by Kirk Alex
Biggs redirected the shotgun mic in their direction, refocused his binoculars, and could easily make out Monroe Perez showing a note of sorts to Roscoe and his pudgy, repulsive wife with the obscenely enormous hangers.
CHAPTER 515
Roscoe looked at the piece of paper. Handed it back.
“Our phone’s been out. Won’t get fixed ’till tomorrow probably. Who knows?”
“Ace and Felix could be in there just ripping the guy off. Can’t say for sure. That would be Ace’s style, wouldn’t it? Anything for a fix, a snort. I don’t even know what to think. According to this note, Rudy’s with them.”
Roscoe’s response was to shrug. Reached inside the refrigerator for the bottle of MD 20/20 and took a good slug. Offered the bottle to Monroe, who shook his head. Roscoe had another hit.
“I ain’t tellin’ you what to do, Perez, but I’m gonna deal with this sick son of a bitch once and for all.” He hit the bottle again until there was but a third left. He recapped it. Left it on the kitchen table and went in the bedroom in back to find his revolver and to get into clothes a little more appropriate for this type of situation.
When he reappeared he had the revolver with the six-inch barrel and a box of cartridges with him; he was also wearing green camouflage pants, green combat boots, olive-drab wifebeater, porkpie hat, and his face was painted in green and black camo stripes to match the rest of his ready-for-battle outfit.
He dumped the cartridges on the kitchen table. Had another slug of Mad Dog. Loaded the gun. Shoved the remaining cartridges in his pants pocket. His wife watched him do it and she didn’t like what was happening. It was too crazy and too dangerous.
“Don’t get yourself shot, Marty. Marty.”
Marty wasn’t listening. Didn’t want to hear it. Whatever it was.
“You’ve gone too far now. Do you have any idea what you look like wearing that? Marty? Don’t be a nudnik. This is ridiculous. You’re not back in the jungle. This isn’t a war.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s exactly what this is. He’s probably armed. Asshole like that would have to be. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had police scanners in his house. Know he’s got them in his cars. Just might explain why noise conveniently goes down whenever law shows up around here.”
“You can’t go out in public looking like that.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Nudnik, nudnik, nudnik. You don’t have to prove anything to me or to anyone else. Let the authorities take care of it. I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s bad enough that I’ve lost my kids.”
Marty Roscoe didn’t want to hear anymore. Fuck it. He had a job to do, and in his own mind he was dressed for it. Man-to-man. That was how problems like this got took care of back home in Flat Rock. Mano-a-mano.
You didn’t run away from a guy like Biggs; you faced him and dealt with him. Biggs was yella. Had to be. Anybody who would cut up a couple of harmless animals like that had to be a yella-belly. A real man wouldn’t have done something as chickenshit as that. A real man would’ve gone up to the owner and discussed it with him. A real man wouldn’t have done them like that. Only we ain’t talking about a man here, Roscoe thought to himself; this ain’t a man. This is something way less, something so low it could only be gutter trash. Just another turd that needed flushing—and he was the man to flush it.
CHAPTER 516
Roscoe walked to the closet in the living room. Jammed the gun in his waist. Reached up on the shelf, shoving folded jeans and sweatshirts aside. Grabbed what he wanted: an army bayonet in a canvas sheath attached to a web belt. Web belt had a holster. All the better. He holstered the weapon. Withdrew the blade to check it for sharpness. It would do. Shoved it back into the sheath. Strapped the web belt round his waist.
“Maybe your wife is right. What do you say we try the cops one more time?”
“I told you, Roe: phone’s out. Biggs cut the line. Wouldn’t put it past him. Figured we’d complain to the humane society about the dogs. This buys him time so he can get rid of the evidence—and deny everything. And even if you got to talk to the cops, what good would it do?” Roscoe looked at his wife. “How many times did we complain already? Harold and his wife complained about the asshole at least two dozen times! They know he’s 50-51. Loco. Cops just don’t give a good shit to what happens to tax-paying citizens around here. Get it, Monroe?”
“My husband hasn’t filed in years. Know it for a fact.”
“Beside the point. We ain’t supposed to matter ’cause we’re low income. That’s Valley PD for you. So fuck the fuzz. You can do whatever the hell you want. I’m gonna find proof he did it—and then I’m dragging his sorry ass down to the jailhouse myself—after I beat the grits out of him.”
Marty Roscoe was back in the kitchen, going through the cabinet drawers, searching for something. “Can never find it when you need it.” He cursed to himself. “See the flashlight?” His wife suggested he try the last drawer on the right.
“I still say we call the cops first, Mr. Roscoe, then go in.”
“I told you: phone line’s been cut. We tried the Crusts. Their phone’s out, too.”
Roscoe pulled the drawer open. Reached in for the flashlight. Stainless steel, and could well serve as a backup weapon.
“I’ll call the police from my place.”
“You do what you want. Words don’t get it no more. It’s time to act.”
Roscoe walked down the hallway to the back door. Monroe Perez hurried out the front to get home and see what he could do from there, think things out.
CHAPTER 517
Roscoe shined his light on Biggs’s picket fence. Attempted to climb over. Realized there was no way. He stepped back, kicked at about half a dozen pickets until they were loose enough to be pried off. Made sure he did not get caught on any rusty nails that may have been sticking out, and squeezed through.
He was in Biggs’s backyard, on Biggs’s property. Trespassing. He knew it. Had plenty reason. He could hear Petunia calling his name from their back door, saying things. All it did was add to how he already felt: pissed. He’d wanted to handle this like a man, the way it ought to be handled, and he was tired of women trying to run everything these days.
Goddamn female liberation movement. What good did it do them in a situation like this? Petunia was great when it came to screaming and making a bunch of noise, that was it; what all those Libbers were any good at. He was tired of it. Had enough. You think you can deal with someone like Cecil Biggs by running your yap and making a bunch of noise? Think you can deal with an evil creep like that by making empty threats?
His anger was getting the best of him. Although he was smart enough to know you never let that happen in a fight of any kind, he did not give a damn right now. All he wanted was to get his hands on this squirrelly yahoo with the weird psycho eyes, teach him a lesson, give him an old-fashioned, down-home drubbin’—Flat Rock, Arkansas style. Christ, his dander was up. What did those dogs ever do to him? Why’d he have to cut them up like that? Why? What sense did it make?
He could still hear his wife calling his name from their backyard in a hushed tone of voice. “Marty?”
“Stay put, woman. Be ready to fetch help if I need it.”
“Be careful, Marty,” he heard her say, and return to their porch. About damned time she did something he asked her to do without starting a fight over it.
CHAPTER 518
Looking both ways, being cautious about it, Roscoe walked over to a basement window. There were two windows on this side of the house: one toward the rear, the other toward the front. Both were boarded up from the outside and had wrought iron bars and mesh. He thought he’d give the window nearest the front a go.
Bare hands and brute strength wouldn’t get it. As far as Roscoe could tell, the only way would be to pry the bars off with a tire iron, and then bang away or kick the boards in.
He had no choice but to return to his yard, unlock the car trunk and grab the tire iron, pair o
f work gloves, and he was back at the window. He got into the gloves. Proceeded to loosen the bars with the jack. Made enough noise, he supposed.
Fuck it. The bastard might as well know I’m coming to get his hide. I showed way too much patience with this heartless asshole. More patience than any human could show.
He dropped the jack now that he had the bars loose. Gripped them with both hands and yanked them off. Tossed them to the side. The next phase was to start kicking at the boards.
“Know I’m coming, gutter trash. Coming to get your ass, ‘tough guy.’ Time for you to get taught a lesson by a real man.”
Roscoe managed to get enough of the boards loose and parted to discover that he’d have to break the windowpane, which he did without hesitation—only to have to deal with more boards on the other side of the broken glass.
Place was like Ft. Knox. Made no sense. Well, when you thought about it, not much made sense when it came to “Bishop” Cecil Biggs, dog butcher.
He hammered away at the other planks, then followed up by kicking them out of the way and made a space large enough to crawl through—but first, he aimed his flashlight inside, having to cover his mouth with his other hand to keep from choking on the stench. What in hell? . . .
CHAPTER 519
He shined his light around in there. Took a look. And froze. Could not believe what his eyes were seeing: a black woman with a narrow waist and wide hips hanging upside down. As her back was to him, he could not tell who the woman was, what her face looked like. Had Pearleen Bell’s hair and shape, but he couldn’t be certain. She was hanging from rafters in the ceiling. Ankles had been strapped to ends of a dowel that hung from a chain, and the woman didn’t have a stitch on.
He held the light on her behind and general crotch area below, what he could make out of it. No panties, for sure. Wondered if indeed it was that hot and fuckable, hard-nosed prick-teaser who stripped at McCoy’s? Couldn’t say. Was it Pearleen? Had her figure. Built like her.
If only there was a way to get a better gander at the tits. He’d know then. Hardly possible the way she was hanging. Allowed his light to travel down her back, toward her shoulders, back of her head, the long dark hair with the hi-lights that practically touched the concrete floor. Was it the stripper?
Couldn’t tell if the woman was alive or not even until he saw her move her head from one side to the other, twisting her neck, desperate to see who it was had kicked the window in, pleading to be rescued, brought down and saved—only it was not easy to convey anything verbally with the wide strip of duct tape that covered her mouth.
She shook her shoulders some. Not easy to do either, as her wrists were handcuffed behind her back.
The glimpses he caught of her features confirmed what he suspected: it was the peeler all right. Pearleen Bell. Peaches baby. The cock-teaser who was always playing hard to get, laughed at him for not being rich and famous.
Look at her now, thought Roscoe. Just look at her. Helpless.
He shone the light around. To the right. Against the wall. A floor-to-ceiling metal cabinet. Beside it, at the far end, hanging from the wall and flat against it, some type of board the shape and size of a regular door, or was it an actual door? Had ropes dangling from eyebolts.
In the other direction, as he aimed his beam over to the left: old-fashioned copper tub caked with nasty crud and crawling with roaches and rodents.
There was a table saw. Some distance behind it, a workbench, or was it something else? Butcher’s block? Maybe both. Not certain, not that it made any difference at this point—because it was strange enough.
Worse than that: you had the stench. Stench was tough to take, as usual. Only here and now, so close to it, with the window gone, it was too strong and forced Roscoe to cover his mouth with the back of his wrist.
Had his light back on the ballbuster who continued to plead with muffled sounds through the gag. She was shaking her legs and dick-hardening backside in desperation. It caused Roscoe’s groin to stir inside his boxers. Couldn’t do nothing about it.
He thought maybe once he got down there, and helped the negress out, she might see to it to let him have some. Or else he’d take it without asking. Wouldn’t be his fault. Blame Biggs. Begged the question: Where was Creepy? Hiding out? Not in this part of the basement that he could tell. Didn’t matter. He’d deal with him. What he was here for. In good time. Pastor Stinky would pay for the grief he caused Petunia.
Roscoe’s groin stayed hard. Horndog craved some of that dark meat.
CHAPTER 520
He went over the space he’d made for himself to squeeze through. Noticed a nail or two. Enough shards along all four sides of the window frame.
Too risky. Dangerous.
Hammered the nails back with the tire iron. Cleared the jagged glass edges. He stuck the flashlight in his fatigue trousers.
Braced his elbows against the bottom frame. Got one leg, then the other through the window. Lowered himself down this way to about his waist. Adjusted his arms and was clinging to the frame with both hands. Lowered himself further. Let go. Landed hard on his feet on the cement floor below. Twisted an ankle. Some pain in the left foot and knee. Nothing that he wouldn’t be able to cope with. Nothing broken anyway. That he could tell.
He yanked the gloves off and jammed them in his back pocket. About that instant, a solid panel, either wood or metal, swung down from above the window and sealed it shut.
Roscoe shined his light on it. Strained to reach up. Window was too high. The idea was to secure something to stand on. If they couldn’t get out the front door, once he’d freed the woman, they might have to climb back out the same way he’d come in.
To the right of his right shoulder, approximately ten to fifteen feet in back of him, was the table saw. Trouble was it was bolted to the cement. There was that workbench of sorts, some distance behind the table saw. This, too, was bolted down. No way to budge it.
He shined his light on the metal cabinet he noticed earlier. Against the wall. Limped to it. Locked. Tried to move it. There was no way. Like the bench and the table saw: in all probability, bolted to the floor. Possibly to the wall, too.
The oblong torture board next to it. Maybe he’d be able to do something with it. Lean it against the wall under the window, climb up. Maybe use it to knock the panel out. Worth a try. Until he spotted the powerful padlock hanging from the iron eyebolt at the bottom and the long chain that was locked to one of the tub’s claw feet.
Biggs. Sumbitch was too much. What kind of freak has a setup like this? Just answered your own question.
Forget about climbing out the window. Think about walking out the front door, instead. That’s right. Out the front. Let the asshole play his games. I got this equalizer with me and it’s loaded—with bullets to spare.
CHAPTER 521
He shone the light on Pearleen Bell. Finally, for the first time really, was able to make out what was truly going on here.
Noticed all the other chains hanging from the ceiling, other dowels, without bodies attached. Noticed the blood stains in the otherwise rusted out old tub, the eyebolts that had been screwed into the rim at either side of the backrest and at the other end, the blood-stained nylon rope restraints that hung from them. There were cuffs, too, dangling from some of those eyebolts.
He had the light back on the other torture contraption: the door on the wall to the left of the metal cabinet. More cuffs, more nylon rope restraints. Shackles at the bottom corners. Wood was practically covered in blood. Some crusted, some of it fairly fresh.
Weird fuck liked his handcuffs and nylon rope. Made Roscoe wonder if he was in over his head at this point, gotten into a little more than he’d be able to deal with—gun or no gun.
Jarred, he was. Momentarily shocked by his surroundings, images of atrocities that may have gone on in what clearly appeared to be a torture chamber assaulted his mind’s eye that he wanted and needed to resist, refuse, push back—and somehow did not entirely succeed; images/fra
gmented pictures, not exactly crystal or anywhere near in focus, not that it was necessary for things of this nature to take their toll on the psyche.
He was seeing victims, wrists and ankles tied down, secured, to the old tub with rope and having inhumane things done to them; other images kicked in involving the makeshift torture board that hung on the wall and victims being tortured to death. What the screams was all along.
It was enough. Too much. Even this kind of sick shit was more than what he saw take place in the jungles of ’Nam.
Heavy shit went down. Sure. Gooks got smoked—and then some. Our own people were put through hell and beaten in gook prisons, but this here was something else: a tub with a drain clogged with black blood, that workbench that was more-than-likely used to chop up limbs, with black blood in its grooves and cracks; the table saw had blood on it, too.
Crazy fuck. It was enough for him. Had to put a stop to this kind of thinking. Get back on track. He forced the images to go away. Had to. Get it together. You’re a man.
Just as he had himself convinced of it, reaffirmed what he believed, a rodent, so slimy it glistened, scurried past with what looked like a penis clenched in its jaw. Roscoe’s queasiness was back. Sight made the hair on the back of his neck rise. It was the rat, the stench. Made him nauseous. A mixture of urine and dead cats, even some air-freshener—or was it ammonia? Reminded him of Southeast Asia. Stench of death. Only thing missing was that napalm aftertaste and Agent Orange odor.
