by Judith Gould
She averted her face. “Please,” she whispered thickly. “Don’t.”
“Look at it!” he commanded quietly.
She closed her eyes and didn’t see his silver-knuckled fist flash again, but pain exploded in her head like a grenade. The blow knocked her flat on the floor.
For a moment she lay dazed, unable to move. Then gingerly she moved her arm and touched her burning brow. It, too, felt wet and sticky. She brought her fingertips close to her eyes and inspected them: more blood. His rings had cut her forehead open, and she could already feel her left eye beginning to swell.
“Still wanna fight it?” Spidy Wolf challenged softly from somewhere above.
She lifted her head slowly and gazed up at him. She sensed he was towering over her, but he seemed to fade into a soft-focused blur. She tried to shake her head: no, she didn’t want to fight. With every movement, spasms of pain flashed through her skull like bolts of lightning.
“Good,” he said, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Now you’re learnin’. We only wanna have a little fun, right, mama?”
Fun? The word reverberated inside her head, clearing the blur into hard-edged reality. He called this fun? Blankly she watched him thrust his hips forward and prod her with the tip of his cleated engineer boot. One silver-knuckled fist was wrapped around his penis, peeling his foreskin back. “Now, get up and suck it,” he snarled.
Somehow she managed to find the reserves of strength to raise herself to her knees, but when she opened her mouth, she raised her head back, hawked deeply, and spat up into his face instead. Seeing her saliva hit him brought a wild blaze of triumph to her eyes.
He flinched and wiped his face with the back of his grimy hand. “You’re gonna be one sorry cunt,” he snarled. He snapped his fingers at four of his cronies. “Hold her down,” he said grimly. “This bitch’s gonna be taught a lesson.”
Instantly four bikers sprang forward, grabbed her by the arms and legs, and dropped their knees on her wrists and ankles, pinning her to the floor.
“No!” she yelled hoarsely, shaking her head wildly. Tears of shame and helplessness welled in her eyes as she bucked and writhed, but it was a useless struggle. They were far too strong for her.
Defeated, she started to let her head drop back.
Then Spidy Wolf launched himself at her. One moment he was standing over her, and the next it felt as if a ton of iron had fallen on top of her.
She felt hands tearing violently at her clothes. Fabric ripped and rent, buttons popped and bounced and rolled away. For an instant Spidy’s hips rose into the air, and the sudden release was a godsend. But then his hips came crashing down again and he slammed himself inside her.
It felt as though she was being torn to pieces.
The agony was overwhelming, like the hottest of blue flames. She shut her eyes against it, but behind the closed lids, blue neon buzzed and flickered, and somewhere in the distance she could hear the voice of terror. “Shiiiir-ley, Shiiiiirley . . .” Her name echoed, distorted and thick, rolling through her mind like relentless breakers upon a beach. “Shir-ley’s gonna be a good girl! Shir-ley’s gonna make Brother Dan feel good!”
“Nooooo!” she screamed. She could smell Brother Dan’s sweat and bourbon now. In front of her closed eyelids, the neon cross grew and grew, blazing brightly.
Chapter 18
“Wait for me here,” Olympia instructed the cabbie. She swung the door open. “I won’t be long. Don’t take off without me, all right? You’ve got a twenty-dollar tip riding on this.” Urgency was written all over her face, and her tone was dictatorial.
The cabbie twisted around, taking stock of the mink-coated passenger with the black lizard handbag. He shook his head in bafflement at the woman’s folly. “Anything you say, lady, but I still think you’re nuts. You couldn’t pay me to get out on this block, and I’m a combat vet.”
Olympia smiled grimly. “I’m not asking you to get out, am I? Just be waiting for me, that’s all.” She climbed out, absently reaching back and pushing the cab door shut. She could hear clicks as the driver locked all the doors from the inside. He kept the engine running too.
She stood for a moment staring first at the row of gleaming Harleys parked along the curb, and then up at the building. It was a typical tenement, built a century ago to house Eastern European immigrants, probably divided into railroad flats.
She went up the half-flight of chipped stone steps and tried the front door. It was locked. She nodded to herself. So it was no ordinary apartment building. From all the bikes, she had gathered that much, and wasn’t surprised. She looked around the door: there was no buzzer anywhere in evidence. She knocked and waited. When nobody came to open up, she slipped her handbag over her wrist and pounded on the door with both fists.
It seemed forever before she heard the tumblers click, and then the door opened a few inches. “Yeah?” A girl with stringy, greasy blond hair looked at her suspiciously.
Olympia smiled automatically. “My name is Olympia Arpel and I’ve come to see Shir—”
At that instant an unearthly scream came from somewhere inside the house. The girl looked worriedly back over her shoulder, and Olympia dispensed with such social amenities as waiting to be invited inside. She pushed the door wide, shoved the distracted girl aside, and marched into the house.
“Hey!” the girl yelled, hurrying after her. She grabbed Olympia’s arm. “You can’t just barge in here like that!”
“The hell I can’t,” Olympia muttered tightly. She shook the girl’s arm loose. “Just try to stop me.” At the foot of the stairs she nearly tripped over a passed-out biker. She stopped hesitantly and looked around, her ears alert.
Then the screams came again. They were keening wails of unearthly terror.
Olympia virtually flew up the steep flight, and when she barged into the communal clubroom, what she saw froze her in her tracks. Four husky, unkempt men with shoulder-length hair had a woman pinned down. Olympia knew it was Shirley. Another, bare-bottomed, his Levi’s pulled down around his hairy ankles, straddled her with his knees, thrusting purposefully in and out like an animal in heat; yet another squatted over her face. At least two dozen more grubby men in various stages of undress were just standing around, swigging beer out of cans, and egging the others on. Without exception, they were wearing identical sleeveless denim jackets with a big embroidered patch on the back depicting a horned skull.
Olympia’s jaw dropped open, but not for long. “Stop this at once!” Her voice, level but edged with shining authority, stopped the action as effectively as if she’d pushed a pause button. Startled heads turned in slow motion. They all stared at her in silence.
Olympia’s fingers tightened on the brass clasps of her handbag.
“Shit.” This from the biker nearest her, who paused in the midst of cleaning his blue-black fingernails with a six-inch hunting knife. He eyed her up and down from beneath hooded lids. Turning away, he let fly a wad of spit. “Get lost, grandma.”
The others laughed, and it was as if a play button had suddenly been pushed. They went on about their savage business as before.
“Animals!” Olympia’s tightly set jaw was trembling and the cords of her neck stood out like taut wires. “That’s what you are. Animals!”
“Oh, yeah?” Something flared deep within the eyes of the biker scraping his fingernails—like a sleeping cat suddenly awakened. “You wanna see an animal, grandma?” With deliberate slowness he sheathed the knife and pushed himself away from the wall.
Olympia never took her eyes off him as he advanced, but she snapped open her handbag and inched her fingers inside.
When he stood directly in front of her, she realized how huge he really was; she felt like Dr. Ruth must feel looking up at a quarterback. Only this guy wasn’t padded—his bulging biceps, chest, and forearms were genuine muscle.
She stared steadily up at him. It was amazing, she thought, the pride some people took in looking loathsome. A filthy red
bandanna was tied Apache-fashion around his Cro-Magnon forehead. His nose was flat and bent sideways, presumably from having been broken and not reset properly; his scraggly mustache drooped morosely; and the blurry blue tattoo of a hand flicking its middle finger showed on the side of his thick neck. He looked to be about forty, and it wasn’t hard to guess his alma mater—Attica, Raiford, or Folsom. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he had done postgraduate time and attended all three.
If she was afraid, Olympia didn’t show it.
“Whassa matter, grandma?” he growled. His eyes were squinched. “You don’t like the animal?” Laughing tauntingly, he reached out and pinched her crepe-skinned cheek.
One thing Olympia didn’t like was for strangers to touch her. “Watch where you put your paws, shithead,” she said quietly. The hand inside her bag came out with a snub-nosed revolver and aimed it at his groin.
“What the fuck—” the biker started to say. He froze, his eyes like chips of coal. Even the tiniest bullet could do the delicate reproductive system irreparable harm at point-blank range.
“One move and you’re going to sing like Michael Jackson for the rest of your life.”
The biker’s eyes lifted warily from the revolver to Olympia’s face. His teeth were bared and his scowl was half-disgust, half-confusion. This mink-coated woman with the brutally cut gray bangs and orange lipstick was a female species he’d never before encountered— rich, hard, and stupidly brave. But she’d regret making a fool out of him . . . oh, yeah, but how she’d regret it.
Nobody fucked around with him and lived to see another day.
Nobody.
She gestured with the revolver. “Slowly place your hands on top of your head.”
For a moment he didn’t do anything.
She raised the revolver and fired a warning shot into the ceiling. Small as the weapon was, the report and the jerk it gave her arm were man-sized. It was the first time she’d ever fired it—and it had the desired effect.
The biker’s hands flew atop his head even before bits and pieces of dislodged plaster snowed down on his thick hair and greasy denims.
Around the room, the others had jumped and frozen as well. The sudden silence would have done a librarian proud.
“That’s better.” Smiling grimly, Olympia aimed the barrel at his crotch again. “That,” she explained in a louder voice, “was a demonstration. Now you know it’s loaded. And I’ve got to warn you, I’ve got a very itchy trigger finger.”
“Jesus, lady. Careful.” The big biker was sweating, and his voice had climbed an octave. His eyes seemed crossed as he stared down at the weapon. “You’ve got that thing aimed right at my nuts!”
“That’s the idea.” Olympia’s lips tightened into a hard, thin line. “I don’t want to have to tell you this twice. Have your friends line up against the wall. And any sudden movements on anyone’s part, and it’s ciao, cojones. Capisce?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Olympia saw the men who had been raping Shirley getting to their feet, pulling up their Levi’s, and drawing back. Those standing around watching shrank back also. Everyone stared at her in silence, but the rush of communal hatred coming at her had its own vociferous roar. She had never seen so many murderous faces, so many fury-crazed eyes.
She spoke quietly, but somehow her thin voice carried to the far corners.
“Everyone get facedown on the floor, hands behind your heads.”
For a moment, none of them moved.
Olympia pressed the snub-nosed barrel deep into the big biker’s groin.
His voice was a scream. “You heard her! Get down!”
When they were all stretched out on the floor, she cautiously made her way to where Shirley lay. Dropping down on one knee beside her, the gun still aimed at the vicinity of the biker’s groin, Olympia thought she was going to be sick.
This was not the picture-perfect Shirley she had left at Alfredo Toscani’s town house just a few short hours ago. This Shirley’s body was livid with ugly red welts and bruises. This Shirley’s face had been beaten to a pulp.
A blinding fury exploded in Olympia. “Why?” she suddenly cried, but her shrill question received no reply. Her trigger finger itched fiercely. Ordinarily tough, businesslike, and cool, she always kept her emotions in check; the sudden overwhelming urge to exact retribution, to repay the violence Shirley had suffered in kind, was the demand of a stranger Olympia hadn’t known resided deep within her. It was as if a thousand raised voices only she could hear were urging her to kill.
Black dots swam briefly in front of her eyes. Her trigger finger seemed to move of its own volition.
She tensed, waiting for the gunshot and the recoil.
“Olympia?” Beside her, Shirley raised her head and tried to open her swollen eyes. “Is . . . is that . . . really you?”
The chorus demanding death ebbed and stilled at the sound of Shirley’s voice. Olympia eased up on the trigger. “Yes, honey,” she said hoarsely but gently, “it’s me. Everything’s okay now. You’re coming with me. Can you sit up?”
“I . . . don’t . . . know.”
“Try, honey. Please try.” Without taking her eyes off the biker, Olympia felt around on the floor until her fingers came across Shirley’s jacket. She draped it across the trembling, naked girl. “Cover yourself with this,” she said softly. “Just hang on to me and I’ll help you up.” Then her voice turned hard as nails. “And you,” she told the biker with the bandanna, “are coming with us.”
Still aiming her gun at him, Olympia held out her free hand and pulled Shirley to her feet. “That’s right, honey. Put your arm around my shoulder . . . that’s it. I’ll support you.” She wrapped her left arm tightly around Shirley’s waist and held her upright. “Now, move it, scumbag!” she told the biker. “We’re going downstairs and then outside. So turn around slowly. And just because your back will be turned, don’t get the bright idea of trying anything funny. If you or any of these clowns make a move, I’ll put a bullet in your spine. You’ll never ride again.” There was no mistaking the hard edge in her voice; she meant every word.
With the biker as their hostage, they made their way out into the hall and down the stairs. The going was slow. Shirley kept sagging limply, and with every step they took, Olympia could feel her suppressing cries of pain.
It was dark out as they made their way down the stoop to the sidewalk. The streetlights glowed amber, bathing the row of bikes and reflecting the bottle caps embedded in the asphalt. Shirley clung to Olympia’s neck as though for dear life.
Silently Olympia blessed the huge sleeves of her mink coat. She was able to draw her hand, revolver and all, inside the gaping tube of fur. No one could see what she was holding; the cabbie wouldn’t catch sight of the revolver and panic, taking off and leaving them stranded.
Seeing them coming, the cabbie half-climbed over the front seat, released the rear lock, and swung the passenger door wide from the inside.
“You first,” Olympia told Shirley as she deposited her gently on the edge of the gray vinyl seat.
Her expression vacant and her fingers clutching the field jacket she had draped over her shoulders, Shirley slid inside and curled up in the far corner by the door.
“I’ll get in next,” Olympia told the biker softly. “You’re coming with us. Just remember what I told you about any funny stuff.”
Cautiously she slid in, squeezing as close to Shirley as she could. The biker climbed in next to her.
“Now, let’s get the hell out of here!” Olympia ordered curtly before the biker even slammed the door shut.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked. He was still twisted halfway around.
“Just drive!” Olympia screamed.
“What the hell—” the cabbie exclaimed as he caught sight of her revolver stuck in the biker’s midriff. “Jesus, lady, and I said you were nuts! You’re certifiable!” Then he caught sight of the horde of bikers pouring out of the building. “Aw, shit,” he exclaimed, and floored
the gas pedal. The rear tires spun, and they screeched off—burning the red light at Avenue D and fishtailing it uptown. Behind them, the roar of dozens of Harleys filled the air with a thunderous rumble.
“Shit!” the cabbie cursed again as the light up ahead changed from amber to red. Leaning on the horn, he gave it more gas, shot into the only empty lane, burned that light and the next two, and without letting up on speed swung the steering wheel sharply to the left. The tires squealed their protest as the cab skidded in a wild half-circle before he got it back under control. They caromed into Seventh Street doing sixty-five, then braked to zero in twelve seconds flat. The cabbie pulled over at a fire hydrant and killed the lights and engine. “Duck!” he yelled.
Behind them the Harleys roared up Avenue D, slowing as the bikers looked up and down Seventh Street—and roared on without seeing them; without any lights, the cab was just one of a row of parked cars.
When the rumble receded, they all sat up again. Olympia felt faint and shaky from the close call, but she didn’t allow her weakness to show. There would be time for that later. She waved the revolver. “Get out,” she told the biker quietly.
Without moving his eyes off her, he felt for the door handle, swung the door wide, and backed out cautiously. Once on the sidewalk, he stayed hunched over at eye level.
Gesturing with the revolver, Olympia scooted over on the seat and reached for the door handle with her free hand. “Now, get lost before I have second thoughts,” she said grimly.
“You’re dead!” the biker hissed in a half-whisper. “Both of ya cunts are dead fuckin’ bitches.”
“Where to now, lady?” the cabbie asked as they pulled away from the curb.
Olympia let the revolver drop in her lap. “St. Vincent’s,” she said wearily. And then suddenly changed her mind.
It occurred to her that Shirley would need plastic surgery—and Duncan Cooper’s private clinic on East Sixty-ninth Street was the best in the city. Also, if the troglodytes started checking emergency rooms for Shirley, a regular hospital might not be the safest place for her to be.
