Jailbait Zombie

by Mario Acevedo

  “Help me understand something,” I said. “Barrett is dead. As is your nephew, Gino. And there’s the late Stanley Novick. You don’t seem to be too concerned that these people are getting picked off like gophers.”

  Cavagnolo let his eyes dart to my gun. “I am concerned.” He added, “There’s a lot about the business my nephew didn’t know.”

  “Gino mentioned the possibility Stanley was murdered in a fight over turf. But he didn’t buy it.”

  Cavagnolo asked, “Is there something about the way Gino was snatched from his house that completely rules that out?”

  No.

  “Any reason you don’t want my help?” I asked.

  “Starting with the fact I don’t know you and you come across as a creepy-ass fuck, plenty.”

  Cavagnolo’s cell phone chimed. He raised one eyebrow. May I?

  “Go ahead.”

  He dug the phone out of his pocket and answered. “Yeah. Yeah. Things are still cool. I’ll let you know when we’re done.” Cavagnolo closed the phone and kept it in his hand. “How much longer we chatting?”

  “Until I hear what I need to know.”

  Cavagnolo pasted that fuck-you stare back on his face.

  We’d done enough regular talking. Time for vampire hypnosis.

  We were alone. I thought of a way to cover the spell of amnesia.

  I walked to him and pressed the pistol muzzle against his forehead. His only reaction was a quick grimace as if what bothered him was the feel of cold metal instead of the likelihood that a .45 slug was about to blow his skull apart.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “What for?”

  I tapped the muzzle of the .45 against the front of his skull. “Do it.”

  His expression stayed fierce even as his eyes closed.

  I lowered the pistol. I flicked the contacts from my eyes into the palm of my free hand. Cavagnolo’s aura glowed with a calm shimmer. I had sent one of his men to the doctor and now poked a gun into his mug. This man must have antifreeze for blood.

  “Now open your eyes.”

  CHAPTER 26

  My hypnosis hit him like the lash of an electric whip.

  His irises popped open to the diameter of my pistol’s bore. His aura gave a thousand-watt flare and dimmed to a steady red glow.

  If I fanged him, I’d get into his subconscious that much quicker and deeper. This time of the afternoon, I could do with a blood refresher. All that testosterone fueling his Italian machismo would give me a nice buzz, better than triple espresso juiced with whiskey. But if Cavagnolo’s goons returned, finding me deep in the bliss of noshing on his neck, they’d get the drop on me. Supernatural or not, letting their bullets turn my torso into a sieve was not the way I wanted to end this case.

  I opted to massage his hands between the thumbs and forefingers. His hands were big and hard as mallets. Scars crinkled his knuckles. Cavagnolo took care of business with a personal touch.

  His eyes fell into the black trance. His breathing lapsed to an even, unhurried rhythm. In this state, I could order Cavagnolo to tie a noose around his neck and he would.

  “Sal.” I waited for my use of his first name to draw him out. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of recognition. I asked, “What do you know about the disappearances?”

  Stems of anxiety grew from his aura. His breathing skipped to a faster cadence.

  I massaged his hands again and repeated the question.

  His aura and breathing calmed.

  “It’s freaky as hell,” he whispered in a dreamy voice. “Stanley. Gino. Barrett. Gone.”

  “Who’s responsible?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why are you keeping it quiet?”

  “No choice. They can’t find out.”

  “Who can’t find out?” I asked.

  “My crew.”

  “Find out about what?”

  Anxiety blistered across his aura. “The work I do.”

  “What work?”

  “For the Feeb.”

  FBI? Cavagnolo padded his wallet by ratting on his buddies? “You’re an informer?”

  “Yes.” A storm of tendrils whipped from his aura. Even under this deep hypnosis, Cavagnolo knew what would happen if the word got out he was a fink. His men would treat him to a steel pipe massage followed by a dive into a wood chipper.

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “Plenty. I get to keep my ass out of prison. I get the cops to put muscle on my rivals. I get a government check regular as clockwork. Plus I get to pocket what I earn.”

  Sweet deal if you discounted the getting discovered and murdered part.

  “Let’s talk about Stanley and Barrett. What’s with them?”

  “Somebody’s trying to scare us.”

  “You scared?”

  Despite the hypnosis, Cavagnolo managed a grin. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the business. Drop your guard and you get filleted. We’d do the same thing.”

  “Could it be another gang?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s one of us gone psycho.”

  I hadn’t thought of that angle. “Who?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Were the murders an inside job? Maybe in cahoots with the zombie maker? As usual, the more I learned, the further I found myself from the answer.

  I didn’t want to ask the zombie question directly, not yet. The question would stay in Cavagnolo’s mind, and if someone else used supernatural hypnosis on him, he’d have no choice but to tell. I didn’t know what or who I was up against. The best strategy was to keep my undead tracks covered as much as possible.

  I could plant subliminal commands but they wouldn’t last long. A couple of minutes for complicated orders. A simple instruction like wake up at a specific hour might remain until the next morning.

  I let go of his hands and replaced my contacts. “On three, you’ll wake up.” I went straight to three and punched him across the face.

  Cavagnolo fell from the chair and hit the concrete floor where he lay spread-eagle. He lifted his head from the floor and blinked. He turned onto his haunches and sat, looking groggy and confused. He rubbed his cheek and realized that I’d hit him. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Quit jerking my chain, Sal,” I said, “or you’ll get more of that.”

  “What the hell you talking about?” His eyes turned from me to the chair, clearly wondering how one moment he and I were playing cat-and-mouse chitchat, and the next, I had knocked his guinea ass to the ground.

  He wouldn’t wonder about the lost time.

  Cavagnolo acted like his knees were stiff and he couldn’t get up. I pushed his chair close.

  “You want revenge for what happened to Gino? Let me handle it and stay out of my way,” I said.

  Cavagnolo sneered. “Go screw yourself.”

  “No, screw you.”

  If zombies were involved, I had to destroy the infestation without human intervention.

  Cavagnolo brushed dirt from his shirt and the back of his pants. He acted like we’d merely gone through a minor spat, but in his heart, I knew he wanted my dismembered corpse in a trash compactor.

  I beckoned for Cavagnolo to accompany me through the office and out the door.

  Vinny was gone, probably taking his buddy to the doc. The black pickup had moved to the other side of the street. Cleto eyed me from behind the steering wheel; his passenger watched through the open front window.

  “Sal, some of your boys might decide to take me out on spec. Bad idea. Make sure we all stay friends. If I have to shoot, believe me I’ll use you for target practice.” I poked him in the side to emphasize my point.

  Cavagnolo’s face went steam red with humiliation, but unless he wanted to die like a fool, what choice did he have?

  We circled the Toyota and I checked for footprints in case somebody planted a little explosive souvenir under the chassis. Looked clean.

  I stopped by the driver’s door of the Toyota
. “Remember, make sure your men stay cool. You don’t want to start trouble in public like this. Might affect your cozy arrangement with the feds.”

  Cavagnolo’s eyes could’ve burned holes though me.

  I waved to his goons and drove off.

  I checked my rearview mirror. Cavagnolo hustled across the road, oblivious to the mud. He got his cell phone and gestured in my direction.

  This wasn’t over.

  CHAPTER 27

  I needed something with more detail of the area than I could get from my Colorado road map. I drove east toward Alamosa, the big city of the San Luis Valley, to find better maps.

  A Chevy Blazer appeared behind me. Sunlight reflecting off the windshield kept me from seeing the driver.

  The Blazer tailed me for a minute, then zoomed close to smack my rear bumper. My Toyota shimmied. The moron driver was trying to ram me off the road.

  Had to be one of Cavagnolo’s men. I didn’t have time to waste with this bullshit. I’d better take care of this loser quick.

  I eased to the shoulder. The Blazer pulled behind me.

  The driver got out. He wore sunglasses. Because of his ponytail I recognized him as Cavagnolo’s driver from a couple of hours ago. Apparently he’d dropped Phaedra off and had orders to bring me back to Uncle Sal. Or shoot me.

  Sorry, you little punk. Not today. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.

  His aura was an undulating bubble of confidence. He stood as tall as his five-foot-plus frame would allow. After making an obvious adjustment of the drape of his jacket over what had to be a pistol, he started for me in a tough guy swagger. Cavagnolo’s errand boy was as intimidating as a shih tzu wearing a spiked collar.

  I took out my contacts and put my sunglasses on.

  I waited with my window down.

  The punk halted two paces from my door. “I got a message from Sal.”

  My biggest complication would be getting his sunglasses out of the way. I acted like I didn’t hear him.

  “What?”

  He took off his sunglasses to demonstrate his seriousness and hooked them into a jacket pocket. His eyes showed no fear. Either this kid was high or merely stupid. I’d vote for both.

  He reached to pull his jacket off his hip.

  I gave a grin that belonged on the Joker. “Hold on.” I removed my sunglasses and gave a super-duper jolt of hypnosis.

  His eyes dilated wide like everything in his mind wanted to spill out through them. His aura burned red hot. He slouched, mouth open like he wanted to catch bugs, and his head sagged toward me.

  “Good boy,” I said. “Come here. Give me your right hand.”

  He advanced and placed his hand on the windowsill. I took his hand in mine and caressed the web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger. His aura dimmed.

  I could send the kid away or hurt him. Too easy. He was on Cavagnolo’s payroll and would have to learn the price of taking his money.

  “Now go back to your Blazer, take off all your clothes, and lock them inside. Then stand with your back to traffic, bend over, and grab your ankles.” I patted his hand and sent him off.

  He turned about and walked robotically to the Blazer. Since he was giving oncoming traffic the full moon treatment, I should’ve told him to stick a flower in his butt.

  I wanted to wait until the cops came by. Better not push it. I put my contacts back in, signaled left, and accelerated onto the highway.

  I reached Alamosa in ten minutes. With a population of eight thousand people, it was small town, but compared to Morada, Alamosa was a megapolis.

  I found a sporting goods store and bought a compass and a topographical map of the Morada area. I gassed up, hit an ATM for more cash, and headed back to Morada.

  I thought about what Cavagnolo had said. Maybe it’s an inside job. Who? For what reason? Was the insider working for the reanimator? If so, why?

  I passed the spot where I’d left the punk kid in all his glory. He was gone and a tow truck was snagging his Blazer. I think the cops got him.

  Back in Morada, I cruised the streets. The county buildings sat on F Street, on the tidy south side of town. The rectangular lines of the courthouse reminded me of a humorless, square-hipped chaperone. The jail was around the corner. I saw a state trooper’s patrol car and a van with sheriff’s marking but not Cavagnolo’s punk kid.

  I stopped by the county museum in my hunt for clues. What I was searching for might be as obvious as an old framed letter, if I knew where to look. But there was no mention of zombies or walking dead among the artifacts belonging to the pioneers or Utes. I read a display of “sightings,” meaning UFOs, in the valley. A shiver ran through my kundalini noir. I’ve had enough of extraterrestrials for a decade.

  The sun dropped close to the ragged horizon on the west. Long shadows slanted across Morada. I needed a drink, something to eat, and a place to stay—in that order.

  The prudent course of action would be to head east to Monte Vista or Alamosa. Get away from Cavagnolo’s convenient reach. But if he wanted more trouble, I’d make it easy for him to get another lesson.

  The closest tavern was My Final Bender. I’d turned by this place earlier when I followed Cavagnolo on the way to the Elkhorn garage. I parked under a linden tree next to a Ford Escort that should’ve been junked ten thousand miles ago. Smoke curled from under the hood, which was held in place with a knotted length of garden hose.

  The wooden door to the tavern had more gouges in it than a workbench in middle-school shop class. Two pillars of smoke swirled above the mounds of cigarette butts flanking the door. Inside, I expected country, but hip-hop belted from cheap loudspeakers hanging from nails in the dingy plaster walls.

  Yellowed masking tape held a faded menu to the wall. Bold underlined letters scrawled with black marker announced: No Foood!

  The yeasty smell of forgotten beer replaced the reek of tobacco smoke. Two guys at the bar nursed drinks and gummed unlit cigarettes.

  A sign covered the center of a spiderweb of cracks in the mirror behind the bar. The sign read: NO SMOKING. STATE LAW YOU FUCKERS.

  The only way this joint could’ve been more of a dive was if it was located in an Alabama swamp. If the other patrons had no quarrel with the trailer park ghetto decor, then I doubt any of them would’ve noticed that I cast no reflection in the mirror.

  A short Latino wearing an aloha shirt as long as a muumuu worked the billiard table. The dress code for the day must have been thrift store special.

  I picked a seat midway down the bar and took care not to rest my arms on the sticky places.

  Mr. Munchkin in the aloha shirt sidled next to me. Gleaming white cross-trainers gave him Mickey Mouse feet. “Whaddaya want?” Matching rings protruded from his lower lip, right nostril, left eyebrow, and around both ears. He must have been deathly afraid of magnets.

  “Manhattan.” In a clean glass, please.

  The music became especially loud. Something about a homie’s true love for his 12-gauge. Other than the beat, sounded perfectly country western to me.

  Mr. Munchkin shouted: “We got beer. And we got beer.”

  I was so overwhelmed by the ambience I missed noticing that all the liquor bottles on display were empty.

  “Beer then.”

  “Then what?” Mr. Munchkin asked. “We got Bud Light. Miller Lite. Corona Light.”

  “Only light beer?”

  “We’re a healthy bunch. Gotta watch the calories.” He flashed teeth capped with yellow gold.

  “A Corona.”

  “Bottle or glass?”

  One of the guys at the other end of the bar hacked and coughed into his armpit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned to his Bud Light.

  “Bottle,” I said.

  “Wise choice,” replied Mr. Munchkin, “’cause we ain’t got no glasses.”

  I debated whether I should chance drinking anything, much less staying. The grime in this place was a bigger threat to my well-being than Cavagnolo.


  The front door opened. A big-haired frosted blonde entered. She had the hard look of a has-been party girl taking the express lane from thirty to senior citizen. She stopped beside me and laid her pink sequined purse on the bar counter.

  The blonde peeled off a denim jacket with pile lining and revealed a tangerine tube top squeezing a pair of leathered breasts. Shiny earrings hefty as horseshoes drooped from her earlobes. Her blue eyes were the color of faded ink.

  She parked her narrow jeans on the adjacent stool. Her perfume would’ve made a skunk cry for a gas mask.

  The woman raised one painted eyebrow in a come-hither look as subtle as a tire iron smacking my nose. “Buy a lady a drink?”

  Lady, what lady?

  I glanced around the bar to gauge the others’ reactions. This was a place where livers came to die, not for tourists to hook up with the locals.

  Mr. Munchkin arrived with a Corona Light for me and a Bud Light for her. He didn’t ask her, the usual? Nor did he ask if I was buying.

  She picked the bottle by the neck and raised it in a toast. “Appreciate it.”

  I’d lost my thirst and let beads of sweat collect around my bottle. “What gives…”

  She completed the question like she had practice. “Shawna.” She propped an elbow on the edge of the bar, leaned on that arm, and gave a pensive look like she was trying to figure out how much money I had in my pocket. “And you?”

  “You didn’t let me finish my question. I was going to say, what gives with you being here?”

  “Thought you might like some company.” She took a pull on the Bud and left a smudge of lipstick.

  Shawna had popped into the bar the minute I sat down and had singled me out. Maybe she’s a hooker—in Morada?—and that’s why the regulars took no notice.

  Or something else was going on.

  “How about a real drink?” I asked.

  Shawna put the beer down and reached for her jacket and purse. “That’s what I’m talking about. Lead the way, cowboy.”

  CHAPTER 28

  We got into my Toyota and headed east a block on Abundance Boulevard. There wasn’t much in Morada, but fortunately, the town had a liquor store, they weren’t that backward. I stopped on the curb outside the store and gave Shawna a twenty and a ten.