Slob dje-1

by Rex Miller

  "Under the street," he said, his eyebrows raised in question.

  "Under the street. I know where he goes. And I seen him kill Mr. Tree with a big chain thing. An' I seen him try to get that one called Lester, and then I watched where he went. And me and May watched the hole where he went down and we never seen him come up there but May seen him come up about a block away, just by luck. And then we figured how he hides down there in the water mains and sewers and that. Can you get hold of Deuce Younger and tell him I can show him where the one who kills is?"

  "Now, Woody, you're sure about all this, are you? Hey, bro', this is very important. I mean you 'n May didn't get hold of no bad Lucy and trip out on some Phantom of the Opera thing?"

  "Huh? Fat man of the opera? No, this guy's down in the manholes, ya' know. I can take Deuce right to him. But I gotta' have my money like I heard they put on him. The three hundred. Okay?"

  "Hey. Fine with me, my man. But I'll have to call around for ya. I mean, I don't know where Deuce is just like dat." He tried to snap his fingers and missed. "But yeah, I'll try to run him down. Thing is, I'd have to have a small finder's fee for that. Say thirty-three percent of recovery?"

  "What's that mean?"

  "If you get three hundred I get one hundred. It's only fair, Woody. That way you get your cap of precious dick-stiffener, and I get a hundred-dollar bill for helpin' get you together with the Flames. What do you say?"

  "Uh, yeah, I guess that's okay."

  "All right. Now Mistah Woody, we need to be abso-posi-lutely 101 percent on this, dig?"

  "Yeah?"

  "You can go find the guy that kills people. He's still there. Under the street, I mean."

  "Yeah."

  "You sure because I don't want Deuce Younger and a half-dozen biker maniacs upside my head cause you made a mistake, ya' know?"

  "No mistake, Dr. Gee. I seen 'm go down 'n come up. Not always the same rabbit hole but I know he's down here. I know where he stays," Woody Woodpecker whispered, "but I want the money first." The doctor nodded, and another strange alliance came to pass.

  And the cannonball-shaped black man scratched his head and thought for a minute, looked closely into the wacky countenance of the Wood Man, and asked again, "No mistakes about this?"

  "Huh-uh, Dr. Geronimo. I know where the big man who kills people stays underground. How fast does that stuff act anyway?"

  "Yeah, um-hmm," the man told him, reaching for the big directory.

  "Dr. Gee."

  "Huh," he said, leafing through the pages looking for the Wathena Salvage Yard. "Yeah."

  "That Alura. I mean, how fast does it act?"

  "Instantly," LeRoy Towels told the wino, not without a degree of impatience as he picked up the telephone and paused one last time while he considered whether or not to dial.

  "Instantly?" Woody asked incredulously.

  "You do a little of this baby"—he nodded vaguely as he stuck his finger in the dial—"you be ready to fuck a junkyard dog."

  The Flames

  There were four Flames lounging around the filthy shack that served as an office for the Wathena Salvage Yard, of which Pop Meiswinkle was the proprietor on paper. He'd purchased the yard, as he liked to say, "lock, schlock, and bagel" from the Wathena Brothers when the elder sibling had come up with a bad case of lead-poisoning complications as a result of acute seenus (as in "I was out with my girlfriend and my wife seenus").

  But in the ensuing months he'd been taken over by a corporate raider named Deuce Younger, who made him an offer he thought was worth consideration. Something along the lines of "we run the place and give you a cut or one night we come in here and slit your fucking throat from ear to ear and bury you in an LTD."

  So the Wathena Brothers Salvage Yard and chop shop had become a pit-stop flip-flop in the hot-car ring that headquartered in Cook County, Illinois. In the true spirit of free enterprise the biker club The Flames had diversified to the extent that they not only controlled a respectable slice of the methamphetamine market, but they actually made a fairly impressive dollar in the salvage business. When the enterprising team of Dr. Geronimo and his trusty aide Woody Woodpecker arrived at the yard, Deuce Younger was in the midst of a weighty corporate conference with his top counsel.

  "That dirty cocksucking bastard motherfucker," he was saying, referring to a colleague in the salvage profession. "He comes in here what—maybe every six months with that portable car crusher, and you know, you can't say shit to the motherfucking asshole sonofabitch, and he backs that tractor trailer in here like he owns the dump, and you know, man, I can't stand here and count every fucking car that comes along. We started with what was it 172. Something like that. End up with a 164 count—that greedy cocksuck stole eight fuckin' cars from us. Eight goddamn fuckin' vehicles, man. I don't fucking believe it."

  "Fuckin' unreal," a Flames bodyguard agreed.

  "And you can't say shit to the bastard. You know how it is. What the fuck are you gonna say? Call the cunt a liar. You gotta have him. Shit."

  "Still, I'd like to kick his ass," one of the Flames called Retard said.

  "Cocksucker. He'll crook you into the fucking ground if you turn your back on the lying sonofabitch dickeye."

  "That motherfucker come over to Billy's and he loads up twenty-three of Billy's cars. He puts them little ones in between the big ones. And when the cocksuck pulls out, he tells the ignorant motherfucker he only has eighteen cars. I never seen anything like the sonofabitchin' crooked piece of dog shit, why I'd like to—"

  "An' you know if you got a little compact crushed in there between two big boats, shit, you can't tell what the hell you got on the stack. And Christ, even the dumb bitch pussy works for Billy said that's the tallest fuckin' stack of eighteen cars I've ever seen." Raucous laughter drowned out the knocking on the door.

  But two Flames working on their bikes saw the two strange figures over by the shack and walked up to them saying, "You guys need somethin'?"

  "Yes, sir." Woody spoke before Dr. G. could talk. "I'm Woody Woodpecker."

  "No shit," said one called Mingus, "an' I'm Donald fuckin' Duck. You got business here?"

  "Right," said the cannonball-shaped doctor of herbology and occult sciences, "we're here to see Mr. Younger on an important matter."

  "Uh-huh," Mingus told him, "you wanna' haul fucking ass, darkie, and take this old bum with ya, we got enough junk around here." Both the men really broke up at that one, guffawing and slapping each other as if it had been the bon mot of the century.

  "Sir," Woody Woodpecker said, looking at the wooden door of the shack, "I hope you're aware of the problems posed by a door such as this one. You have what appear to be smiling faces but"—he moved closer to the door—"there are two evil ones right there. And look at this"—he pointed at a swirl of grain in the beat-up wood—"a pair of real ogres, a skull profile with huge fangs, and a frowning and eyeless head that I think you'll find is— "

  "Get the fuck outta here you crazy old freak and take this fat little spade with your raggedy ass before we kick your goofy ole' booty!" the wild-eyed biker screamed, his fellow club member trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter.

  "Let me handle this, please," Dr. Geronimo told Woody. "Now, sir, we do have an appointment with Mr. Younger, and if you gentlemen want to find out the location of the man who did that awful thing to Mr. Tree, I suggest you tell him Dr. Geronimo is here to see him." The giggles stopped.

  "What'd you say about Tree?"

  "I was trying to tell you we're the ones that are here to help Mr. Deuce in his efforts to obtain justice in the recent tragedy."

  Inside the shack the business of the salvage company had taken a discursive turn as they discussed the problems of enforced incarceration. Retard was addressing the conference room:

  "D'jew all hear bout Greasy?" It was rhetorical, as he continued to address his rapt audience. "Fucker sent his brother back a letter telling him he's getting married."

  "Where is that crazy motherf
ucker anyway—down in Jeff City or some damn where?"

  "Leavenworth, ain't he?" someone else said.

  "Naw. He's just a kid. He was doing juvey time when he busted outta' Booneville or some kiddy jail and they put him in Algoa. He was on the run from fuckin' Algoa when he was up here." They laughed.

  "You shittin' us, man?"

  "Fucker was in the middle of a six-year bit. Had three years left and this asshole talks him into makin' a move. Three years. He boogies. That's why we never saw the cocksuck. They nailed him up here runnin' around." The board members thought this was quite humorous.

  "Anyway, his brother gets a letter from Algoa. He says he's getting married. Brother writes back that's cool, let's see a picture of the bitch." A knock at the door interrupted the story.

  "We're in the middle of a meeting," Deuce hollered out at them through the door. "Yeah?"

  "So he says, send a picture of the bitch." Laughter. "And his brother sends him one. It's Greasy's bitch awright. He's got him an eighteen-year-old faggot named Ronnie." Hysterics in the room. A moment of gay abandon in the workaday drudgery of a busy corporate staff.

  "Believe this shit? Said he looked like a wife awright. Looked like a pussy'd bend over 'for you could get its pants off." Screaming in the room. "Any fucker'd boogie in the middle of a fucking six-pack in fuckin' Algoa! Shit!"

  "What a fuckin' dummy." Roars of laughter finally recede to the point they can hear the loud, insistent pounding.

  "What the fuck is it, goddammit," Deuce asked.

  "Yo, Deuce." Door opens and they can see a lot of faces. Mingus' goes, "Think you'd better check this shit out." He comes in and shuts the door on the others. "Jigaboo calls hisself Geronimo or some fucking shit. Got some old wino with him. Claim they heard you put three bills on the street for anybody give us something that would get the one did Tree. They swear they can give the fucker to us." Very quiet in the shack and all eyes on the door as Deuce nods to let them in.

  "You two get y'r butts in here," Mingus commanded as Dr. Geronimo and Woody strode through the door with as much dignity and poise as the occasion allowed.

  "Mr. Younger," the cannonball-like man said, "this gentleman knows where the man you want lives. He can show him to you, take you right there."

  "Yes, sir," Woody Woodpecker said. "I know where the man who kills people stays."

  "You do, eh," Deuce said softly.

  "Yes, sir. If I show you, do I get the three hundred dollars like they say?"

  "Where is he?"

  "In the sewers. He stays in the sewers."

  "Get these fuckin' bums outta here f'r chrissakes," one of the corporate vice-presidents suggested gently.

  "No. Hold it." Deuce smiled. "I go with my vibes. My vibes never lie. I feel good about these two." He looked at the Wood Man with a pair of eyes like the business end of a double-barrel shotgun and smiled after a few moments. "I say hold the calls. I think we got us a winner."

  Chaingang

  Daniel Bunkowski is asleep. RY-7/INLET 20 is a rectangular storage tank approximately twelve and a half feet below the city streets, and situated at the intersection of pipes that lead to a system of storm drains that connect to a main catch basin. If you could see the pipes from the air, they would look like a large letter Y with the bottom stem connecting to the O of the storage facility. The larger facility is very deep, and it is into this area that the overflow ultimately goes from those rainstorms that would otherwise fill the low-lying areas with the spillage from rains, melts, or flood backwater. Bunkowski is asleep in the smaller storage tank that feeds the water into a channel that opens at the center of the letter Y.

  He is asleep in the trap he has constructed in the neck of the storage tank, but that is only his physical bulk. Danny boy is far away, dreaming, of another time and place. A place known as Echo Sector, in the lowlands of Quang Tri province, Republic of South Vietnam, where a kamikaze truck full of men roars along a very dangerous stretch of road. The truck, by coincidence called a deuce-and-a-half, is driven by a sullen, acned, sneering youth with bad teeth who drives at one speed, accelerator to the floorboard, and stops by running into things.

  "Stop," Chaingang yells around the side. Nothing. A fist the size and solidity of a solid steel pineapple begins pounding huge dents in the truck. "Pull over!" Chaingang has seen something. The truck slows marginally, the sullen kid looking for something to drive into to get the wreck to quit moving, but Chain is already limping back toward his ruck.

  "Get some," they yell, and there are other taunts and names shouted at him as the truck roars off. He smiles as he thinks how easily he could have tossed a frag in their direction, just for luck, counting it very close for a nice and deadly air burst—just so—and in the dreamsleep he grins at the imagining of the exploding charge and the screams of surprise.

  He waddles off in the direction of the nearby treeline with an M-60, and a ruck that weighs more than any of the men on the truck.

  He is carrying an M-60 LMG, and wearing six crossed bandoliers. Each holds over a hundred rounds of ammo. He is literally covered in fragmentation grenades. His-taped chain bulges from a special pocket. He wears a bowie the size of a small machete. His ruck is a mobile home.

  It is packed in this manner: ponchos (2), liners (2), tarps (2), his special extra-large mosquito netting cover which is folded as carefully and methodically as a chute, then packed inside a four-millimeter Mylar sleeve, cammie cover, detonation equipment, wire-cutter pliers, det cord, fuses, an M-18 smoke grenade, igniter, John Wayne (opener), utensils, extra socks, extra bug juice, pills, matches, C-4, and on and on—many small items.

  Then there are his "pies." He calls them the little pies and they are vaguely pie wedge in appearance. He loves them. He knows how the little people like to come in at night slithering through the ridiculously easy-to-penetrate wire protection of the sissy soldiers, how they like to turn them around so that when they are detonated the enemy gets an unexpected present of flying, killer steel. They are called claymores, each weighing three and a half pounds, and Chaingang carries six of them.

  His mobile home carries everything from a coil of rope to a special plastic box holding the swivel rings he will use to fig his grenade trap.

  Across the layer his ruck is crammed with thirty meals of instant rice and shrimp, beef, pork, spaghetti, which are the top-grade freeze-dried lrrp (LRRP-Long-Range Recon Patrol) rations called Long Rats. They are prepared simply by adding ordinary cold water. He then carries small Tupperware containers full of salt, sugar, coffee, and other staples that can be used to expand his rations by the usual diet of rice and fish and native groceries. The back of the ruck is covered in plastic bottles containing twenty-two liters of water and two liters of Wild Turkey. He also carries several items of gear in miscellaneus belts, pouches, and the like such as bug juice, battle dressings, and the other impedimenta that will allow him to rove as a self-contained hunter-killer unit.

  He is a six-hundred-and-some pound one-man mobile fighting unit, loaded for grizzly, and carrying everything from Tobasco to toothbrush to toilet tissue in a ruck you couldn't get off the ground. Then there's what he carries by hand. In his left hand, or on his shoulder over a special pad, the M-60, and in his right hand, a huge plastic spool of wire. This is his one-man ambush wire.

  He knew when he saw the dense treeline's edge even from the distance that he would kill humans again tonight and many, many of them. He can feel it and sense it in a moist, white-hot swirl and blur that washes over him before he can control it. Not yet. He holds himself in check as he thinks how it would have been so easy to waste the occupants of the deuce-and-a-half as it sped off.

  It is getting dark fast and he walks faster, not limping now, a huge smile plastered across his countenance. Dimples and grins. This is his thing. He was born to do it. He will go for a big kill tonight, if his luck holds. His goal is to take off a whole platoon of the little people single-handed. He knows ways it might be done.

  He hope
s someone will come tonight. If it is only one or two, he might kill one slow, play with him a bit before he puts him under. Make his lights go out real slow. He remembers the one he lit up the other night and almost laughs out loud. He shifts his 60 to his shoulder and takes the wire spool for a second as he pats his pocket for chain, then rings, what did I do with the swivel rings? Ah yes, in the ruck.

  Moisture drops from the foliage. It hits the ground, soaking into the Vietnamese earth, making the trees grow taller, coming back up into the trees to water them, so they'll have bigger leaves to drip, to catch more moisture and on and on it goes in the never-ending, self-regenerating cycle that always stirs his interest. He thinks of trees as people. When he spends a lot of time in the jungle in one location, he becomes so familiar with the major aspects of the trees and grass and vegetation and everything that it is as if he had lived there all his life. He names his trees, gives them identities, and holds conversations with them in his mind. Sometimes he feels the trees talk to him with their thoughts.

  The red ball has gone under again. He has reached the place he imagined he would find there on the road. Perfect. He will set up in the trees, at the apex of a footpath and what appears to be an overgrown supply pipeline.

  He will run his plan tonight if they come. He has a plan that could work for up to eight, perhaps even ten of the little people if he takes care and thinks the thing out carefully, and of course if luck is with him. He thinks he can kill even a dozen dinks using his well-researched and carefully constructed ambush.

  This is Chaingang's grenade ambush. First, he unloads his M-60, ammo bandoliers and his frags, setting everything down carefully beside his spool of wire. Next he removes his ruck and digs down for the wire-cutter pliers. The important swivel rings. He pats his pockets down. Now to set it in motion. He picks up the frags and a broken branch and limps a bit as he negotiates the footpath.

  A wave sweeps through him again, washing his brain in a red-hot kill lust. He will take many lives before the night is over and he doesn't much care whose. But these are the moments when he realizes he must use the greatest care. It is in the times right before he does the bad things that he must execute his plans with the utmost caution and with great concentration.