Lethal Fetish

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  During a song with some guy whining that his baby had “lost that lovin’ feeling,” I began to think that maybe Grover wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Don’t say it,” Carol shouted to me across the rows of shelves when the music was over. “I know you hated that song, but two summers ago Anna and I had a wonderful time at a Hall & Oates concert.”

  “Maybe ‘Haulin’ Garbage,’ rather than oats, would be a better description of their talents,” I said.

  Carol told me I’d misunderstood the duo’s name, but I wasn’t following her explanation. She gave up on my capacity to appreciate pop music and decided to test my ability to admire computers. During another bout of advertisements, Carol regaled me with the comparative virtues of the Apple II versus the TRS-80 and IBM-PC. When she started to wax lyrical about memory and monitors, I began to miss Grover’s singing. His hearing crystal raindrops fall made as much sense as my hearing about 64K RAM. I tried to be excited about her being excited, but I was faking it along with the Pointer Sister in bed with the man who didn’t appreciate the value of a “slow hand” with a woman. I emerged from the shelves to find a cup of coffee. Carol brought a carafe from the front office and continued her tutorial. She advised me to look into a Commodore VIC-20 for keeping records of my insect collection at home.

  “Carol, I really appreciate your educational efforts,” I said, sipping from the Styrofoam cup. “But I’m reminded of my father’s bit of Irish wisdom: ‘Don’t give cherries to pigs or advice to fools.’ And I’m afraid you’re dumping a bucket of juicy advice into the trough of this clueless swine.”

  She laughed and gave me a sisterly kiss on the forehead to let me know I was a hopeless but adorable boss. “Tell you what, you’ve been a good sport, so while you count up boxes of masks, gloves, and booties and I feed the data into VisiCalc, we can switch to your radio station.”

  I hadn’t a clue what was VisiCalc was, but I knew KDFC was featuring popular pieces from opera. This seemed a great way to make my point about the wonders of classical music. The selections were tuneful standards, with the announcer providing just enough context to enhance the songs. The first was the Queen of the Night’s aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, followed by the drinking song from Verdi’s La traviata, then Musetta’s waltz from Puccini’s La bohème and “Habanera” from Bizet’s Carmen. My chest tightened with the announcer’s description of the next piece. Carol looked at me with concern.

  “Riley, are you alright? Geez, I’ll admit the music is touching, but you look pained.”

  “I’m okay, it’s just that ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ hits a little close to home.”

  “How so? Did you lose a bunch of money on some horse named Valkyrie?” she teased.

  I went over to the radio and turned down the volume so that Wagner’s most famous number wouldn’t evoke last night’s bizarre dream—and I came up with a quick cover story to avoid having to explain why a grown man didn’t want a song to remind him of a nightmare. As Carol tapped at her keyboard, I explained.

  “With all the sick sexuality I’ve encountered lately, this opera pushes my buttons. The story is about a young woman who escapes from the man she was forced to marry. The fellow she runs away with turns out to be her long lost brother. The fellow’s father is a Norse god, and his wife, who isn’t the fellow’s mother because the god sleeps around, is the goddess of marriage. The spurned husband is chasing down his wife and would-be lover, so the god was going to send his favorite Valkyrie to aid his bastard son.”

  “And a Valkyrie is?”

  “A warrior woman produced by the god and the earth goddess.”

  “Another of the god’s trysts, I see.”

  “So his wife is unhappy about both her husband’s infidelities and the adulterous, incestuous liaison about to happen. She makes the god command the Valkyrie not to interfere, but the Valkyrie is so moved by the love between the brother and sister that she tries to stop the murderous husband. However, the god shows up and breaks the mighty sword he’d given his son, who’s then killed.”

  “A big old sword, eh? How phallic.”

  I wasn’t going to tell her about the god’s massive spear, so I just continued, “The god is enraged at his defiant daughter. She escapes and takes along her now-pregnant half-sister. The god catches the Valkyrie and condemns her to being mortal. He puts her into a deep sleep and surrounds her by fire which can only be crossed by a heroic mortal.”

  “Let me guess, a hero arrives to kiss the sleeping beauty,” Carol said.

  “Not until the next opera in the series. And her rescuer, a handsome young man who she calls a ‘valiant child,’ becomes her lover—and he’s none other than the son of her half-sister who died in childbirth.”

  “Holy crap, Riley, it’s like Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. Hell, there’s no difference between soap opera and classy opera, except one is watched by bored old ladies who eat bonbons and like following messed up lives on television and the other is watched by rich old ladies who sip champagne and enjoy listening to people sing about screwed up relationships on a stage.”

  I was about to protest her comparison when the phone rang in my office. I hurried down the hall and grabbed the receiver.

  “Riley here.”

  “This is Courtney,” a voice whispered. “It’s going to happen at nine o’clock tonight. Come to a place called Hoffman Fabrication, a couple blocks south of Folsom on Sixth.”

  “Got it. Are you okay?”

  “Can’t talk. Just be there. Please.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 37

  I told Carol to get hold of Dennis and Larry and have them meet me across the street from the venue for the evening’s depraved entertainment. Hoffman Fabrication was a windowless shop in the middle of a block featuring a bar, auto mechanic, furniture upholsterer, locksmith, used clothing store, and barbershop with the traditional pole twisting hypnotically. The skyline consisted of a highway overpass, which the city unwittingly provided as a shelter from the rain for those buying and selling dope. From what I could see, business was brisk.

  I’d finished scoping out the neighborhood when the guys showed up, looking as grim as the surroundings. We walked around the corner and down an alley running behind the shops to assess escape routes from the designated venue. The back door had a narrow, grimy window providing a limited view of the interior. From what I could see, the place was dominated by a large room with a counter separating the work space from a small entryway at the front door. One light had been left on within a bank of fluorescent fixtures, providing enough illumination to make out metalworking machines and workbenches around the periphery of the space.

  Having reconnoitered our objective, we headed back to the street and down to Joe’s, the watering hole on the corner where we hoped to stay dry and inconspicuous. There were a couple of big, ugly hunks of marginal humanity perched on bar stools near the entry. Their bloodshot eyes lit up for a moment at the prospect of causing some trouble with visitors to their hovel. But the three of us—and particularly Larry’s you-don’t-want-a-piece-of-this demeanor—silently convinced them to return to their drinks. I paid for our beers with a ten-spot, pushed the change back to the barkeep, and asked if he’d mind turning up the radio. He took the money, gave a knowing half-wink, and filled the air with country western twanging. We settled into the darkness of the back corner, assured that our conversation would be private.

  “Okay, so the perv party is at a metal shop,” Larry said.

  “Seems like a weird location to this black man, but you white folks be some kinda crazy,” Dennis said, taking a long draw on his beer.

  “Batshit crazy would cover tonight’s gathering from what Riley’s told us,” Larry said, “but those are the cards we’ve been dealt. So, Riley, how do we play our hand?”

  “Nothing fancy. I learned in the ring that being clever usually means getting hurt. We’ll rendezvous around the corner from this joint, out of sight from Hoffman’s. Be
there at eight forty-five sharp. Bring your choice of weapon—but no guns—for what I have planned.”

  “Which is?” asked Larry, draining his glass.

  “Simple. You guys wait until everyone’s inside, probably by nine fifteen. Then Larry, post yourself by the front door and stay out of sight as much as possible. Dennis, go around back and set up in the alley.”

  “That be right. Put the black man by the servant’s entrance,” said Dennis.

  “In this white man’s neighborhood, having you stand out front will generate more attention than our honky thug,” I said, nodding toward Larry. “And besides, you get to oversee your very own flunky.”

  “Who dat be?” Dennis’s eyebrows converged into a skeptical frown.

  “My client, Stefan.”

  “Sheeit, Riley, why’s I get him? What Larry be doin’ while I be babysittin’?”

  “I don’t want anyone extra out front drawing attention. And both of you will be doing the same thing. When the shit goes down inside, I need you to make sure that Eunectes and Redbug don’t escape.” I described the demented duo, knocked back my beer, and asked if they had any questions.

  “So, we’re the 007s in Riley’s secret service, eh?” Larry asked with a soft belch.

  “Not quite,” I said. “I’m not issuing a license to kill—only a license to thump.”

  “We got it,” Dennis said.

  I was confident they understood the deal. They were good men, able to deliver as needed and to hold back when necessary.

  When I got back to my shop, I called Stefan and told him when and where to meet us. He sounded worrisomely eager but acceptably obedient—perhaps not unlike his former approach to carnal encounters with Michelle. Just as I hung up, the phone rang. It was Redbug informing me of the evening’s event. He seemed less assured, maybe even unnerved, by what was unfolding. Perhaps the fun was draining from the fantasy as it was becoming real.

  I told Carol what was up and that she should be ready for helping with whatever fallout came her way. To keep busy, I reorganized supplies in the warehouse until I heard Carol getting ready to leave. I went up front, where she said nothing but gave me a kiss on the cheek and headed into the dying light.

  I killed the next few hours by taking a nap to make up for last night and preparing a TV dinner. Carol kept some frozen food in the warehouse for late nights at work. The toaster oven did a middling job of heating a mediocre Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, cubed carrots, and apple cobbler. Preparing my .38 was a more appealing project. I decided to stick with the Treasury Loads that Tim had experienced. I wouldn’t be looking for flash and thunder tonight, but these hollow points had shallow penetration and reliable expansion. So, if I ended up taking a shot inside Hoffman’s workshop, there’d be less chance of the bullet passing through somebody and doing unintended damage. At least my plan was more plausible than the claim of “Delicious Homestyle Gravy” on the packaged dinner.

  ~||~

  I headed out at eight-thirty to meet up with the guys. Stefan arrived on time, wearing a trench coat like he was a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and Marlene Dietrich in A Foreign Affair. Larry was carrying a thirty-four inch, thirty-two ounce, Louisville Slugger and Dennis had a police riot baton. When I expressed my curiosity, Dennis said he’d found the straightstick when he was twelve and scouring the debris after the Hunters Point Riot in 1966. If I’d been waiting outside, my weapon of choice would’ve been the shillelagh I’d found in the back of my father’s closet. The stout, blackthorn stick had a noggin-busting knob that would’ve put down anyone trying to make an unauthorized exit from Hoffman’s.

  I gave my final instructions, telling Larry and Dennis to keep an ear out for trouble. Then I turned to Stefan and explained in the clearest possible terms that I had no intention of letting him mess up the operation. Translation: If he got more than an arm’s length from his babysitter, Dennis had standing orders to clobber him. Dennis slapped the baton against his palm to leave no doubt that braining Stefan would make the evening a success whatever else happened.

  While they waited for the attendees to arrive, I spotted Luis and followed him through the front door of the machine shop. This time, there was no lummox asking for passwords. The place had the pungent smell of machine oil and metal grindings. It smelled like hard work. I liked it—and hated how the space would be debased this evening.

  In the glare provided by the bare fluorescent bulbs illuminating the entryway counter, I could see that along one wall stretched a battered workbench, with a pegboard holding a multitude of files, assorted hammers, every imaginable type of pliers, and an array of calipers, depth gauges, and dial test indicators. The edge of the bench held a series of vises ranging from petite to monstrous, and spaced along the surface was a selection of electronic pan scales and three-beam balances. On the opposite wall loomed a milling machine, lathes, a couple of drill presses, and a grinding machine. The far end of the room featured a hulking metal press and off to the side was a battered wooden door, leading to an office.

  The center of the room was normally an open space, but tonight it was filled with folding chairs. As the men took their seats, they faced a pair of black-draped objects on the cement floor. They were harshly spotlighted by a couple of gooseneck lamps clamped to the workbench at the far end of the room.

  Eunectes emerged from the office door. With his black beret and turtleneck sweater, he looked like a beatnik poet who drifted in from North Beach. He turned and swept his arm toward the door by way of introducing Courtney. She came out in a masochistically tight sapphire-sequined cocktail dress that I figured Eunectes had provided for this occasion. She looked confident as he gave a lascivious smile and gestured for her to come forward. As she did, he stepped back into the shadow, pulsating music started playing from a boom box, and she began her demeaning patter. She wriggled between the rows of chairs, sneering at the men, calling them filthy names. One guy tentatively touched her hip and she slapped him across the face, hard—calling him a disgusting maggot.

  Then she made her way to the first of the draped objects at the base of the metal press and whipped off the cloth to reveal a punch bowl with a couple dozen crickets scrambling to climb the smooth sides. She mocked the insects and slipped off her black satin pumps. Courtney lifted a bare foot over the bowl—and then stopped, resting her foot on the edge. She taunted the audience—or maybe the insects—telling them they were too insignificant for her to bother with.

  Courtney then sat on the lap of a guy in the front row, violently grinding herself against him while strapping on her shoes. The others voiced their envy, and Courtney inflamed their crushing desire by slowly approaching the other object and bending over provocatively. She yanked the cover from a second punch bowl to reveal a scrawny kitten curled in the bottom. Expressing her disgust at its submissiveness, she lifted her foot—and hesitated, again. The cruel foreplay was driving the men into a state of frenzied anticipation.

  At that moment, Eunectes reappeared from the office doorway, gently but firmly guiding another person whose head was covered in a black hood. As they stepped into the makeshift spotlight, Eunectes turned the fellow to face the audience. He paused dramatically and removed the hood with the same flourish Courtney had used for the bowls with the crickets and kitten, as if the person was the natural continuation of the series. There stood Petey—a heart-shaped birthmark on his cheek leaving no doubt.

  “This evening, as promised, we will complete our journey of sensuality with this young man. He is nothing more than a pathetic, useless stray, like the mangy creature that Courtney was so tempted to crush.” When Petey tottered unsteadily, Eunectes grabbed his elbow and continued. “In fact, should he be allowed to wander the streets, this smack rat will overdose within a few weeks.”

  There was no sign of comprehension on Petey’s face as he was led to the metal press, where Courtney had directed the light of the gooseneck lamps. I could see the manufacturer’s sign riveted to the front of t
he press: Atlas Machine, with a picture of the naked god bent beneath a globe, over which was lettered, “20 Ton Hydraulic Press.”

  Eunectes grabbed the back of Petey’s neck and steadily pushed his head and shoulders down onto the flat, working surface of the machine. Petey steadied himself by holding onto the edges of the metal plate, while Eunectes moved a lever and the upper unit slowly descended. Petey rested compliantly, breathing slowly, almost as if asleep, except his eyes were open and twitching slightly as he looked unseeingly into the room.

  From the back row where I sat, I heard Luis mutter, “”Fuckin’ A.” To my left a guy murmured, “This shit’s for real,” and I recognized Redbug’s voice whispering, “Holy fuck,” from near the front. Just as the press barely pinned Petey’s head and shoulders against the base plate, Eunectes stopped the descent and smiled. Now held firmly in place, Petey relaxed his grip, utterly unaware of his fate. Eunectes bowed to Courtney and moved aside.

  Courtney stepped forward and began her patter, with a slight quaver. She looked into the audience and caught my eye. There was a flash of desperation, to which I gave a slight nod. She seemed assured I was somehow in control, that what was happening wouldn’t be allowed to reach its gruesome climax. Her voice became more confident: “You’re such a typical man—weak and disgusting. I wipe gutter scum like you from the bottom of my shoe.” She sneered and dragged her foot across the floor to drive home her insult.

  As Courtney’s belittlement became increasingly vile, the crush freaks were enthralled, their earlier disbelief was giving way to vivid fantasy. They no longer had to imagine themselves as insects or kittens but could project themselves into the pathetic man being held in the grip of the metal press.