Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “You’re not getting the gun—that’s final. I’m not letting you.”

  “Where’s the gun, Marty? Give me the gun!” Roscoe’s squat, fireplug of a spouse sounded determined.

  “Easy does it, honey.” Roscoe did his best to hold and keep her there. “You don’t want the gun. You never even shot a gun.”

  “Give it to me! I want the gun! I want it!”

  “So you can hurt yourself? No way!” One of them slipped, or both did—and down they went, landing on the linoleum floor, with Petunia Roscoe kicking her legs out and flailing her arms, screeching.

  “I want to kill him, Marty. Let me shoot him. Give me the gun, Marty. Please give me the gun. PLEASE, MARTY!”

  Roscoe held on; it was the only way to keep her down. “You don’t want to shoot nobody now, Petunia. You don’t want to do something like that, babe. He ain’t worth goin’ to jail over.”

  CHAPTER 509

  Marty Roscoe was able to subdue his wife eventually. Walked her to the sofa in the living room and helped her lie down.

  “Take their remains away. Please take them out of here. I can’t bear this; I can’t, I just can’t. . . .”

  “And put them where?”

  Roscoe lifted the box.

  “Front porch for the time being. I don’t care. It makes no difference so long as I don’t have to see them this way. . . .” She reminded him to fold the flaps before taking it outside. Roscoe did this, and carried the box out to the bench swing. When he returned he was wiping his eyes. Regained his composure. Someone had to be strong enough emotionally to get them through this.

  He walked down the hallway in back where the bathroom was, got a couple of aspirin and a glass of water for his wife. He had her wash the aspirin down. Wanted her to drink some more of the water.

  “What was in the dog food bag? What were you doing with the bag?”

  “He left it on our front porch. All I done was took it back to its original owner.”

  “How do you know he was the one?”

  “Who else?”

  “What was in it?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “You better tell me.”

  “You want to know? All right. OK. It was a turd.”

  “What did you say?”

  “He left us a bag with a turd in it, and I took it back to him. I was afraid the bottom of the grocery bag would drop out and the turd would land on my new gym shoes, ones you got me, so I put his bag inside an empty dog food bag.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Who else hates our dogs as much? He’s the only one who could’ve done it—”

  “Unless it was Marvin.”

  “Same difference. Unless it was Finger Lickin’.”

  “Finger Lickin’? You don’t mean Wilburn Flinger? The curmudgeon’s grandson across the street? Lloyd’s grandson?”

  “It’s possible. He’s epileptic. Goes whenever, wherever, when he has to.”

  “You’re talking about that nutty kid with twelve fingers and the hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he? We haven’t done anything to offend him. Give him candy every Halloween. You even gave him and his sister Bugs Bunny watches last Christmas.”

  “He writes to serial killers. Lloyd showed me the letters, a stack of them. That’s why he put him out in the garage. He’s got the kid living in the garage. His walls are covered with posters of some of the worst serial killers ever, posters and art work made by them: all kinds of drawings and shit. He was tearing the heads off his stepsister’s dolls. Thinks Manson is Christ. Sends him money and care packages.”

  “So you’re trying to pin this on Wilburn?”

  “I never said that.”

  “It was real bright of you to leave it in that dog food bag. That was smart. He put two and two together and did what he did.”

  “You need a valium. You need something. Because you have lost it already.”

  “I lost ‘them’ all right, both of them—and it’s your fault, mister! You didn’t have to take that bag over there—even if he was initially responsible, which I seriously doubt. He has a front to protect. Bishop of a church, is he not? In order to hold onto his tax exemption status. And that other fairy tale you told me about Wilburn Flinger doesn’t wash. I don’t believe Wilburn, as nutty as he is, would do something that disgusting to us, to me. I have always made an extra effort to be nice to him and Brenda. No, my husband is behind this one, only he’s not man enough to own up. Not man enough to admit you defecated in a Ralphs’ supermarket bag, put that bag inside one of our own empty dog food sacks and took it over there to get back at the imbalanced schmuck.”

  “I’m man enough. Why would I ‘own up’ to something I didn’t do? There’s no proof I did anything here. I’m always being accused. All I have to do is look at another chick—and I’m being accused of carousing, stepping out. Can’t so much as look at another woman without being crucified.”

  She had the back of her hand against her forehead. “I feel a fever coming on. The strain is too much. We’ll have to bury my babies in the backyard; find a nice spot for them—keep them close by.”

  “We can do that.”

  “No, we’ll call the pet cemetery. I couldn’t take knowing they’re so close and that they were put in the ground in such an undignified condition.”

  “Fine. Whatever you decide.” It was her choice to make. Dogs had been hers to begin with. “You’re dehydrated.” Roscoe stepped into the kitchen. Refilled the glass.

  “Think so?”

  “Know so.”

  CHAPTER 510

  He was back with the water.

  “Here.”

  She took it and drank some down. He urged her to drink up. Petunia reminded him that she had just had some with the aspirin.

  “Don’t matter.” He waited for her to empty the glass. “I know how you feel. Was fond of them little critters myself.” Marty’s eyes were about to well again. “Got used to them. Never had little dogs around me before, neither.”

  “Rednecks and their macho posturing. If a dog isn’t aggressive, a killer, he’s not worth keeping.”

  “I liked having them around. Taking it out on each other ain’t gonna do no good. It’s Biggs. Biggs is the one responsible. Don’t matter who left what bag in front of whose front door—because Cecil Biggs is the one who done them in. Gutted them like they was a couple of NVA gooks.”

  Tears rolled down his wife’s face.

  “Tell the truth, Marty. Did you do it? Was it you?”

  “After what I just got through telling you?”

  “It wasn’t the kid after all, was it?”

  Marty didn’t say anything. Petunia reached for the telephone. Dialed a number.

  “Hello? Bernie?”

  “Why call the lawyer over this? Why a divorce lawyer? Why Bernie?”

  “Bernie, this is Petunia. Yes. Do you have the papers handy?”

  “All right. It wasn’t the Flinger kid. Finger Lickin’ didn’t do it—this time.”

  She slammed the receiver down. Looked at him. “You contemptible bastard. You asshole. Do you see what you caused here?”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I went too far.”

  “Maybe? MAYBE?”

  “Okay: I went too far.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Petunia could not hold back any longer, and the sobbing was back. Roscoe put his arms around her, apologizing all over again.

  “It was no cause for him to do what he done. He had no real reason, Pet. No reason at all.”

  She sobbed in his chest.

  CHAPTER 511

  Biggs stepped away from the window. Show was over, and what a show it was. Left him on a natural high that he wished could last forever. Moments like this made life worthwhile, gave his existence a sense of
purpose, not to mention a strong desire to defile someone.

  CHAPTER 512

  Having driven out to the Holy Sepulcher Cemetery and not found a sign of his brother or Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk, Monroe had doubled back and was knocking on Biggs’s front door, to no avail. When he attempted to seek assistance from some of the others who lived on the block to break into the bishop’s church, the response was pretty much the same: “Call Valley PD.”

  Lloyd Dicker, the retired civil servant who lived across the street from Biggs, said to him, as he had to others before, to anyone who would listen: “I know that smell. Could only be one thing: dead bodies.”

  It was late evening. They were standing in the middle of the street, facing the source of the stench.

  “I was in World War II. I’ll never forget the smell.” And the former mail carrier limped back to where his wife Fontana stood in front of their house and couldn’t wait to remind him to mind his own business.

  CHAPTER 513

  Left without recourse, Monroe walked over to Marty and Petunia Roscoe’s place. Climbed the front porch and knocked on the door for what seemed like quite a while. Marty Roscoe opened up at last. The former roadie’s eyes were not right. Puffy. Looked like he’d been crying.

  “The hell you want?”

  Monroe Perez took one look at Petunia Roscoe and the sorry state she was in: sitting there on the sofa, staring at her feet—zombie-like. Her eyes red-rimmed and shedding a steady stream of tears. He glanced at Marty’s pained, bloodshot eyes again—and wondered if he ought to be bothering them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Roscoe. I need to talk to you.”

  Roscoe did not respond right away. The angry eyes on him.

  “Come in, Monroe. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Perez walked in, a bit nervous, convinced he had stepped smack dab into a domestic squabble, a bad one. This was something he did not want any part of. He was thinking of turning around and getting the hell out. Had no use for whatever it was they were going through.

  Petunia was dabbing her eyes with a wad of tissue. Looked up at last.

  “He killed Ziggy and Darcy.”

  “The cold-blooded son of a bitch next door. So-called preacher. Biggs. Butchered our pets.” Roscoe indicated the cardboard box sitting on the front porch swing.

  Explains the heavier than usual stench that he and old Lloyd picked up on a moment ago in the street, thought Monroe. He stepped back onto the porch. Not that he needed to, but the shock of it, that someone could be so sick and evil compelled him to lean over and peer through the flaps.

  He turned away, fighting the urge to vomit. He held his breath long enough to re-enter the living room and close the door behind him.

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Roscoe. I know how much you loved them.”

  “They were my kids.” Petunia was clutching her stomach. “They were like kids to me. Marty and I treated them that way. We wouldn’t have treated them any better if they had been ours biologically. . . . We were that good to them. . . .”

  Monroe Perez cleared his throat. “Can you prove it was Biggs?”

  “We know Biggs did it. We don’t need proof.”

  “We can’t prove Biggs did anything. I’d bet my dyin’ breath he’s behind it. . . .”

  Roscoe pulled out of the sideboard drawer a stack of old newspaper clippings of Biggs being escorted by plainclothes cops to the VA mental ward in West Los Angeles; and there were other clippings from other times with photos of Mistress Mona Please, aka Mona Payne, and the homemade coffin Biggs had kept her in for ten days. He had been nailed for kidnapping, rape, and other charges, and given seven years up at Atascadero, forensic hospital for the criminally insane. He’d been released in 1983, after only doing five of the seven years, for good behavior.

  “Read it and shit your panties.”

  Roscoe dropped the clippings on the table in the dining area. Although Monroe was not familiar with all the details of Biggs’s background, he’d heard enough over the years, as so many others had, that he truly did not need further convincing.

  Petunia struggled to get some words out between sobs. It was tough. She pushed through.

  “Ziggy and Darcy kept getting in his backyard. He didn’t care for that . . . and slaughtered them. . . .”

  CHAPTER 514

  He had wanted Marvin to get lost and given him a choice: try again with Greta, or have a can of beer?

  “Up to you.”

  Marvin had settled on the beer. “Could go for Greta one more time, if you was to take that mothafuckin’ shank away from the ho.”

  “No balls.”

  “Gimme a piece. See the ball’ I got, then.”

  “Take your beer from the mini fridge and make yourself scarce.”

  Marvin had cracked the top on a can, taken a good slug, and left the living room.

  “Put that album down, and take care of your Daddy over here.”

  Petunia’s antics had given Cecil what promised to be the beginnings of a full-fledged woody and all the stripper had had to do was unzip him and start fondling his member. She had been in the process of servicing him orally while Biggs stayed at the window, his binoculars glued to his eyes, liking what had been taking place inside what, in his opinion, was nothing more than a modified trailer home, but a trailer home all the same.

  He’d had Pearleen pause momentarily. Had had her stand up. Allowed her to peer through the binoculars for a while. She had been grinning and nodding her head, while at the same time stroking him with her left hand and making next to zero progress. Biggs’s pecker appeared to be asleep and it was going to take a lot more to get it to wake up than she was capable of at this time. She had spit into her palm and rubbed the saliva over the head of his limp penis—that did little good.

  Biggs hadn’t been perturbed by it. Had to be the meds. And not only that, it would have been too soon. There was too much going on next door for him to be bothered by the fact that his stubborn dick intended to remain limp.

  He had taken the binoculars away.

  “What do you think?”

  “Dragon Lady had it coming to her. Both got it coming to them.”

  “Nobody takes a dump on my doorstep and gets away with it. Nobody disses me that way without paying.”

  “It’s hard to believe that they could do something like that.”

  “What’s hard to believe about it? They’re low-rent trailer trash.”

  He had guided Pearleen’s head back down there. Wanted his groin back inside her mouth for another try. What the hell? Why not? Petunia Roscoe was a wreck and that was perfect as far as he was concerned. Had it coming to them. How many times had he warned them to keep their dogs out of his yard and off his property? Not to mention the paper sacks Roscoe took such great joy in leaving on his stoop, the paper sacks with the odious “surprise” inside, not to mention the insulting obscene phone calls the alkie redneck was not beyond making.

  The know-it-all redneck and his screwy wife just would not listen, and now they were crying buckets of tears and paying the price.

  There was a price to be paid for everything in this world, Biggs thought; a toll had to be paid even if you were not guilty of anything. Such had been his lot as a youngster.

  You paid and you paid, and he’d had his share of paying. It felt real good to see someone else pick up the tab for a change.

  “Do unto others. Always do unto others.”

  Only he had remained unresponsive down there. Exhaustion, or something. Spent. Or the meds fucking with him. Didn’t bother him as much this time. Shoved his groin back in his pants and zipped up. Had told the stripper to get away from him. He had held the field glasses up again and trained them on the Roscoes’ living room window and he couldn’t keep from smiling.

  Yeah, he’d enjoyed seeing Pearleen slam the breath out of those pesky, smelly, dirty little mutts, almost as much as he had enjoyed cutting their bodies up afterwards.

  Humans were pathetic. Look at the way they
got attached to their pets. What a load. Bubba Load. To be so needy. It was idiocy. He’d had to learn it all the hard way.

  So many of these pets had got far better treatment than he’d ever been given as a child—and that was a fact. Why get attached or give a damn about some dumb four-legged creature anyway? Where was the sense in it? He couldn’t figure it.

  You got emotionally involved and you got shit on. Look at what he’d gone through with Agenda Marie. Look at the trap Tillie had laid down just to ensnare him. Raked him over the coals behind his back every chance she got—and that hadn’t even been enough for her. She had set him up and then shoved the shiv in his back. Take this, asshole. Sucker. I don’t give a fuck what it cost you emotionally as well as financially. Take it. Go down. I’ll crush your ass like a bug when you hit the ground.

  Only he had bounced back—and her and her ambulance-chasing lawyers had resented him for it. She had expected him not only to go down and stay down—but to expire.

  Well, it’s going to take a lot more than a monkey-faced little cunt from the Philippines to accomplish that. Monkey-faced, two-timing whore is right. Absolutely. Bitch had wanted American citizenship. That’s all the marriage had ever meant to her.

  Rule #1: You didn’t get close to anything in this world, because sooner or later it got taken away from you. Look what had been done to his Rottie. And Parfrey. Truly and Flora Turnbull. Should have learned my lesson right there. Ripped my heart to pieces, cocksuckers.

  Thought I was safe and secure—emotionally. Thought I had my emotions shut down completely. Once and for all. Tillie, the cunt, had reawakened what little remained. There hadn’t been much left—but what little there was, she had managed to revive—only to screw me over real good.

  Don’t love, baby. Don’t need anything or anybody, baby, because it is going to cost. Furthermore: don’t leave turds in a paper sack on a man’s stoop—because, sure as shit, there will be a toll charge—and the Roscoes were paying it right now. And so was Rudy’s brother Monroe—for all the times they dissed him behind his back, among other things.