Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  Felix wasn’t saying anything and gave him the silent treatment.

  “You don’t get it, man. Lookee-here: when you got the runs real bad you lucky if you can go two steps before it explodes. At least with a double-shot of good whiskey you got a better chance now, on account you can probably go three steps before it starts to blast out your butt crack.”

  “What you got is a lot worse than that.”

  Felix did not want to look at the other guy, and concentrated on the digging at hand.

  They got the dirt off the bodies. Had to be careful, Ace reminded his partner. “Ain’t you forgot? Bishop pissed on Big Bertha. Did the golden shower number on the big ho.”

  Felix shook his head. There really was no use: no one was breathing. It was a gruesome sight.

  “What do we do, Ace?”

  “What did I tell you?” Ace pointed a finger at the body on top which was Slim Jessup. “That pendejo there eighty-sixed me that day just ’cause I was trying to make a buck so I could cop a balloon and get myself straight. It was his fault I shit my pants later on. Eighty-sixed. You seen it. Kicked outta the diner for wanting to unload a timepiece. I don’t forget being disrespected like that.”

  He spit at the body. “My asshole bleeds for him.” Hustled his crotch. “See what happens when you act like that? You get stepped on by The Power. What goes around comes around. Karma.”

  “To hell with that, man. Biggs and that sick fuck wasted these people. What do we do?”

  “What do we do? I’ll tell you what we do.”

  Ace slid down into the grave and began patting down Slim’s body. Found a greenback folded in quarters hidden inside a small coin pocket. He unfolded the bill. Held it up against the full moon.

  “Ain’t but a dollar.”

  “How can you?”

  “No sense letting good money go to waste.”

  “Probably got the man’s blood on it.”

  Ace wiped it against his trousers.

  “Uncle Sam don’t mind. Money is money. Dollar bill gets you a large Slurpee these days, with change left over.”

  He pocketed the bill. Bent down to check over the other bodies. Shoved the dead diner owner aside. Found nothing on Big Bertha. Reached down for the dead bum.

  “He ain’t gonna have no money on him—unless he got it stashed away in his prison purse—and I ain’t about to go probing up a dead dude’s culo.”

  Something, a gleam, caught his eye in the dirt beside the coffin. Pocket watch. He wiped the dirt off. Opened it. Held it close to his ear. Seemed to be working. He strained to read the inscription. Couldn’t make it out. Flicked his Bic. Held it and the pocket watch to the good eye. Read: “To Archie — Love, Melody.”

  Snapped it shut. “Damn. Won’t be able to get as much for it.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “Gimme a hand.”

  “You got no respect for the dead.”

  “I got respect. Right here: respect.” He tugged on his crotch; there was a bad itch he needed to deal with. Held his arm up when he was done. “Gimme a hand, I said.”

  Felix shook his head. Crossed himself.

  “Hey!”

  Felix reached down. Pulled him up.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this. Ain’t right, Ace.”

  “We got two ways we can go, the way I figure.” Ace Ortiz fingered the Band-Aids that covered parts of his severely bruised face. “We either bust into the maricon’s crib and rip him off good, step on that demon rat like I been meanin’ to for a long time now—or we use a little ingenuity: we let him know he either comes across or we make a phone call, drop a dime on that mothafuckah.”

  “We gotta tell somebody, Ace.”

  Ace reached out and grabbed Felix by the collar. “What chu gonna do, chump? Run to the bulls? My PO don’t even want me to own a car. I’m driving without a license. What do you think he’s gonna do when he finds out I was fucking around in a boneyard in the middle of the night? What would I tell him? That I was ‘visiting my little girl’s grave?’—like that loser Biggs iced? That would go over great. I can’t be messin’ with no law dogs right now, no way. My PO’s just waitin’ for me to step on my dick so he can send me back to Q. and throw away the key. Only way I’m goin’ back is dead. They gonna havta kill me. Only way Jesus Ortiz is gettin’ back on that north-bound bus. ’Sides, even if I wasn’t on parole, I still wouldn’t want to be runnin’ to the fuckin’ rollers, ’cause that’s what a chicken-shit stoolie would do.” He let the other man go. Paused to collect himself. Wiped his brow.

  “See what you do to me? Got me all worked up.”

  “Don’t he test you for booze and all the other shit you do: Glue and blow? Don’t he see that your choppers is falling right out of your mouth? He can’t be that blind.”

  “Don’t sweat my PO. I don’t see the chump but twice a month. I know how to deal with him.”

  “Don’t he check up? Ain’t you supposed to have a square gig by now? Nine to five type of bullshit wage slave gig?”

  “Fuck all that, man. We got the biggest score right under our nose and you want to run your mouth about some insignificant shit like that? Lookit your face. Looked in the mirror lately? Remind me of that freak in that flick, one with the hunchback. See what he done to you? See what he done to me, your #1 best homie? We bust into the loco padre’s sham church; that’s right. And he ain’t gonna do shit about it, ’cause before we go in we make damned sure our peeps know we in there—an’ if that clever cocksucker tries anything we let the mierda hit the fan. Cabrone is loaded. Got crack in there, meth, ludes, uppers, downers, money; you name it. All right, you scared of spikes; don’t like ’em—I get it. Ain’t gonna hold it against you; but, man, I know you ain’t got nothing against pesos, cash. Loco owns that mansion, owns them luxury hoopties. I want some of that; want my share. I’m entitled; we both are. Tired of just gettin’ by, tired of nickel-and-dime capers that don’t never amount to nothin’. Ain’t worth the risk—like what we done with that African peeler with the grande culo and hangers. What I’m sayin’ here: we do this caper, make the score—then we consider dropping a dime about these stiffs down here. ’Cause they already dead, what good is it to them if we go cryin’ to the pigs right now? Nothing. Ain’t gonna bring ’em back. Ain’t gonna do no good at all. Them’s dead stiffs there. Dead and buried. With their Maker. That ain’t gonna change no matter what we do.”

  “What about Rudy Perez’s girl, Ace? She ain’t dead.”

  “You right about that. Only he ain’t gonna be in no hurry to ice Perez’s honey. Biggs got a thing for her. Meanwhile, lemme sleep on this thing, figure on a plan before we make our move. I’ll let you know. Motherfucker ambushed us once already. Only a chump lets the same cocksucker ambush him twice in a row.”

  “You’ll let me know, so it don’t happen twice in a row.”

  “You makin’ fun of me?”

  “Me? Make fun of you? Just don’t take your sweet time about it, Ace.”

  Felix walked off in the direction away from where they had left their junker.

  “What are you doin’ now, loco? Bucket ain’t over there. It’s parked over in this area, man; back of potter’s field.”

  Felix kept walking. Ace stood there shaking his head. “You know somethin’ I don’t? That it?” He searched his pockets for a smoke. Lit up. Did a double take when he saw Felix reappear with the dead transient’s two-wheeled dolly and the plastic crates with the empties.

  “What the fuck? Are you for real? After the hard time you just give me?”

  “Dude is dead. Wouldn’t make no sense to leave the empties out here. Could probably sell the dolly, too, for a few bucks.”

  “Too much. A minute ago you was giving me nothing but grief, bitchin’ at me for taking a lousy dollar bill off Jessup, then you turn around and pull this?”

  “Ever heard me say I was perfect? I never said I was perfect.”

  “I don’t even want to hear it.”

  Ortiz
turned, and walked off. Felix hurried after him, pushing the hard rubber wheels of the dolly over rocks and brambles, while coyotes howled in the background that caused him to lose balance, just about tipping the dolly and the crates over.

  CHAPTER 355

  Took him a good while, but being patient had its rewards, as Felix guided the hand truck through stretches of weeds and other obstacles, while making gradual but steady progress toward the fence in back. Reached it, looked about, spotted the gap they’d made good use of earlier, and pushed on. Got there in time to see Ace pissed and kicking at the right rear wheel of their short.

  What now, thought Felix. Figured he’d find out soon enough. Gave the hand truck a heave, in order to push it through the opening and the damn thing bounced back nearly hard enough to knock him to the ground, but not quite. He’d held on, as before, stopping the dolly from toppling to the side just in time by holding down onto the top crate with every bit of strength that he could summon. He leaned his head out to take a better look. Glanced down. What the fuck? There was about a foot of chainlink there from the ground up. A foot of that shit. No wonder. Whoever the original mother was who had bent it back from the post saw no need to bend it far enough to the ground. And that’s what he had to work with. Should’ve remembered from before. He’d deal with it. No choice.

  “Could use a hand over here. Ace.”

  “Man, fuck you,” said Ortiz. Unlocked the trunk and reached inside for the jack. Then he dug around some more and dragged the spare out.

  “What?”

  “You don’t see I’m busy?”

  “Can’t see shit from here. What’s goin’ on?”

  “Tire’s flatter than a flapjack. Other than that, ain’t jack shit goin’ on.”

  The side of the street their car sat had other parked cars on it, but other than that the sidewalk went on forever: up and down, along the chainlink fence. Overgrown with weeds and mesquite. The other side of this residential street consisted of modest, lower middle-income two and three bedroom typical Southern California homes. Lights were out in most of them, with the exception of the house directly opposite.

  Felix figured there was but one way to deal with with his crates-full-of-empties situation: carry them through one milk crate at a time. Was it worth it? Moot point. And thus he began: lifted the top, bent his head in and got through the opening and made it to the other side. By the time he had the crate lowered in the weeds on the sidewalk, his homie Ortiz was not only cursing some more, but he was kicking at the spare now.

  “Cool it, homes. You’re waking up the neighborhood.”

  “Motherfuckin’ spare ain’t got no air in it, hardly. Can you believe this shit? I mean: can you fuckin’ believe it? Can our luck get any worse?”

  A pair of car headlights crested at the top of the hill, and continued on in a slow and gradual descent, heading in their direction. From this distance, this late at night, it was impossible to tell if the vehicle was run by treasure hunters trolling the hood for an easy score, or far worse: had a couple of gung-ho bulls in it itchin’ to bag a couple of unlucky grave robbers. Rollers patrolled these graveyards; they was always out here for this reason. Both of them knew it.

  Felix nodded in the car’s direction.

  “It just did.”

  Went prone in the weeds the minute the words left his lips. Ortiz was too pissed to bother, and proceeded with the business of trying to figure out if the spare was worth bothering with—or if they even had a choice?

  CHAPTER 356

  Before they switched the Ford van for the Cadillac inside the garage in back of Vantage Avenue, the ball-gag was removed from Olivia’s mouth and so was the chain that connected the cuffs to the leg irons and she was stuffed into the custom-made suitcase in the Caddy’s trunk; the dead drifter’s huaraches had been pitched in, and they were now pulling up to the “compound,” as Cecil at times liked to refer to his property.

  He sat at the wheel, the Cadillac idling, while Marvin hopped out to unlock the gate.

  Biggs drove on through to the rear and backed the trunk end of the Fleetwood Brougham to the back door. Got out. Looked around to assure himself he wasn’t being spied on by his nosy neighbors while waiting for Marvin to make it back there.

  He unlocked the rear entrance and tossed the sandals in. When Muck appeared he reminded him to hand over the gate key. Muck flung it at him. There was a reason why he felt annoyed. Cecil had a way of making him feel stupid and irresponsible. Watch him aks about the gate.

  “Lock it back up?”

  “Done it.”

  “You positive?”

  “Man, why you got to aks me twiced all the time?”

  Biggs said nothing. Gestured to give him a hand with the suitcase. Each grabbed a nylon rope handle, and they dragged the metal chest out and lugged it inside the hallway.

  “Close the door.”

  “Can’t nobody see nothin’.”

  “Close the fucking door.”

  Marvin did that.

  “Because you have a hearing problem. That’s why I have to say everything ‘twiced’ all the time.”

  Biggs undid the clasps. He lifted the lid, and not unlike all the other victims before her, Olivia Duarte popped out to about her waist, springing up like a human Jack-in-the-Box—the mouthpiece evidently still in her jaw and the tube dangling from the top of the sack.

  Biggs yanked it out of her mouth. Watched as she made a scene: gasping and taking in huge gulps of air. She soon lost her balance and fell on her side.

  Biggs reached down casually and widened the top of the sack so that it made it possible for her to stick her head out—and that she did. The tear-streaked, hysterical features appeared. There was no denying the natural beauty in spite of the dirt and blood and pink-rimmed eyes.

  A helping hand was in order. He tugged on the sack until it was down to about her waist. Had to pause for a moment to take in the victim’s ever-impressive cleavage within the confines of that bra, gazing as though for the first time. Noticed Marvin doing the same. So long as he didn’t put his grubby hands on her and his big dick in her.

  Biggs yanked on the sack some more. It cleared her feet and she was free of it. Her server’s dress that he’d torn down the middle in the graveyard revealed a goodly amount of skin that continued to confirm what he’d felt about her all along: epitome of class. Premium pussy.

  It was tough to control one’s excitement in a situation such as this. Thrill of the hunt culminating in thrill of the catch. Moments like this made life worth living.

  Sweat dripped from the bishop’s face.

  If it was nearly impossible for Biggs to keep a lid on what he was going through, it was even more so for Marvin. Muck could not take his hungry eyes off of her. Found himself unable to resist. Reached down to fondle the heavy mounds inside the pink bra with one hand, while fondling bush inside the blood and sperm-stained pink panties with the other.

  “Get your paws off her. Take the sandals and scrub them in the john.”

  “How come I never be gettin’ nothin’ this hot? Ain’t right.”

  Biggs responded with a hard whack across the deacon’s jaw with the huaraches that must have exacerbated the pain inflicted by that punch in the van and sent a riled Marvin Muck reeling.

  “Twiced in the same place. Twiced in the mouf! What the fuck, Omar.”

  “This is prime pee-hole here. Think I’m about to let you near this fine cunt before I’ve had a chance to get my fill? No way. She’s mine. All mine.”

  “All I done was touch some tit, me.”

  “You’re not touching shit. You need a shower. Wash the graveyard out of your pores. Change your clothes. Throw the clothes you got on in the washer. Who knows what you might’ve picked up out there.”

  “If I did, so did yo ass.”

  “You were down in the grave, playing grab-ass with the stiffs.”

  “Who made me?”

  “I’ve waited a long fucking time to get my hands on this cun
t, a long fucking time. Probably jeopardized my whole program. Should have waited for a better opportunity . . . should have, should have—but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

  He was looking at her as he spoke these words. “Not that it was entirely up to me.” His gaze back on Marvin. “Somebody saw to it that I had no choice but to move prematurely by flashing a certain cigarette lighter that belonged to a certain peeler of color.”

  “Yeah. Blame Marvin. Only this here ho seen them other hoe’, Peach and them, in here last. Five-oh woulda found out.”

  Biggs faced the victim. Got his hands on her handcuffed wrists and helped her to her feet. “Pearly Girlie, it wasn’t anything I had any real control over.”

  He looked her dead in the eye. Waited and watched for it. He did not have long to wait.

  “You don’t want to do that, ho. Don’t show you scared in front of Trusty. You fuckin’ dead you do that. Ain’t that right, Brotha Trusty?”

  CHAPTER 357

  Biggs said nothing. Just grinned. He liked it. Stuck his long tongue out, wiggled it in front of her face, and stuck it in her mouth. Lapped up her tears and then slowly ran it down across her chin, down her tender neck . . . down toward her breasts. . . . He squeezed the bra cups together, burying his tongue into the cleavage.

  “You’ve got body odor, girlie, that smells better than most deodorants.” He was looking up again. “I wouldn’t kid you about something like that.”

  “They could bottle it, huh, Cecil? Call it BO by Duarte.”

  “Not bad. Hell, they could bottle her urine and it would outsell Pepsi.”

  “Bottle her fart’, Cecil, right? And sell them fart’ like they was fresh air.”

  “You mean air-freshener.”

  “Yo. Could be.”

  “I like that.”

  Biggs’s mouth was up against her ear with that last line. He lowered himself to his knees. Brushed her backside to get at bits of loose grass and leaves stuck to her panties. Pressed his face between the cheeks. Inhaled several times.