by Kirk Alex
“Let me get this straight, you want money from me?”
“You heard right. I want to be paid.”
Rudy yanked the junkie’s glue bag away, grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him against the pickup truck.
“Don’t play games with me, Ortiz. I don’t have time for your bullshit. I don’t like violence and I don’t pretend to be a tough guy—but, man, I’m at the end of my rope right now. Don’t push me. DON’T PUSH ME!”
Ace Ortiz calmly reached down for the Saturday night special he got off of Felix’s Uncle Hilario and stuck it in Rudy’s belly button. “Get your dirty fuckin’ paws off the skins.”
“You gonna show me the grave?”
“If you don’t cut me loose, I’ll cap you right in the gut.”
“Where’s the grave, Ortiz?”
“Better tell him I mean it, Felix. I’ll drop his ass.”
“Believe him, Rudy. He’ll do it, too. You don’t want to get shot. Let him go. I’ll take you to the grave.”
Rudy released his grip. Ortiz liked that. He’d won the round hands down. No competition.
“You’re a real hotshot with that gun, ain’t you, Ortiz?”
“You got it.”
“Why weren’t you a hotshot with Biggs out here that night?”
“Yeah? I’m gonna go up against a crazy clown like that when he’s waving a shotgun? No way. Ain’t no skin off my nose what he does. She ain’t my old lady.”
CHAPTER 415
Rudy got the shovels and pickaxe out of the truck, and they moved off in search of the grave that Ortiz and Monk had difficulty locating.
Felix pointed out that the place looked different during the day. “We was out here at night, Rudy. Just ain’t the same in the day time.”
“If what you told me is true, she . . . she could be . . .”
Ortiz was annoyed with both, especially with Rudy Perez, and couldn’t keep quiet about it. “Hold your horses right there, Perez. We told you the truth. Laid it all down like it happened. It was your idea to drag us all out here when we coulda just as easily busted inside that carajo’s crib by now.”
They searched for another fifteen minutes until Felix recognized the grave.
“This looks like it.”
Felix started digging. Rudy joined in.
“I gotta go take a dump. Be right back.”
“The Aztec Two-Step again, Ace?” Monk looked up, and got no response from Ortiz, who disappeared behind brush and trees somewhere toward the rear.
“Did the same thing night we was out here, Rudy. I found out later Biggs kept a supply of dope, cash, and whatnot in a tool shed back there. Only I didn’t get wind of it ’till I busted Ace comin’ outta this Burbank thrift store wearin’ skins he just bought himself. Kicks, too. By then he’d used up all the dope and money.”
“I don’t care about any of that.”
There was no way for Felix Monk to keep up with Rudy Perez as he went at the grave: first with the pickaxe, then shoveled the dirt out like a man possessed. It did not take them very long to realize that the three bodies that were supposed to be buried here were, in fact, not here at all. Rudy and Felix found themselves staring at a rusted-out second-rate metal casket with a decades old corpse in it and not much else.
CHAPTER 416
There was a gun shot. Sounded like it had come from the direction Ace had walked off in. They moved toward the source.
Ortiz had a bag lady on the ground and he was pummeling the hell out of her with his left fist; held the gun in his right, while his other fist worked away. Felix and Rudy moved in and pulled the parolee off of the woman.
She rose. Wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her slime- and grime-caked coat sleeve.
Ace was on hands and knees a yard or so away searching for something on the ground. Found it. Wiped his artificial eye against his shirt front and stuck it in his face. He stood up. Looked about for something else. Found it: a type of home-fashioned club. Appeared to be the same one, or something like the one, he and Felix noticed the transient lugging that night Biggs and Marvin did him in.
He flung the club into some brush in the distance. “Bitch come up on my bad side, my fake eye side.”
The woman spit hard in his direction. She was incredulous.
“Your eye? Look what you done to my dentures. You broke my teeth.”
“Like you had any was worth anything to start with.”
“You’re gonna pay for this, mister. Swear to God; you’re gonna pay.”
“Lookee-here. Get your rank snapper away from me before I forget I’m a man of morals and a model citizen.”
“You stink, mister! Inside—and out.”
“Get her out of my sight, somebody, before I puke. . . .” Only he began to vomit all the same.
“You all right? Ace?” Of those present, Felix seemed to be about the only one who even gave a damn or understood what his homie Ortiz was going through.
“Been hours since I fixed last.” Ortiz wiped vomit and blood from his chin. “Then this ugly, old witch come out of nowhere and clubs me upside the head for no reason.”
“No reason?” Woman was holding up a pocket watch that looked somewhat familiar. “No reason, you say? This is Archie’s watch. You killed Archie to get his pocket watch. Didn’t ask for no more than five dollars for it. There was no reason to take him out. Less than five dollars. You killed Archie Fuchs. My friend. He was a good friend. Now he ain’t around. I ain’t seen him since that night he said he was comin’ out here to place a wreath on his daughter’s grave.”
“What?” Felix Monk felt a need to respond. “What are you even saying, lady?”
“You heard! His daughter; was laid to rest in this here graveyard years before. My good friend Archie come out here to clear the weeds off her grave; had a wreath for her—and you done away with him for this cheap pocket watch.”
“Look, miss, my partner Ace got the watch after your friend was killed by a man named Cecil Biggs. Bishop Cecil O. Biggs shot your friend Archie dead. We saw it happen that night. We followed them out from North Hollywood. Me and Ace, we never been out here before until that night. Didn’t know what to expect, neither.”
“And you done nothin’ about it? LIARS. ALL OF YOU. LIARS!”
“You ain’t got to explain a damn thing to that crazy old broad. He moved it, anyway. Biggs moved his stash someplace else. I’m fucked. . . .” Ortiz vomited some more. Had the dry heaves. His head was aching to add to it. His body shook.
“Jesus, I’m fucked. Ain’t even got enough bread left to score a balloon of chiva.”
“Take it easy, Ace.”
“You got no idea what it’s like. None of you know what it’s like.”
That satchel Ace had crafted himself had been knocked out of his hand and landed on a nearby grave when the woman had snuck up on him. He walked over and kicked at the satchel, cursing.
“Bag was a bitch to make. Got no use for it now. Don’t none of you get it.”
“You ain’t but a bunch of grave-robbing carpetbaggers. Far as I can tell. Sneaking around in graveyards. Only thing I ain’t got: why you ain’t shot me yet. Why you ain’t tried to rape me.”
“Rape you? With a face like you got? I wouldn’t go near your smelly snapper if you give me all the smack in the world. And as far as the other goes . . .” Ace aimed his gun at the woman. “That can be took care of right now, big mouth. . . .” The way his hand shook it looked like the .38 might go off at any second. Woman said nothing. Didn’t want any part of it.
“You holding? Got any bread on you?”
Woman kept her mouth closed. Ortiz reconsidered the situation: there were witnesses, and he really didn’t want to waste a tired old hag like this anyway, no matter how homely and repulsive she looked. He stuck the piece back in his pocket.
Felix’es eyes were on the woman. Felt like getting his thoughts in on the situation.
“Biggs couldn’t leave the bodies where he left them kn
owing we knew about it. Figured another wino might come along and find his hiding place with the stash and shit, just like the wino he greased. Archie Fuchs, you say his name was? Well, lady, whether you want to believe us or not, Biggs wasted his guts all over the cemetery. Dumped him and some other peeps in a grave. Only when we dug up the hole just now we found out the bodies was gone. Missing. Bodies was moved.”
Ortiz found himself agreeing. “Ask me if I’m surprised. I ain’t surprised.”
“Is that right? What’d you do with the empties, then? Archie had a bunch of empties with him.”
“Empties?” Felix couldn’t believe the old broad. Looked at Ace, who was shaking his head.
Ace was the one doing the spitting presently. “So that’s what this is about. You don’t give a rat’s culo about the dude. All you care about is the jack. Fuck your empties, lady. Got it? Fuck them empties.”
“He had all them empties with him that night. Was out here picking up bottles and beer cans for Tulio Pedroza. Sure; woulda brung us a nice sum. Archie’s hand truck is gone. Hand truck and empties.”
“Why don’t you take it someplace else, old ho. We ain’t got time for your bullshit grievances.”
“You ain’t heard the last of this.” She walked away. “Cemeterian will be informed. You better believe it. Mr. Pedroza is gonna know about this.” She spit on the ground. Flipped the trio not one, but both middle fingers as a last sign-off. She was gone.
Ortiz looked at his partner. Did his best to steady his nerves.
“Who does that remind you of, Felix?”
“Roscoe’s old lady.”
“Mancini’s old lady, too. Same shit. Psycho bitches from hell. World’s full of them. Why I never get excited no matter how hot a ho is. They all end up like that: gray-haired. Loco. All of them.”
CHAPTER 417
Rudy Perez walked off by himself. Wanted to return to the grave. The two followed. Grave was refilled. Ortiz was clearing his throat and was about to say something else. Rudy had had enough and did not want to hear it, whatever it was.
“I got a question I wish somebody would answer: What in the fuck is a ‘carpetbagger’?”
“You’re a goddamned hype, Ortiz. Stay the hell away from me.”
“You must not give a shit about your woman then, punk.”
“I’m warning you, Ortiz.”
“You think we’re playing some kind of game here, Perez? This ain’t no game. We seen what we seen. ’Sides, you heard the old bag: her alkie boyfriend’s missing.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing to me. It has nothing to do with why we’re here.”
“We saw it, Rudy. I swear it.”
“We found a shriveled-up corpse in that grave, Felix. One shriveled-up corpse. I don’t know what I was supposed to find in a graveyard. What did I expect to find?”
Rudy gathered up his tools.
Ortiz lit a cigar. Fought a coughing seizure and won.
“Hate these fuckin’ stogies. All I got left to smoke.” Spat out phlegm. “It was Slim Jessup and Big Bertha Lenier and this wino we never seen before. You heard the old witch: says his name was Archie Puke. He kept sayin’ he was out here gettin’ rid of weeds off a his kid’s grave. That’s what we heard that night. The man had a hustle goin’ similar to mine, only he had that cheap pocket watch he used for a gimmick. He was trying to get a couple of bucks for it to buy a bottle of hooch. Biggs took one look at the pocket watch, saw it was cheap, and didn’t want it. Rearranged the wino’s face with the butt end of his shotgun. Knocked him down in the grave. He walked over and then shot the man with his gun. I heard two shots.”
Rudy did not know what to believe. Hopheads like these two could tell you more fairy tales than you ever wanted to hear.
“Slim Jessup and Big Bertha Lenier are down in Florida about a funeral. I saw the sign on the door myself. So have others—before his place burned down.”
“He’s in Florida all right.” Ortiz paused to scratch himself down there. Was either a heat rash or jock itch. What was the difference? Wasn’t they the same? Jock itch was a type of rash. Else he caught something from Mancini’s old lady. Couldn’t be sure. “And that greasy spoon of his never got torched, neither.”
CHAPTER 418
Felix was off on his own, looking around, going over various graves. He’d spotted what appeared to be traces of dry blood, but not enough of it. In fact, what he saw did not look like blood at all: the sun had baked it well, too well. He made every effort to follow the trail a crawling Olivia Duarte had taken that night in her attempt to get away from the killers. She’d tried to escape, he remembered that—and he’d been tempted to do something about it (except Ace had been the one with the gun, Ace had been the one who had gone off to follow Biggs to his secret stash). And if Ortiz had seen enough himself of what had taken place that night, he sure hadn’t been willing to make a move to stop it.
Rudy announced that he was returning to the truck. “You two want to stay here? Stay here then.”
“Your girl tried to crawl away.” Felix wanted to get the rest of it out, only was not certain how to go about it exactly. Just wasn’t easy. How do you tell a man that the woman he was in love with was brutally raped—and that he stood by and let it happen, without lifting a finger to help? He couldn’t do it. Only the hype with him, who went by Ace Otiz, had no trouble with it himself. He was smiling, too. Found something to smile about. At a time like this.
“That’s right, Perez. What my homie Felix is tryin’ to say here. Trusty caught up with her.” The smile on the ex-con’s weathered and wrinkled face was fixed and deliberate. “He busted her cherry. Didn’t he, Felix? Took that snapper. Clown had him plenty of fun with her culo, too. We got details, if you’re up to it.”
Rudy Perez stared at Ortiz in silence. How could the creep actually have a smile on his face after what he’d just said? Answered your own question: You’re dealing with scum.
“Between you and me? I got this feelin’ she went for it. Wanted it. Had bitches I knew, more than once, ask me to take ’em. You know? Slap ’em an’ rape ’em.”
“You better shut your mouth, Ortiz. Gun or no gun. You just better keep your mouth shut.”
CHAPTER 419
Felix Monk called out to them both. He had found the tombstone Olivia Duarte had left a message on. Some of it had evidently been written in blood, some of it scratched into the stone with something like a rock or piece of metal, glass shard.
CECIL OMAR BIGGS
IS A MURDERER
Underneath that, she had written her own full name: Olivia Candida Duarte, her family’s North Hollywood telephone number, the date, and the word:
HELP!
Never mind that it had been rendered in an awkward scrawl, in caps—uneven, lopsided, and in no way resembled Olivia’s. Rudy’s eyes welled. Ortiz had to get that final dig in.
“Believe me now?”
Rudy leaned in closer. Spotted the ring he had bought her among the litter and leaves on the other side of the tombstone. Held it.
Dry pain lodged in his throat. He hurried back to the pickup. The other two followed. Ortiz claimed his window seat, as before. Was beside himself because he wasn’t the one with the ring. Could have fenced it, too. For some nice change. Attempted to relight his stogie. Had the shakes so bad and was dealing with another attack of the dry heaves and was having such a difficult time of it that he may as well have been attempting to thread a needle. There was no way.
As if he didn’t have enough to cope with: a sound that Felix was not unfamiliar with, a sight he had been exposed to in the past with his homie Ace, originated somewhere between Ace’s legs. His rear, to be exact. Like a series of spontaneous gas emissions. Sure enough: Ace had shit his pants. Caused Rudy to freeze up. It was no secret Ortiz was not one of his favorite people. This final display only added to his disgust of the doper.
Ace was cursing and moaning under his breath. Felix thought this was a good time to concede the seat.
“You can have it. You can ride shotgun.”
“Fuck you both. You think I like this? You think this is fun for me? Told you I was sick.”
All Rudy could do was sigh. Stood there. Watched as Ace got out of his pants. And as he proceeded to roll them up and jam them into his satchel, a red, plastic toolbox, the kind ordinarily used to keep a socket set in, dropped out and hit the ground, causing the lid to flip open and Ace’s works rolled out: spikes, tourniquet, cotton swabs, filter, crack pipe, spoon, and a miniature bottle of distilled water.
He collected the items. Tossed them inside the toolbox and jammed it back into the satchel. He re-rolled the pants and shoved them in after. To Rudy’s great displeasure, tossed the satchel itself in the truck’s cab.
“Why not just throw it all away?”
“You kidding me? A good pair of pants like that? Bought them the other day. Like new. Practically. Mancini’s old lady can wash them for me. Mixes my skins in with Chico’s dirty laundry.”
Ortiz got out of his boxers. Wiped his behind and privates and cast them off to the side. There was no way to miss the puncture marks in and around the groin region, up and down both legs and in back of the knees. The other thing that would’ve been hard to miss was the ice pick that he’d duct-taped to his left calf.
He peeled off the fingerless bicycle gloves to reveal more red blotches and bruised veins between the knuckles where he’d been slamming smack.
Was there no place where this asshole didn’t shoot up, Rudy wondered. But he was stuck with them both for the time being. Stuck. His girl on his mind. His girl.
Ace threw the gloves away. He got out of his flannel shirt with the blue and purple checks. This left him in a wifebeater, exposing thin arms that were heavily covered in prison tats and puncture marks, more than a few relatively raw and bleeding.
