Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  Hit the kid while you’re at it, John Joseph, you miserable coward. And did. Would shout at them both: “Never promised you no bed of tulips now, did I?” Spray the kid’s face with debris, always. “What a family. Got a mental case whore for a wife, and a pansy degenerate bastard for a son. Ain’t life grand. Ain’t it just goddamned grand.”

  The buzzing in Biggs’s head pulled him briefly out of the nightmare. He lay there in his bed, unable to move, wanting to shake it all, his entire past, every single bit of it, start from scratch, give himself a fresh beginning. He truly wanted that. Wondered if it were possible. The buzzing persisted. It sounded like a roomful of flies, only there were no flies in sight.

  When he shut his eyes that familiar dirty windowpane on that landing between the third and fourth floors, the tenement windowpane overlooking the rear parking lot and the junk heaps in it in East LA was there, the harsh glare of the sun beating down on him and his “buddies” the flies and spiders, dead moths . . . all there.

  Face it, the flies will be with you until the day you die. . . . You can’t get away from the flies, no more than you can shake the noise in your skull. He felt a need to cover his ears with his hands. Wanted to badly. Couldn’t move. Was he still dreaming? Must be. Couldn’t tell.

  The shrinks screwed me up beyond repair. They fixed me good. It’s the meds, all the meds, the shock therapy. I’ll never be one hundred percent, I’ll never be “normal,” I’ll never be at peace. . . .

  His body shook. He wanted to sit up. Again, could not even do that. The windowpane remained in his mind’s eye, the beaters in the backyard and parking lot of that brownstone, death and decay, the flies, big fat ones; they were always the best to catch, always the ones that gave him the most satisfaction to kill, the ones that gave him wood when he severed their wings (single wing at a time) and then finished them off with a lighted cigarette or match.

  He was relieved when the window and the flies left him. Recalled filching a handful of purple daisies from someone’s front yard one afternoon and walking up to the Y and giving his mother the flowers just as she was emerging (having serviced a grizzled guest or two), recalled the way she had been touched by it, the way she had burst into tears and hugged him and could not stop crying. The gesture had overwhelmed her: an act of giving, sign of love; from son to his mother. Nice change of pace from the beatings and general abuse they were both subjected to at home by Juicer Joe.

  She had taken him to an ice cream parlor on Hollywood Boulevard afterwards and bought them both ice cream cones. . . .

  Instead of his mother running head-on into that truck, why couldn’t it have been the old man? Why not the alkie? He had pushed her over the brink.

  Biggs fought with every fiber of his being to wake up this time. Clenched his teeth. Grunted. Shook his head. Pushed. And pushed. Forced it to happen. Sat up. Made it.

  CHAPTER 406

  “Goddamned nightmares are killing me.” I’m chained to images that are destroying me. I don’t need it, I don’t need the “hallucinations.” That’s what the shrinks liked to call them. Only they were more than that. Flashbacks was more like it. Happened not only while he slept, but throughout the day, seven days a week. How do you explain it to the imbeciles? How does one explain these things to stupid people? Especially to people who are convinced they are intelligent and know things? When, in fact, they know nothing.

  What was so special or unique about his bad dreams and flashbacks and cold sweats, Biggs wondered, that he could not give them up? Were they clinging to him, or was it the other way around? If it was his own goddamned fault, he could not figure out why he would want to keep remembering and reliving things like that.

  Look, I really don’t give a shit the way Ma got killed, I really don’t. It happened years ago and it just does not matter these days. I feel nothing at all. Granted, sometimes you walked past a construction crew, heard a jackhammer, saw a hard hat wearing goggles, clouds of dust—so what?

  Big deal.

  What’s it supposed to mean to me? People died all the time; they died brutal, agonizing deaths. What was so special about the way his own mother had taken her life?

  She’d been a nut, a loony who liked to run around naked in public, liked to shake her tits at people in passing cars; she liked to stick her ass out at them, liked to let them see that dark bush between her legs—so what? Why did he think about it as often as he did? What did it matter? Because he truly did not wish to remember.

  He tossed in his bed wanting to stop the images, the sounds. All he wanted to be able to do was sleep a comfortable sleep without any of these screwy dreams disrupting his peace of mind. Side effects caused by Stelazine and Thorazine, Zoloft and Elavil. Years of ingesting mood elevators brought on nightmares and flashbacks. There would never be an end to it.

  The meds were supposed to help, instead induced further paranoia and made him recollect all that he wished to forget.

  CHAPTER 407

  The phone rang. He let it. Sat up. Picked up finally. It was Coyne, “the private investigator.”

  “It’s as if she’s disappeared off the face of the earth, her and the kid. Her lawyer has no idea where she is, either.”

  “Cops get anywhere? I’d like to see my son.”

  “They don’t know any more than I do.”

  “She must have left a forwarding with her attorney. How else would she get her alimony?”

  “That’s the other thing: they claim you haven’t sent anything in two months—and the only reason they don’t seek recourse is because they haven’t heard from her. When they do, they’re coming after you.”

  “I don’t send another dime until I see my kid.”

  “Up to you, Mr. Biggs.”

  “Probably skipped the country without letting me know. Back in the Philippines.”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “Like I said: I see my kid—only then do I resume the alimony and child support.”

  “So long as I’m remunerated for the work I’ve done so far.”

  Biggs asked what he had on the Mexicans.

  “Illegals. Both. Fake social security, IDs and license.”

  “What else is new? Should make our side look better in court, but it won’t.”

  “Nope. Not in liberal California. Everything is in their favor; how the Dems do it—for votes. How they stay in power and wreck the state. You and your employee, Greta Otto, is it?—do have the right to counter sue. The ace up your sleeve. This was an attempted rape, as I recall you saying; well, go after them.”

  “And my business stays closed until a trial date is set. That could be months, or longer; way longer. Wouldn’t be worth the fiscal loss, versus what they’re asking.” Cecil wanted to know what the shakedown artists’ latest figure was.

  “Ten k. Each,” said Coyne, and readily hinted that he required additional funds for services rendered.

  “Twenty grand, for attempting to rape a female employee of mine in the women’s restroom. Takes some kind of nerve. I’ll have to sleep on it. And as far as the other thing is concerned, regarding my ex-wife, you were paid a retainer, which you have yet to justify. If you want to see more green you’ll have to show me that you’re getting somewhere. I have to see some progress.” On that, Biggs hung up the receiver.

  CHAPTER 408

  Marvin Muck was knocking on his door.

  “Yo, Bishop. You awake in there?”

  “What is it?”

  “Yo. Them nosy Roscoe K-9 be at it again, bro. Diggin’ up your backyard, sniffin’ around for bone’. Hear them out there, me.”

  Biggs kicked the Kevlar blanket off. Rose from his bed. He shoved the Magnum in the shoulder holster and unlocked his bedroom door.

  “That redneck trash don’t never learn, huh, Cecil?”

  Biggs threw a jacket on. Stepped into the hallway. Locked the bedroom back up.

  “Do I have to shoot those mutts to keep them off my property? Is that what they want?”

/>   He walked to the end of the hallway. Unlocked the back door. Opened it.

  “You gonna off them K-9, Cecil?”

  Biggs said nothing. Eyed the dogs from where he stood on the stoop as they dug up a storm a few feet to the right of it. Their favorite spot.

  When would it end? When would these mutts stop harassing him? What is it going to take to get through to that moronic billy next door? And what was the purpose of having a fence if otherwise commonly accepted laws of demarcation continued to be violated by his (clearly) unenlightened neighbors?

  He stepped down. Scooped up the smaller Boston terrier, had Marvin pick up the larger, heavier Ziggy, and they carried them over to the so-called fence.

  CHAPTER 409

  Roscoe appeared on his back porch with a can of beer in one hand and a box of Fruit Loops in the other. He had the open end of the cereal box to his mouth. Tipped it upside down. Shook it to get at every last Fruit Loop, then tossed the empty box aside.

  He cracked the top of the beer can. Had a healthy pull. Burped with great satisfaction. He walked up, so that Ziggy could be handed over the fence to him. Only it became obvious that it could not be accomplished unless he got rid of the beer. Marvin was half-hoping he’d be the recipient. Roscoe noticed Muck’s eyes were on the brew and it made him grin. He had another pull, a long one, practically polishing it off. Then, to Marvin’s more-than-evident chagrin, tossed the can back over his shoulder, smacking his lips as he did. Roscoe didn’t give a damn that Muck hadn’t cared for it. They had money, leastways Biggs did. Lookit them fancy rides. Wouldn’t buy the colored idiot a beer ’cause he was cheap. All there was to it.

  Ziggy was handed to him at last. Marty lowered the dog to the ground. Darcy was next. Placed in his arms.

  “Please keep your animals away from my property. I’ve got board members and staff who are petrified of dogs.”

  “Were they ‘petrified’ of Rutherford?”

  “Some of them were.”

  “Yeah? Them members must be spooks. You know, ghosts? Because I ain’t never seen any of them.”

  “Harold and Fay Crust seen ’em. Don’t that be enough? I be Deacon. You seen me, ain’t you?”

  “What’s there to be afraid of, Biggs? A Lhasa apso and a Boston terrier? We ain’t exactly talkin’ about a couple of pit bulls here.”

  “They make a mess.”

  “Look, I heard. They’re my wife’s damned dogs. They ain’t but a substitute for the kid she’s been wanting for years. She’s forty-two. You know how they get when they’re that age. I can’t afford to raise no kid. Who needs a kid?”

  Biggs nodded. It was disinterest, if anything.

  “How about that Peaches LaBelle? What a hottie, what tits. I’d crawl on my hands and knees from here to the Palomino just to play with those hooters for a few minutes.”

  The sidekick had already gone back inside. Cecil Biggs was also walking away, seeing no reason to respond to Roscoe’s comment.

  “Fruity son of a bitch.” Marty Roscoe was grumbling to himself, clearly annoyed. And then his voice got loud enough to be heard. “Just about everyone around here is either on welfare or food stamps, struggling to make it, just getting by, and you got two cars like that sittin’ out there. How do you do it, Biggs?”

  Biggs paused. “Eat your heart out.”

  “Something ain’t right about you, mister. You got to be dealing. Pusher living right next door to me.”

  “I don’t push dope.”

  “How you get all that money then to buy a Rolls-Royce and a brand spanking new poontang pink Brougham Cadillac?”

  “It’s red.”

  “What was that?”

  “It only appears to be ‘poontang pink’. Depending on what time of day it is. The light, you know. It’s actually deep red. Color of blood.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I know someone else who likes to pull that shit. Where do the pesos come from?”

  “That’s my business. I’ll tell you anyway. I get a monthly disability check from the army. Own and operate a haunted house.”

  “Yeah? What ‘haunted house’?”

  “Lizzy Borden’s Bordello of Fear. Well, used to be called that. It’s Trusty Lusty’s these days.”

  “Sounds like bullshit from where I’m standing. Makin’ that kind of jack to own a Rolls and a Cadillac runnin’ a haunted house? Like I said: horse dung, buddy.”

  “I also play the stock market.”

  “Stock market? Whatever you say. I ain’t envious, like a lot of them yokels around here. I don’t stick my nose in other people’s business. I don’t. Ain’t me.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “All I asked was about Peaches LaBelle and them: Lana and them. Can’t blame a good ole boy for that. My wife makes side money sellin’ tunes. Can’t blame a guy for wantin’ to help out his wife. The only way to do that, as I see it, is to get to know the chickadees; get closer to ’em.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “You seem to have an in. Got the means. All I’m saying is throw your neighbor a bone.”

  “You want me to throw you a bone?”

  “Why not? Throw a good ole boy a bone, or else one of these days, sure as shit, we throw down. Me and you.”

  Biggs turned away. Was startled by Muck’s reemergence from the back door and the deliberate malice with which he directed his good middle finger at the redneck.

  “Throw this down, Fruit Loop-eatin’, white bread mothafuckah.”

  “That what you mean by ‘Re-Newed Hope,’ Biggs?”

  Cecil Biggs had it in his mind to walk away. An all-out-verbal battle with Roscoe was bound to come with a price that he could ill-afford. On the other hand, he was not inclined to hinder Marvin from venting some of his anger, either. Let him. He’s calling a spade a spade.

  “He don’t. But I do.” Marvin Grabbed his crotch. “Re-Newed Hope. For a white dope.”

  “You fudge-packers need therapy. A lifetime of it. Why therapy was invented in the first place: for squirrelly types like you.”

  Biggs stopped at this point, without turning. The last remark grated. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Waited for more along those same lines. It never came. Marvin continued to hustle his groin.

  “Choke on this, cracker bitch. Got enough here for that mud duck you wiff and yo mama, too.”

  Biggs advised Marvin to stop it and go on inside.

  “Told his ass off, me.”

  Marvin did as Cecil wanted. Bishop resumed walking in the direction of his back door, and could hear Marty walking away himself and talking to the Boston terrier in his arms.

  “Ain’t that right, Darcy? Therapy. Only some people are so screwed up the only way to cure ’em is to shoot ’em. Ain’t that right, little girl?” He switched his tone and spoke as if to a young child. “You’re just a shittin’ machine, Darcy—about the cutest little shittin’ machine this Arkie ever seen.”

  CHAPTER 410

  Roscoe was in the kitchen tearing open a thirty-five-pound bag of Kibbles ’n Bits Original Chicken and Beef Flavor dog food. The dogs stood around on the linoleum floor, looking up with eager, slobbering tongues.

  He poured appropriate portions into separate bowls, always seeing to it that the bowls were far enough apart, as Darcy preferred to eat her chow away from the Lhasa apso.

  “What was all the commotion out there?” Marty’s wife was in the den area, seated at her piano, forever struggling to compose that winning tune that would provide them with the financial freedom to relocate to Beverly Hills, or so she hoped.

  “Pastor ain’t no man of the cloth. Never seen a real pastor behave like that one. That’s for sure.”

  “What did he do this time?”

  “It ain’t what he done, not this time. More like what he ain’t done.”

  “All right. What didn’t he do?”

  “What do you want from me? Dogs got in his yard again. Old news. Weirdo likes to bitch. He’s negative. Town’s fu
ll of negative people. Must be the smog.”

  “If you would get off your ass now and then and repair the fence, at least some of the pickets, we wouldn’t have to worry about my kids getting out of the yard, would we?”

  “What’s eatin’ at you now?”

  “You were asking him about that African bitch again, weren’t you? Her and those other whores who ply their trade at the Kismet Whorehouse. Admit it.”

  “Got whores on the brain sounds like to me. It’s a haunted house; Trusty Lusty’s Bordello of Fear. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with whores.”

  “Haunted house? What haunted house? Never heard of it.”

  “Makes two of us. Says it used to be called Lizzy Borden’s Bordello of Fear. Now Lizzy Borden I know you’ve heard of: that was the whack-job who went at her folks with an ax about a hundred ago. Chopped them up like they was stew meat. By the time she was done with ’em they might as well’ve been. Ready for the crock pot.”

  “That’s gross. You know that, don’t you?”

  “At least I have a sense of humor.”

  “Are you implying that I don’t?”

  “No, I’m implying that it’s a sick world and some of this shit is so insane that you gotta laugh, else you know where it leads?”

  “Lizzy Borden’s Bordello of Fear, you said?”

  “Used to be called that.”

  “How do we know it’s not a front for a house of ill-repute? Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Take ‘bordello’, add ‘house’—what do you got? Two and two—adds up to what?”

  “Bordello don’t mean right away it’s prostitution. You got haunted house mixed up with whore house, like I said. From what I hear, people go to these to get scared, not to get laid. Addicted to fear. Same way the rest of us are addicted to gettin’ laid. It’s a thrill for ’em. Makes ’em wet. Violence; even when it’s make believe. Don’t matter. Like it better than poontang. Makes ’em climax. Like the rest of us gettin’ great head and gettin’ off with an amazing BJ. Sick fucks. World we live in these days.”