by Edward Lee
“Let me help you out with some of this,” she offered.
“Naw, thanks, hon,” and then Helton easily lifted all of his purchases up under his arms. “Wouldn’t think’a lettin’ a purdy, refined gal such as yerself haul such heavy things.” He paused to look down at her. “Dang, in this bass-ackward world’a ours, meetin’ you’s like a breath’a fresh air.”
“Why…thank you, Helton.”
“You’s shorely the nicest city gal I’se ever meet, and I’se hope you have yerself a dandy Christmas.”
“You do the same, Helton,” she said, now fairly flabbergasted. “You’re a very nice person too.”
Helton turned and huffed for the door. “Ask me? What this world needs is ta be full up with Veronnerkas…”
“Need some help, sir?” Archie asked.
“Out my way, son.”
Mike piped up. “Thank you for shopping at Best Buy, sir, and have a happy holiday!”
Helton frowned and loped out of the store.
The instant the automatic doors closed, Mike raged, “Holy SHIT!”
Archie rushed over. “Veronica! The net profits from that sale’ll cover the store’s overhead for the next month and then some!”
Mike was jumping up and down as if on a springboard. “Un-fuckin’-believable! You just rang ten grand to Grizzly Adams!” He practically slid over on his shoes, then picked Veronica up and swirled her around. “What a saleswomen!”
Veronica’s joy at seeing Mike so exuberant brought tears to her eyes. When he gave her a big wet sloppy kiss right on the mouth, her heart pattered and her sex throbbed just short of instantaneous orgasm.
She hugged him desperately, whispering, “Oh, Mike, you don’t know what it means for me to see you so happy…,” and she knew, then, she knew to the very core of her spirit that Mike loved her with his whole heart…
(III)
The Winnebago rumbled toward the edge of town, its business in Pulaski done for the month. It was the beefy lieutenant Argi who drove the luxuriant vehicle, Paulie in the spacious passenger seat, and Cristo and Dr. Prouty sitting behind. In the vehicle’s rear-most compartment, of course, sat the atrocious and fiendishly rank Melda, who was now taking care of another box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls.
When Argi made a wide lefthand turn, he squeezed his crotch for no apparent reason…
“All in a day’s work,” Paulie said, seemingly pleased.
“Yeah, boss,” Cristo accentuated. “Made our monthly drop-off to the gang, got our ashes hauled by that killer-bod whore, and pulled off some dynamite vendetta.”
Argi nodded. “Case Piece wasn’t kiddin’ about his squeeze havin’ a body. Shit, the bod on that hosebag’d make St. Augustine knife-fight ya for it.”
“Gotta hand it to that superfly little punk. That chick is smokin’ hot, even with the wrinkled face. Swear to God, guys, she’s got a body even better than Marshie’s.”
“Aw, damn, speakin’ of your wife”—Argi remembered something—“don’t you want me to drop ya off at her house now that we’re done here?”
Paulie shook his head, and took a bite of a cannoli they’d picked up at a local bakery. “Naw. Forgot to tell ya’s. I sent Marshie to Vegas—”
“Vegas?” Argi remarked. “Man, I love Vegas. The old days, we’d whack guys right and left. Leave their fuckin’ heads in the desert and shit.”
“Yeah. But Marshie, she was so down in the dumps about her father’s birthday, I thought I’d send her on a snappy little vacation. She’s waitin’ for me at the Bellagio—I’ll just grab a flight once we get back to Newark.” Paulie rubbed his hands together. “Yeah, when I tell her we did a special job on the family that whacked her father, she’ll fuck me in a big way.”
“Sounds like a good deal,” Argi commented. “But, damn, boss, what about your kid—you know, the girl? Since we’re here, don’t ya wanna stop by the house and check on her?”
Paulie winced at the suggestion. “‘Becca? Fuck, she ain’t my kid, she’s my step-kid. Got no idea who the father is, probably some redneck ’cos that’s when Marshie got knocked up with the little smart-ass, back in her redneck days before she got her father’s money. Shit, if I stopped by the house, ‘Becca’d probably hit me up for cash. Last time it was fifty bucks to have her fuckin’ bellybutton pierced, and the time before that it was two-fifty for a goddamn tattoo. A fuckin’ butterfly or some shit, right above her ass. Kids these days, they’re all a bunch of selfish little assholes. And it just irks me, ya know?”
“What’s that, boss?” Cristo asked.
“I’ll wind up havin’ to pay for that kid’s college, and it wasn’t even my nut that knocked Marshie up with her. Just burns me up: spendin’ my hard-earned drug-and-porn cash raisin’ some other dude’s nut. Some redneck in a pickup truck gets the nut, I get the tuition.”
“Just ain’t right,” Argi remarked.
“Yeah, but what can I do?” Paulie conceded. “It’s my wife’s kid, and I love my wife.”
“An honorable burden you’ve taken upon yourself, sir,” Dr. Prouty said.
“Fuck…”
Argi stroked his chin. “But, boss, the kid’s just a teenager, ain’t she?”
“Yeah. The little smart-ass is sixteen.”
“And you and the wife give her the run of the house?”
“Naw, we got a servant looks after her.” He slapped his head, wincing further at the displeasure. “Oh, and I fuckin’ forgot! When ‘Becca turned sixteen, what did Paulie have to do? Had to buy the little shit a car!”
The topic was obviously eroding the boss’s mood, so Argi spoke up, “But, ya know, boss, that whore we fucked with back at the warehouse—Mama Lucretia! What a piece of ass!”
Cristo nodded. “Best fuck I had in a while, maybe even in years. Makes her pussy move kind of like a mouth.”
But the observation seemed to hinder Paulie’s spirit. He stared off…
“Somethin’ botherin’ ya, boss?” Argi asked.
“Indeed,” Dr. Prouty reflected. “Mr. Vinchetti seems to have become disquieted by an errant consideration.”
Cristo leaned his head up front. “Yeah, boss. All of a sudden ya look like someone shot your dog and—shit—you don’t even have a dog.”
“Fuck, fellas,” Paulie replied, eyes narrowed in self-ruminating concern. “I’ll be honest with ya. As hot-lookin’ as that whore was? My dick was harder watchin’ you guys stuff her head in Melda’s cunt than when I was actually fuckin’ her.” He shook his head. “Been thinkin’ about shit like that lately. I mean, all these snuff flicks and torture shit we film for the underground market? I get hard as a rock lookin’ at that sick shit. Startin’ to think maybe there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”
“Naw, boss,” Argi excused. “All men get their dicks up watchin’ flicks of women gettin’ raped, tortured, and murdered. It’s just that no one admits it.”
“Yeah, boss,” Cristo piped up.
But Paulie didn’t seem so sure. “Reminds me of a time long time ago—fuck, I was probably only fifteen. My dad… God rest his soul—”
He, Argi, and Cristo crossed themselves.
“My dad was showin’ me the ropes ’bout what goes on up in the compound—you know, givin’ me the ‘One day, son, all this will be yours’ speech—so he shows me how they snatched this gal who was married to some racketeering bigwig in the F.B.I., and my dad, see, he wanted to teach the guy a lesson. So, anyway, they got the guy’s wife stripped naked and hangin’ by her wrists in one of the snuff rooms, and then my dad’s major button at the time, Tony Guerini, he takes a boxcutter and he cuts a line around the bitch’s waist—you know, same place a belt wound be—and then he works his fingers around under the skin, and she’s screamin’ and flippin’ and floppin’, and you know what Tony did then?” Paulie’s eyes widened at the memory. “He starts pullin’ down on the skin, yankin’ it over her ass and legs just like he’s pullin’ off a pair of pants!”
“Oh, I remember Tony,�
� Argi said. “Hardest-core button I ever saw. One time he machine-gunned a busload of first graders because one of the kids on the bus was a judge’s grandson. Another time he snatched this chick who was cheatin’ on one of your dad’s crew-bosses and tourniqueted her neck till her eyeballs popped out and her face turned the color of a plum.”
Cristo reflected. “You know, I think I heard of him. Is that the same guy made porn up the Pennelville House and filmed it while he’d stick a knife in a chick’s belly and fuck her stomach?”
“Naw, naw,” Argi said. “That was Rocco… God rest his soul.”
They all crossed themselves.
“Tony was the guy used to feed kids of cops to the pitbulls,” Argi corrected.
“Yeah, yeah,” Paulie agreed. “Same Tony, all right, but you’re missin’ my point. See, when he was yankin’ this gal’s skin off like it was a pair of fuckin’ PANTS, I’m standin’ there watchin’ it and thinkin’ ‘Man, this is some over-the—top fucked-up shit, and then I look over at my dad, and you know what he’s doin’?” Paulie stared off. “He’s got his cock out, and he’s beatin’ off!”
Argi chuckled. “Yeah, boss, your dad was a character, all right. Loved the hardcore vendetta shit.”
“Sure, sure, Argi, but I mean, he was beatin’ off watchin’ a girl get her skin yanked off her ass and legs! And what I thought first is I thought, ‘Holy shit, my old man’s a sick pup jerkin’ off to all this torture, he must be sick in the head, and since he’s my dad…maybe that sickness’ll get passed on to me!’ But you know what? The second I thought that, I realized somethin’ else…” Paulie gulped. “My dick was rock-hard too…”
“Such are the rites of passage of industrious young men destined to become Mafia bosses,” Prouty offered. “The arrival of self-actualization amid such…axiomatic environs are no doubt quite common.”
Paulie smirked at the spiel. “No, no, Doc, what I mean is… If my dick gets hard watchin’ murder and torture and snuff-flicks and all that..doesn’t that mean I’m mentally fucked up? Doesn’t that mean I’m abnormal?”
Dr. Prouty stifled a gag, knowing that a negative response would only exacerbate his employer’s already negative mood, the result of which might have very negative effects on Prouty. Why? Because Paul Vinchetti was more than likely the most sexually sociopathic and bloodthirsty individual the good doctor had ever observed. “Abnormal, sir? I should think not. For normalcy and abnormalcy are subjective terms and therefore cannot be defined objectively. The primal human mind is incalculably intricate, and tags such as normal and abnormal, moral and immoral, good and bad, etc., are all subject to interpretation. One’s life-experiences and learned behavior most indubitably make subconscious impressions via observation: a normal function of the brain. Hence, sexual paraphilias and/or fetishes are derived quite naturally. So to answer your query, no, sir. You are not abnormal.”
Paulie relaxed in the plush forward seat, a hand to his heart. “Damn, I feel much better now.”
Prouty sighed in relief.
Argi looked down the road ahead. “Okay, so it’s back to Newark. Road out of town’s comin’ up.” He looked to Paulie with a smile. “Hey, boss. Ya feel like callin’ those rednecks back up on the cell and razzin’ ’em a little more?”
“Naw, best to let ’em stew.”
Cristo leaned forward. “But what if…”
“What if what, Cristo?”
“I mean, these crackers who live in the hills—ain’t they got a reputation for fuedin’?”
“Fuedin’?”
“Well, sure. Like maybe they’re so pissed off about what we did to that redneck kid…they’ll try to get us back.”
Paulie laughed. “Shit, man. These people are hillbillies. They eat woodchucks and shit in the woods. What the fuck could a bunch of piss-poor backwoods hillbillies do to us?”
— | — | —
Chapter 6
(I)
“Bumpity-bump-bump, look at Frosty go…,” the cheerful Christmas song thrummed through the store. Veronica—jacket on, backpack packed—tapped her foot unconsciously to the tune, casting a dreamy smile out the store’s massive front window. The town’s Christmas lights blinked down the main drag in a wondrous holiday vanishing point.
This’ll be my first Christmas with Mike, she mused.
Footsteps snapped behind her. “Veronica. What are you still doing here? No point both of us staying on duty—we’re not going to have many customers this late.” It was Archie.
“Oh, I already clocked out. I’m just waiting for Mike to get done in the office so I can say goodnight to him.”
Archie paused. “Mike left an hour ago—”
“What?”
“Yeah.”
Veronica noticed only now that very few employees remained on duty. Even the Greeter was gone.
“Well, the Greeter should be here,” she said for no reason she understood.
Did Archie stall? “Oh, no, I cut her an hour ago—”
Veronica tensed up. “You just said Mike left an hour ago… Mike didn’t leave with her, did he?”
Archie laughed but, you know what? It was a forced laugh. “Jesus, Veronica. Get your head out of the sewer. She’s sixteen. You’re not implying that she and Mike got something going on, are you?”
Veronica slumped. I’m overreacting again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Don’t know what came over me, that’s all.”
“Mike’s really stressed now; that’s why he left without saying goodnight,” Archie offered. “His job’s not easy, you know.”
Now Veronica felt selfish and stupid. I need to have more consideration. “Yeah, and he told me about all that year-end accounting he has to do.” She shuffled away. “See ya tomorrow,” but then she snapped around. “Do you think I should call him?”
Archie made a face. “Well, you probably shouldn’t. I mean, he’s neck-deep in that paperwork.”
“Yeah.” She blinked. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight—oh, and congrats on that dynamite camera sale today!”
“Thanks…”
Veronica left the store. But why should she be so disappointed? What, because Mike—overwhelmed with take-home work—was too harried to say goodnight? Poor guy’s got so much on his mind, running a big store during Christmas and all. Yes, she should be more considerate.
But suddenly the cheery, blinking Christmas lights that constellated the town didn’t seem quite so cheery. She scarcely felt the chill air as she rounded the store to the back parking lot that the employees used.
“Oh, drat!” she complained, her breath gusting. The high security lamp in the back lot was out, leaving most of the lot plunged in darkness. Did she notice bits of glass on the pavement? Yes, she did, but what she didn’t notice was the steel ball lying several more feet away, yet even if she had, she never would’ve suspected that it was a pellet from a slingshot.
She wasn’t worried. Pulaski had low crime rates…although she had heard of a rising drug problem in the bad section. Then again, had someone mentioned something about a dog-killer? Something about torturing puppies? No, that must’ve been in Radford or someplace like that. Killing puppies? Only a crazy person could do such a thing, and Pulaski was a sane town.
She paused to muse: God, I can’t wait to see Mike tomorrow—
Her abduction happened so fast there was no time to scream. She side-glimpsed wedges of darkness darting about in more darkness. A hand slapped across her mouth. Someone said, “I done got her, Unc,” and she was lifted off her feet. Her thoughts raced to a logjam, then—
She fainted.
The terror buzzed through her body even as she was unconscious. “Don’t dillydally,” she thought she heard. Men’s voices, yes. A loud metallic SLAM! The roar of an engine, then…
Motion.
Veronica’s eyes opened. She felt jostling. The hand remained pressed to her mouth. Was she in someone’s car? Finally, her synapses began to re-fire and thoughts that scarcely seemed her own s
aid, I’ve been abducted by rapists or crazy people! and then that roaring sound defined itself: she’d definitely been put in a vehicle, and the vehicle was moving, but why, even with her eyes wide open, could she see nothing? She couldn’t be in a trunk, unless her abductor had gotten in with her…
“Good, son,” came an accented voice. A redneck accent, yet Veronica remained so dazed and terror-jolted, she was unable to thus far put two and two together. “Back roads now…”
At last, she began to squeal beneath the pressed hand. It was no doubt a man, in the dark, holding her up from behind as she squatted, and as more reason filtered back, she thought she felt a lump where the man’s groin would be…
“We’se okay,” rang what seemed the oldest of the voices. Did she recognize it? She squealed again, heaving against the arms wrapped about her. A younger voice whispered, “Shhhhh, shhhhh, hon. You’se all right.”
“Dumar. Turn that light on in back…”
In a flash, Veronica’s eyes could now see. Her gaze panned in stops. It seemed she’d been spirited away into a large metal compartment that had to be the back of a large truck or step van. Its foremost feature was a dented metal table bolted to the floor. A couple of plastic milk crates could be seen, plus a folded-up metal chair, and in a forward corner sat a HOME DEPOT bag on its side. Next to it lay a Black & Decker power drill, and from this an electrical cord extended and disappeared into the front of the vehicle. Battery charger? she wondered. In the back sat some additional grocery bags, and to Veronica’s left there lay stacked three dingy sleeping bags, rolled up. But when her eyes panned to the opposite corner…
Oh my God…
She saw a Bescor bowl-mount tripod and—
Veronica stared.
—a Sony HVR-S27 digital video camera.
The familiar shaggy head appeared in an opening up front. “Why, hey there, Veronnerka!” greeted Helton.
