Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. He saw Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder's chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers. Princess's head lolled against his chest–Buddha could only see the top of his shaven skull. Buddha holstered his pistol, his eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to the chains. A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion. He heard a muffled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the basement and kept crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he stood up suddenly, Bring a burst from his Glock at the same time. With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor just as more shots peppered the wall behind him.
Buddha crawled until his body was covering most of the fallen Princess, then he calmly ejected the clip from his Glock and snapped in another, waiting.
Muñoz pocketed the microchip and started down the stairs, machete at the ready. On the third floor landing, Muñoz catfooted his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, satisfied himself that the escape rope was still anchored to the floor. Muñoz had a car waiting below–he could be gone in minutes if his luck held. As he gathered the rope in two hands, Cross stepped into the room, a .45 in his fist.
Muñoz turned to face his enemy, legs spread apart, the machete back in his hand. Cross held the .45 in two hands, aimed at Muñoz's chest.
For a few seconds there was silence.
"So, hombre," Muñoz said. "I guess it always comes to this, yes?" He fired the machete at the floor where it stuck, quivering. Then he moved toward Cross, Fists clenched. "I guess you always wanted to see who is the better man, didn't you?" he snarled, crouching.
Cross fired the .45–the bullet took Muñoz in the stomach, knocking him to his knees. "No," Cross said, standing over Muñoz. He pulled the trigger twice more, one for the head, one for the chest.
In the basement of Red 71, Buddha lay on a cot, an IV running into his arm. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, finally recognizing Cross.
"Everybody made it out?" the pudgy man asked.
"You were the only one who took a hit," Cross said.
"Where's Humberto?" Buddha asked.
"He's with Muñoz. Ramón, too," Cross said. "It's done."
"You're a real man, Buddha," Rhino squeaked. "The way you covered Princess…"
"I still don't see why that crazy fuck should get a share," Buddha mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.
Date Rape
There is a wire twirled in my head. A coil of razor wire. I can feel it. I have to be very quiet or it will tear my brain.
I have to decide. Even though my sister is older than me, I am the man. Ever since I was a little kid, my father explained this to me. He knows everything about the way to do things. The right way.
He's a policeman. He was a patrolman, back in the days when you had to be a man just to put on the badge. He walked around by himself in neighborhoods where they patrol in two-man cars today. He was shot twice, on the job. After the last time, he was made a detective.
Everybody lies, my father says. He explained it to me. Everybody lies if lying makes it better for them. You have to get the facts. You have to get things straight before you act.
There's ways to tell, my father told me. If a nigger is lying, you can tell by the way he breathes…his stomach kind of shakes. And a Jew, when a Jew lies, he always rubs his hands together. Like he's washing them, but with no soap.
You can't always tell who's a Jew, though, because they look white.
He caught me when I lied to him. Down the street, one of our neighbors, a big blonde woman, she told my father she caught me peeking in her window. At night, when she was getting ready for bed. He punched me in the stomach, very hard. I didn't cry. I told him it wasn't me. He smiled then, told me he was proud of me. You couldn't tell if a real man was lying by beating on him, he said. He made me feel good. He told me about women. How they trick you, lead you on, tease you. Like that blonde woman, parading around in her bra and panties with the shades up, just asking for it. I told him it was worse than that–she didn't even have a bra on…and then I realized what I said. He just smiled. He told me, there's always a way to tell if a man's lying.
I can't make a mistake now. Or the wire will rip through my head and make my brain scream and bleed.
My sister says she was raped. She came right over here and told me. It was a date, just the two of them. They had dinner together. Afterwards, he drove her to this spot outside of town. It's a restricted area. No Trespassing. So they could have a private talk. He kissed her. But when the kiss got hard, she pushed him away. He slapped her and made her cry. She felt bad, like she wasn't being fair. But then he came at her again, pulling up her skirt. She yelled, but nobody heard her. He dragged her out of the car and ripped her clothes. He raped her in the woods. Then he drove her to where she lives.
I interrogated her. When she cried, I waited for her to stop. I made her tell me her story again and again. I made her tell me backwards, to see if I could catch her in a lie. I asked her if she liked it, once she got into it. She screamed at me and called me all kinds of filthy names, but she had to sit there and listen to me. I had her handcuffed to the chair.
My sister doesn't live at home anymore. I didn't think she'd come back here just to tell me what she did, about what happened, but I guess she knew I'd find her anyway. I was suspicious. I wished I had a lie detector, like in the police station.
"You're a freak, Junior," she told me.
A sorry little freak. I wish I'd never told you."
When I said she had to tell me again, she started cursing. She has a nasty mouth, my sister. She always did.
Finally it was done. It took a long time, and she didn't smell so good. But she still had a nasty mouth.
"Well, what are you going to do now?"
When I told her I was going to ask him the same questions I asked her, she started cursing so loud I had to put a gag in her mouth.
I captured him easily. It was no problem–he didn't expect it, I guess. I took him down to the basement. It's all soundproofed down there, so you could practice with guns and not disturb the people next door.
I made him sit in a straight chair and then I locked his hands behind him with the handcuffs. At first he didn't want to answer my questions, but I showed him that I had to know the answers. I had to know them.
He said it was a date. She had asked him to take her to dinner, so they could talk. But it was hard to talk in the restaurant, so he took her out to that place, where they would have privacy.
She kissed him. Wiggled against him. Let him know she was ready. Then, when he almost got there, she started putting on a show, like she changed her mind. He said he'd had her a lot of times–sometimes she asks for it, sometimes she acts like she doesn't want it at all. But it always ends the same way. She's a bitch. A cock-teasing bitch. Slap her in the mouth, she starts to tell the truth, that's what he said. He said he'd have her again. If she was so angry, how come she hadn't called the cops?
I left him in the basement. I walked back upstairs very careful, so the wire wouldn't tear in my head. I told her to tell me the truth. The whole damn truth. She started crying again. So I asked her, was it true, that she'd had sex with him before? Plenty of times? She didn't say anything, so I slapped her hard across the mouth.
Then she told me the truth.
She admitted it. He had her lots and lots of times. And she wanted to call it off. So the last time, she asked him to dinner to tell him. And it was true, they couldn't talk about it in the restaurant. So they drove out to that spot.
When she told him it was finally over, that's when he got nasty. Hard and nasty.
A date was a rape. A rape was a date. Date rape. Rape date. I couldn't make the words rhyme.
The wire is burning in my head. I know the truth. I know the right thing to d
o.
I got the pistol out of the drawer. A Smith & Wesson .38 Special. Police Special. Regulation.
My sister was screaming at me when I walked out of the door. I could hear her screaming all the way downstairs. It doesn't matter if anyone hears her now.
It's hard what I have to do.
Everybody told the truth.
The wire is burning like a fuse. I have to do this first.
I'm going down to the basement to kill the rapist.
He's waiting down there for me.
My father.
Dead Game
I'm no good until I get hit the first time.
Tony says I'm a slow starter.
But once I get going, nothing can stop me.
I never quit. Never.
I looked across the ring. I'm fighting a black guy tonight. Bosco, I think his name is.
It doesn't matter what his name is.
This is the first time I saw him. They don't let me face the other guy at the weigh-ins anymore. Sometimes, I go after them right there. I have to save it for the fight.
He's a little bigger than me, but he's still inside the weight limit.
He's younger than me, too.
But I've been around a lot longer. You can see it on my face. And all over my body. Experience counts for a lot in these fights. You can't tell if a fighter's any good until he gets nailed the first time, that's what Tony says. Then you find out about his heart.
They say it's in my blood, fighting.
But I really only do it for Tony.
I love him.
He's been with me since I was real little. He gives me everything.
I train the old way. Special food. No sex before a fight.
They say that's why we started fighting. For sex. To have our pick of the bitches.
But I could have sex even if I didn't fight. I fight for Tony.
I work out all the time. Tony even built a special treadmill for me, to build up my endurance.
If you get tired in these fights, you lose.
I never get tired.
I watched the black guy across from me, waiting for the signal to start. I watched his eyes. He wasn't afraid.
They never are.
Down here, the purse is nothing…all the money comes from betting.
Tony always bets on me.
I'd never let him down.
I'd die first.
I'm not afraid of dying. It's just sleep. And you don't wake up.
I faced the black guy. Tony rubbed the back of my neck, getting it loose.
The crowd screamed.
We bumped once and the black guy came at me.
He was quicker than me. I took his first shot right in the chest. The fire exploded in me and I tried to tear his head off.
He went down, but he got right back up.
The referee separated us a couple of times when we locked together, but they never stop these fights.
It was a long time before I took him out.
Tony carried me out of the ring.
I couldn't see Tony, my eyes were torn.
The other guy hurt me real deep.
I was going to sleep.
I heard Tony crying.
I felt his hand on my head.
Patting my bloody fur for the last time.
Dialogue
Don't be afraid–I promise I won't hurt you. I'm sorry about tying you up, but I wouldn't want you to go away. I want you to listen. Will you listen to me? Just nod your head yes if you will.
Thank you. That's very nice. I'm sorry about the gag too, but we're real close to people here. See, if you look up…over there…see the windows' It's a basement, this apartment. If you look, you can see people's feet when they walk past.
Don't worry–they can't see in here. I got this stuff out of a catalog. You kind of paint it on the windows and it makes them one-way, like those trick mirrors? We can look out, but they can't look in.
But they're still very close, see? If you were to scream, then maybe somebody would come. And I wouldn't get to finish talking to you.
I'm sorry about that. I know…I say that a lot. But only when it's appropriate–it's not a compulsive habit or anything. I just am a polite person.
I know what you think–you think I'm that Call Girl Killer, don't you? The one the newspapers are making all that fuss about. The newspapers lie, you know. They don't tell the truth. Most of those girls, they weren't real call girls at all. Just common prostitutes. Whores. But "call girl" sounds better in the press.
I can always tell when a woman's a whore. Those are the only ones I take. You can tell. Always. Some of them, they just stand out in the street and scream at you–they're not ashamed at all. Some of them are secret whores, though. Like undercover cops. In disguise.
Are you warm in here? Do you want me to…No? Okay, that's okay. Just relax. I won't do anything.
What was I…oh, yes, undercover cops. They have them out there. I saw them. One, I see her all the time now. But she's not a whore. Not a sex-whore, anyway. But she's still trying to trap me.
I'm too smart for them.
In fact, they were the ones who gave me the idea. The first ones, they were street trash. All I needed was a car. That's what they do, they get in your car. It's easy after that. But they said they were call girls. The papers said that. Or maybe it was the cops. So what I did, I called one myself. They have the numbers in the Yellow Pages. Escort services, some of them are called. Or in the personals…role playing, they call it. I just called them up and they sent one over. Every time. I have to move afterwards, but that's no big deal–I just put everything in my car.
I would never order one of the call girls to this place. My basement. I would never want to move from here.
I'm sorry about the ropes. And the tape. I know it's uncomfortable. I'm actually a very nice person. That's what people say about me…that I'm a nice person. And it's true–it's not a lie.
I'm really truly sorry. When I saw you, walking alone in that neighborhood, that time of night, I was sure you were one of them.
I'm really sorry, Colleen. That's your name, isn't it? Yes? I thought so. I knew you wouldn't be the type of girl to have a phony ID. You're a student, aren't you? At the University? That's what it says…I'm sorry about that, going through your purse and all. I didn't take anything. I'm not a thief.
I guess you work at that diner to pay for school, right? Yes, I thought so. That's very good, to make your own way in the world. That's what I do too. I don't have any family. Do you have a family? Yes? Brothers and sisters and all? No? You're an only child? That's too bad. I was an only child too. It would have been nice to have brothers and sisters.
I'm sorry about…looking. I mean, you were dressed in that little skirt and all….I didn't know it was a waitress outfit. I mean, it looked like it could be one, but some of the whores, they dress up different ways. That's why I had to look…under there. I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't touch you or anything. I wouldn't do that.
Please don't be afraid. It's all right. Look, I'll prove it to you. I take pictures of them. I'll always have the pictures. Even after they're gone. I always take pictures of them. Wait, just sit there…oh, I didn't mean anything. I wasn't being sarcastic. I hate it when people are sarcastic…they can really hurt you with their words. I'll be right back.
See? See the pictures? Polaroids. I couldn't send film out to be developed. See theme Look–she was the first one. But I never took a picture of you, even when you were…out. I know you're not like the others.
I'm really sorry. I know you're innocent. An innocent girl. Do you have a boyfriend? No? Gee, a pretty girl like you…you're too busy with school and work and all that, huh'
You don't have a boyfriend. Gee, do you think if I…? No, that's too stupid. I mean, if you met me…maybe in the restaurant, we could…?
Yes?
Oh, I know you don't mean it. I'm not mad. I know you're just trying to be nice. Nice to a stranger. That's very swe
et. I'm not mad at all.
I'm really so sorry. If I knew, I never would have…do you understand?
Good. Once I found out what kind of girl you were, I wanted you to understand. I wanted to talk to you.
I know this wasn't your fault, Colleen. It wasn't my fault either, not really. If only I could explain it to you. But…
It doesn't matter. I know you're really a nice girl. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry.
You taught me a lesson, Colleen. People aren't always what they seem. I guess I'm not either.
So I'm done with all this.
I'm really, really sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Maybe this won't help that much, but I wanted you to know.
I promise. I'm sorry and I promise.
You're the last one.
Drive-by
It was a diss what got me my shot.
I was on the corner in my new jacket, stylin' and profilin' for my homeboys. The jacket was a little big on me but it was a real bad boy–all soft, fine leather, maroon panel on front, white over the shoulders, with this big black 8 Ball in the middle of a triangle on the back. I got it a couple nights ago, when me and my crew went rustling on the subway. You gotta get paid in this life, make motherfuckers give up they gold. This young boy was wearing my jacket, on the J train, comin' home from a party with his girlfriend. The fuckin' coolie didn't even have a ride, takin' the train like a wage slave. Maurice yoked him while I put the box cutter right against his face, sliced a little piece of his cheek to let him know his life wasn't worth that jacket.
Peoples like that, they gotta expect a little vie comin' down on them, they go out on the street.
Born Bad Page 13
