by Kirk Alex
Ionesco did not waste time scooping up the ring of keys. Ran in the Furnace Room and tossed them into the incinerator.
Ionesco was back out, seeing to it that the bishop was allowed to collect himself, while Marvin lay on the basement floor, disorientated and sobbing.
CHAPTER 573
Biggs brushed the Rumanian off, wanting room to breathe and figure things out.
He managed to make it up the stairs to the first floor. Needed to patch up his wounds and stop the bleeding, get his hands on a set of duplicate keys and then figure a way to fake them all out somehow, that blood-thirsty, half-crazed lynch mob out there, and make it back down—make it out through the tunnel somehow and reach the back alley through the garage. If possible. Some trick to pull off. Didn’t know what else he could do.
Marvin had the right idea. Didn’t deserve to live, though. Should have annihilated the punk. Why’d I let the punk live? You knew Muck would pull a double cross eventually. Why’d you let him do what he did?
He cursed himself for losing the gun. “Best revolver in the world,” J.J. had said more than once. Others, those in the know, have called the Python the Rolls-Royce of Colt revolvers. Couldn’t agree more. Favored it a great deal. Now he no longer had possession of it. It’s okay. Grab something lighter to shove in the holster, something with a shorter barrel preferably. Going to need a piece to fend them off with and make it out.
Hang in; just hang in, Cecil. Get through it. You can exact vengeance later. Make it to your room. Do it. You have other guns. Plenty of guns.
Thoughts of his son penetrated his psyche for some incomprehensible reason. His son? Why? What was it the opportunist named him again? What was that goofy name again? Honest . . . Honesto Cipriano.
Can you believe that? Cecil wasn’t good enough for her. After all I did for that woman. She could have named him Cecil. Could have named the kid after his father. I fathered the fucker, did I not? User claims I did. Gold digger. What did I expect? Filipino bitch. Expensive wedding, money spent/wasted on gifts for her family. How does she get off naming the kid, my kid, Honesto? When she’s far from honest herself?
Forget it. Let it go. He needed to. If he didn’t get out alive he’d never have a chance to teach the kid about bitches, how to control them, how to keep bitches under your thumb, always. Never, ever let them gain the upper hand, because once that happened you were nothing but a wuss, pussy-whipped and useless.
Beat them down, always beat them down. Torture and humiliation. Absolute control was the only way. If you gave them an inch, they wanted a foot. Leeches. Alimony and child support—far more than was called for or was reasonable. Money-grubbing little cunt would ruin the kid if he didn’t make it.
Don’t concern yourself with that right now. Let it go. Save your ass first and then take care of the rest of it.
Grab the duffel, or pack? What would work best? To jam and stuff the more important things into it? His valuables. Get the photo albums. You can’t leave without the photo albums. Cash, jewelry; a few guns and ammo. You’ll need a gas mask. Maybe. It all had equal value to him, still, the photo albums rated above all else. Can’t leave without the albums.
And the “trophies”? There was no room for that. Some of the trinkets in the jewelry case belonging to victims would have to do; all of it in the jewelry case. He’d have to remember to grab it, take it with him. If you can’t take everything, take what you can. You still have stuff in safe deposit boxes throughout the city, as well as in storage facilities from Santa Ana to Santa Barbara. Other hiding pieces. Stashed.
Don’t forget to grab the gas mask. You’ll need a gas mask. Forget the backpack. Wouldn’t be able to get as much in it. Go for the duffel. Can get more into the duffel. The duffel could be the way. Fake IDs. Some of those, and social security cards. Shit, why worry about that? Why concern yourself? When you have others out there, not to mention you can have new ones made later. The photo albums is what matters; your primary concern. Can’t go on without your precious photo albums. Your life’s work. Solid proof of your accomplishments. You can’t leave without the photo albums. Tape your wounds, do the best you can. Stuff cotton in your ears, up your nose. Bandage your neck, and other places.
Light-headed is how he felt, due to loss of blood. Goddamn Judas did it. Society made up of Judas Iscariots. Judy and Judas Iscariots. That’s the world we live in. Creeps and creepettes. Ballbusters and pansies. Backsliders and backstabbers. Whores and their suitcase pimps.
CHAPTER 574
He entered his room.
The light-headedness made it nearly impossible to think clearly. No way around it: he needed to stitch himself up.
Was there time? No. There was no time. What about cauterizing? How? The idea was abhorrent to him. What would he need to do? Heat a knife over a flame. Range was in the kitchen at the other end of the hallway. No time for it. No time.
You were a medic. Worked as a practical nurse as a civilian. Have the training. Help yourself. Know what needs to be done, what should be done. Think of something. Now. A quick, even messy suturing job was the only answer. No postponing it. Got to do something to prevent further blood from seeping out.
He got the Kevlar and blood-soaked wifebeater off. Went about the process. Treated the cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Threaded a needle. Gritted his jaw, and ran the needle through skin. Surprisingly enough, half-enjoyed it, not that it should have been all that surprising to begin with, until the task was accomplished. It was sloppy and it was half-ass, but it was also a stopgap. He put the vest back on. Grabbed the S&W .38. Checked the cylinder for bullets. Had some. Had enough for now. The convenience of it was Mag cartridges also fit the .38. Holstered it. Got into the black fatigue jacket.
The teddy bear. Thought of it. See if you can toss it in there as well. The eyes. Lookit the eyes. Not right. Shriveled and dry. Lost their luster. Deal with that part of it later. Now is not the time. Should have kept it in the walk-in.
Took a closer look. Roaches and bed bugs. Something, rodents, had devoured the eyeballs themselves. Nothing but black holes. Hollow voids to nowhere. It bothered him. Should have left it in the cooler.
Fuck the letdown. Take it or leave it. Toss it. In. Now. Did so.
Kept it with you all this time. Want to hold on to it. Memories are made of this. Reminder what you lived through as a child. Reminder, constant one, of how far you have come. From a nothing, bed-wetting, fear-stricken loser, to a prosperous winner with many accomplishments and unlimited potential.
He unlocked the cabinet safe. Tossed a 9mm Glock into the duffel, a 9mm Beretta, Walther PPK (same type those punk actors used in the laughable James Bond flicks), boxes of ammo. Jammed a couple of boxes into his jacket pocket, then thought he better add a couple more.
How about a skull or two? No way. I said no way. No time for it. Skulls would take up too much space in the duffel.
Get some panties. Pulled a drawer out. Grabbed a handful. All types: pink, white, yellow, beige, red—and stuffed them in a pocket. Noticed a pair of pantyhose. Got them.
Should take more. Of everything. Bras and whatnot. You got no time. There was a greater variety in the dresser in the basement. Too bad, because he doubted he’d be able to make it down there after all, not that he had any real idea which way he was headed.
Was there time to re-apply the Brother Trusty makeup? Trusty Lusty. Marvin had been spot on. Could he do it? He was rattled. Nerves shaky. Trust in Trusty. The one & only who’d saved the day for him over the years. He knew it; he also knew he’d be pressing it—in that time was running out. Time was precious, so precious at this point.
Jam a mask in the duffel then, just in case, to disguise your face with, if for no other reason; jam a Parfrey mask or two or three in there, and then get the hell out. Only an idea, a thought with such great potential hit home that it nearly took the top of his skull off. It was too good not to go with. He wouldn’t articulate or contemplate on it, only pursue the notion. Faced the mirror: once aga
in considered touching up the clown makeup. No time for it now. Grabbed a tube or two of Krazy glue, before fleeing the room.
CHAPTER 575
Outside, at Biggs’s front door, were twenty-three impatient, angry, as well as worried and concerned North Hollywood citizens determined to get in.
Some pounded away at the door with ball bats, tire irons, bricks, gardening tools such as shovels, spades, and shears; some carried rifles, guns, motorcycle chains.
Twenty-three of them.
Monroe Perez had brought three mechanics from the auto shop he worked at, as well as the owner Big Tony Velasquez, he of the mutton chops and headful of dyed black hair styled in a pompadour, his brother Ruben, plus Big Tony’s brawny sons: twenty-year-old Julio and eighteen-year-old Johnny. One of the other mechanics had brought his twenty-two-year-old son Ramon. The Duartes had brought most of their family with them: there were Mr. and Mrs. Duarte, their daughter Yolanda and her yuppie fiancé Fred Yale and his brother Horace; two other male friends of Yale’s (stockbrokers in suits and ties): Nels Randall and Sam Kowalski. There were Carlos and his four high school buddies Jerry Alameda, Victor Garcia, Woody Walcott, and Hugo Rivera; Mr. Duarte’s brothers Santos and Xavier. Twenty-three people all together desperately trying to get inside Cecil Biggs’s cribby—only Biggs was not about to extend an invitation. It looked as though if they wanted in they would have to break in. And that’s what Monroe explained to the crowd.
“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to force our way in, only it don’t look like Biggs is in a sociable mood.”
“OPEN THIS DOOR, DAMN YOU! Let us in, Biggs, or we burn you down!”
“Easy, Carlos,” said Mr. Duarte. Mrs. Duarte was wiping tears from her face.
“Like I explained before,” said Roe. “Marty Roscoe went in through a basement window and never come out. Now his wife Petunia is gone. Look, over there—see? That’s their car in the driveway. She’s gone. Both gone.”
Big Tony Velasquez stepped up.
“Show me where he went in the basement.”
Monroe Perez walked them around to the right side of the house. Pointed out the basement window Roscoe had gone in. Big Tony began kicking at it with his foot, not that it got him anywhere. Whatever sealed the window from inside was just too solid. He needed either one of the shovels or the pickaxe to bang away with.
He got the pickaxe from his brother Ruben and drove the handle against the thick panel that hardly budged it or so much as put a dent in it. Big Tony paused to wipe his brow.
“You guys spread out. Take one or two men with you, Roe. Everybody take a window and just do what I’m doing here. Somebody work on the front door, somebody else go to work on the rear.”
Carlos Duarte was quick to volunteer to go in the back. “Me and my buddies got the rear door. I’ll smash it in if it’s the last thing I do.”
He ran to the back yard with his friends. Called Olivia’s name several times as he hammered away at the door with a tire iron.
One of the other mechanics who worked with Monroe at Big Tony’s shop was a shotgun-toting squat black gent named Stan Tatum. Stan Tatum’s young son Stan Junior was with him.
Stan Tatum, Sr. walked over to the back door and shoved Carlos and his high school pals out of the way. He withdrew a plastic baggy with cotton balls. Instructed them to take enough to plug up their ears. He jammed the baggy back in his LL Bean hunting vest. Aimed his shotgun at the doorknob and fired.
The first shot did some damage—but not enough. Mr. Tatum aimed his shotgun at the door and fired again. Even more damage this time—but the door remained shut.
“This is gonna be tougher than I thought, Roe.” Stan Tatum, Sr. reloaded. “That’s all right. Watch this.” He emptied two rounds in succession, and the blasts loosened the door enough for Carlos Duarte and his peers to break it in.
CHAPTER 576
Big Tony Velasquez was at the same window pounding away at the panel until it gave. He whacked at it some more. Decided to kick it mule-style and watched it drop from its hinges and land on the basement floor below. He stuck his head in and the stench hit him tenfold. Man, you could smell the place from the outside, like a dead dog or something, but now it made it impossible to breathe. He thought of a sewage plant or dump site, a combo of the two. He couldn’t take it, and lifted his head back out where the air was better. Somewhat.
“What’s the matter, Big Tony?”
Big Tony paused to answer the employee doing the asking.
“I don’t know. It’s nasty in there.”
Enough of the stench escaped through the broken window for the others to be affected. Bellies went queasy. People blocked their noses. Big Tony summoned the courage and stuck his head back in. Aimed his flashlight around. No dead bodies or dead animals. Only what he did see added to his nausea: what once must have been a workshop had been turned into some type of torture parlor.
There was a grimy, slipper style copper bathtub with claw feet bolted into the cement. The copper looked ancient with dings and scratches and had a greenish tint. There were traces of blood: some of it black, some of it of a more recent nature, in that it was deep crimson, bordering on purple. Palm prints and fingerprints. Nylon rope restraints dangled from corners of the tub into which iron eyebolts had been screwed.
To the left of the tub was a customized saw bench with its own share of blood stains and traces of meat; skin and scalp bits in and around the blade and the bench itself.
Left of the saw bench, situated between the far wall and the bench itself, was a sturdy looking table made of wood that appeared to be a butcher’s block that the owner of this chamber of horrors had evidently used to do his hacking on. Like the saw bench, and the tub before it, there were fresh and not so fresh blood stains in the grooves, along sides of the tabletop that he could see, as well as up and down the legs: bone fragments, pieces of flesh and scalp, gristle.
He shone his flashlight to the right of the tub’s backrest. Held it on a steel cabinet against the wall. Signs of what looked like blood. Smudges and hand prints. Could have used more light.
Aimed the flashlight up some. To the left of the cabinet. Door hanging from the wall. Or was it something else? Rectangular in shape. Unmistakable blood stains everywhere. Iron eyebolts. Upper corners, middle, and bottom of the board. Sections of stained nylon cord dangled from the eyebolts (not unlike the rope hanging from the tub). He also noticed shackles at each of the torture board’s bottom corners. It was enough to cause his belly to get real tight inside.
Big Tony withdrew from the window. Stood outside it. Straight and quiet. Momentarily speechless. The rest looked at him and waited. What were they going to do? What was their next step?
Big Tony swallowed hard. Feared no man. His own people’s safety on his mind. And yet, due to his size and condition, someone was going to have to climb through first; two or three others were going to have to venture down, in order to make it possible for him to make it inside himself. His size dictated the plan. Everyone understood. There was no need to explain.
One of his employees slid in through the window. A second followed. Although each had a weapon and carried a flashlight, Big Tony felt a need to remind them: “Watch yourselves in there. The loco’s armed.”
Two more men climbed down: Big Tony’s brother Ruben and the garage owner’s son Julio. Landed safely. About the only way to avoid Big Tony twisting an ankle or breaking a leg was to provide makeshift footholds. Two men per side, with locked fingers, would offer support per single foot and/or leg.
Their boss proceeded to go about the process the only way there was to go about it: legs first, the rest would follow.
His feet found the “footholds,” and he lowered himself without incident. Someone pointed out that the torture chamber door was locked. Big Tony shook his head. What else was new? Biggs had to be one sick puppy.
Covering their noses with upturned collars, for those who had them to turn up, others did their damnedest best not to breathe, t
hey went at the door.
CHAPTER 577
Outside, at the same basement window that faced the Crust house, the very same window Monroe Perez had attempted to break in earlier, were Mr. Duarte’s brothers Santos and Xavier, as well as Yolanda’s fiancé Fred Yale and his two friends Nels Randall and Sam Kowalski, as well as Fred Yale’s brother Horace, several others.
“Fred, please be careful.” Yolanda tugged on the sleeve of her husband-to-be, as he and his pals pried the bars off and did likewise to the wooden planks nailed across the window. The rusty nails were pounded at until bent back out of harm’s way; the pane kicked out, more boards.
Fred Yale stuck his head in through the broken window.
“Olivia! Olivia?”
Mrs. Duarte clung to her husband. Wiped more tears. Called her daughter’s name, to no avail. “Raphael,” she cried on her husband’s shoulder. Mr. Duarte had his arms around his wife. Held her this way. Fred Yale cleared the window frame of what remained of the glass shards.
“Somebody should be making sure Biggs doesn’t try to escape out the front door; in fact, somebody should make sure to keep an eye on all the basement windows, both doors—front and rear.”
“Good idea.”
Raphael Duarte’s younger brother Santos moved toward the front yard in order to be able to watch the door as well as keep an eye on either side of the house and the many windows.
Fred Yale dropped down into the Mattress Room. His two friends followed, as did several other men. No sooner did their feet hit the cement floor when a solid panel swung down from above the window, sealing the window off.
