear door of the van. Could hear the man talking to Marvin. She didn’t know what it meant: perhaps an opportunity to save herself, perhaps nothing. What if the man ended up getting killed?—unless he happened to be one of them, unless he happened to be involved with Biggs and Marvin.
She knew they were in a cemetery somewhere and kept straining and looking and could see the drifter from the back, staggering there, trying to stay on his feet, whirling a pocket watch on a fob—and she could see Marvin Muck looking up from the grave, his head and upper shoulders visible.
&nb
sp; She had to get out, crawl out of there while Biggs was away; no matter that her wrists were handcuffed and she did not have full use of her hands, she had to do it and hide in the weeds and brush, and then maybe in the morning go for help, find help. She saw no other way. It was either that, or she got buried alive. That had to be their plan: to bury her and Slim and Bertha.
She stayed with it, pushing her body further along, until she had her eyes past the bed of the van and could see the bumper and the ground below. She lowered her shoulders down, her face turned away so as to prevent getting cut on bramble and weeds. She had a chance. Hoped so. The weeds would provide her with a slim chance, but one she was willing to risk. Hoped and prayed, as she lowered herself the rest of the way.
She could hear the two men talking as she pressed on, fighting the pain caused by the blows to the head. With her eyes shut tight, she did her best to ignore the fresh cuts made by the sharp weeds and dry brush that felt like stainless steel needles poking at her, jabbing at her open wounds. She crawled through it, at some point even made the effort to walk on her knees—but not for long. Was up on her feet even; covered some ground this way, moving, ducking, upper body bent forward, saying to herself: Please, help me. Give me a chance to hide . . . some time to get somewhere safe, away from here. . . .
“Just two bucks,” she heard the man say. “I can get a couple of bottles of Night Train or T-Bird; just two bucks. Great little pocket watch.” She had paused to catch her breath, watching the scene transpire. She saw the drifter move closer to the van. Watched Marvin climb out of the grave and hold his pickaxe like a batter waiting for a pitch with potential, or just maybe ready and willing to swing at anything that came his way.
“Get yo funky homeless ass away from that Meat Wagon.”
The wino kept grinning. Took a look inside the van, but could not quite make out what was under the pile of blankets. When he stuck his head back out to ask a follow-up question or two, he was staring at a shotgun barrel in Biggs’s hands.
CHAPTER 339
“Next time you attempt to sneak up on someone, I suggest you don’t make as much noise.”
“Sure. I’ll remember that.”
“What’s with the lumber? What were you planning on doing? Splitting my associate’s skull open with it?”
“Not really.” The man tossed the club off to the side. “Just something I keep with me to fend off coyotes and such.”
“Let’s see the pocket watch, old man.”
The drifter looked down at the keepsake in his hand, considered all that it meant to him. Quite a bit of the drifter’s past seemed to be attached to that timepiece.
“It’s got sentimental value mostly. Someone I loved a great deal once give it to me. As I said to your partner a minute ago: I’m willing to part with it for two or three bucks.”
Another loser doomed and ready to die, Biggs concluded. What else was new? World was full of them. You couldn’t decimate them fast enough.
“What’s your name?”
“Archibald Fuchs. Archie to my friends.”
“Toss it here, Archie.”
He did that. Biggs caught the watch. Looked it over. It was cheap, worthless, like the transient, and he tossed it back.
“How’d you get out this way?”
“Walked.”
“Speak of walkin’, Norbert could use him some kicks.”
“What size are those sandals?”
“I wear elevens.”
“Take them off, and toss them in the direction of the van.”
The bum did that.
“I’ll ask you again: How did you get out this way?”
“Like I told you: I walked.”
“You followed us from Slim Jessup’s. That was you, wasn’t it? You torched Jessup’s diner because he refused to serve you.”
“Mister, I got no idea what you’re going on about. That’s the truth. Walked out here from Pasadena. I walk everywhere these days. Got no other way to get around. My feet got enough blisters to prove it, too. Now that I give up my huaraches gonna get a few more, I expect.”
“Who else is with you?”
“I’m alone. . . . People know I’m here, but I’m alone.”
“Believe in two things, Archie: Life is a bitch . . . and that the hammer can come down at any given moment.”
Biggs told him to walk on over to the edge of the grave. The wino dropped to his knees, and started pleading like all the others.
“You can have it for nothing. I don’t need the pocket watch. I thought it had more value to me. Take it, please. Don’t shoot, mister. I’ll just leave you all to take care of your business. I didn’t mean to walk in on you. I swear it. I just come out here to spend some time with my little girl, that’s all. Caretaker don’t do much. Works when he feels like it. Spends ninety percent of his time up there among them fancy plots. They don’t hardly do nothin’ to keep things neat and clean like they once did. They got no respect for the ones buried back here. It’s them monied dead in the front what get all the attention, so I come out now and then to weed my little girl’s grave and clear it of litter. . . .”
Biggs looked past him at the upright hand truck that had been parked in back of some brush. The hand truck was loaded with milk crates that had things in them that he couldn’t quite make out. He shined his light in the direction.
“What’s that?”
“Dolly. Crates got empties in them: bottles, cans.”
“I asked you once before: Who sent you?”
“Tulio Pedroza. Groundskeeper. Accidentally come across the half-dug grave back there, plywood board. Like somebody used it to cover the grave with so it wouldn’t be discovered. Said it musta been grave robbers; maybe somebody what had a corpse fetish or somethin’, or maybe just kids foolin’ around. Tulio said to fill it in. I did. The other day.”
“Tulio did?”
“Yes, sir. It was Tulio Pedroza, the groundskeeper.”
“Doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here in the middle of the night, Archie.”
“Pickin’ up cans and bottles to recycle for drinkin’ money.”
“And to see if you might nail the cretins who dug up that other grave.”
Archie Fuchs stayed quiet.
“Aks him when this Tulio chump come around.”
“Hardly never, like I mentioned, especially not at night. Supposed to cut the grass and trim shrubbery. What they’re paid to do.”
“Doesn’t seem to be doing a good job of it.”
“Well, sir, he drinks, among other things. Yes, sir, I suppose I do my share. I can control my drinking; I handle my booze. He pays me a couple of bucks out of his own pocket to do what I do around here—now and then.”
CHAPTER 340
Biggs had heard enough.
“Get on over by the open grave, like I told you.”
The old guy who was not an old guy but looked older than his actual years, did as he was told, and for some reason his demeanor seemed to undergo a transformation and he calmly accepted what was about to take place.
“If it’s my fate to depart in this manner, that’s all right. . . . Go right ahead, mister. . . . My final resting place will be here where I belong. . . .”
“I have your consent, that it?”
“Want the jacket, Cecil. I ain’t never had me no red jacket before.”
Archie Fucks took the blazer off without being asked. Handed it to him. Marvin slipped his arms through the sleeves of the blazer. It was a nice enough fit. Not perfect, but it would do.
“Like them trouser. Want them white trouser so I don’t have to look like no senile citizen. Tired of hoe’ tellin’ me my wardrobe got odor to it and make me look like one of them citizen.”
Archie got out of the white cotton pants. Handed them over, and presently stood bare-assed in the moonlight in this fog-enshrouded graveyard.
“Lookit that dick.”
“Want that, too? Going to ask for that next?”
“Hell, no.
Ain’t no sissy, me. You know that. Wino got a big dick, is all. Prob’ly not as big as what I got—not even when the dude be like a brass pole.”
The deacon held the pants up. Made a face.
“These trouser’ got skid mark’. Fuckin’ skid mark’.”
“Want them, or don’t you?”
“I pass, me.”
“Then shut the hell up.”
Biggs walked up to Archie Fuchs and drove the butt end of the shotgun into his face and watched the man drop down into the grave and land on top of the corpse with a thud.
The bishop aimed the shotgun at him. It took the drifter a moment to recover from the blow. Both Biggs and Marvin waited and watched as the man reacted at being face-to-face with a dead human. Biggs lowered the shotgun and decided to draw the .357 from the shoulder holster instead. Had Marvin get the plywood square with the bull’s-eye.
“Look under the toolbox.”
Biggs jammed earplugs in his ears. Marvin was in the van. Returned with the bull’s-eye soon enough.
“Toss it down.”
Biggs told the transient to place the plywood behind his back. The transient’s lips were moving as if in prayer—and that was all that moved.
Cecil gestured to Muck to go down and do it. Marvin did, and climbed back out. Biggs squeezed off a shot and watched the man’s head bounce a bit against the plywood. There was blowback, but he couldn’t quite make out all of it from this distance.
The second shot seemed to knock out the back of the man’s skull and caused the coffin lid to come down on him. Marvin stood there, shaking his head. Didn’t exactly feel like climbing down into the hole.
“Let’s see how I did.” Biggs unplugged his ears. “Let’s see if I’m getting any better at this shit.”
