by Edward Lee
I shore as shit hope so… Malone knelt to pet Buster, who immediately began to lick the Chief’s face. Malone had a tear in his eye.
“It’s for a good cause, Chief. Think’a all the other puppy lives Buster here’ll be savin’…”
Malone had a frog in his throat. “Come on, Buster. Bet’choo’d like ta go romp about outside, huh, boy?”
The dog yipped and yapped, vaulting up and down.
Malone opened the kitchen door, and Buster sprinted out.
“It’s the best way,” Boover tried to console.
“Come on, let’s git out’a here. This place is depressin’ me… And”—Malone sniffed, smirking. “What you eat, anyway?”
“Guess it’s the pig knuckles and collard greens. Must’a et three, four plate’s of the stuff.”
“Gawd DAMN, Boover!”
They left the house and got into Malone’s ’92 Seville. No one spoke as the Chief pulled away, but when he glanced in the rearview mirror, he could see Buster bobbing up and down behind the fence, yipping a happy goodbye.
“I need a dang drink.”
“Too bad we’se both on duty till midnight, Chief. Cops don’t drink on duty…unless the boss says they can.” Boover winked.
“Aw, fuck. We’ll probably get a call—”
“Shit, Chief, we ain’t gonna get a call. This close ta Christmas? In our juris? Come on. Let’s have a few up the Crossroads. We’ll just tell ’em we’re off duty.”
Malone felt flustered. I just sentenced a puppy to death…a HORRIBLE death. “Naw. We’ll get a call—”
“All right, whatever you say. But I’ll bet’cha we don’t get no calls. Bet’cha a fifth’a Turkey.”
“You’re on—”
“Unit, 207, do you copy?” the radio crackled.
“First bet I won in a long time—fuck—maybe my whole life,” Malone said, then keyed the mike. “This is 207, Connie. We are 10-8 on Trott Street. Go ahead.”
“Respond Code 3 to confirmed Signal 47 at 610 Druckerwood Drive in Peerce Point.”
“Piss,” Boover muttered. He spat a yard-long plume of juice out the window.
Malone scratched his head. “Dang, Connie. A Signal 47? The hail’s that?”
“Arson resulting in one or more homicides,” the staticky female voice answered.
Malone moaned. “We’se 10-6,” he droned.
Boover placed the portable “cherry” on the dash and turned it on. “At least Peerce Point ain’t far,” he remarked. “But I ain’t never heard’a Druckerwood Drive.”
“Me neither.” Malone rekeyed the mike. “Connie, what is it? A house, a apartment buildin’? What?”
The radio crackled. “610, Druckerwood Drive, Peerce Point”—a pause, then: “The Daisy-Chase Nursing Home…”
(II)
The big black truck lumbered along the back roads, and at the stroke of midnight, December 22nd officially became December 23rd. The night seemed warmer, stars glittered pristinely through overhead branches. The moon glowed like a cabalistic totem.
Forebodences of the most acerbic sort seemed to rumble in Helton’s gut as his son manned the wheel. “Pull ‘er over, Dumar. Let’s sit a spell, git some sleep.”
“Shore thing, Paw.”
Veronica was already asleep, on the truck floor with her wrist handcuffed to the header table. When Dumar parked in a secluded grove, he cut the engine; the night swallowed the truck when the headlights went off. With only a candle burning now, the three men took seats in back.
Micky-Mack rubbed his crotch. “Dang, Unc. Sumpin’ about headers…”
Dumar rubbed his crotch. “Yeah, Paw, like…”
“It’s like my dick loves headers so much, it stays half-hard, like, all the time.”
Helton nodded, and rubbed his crotch. “Let it be a warnin’ to ya, though. Headers feels so good, and so much better’n reglar pussy…folks can git misguided sometimes. They ferget that yer only s’posed to have headers to revenge a serious crime. But ta have a header willy-nilly—like Caudill used ta…it’s up’n the worst sin a man can commit. You boys understand?”
Dumar and Micky-Mack nodded…but they each rubbed their crotch again.
“So what we do now, Paw?”
“Yeah, Unc. If all’a this Paulie fella’s kin is up in New York and thereabouts, how’s come we didn’t stay there? Aside from his wife, he ain’t got no more rellertives down our ways, and that black fella tolt us she’s out’a town.”
Dumar leaned forward on his milk crate, query in his eyes. “You figure Paulie’s gonna throw in the towel?”
Helton opened a bag of Riceworks Gourmet Brown Rice Crisps that he’d stolen from Marshie’s mansion. They tasted funny, kind of…citified, but were good enough. “I’d like ta think so, son, but there ain’t no way he’ll call off the feud”—Helton eyed his son and nephew quite solemnly—“not after he seen what we done ta his Maw.”
Several sobersided moments passed, then—
The three men busted out laughing.
Micky-Mack was hee-hawing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “We fucked his Maw! In her head!”
“Two at a time!” Dumar guffawed.
“And then Droop—ole Droop!”
“I’d pay cash money ta see the look on Paulie’s face when he seed a egg-suck dog fuckin’ his Maw’s head!” Dumar wheezed.
“And I’ll’se bet it was some look, boys!” Helton roared.
Micky-Mack: “And them big citified implants stickin’ out, and there’s ole Droop humpin’ away and havin’ hisself a nut in her brain!”
They all high-fived.
When they settled down, Dumar asked, “But, Paw, gettin’ back ta more serious stuff… It’s your hankerin’ that Paulie’ll be so sure-fired pissed…that he’ll get us back?”
“I think he shorely will son, sorry ta say.”
“But how, Unc?” the youngster queried next. “Our kin all live back in the boonies spread out clear across the next three counties. He ain’t gonna be able ta find ’em.”
“He’ll find ’em if’n he sets his mind to,” Helton assured. “All it takes is askin’ a few folks a few questions.” He raised a finger. “So’s when he does? We gots ta be ready.”
Micky-Mack moaned. “Aw, Unc Helton—you mean we’se’ll have ta go back to New York City?”
Dumar moaned as well, and put a hand to his belly. “Dang, Paw. That’s one place I don’t never wanna see no more.”
“Scary just ta look at,” Micky-Mack added. “All them buildin’s reachin’ high up in the sky, all’a that noise’n all them cars’n’ buses, and all that honkin’‘n jabberin’n folks scowlin’n walkin’ fast—”
Dumar: “All talkin’ on them cellphone things whilse they’se walkin’ and drinkin’ at them weird Starbuck places’n all that dirt’n smoke in the air.”
“I’se don’t never wanna go back there neither, boys,” Helton said, still a bit dizzy in the recollection. “Big cities ain’t natural, ain’t what God wants fer folks. Ain’t right fer people to be livin’ way up in the air like that, in all that cee-ment’n such. Damn buildin’s are so high ya cain’t even see the proper light’a day. And, dang, the smell’a that one place we droved through—what was it? Chinatown?—it were shorely the devil’s ass-crack we was smellin’.” Helton shook his head. “But dependin’ on how long this here feud lasts, well…we just might have ta go back. In the meantime, though…” The big man looked deeply at his companions. “I been thinkin’. See, there is one’a Paulie’s kin—one I plum up’n fergot about—one not too far at all from where we’se are sittin’ right now…”
“Really, Unc?” Micky-Mack asked, incredulous.
“Who is it, Paw?”
Helton just smiled and said no more of it. Then he bid his kin goodnight, blew out the candle, and they all fell fast asleep.
(III)
Paulie had indeed called his lovely wife Marshie at her suite at the BeIaggio in Las Vegas, Nevada, and she had indeed posses
sed the knowledge that Paulie so fervently sought. When asked, “We’re havin’ a tear-ass good time down here but we need to know where this fuck Helton’s relatives live. Any idea, like, if his mother is still alive?” she’d answered in a delighted redneck shriek, “Oh, yeah, Paulie! The old withered fuck’s name is Petunia Tuckton, and she’s like real old, and ya knows what, hon? Last year she had herself a stroke and they stuck her in a nursin’ home—the Daisy-Chase nursin’ home in Peerce Point! Ain’t but a hop, skip’n a jump from Pulaski!” and that had brought a veritable well of joy to Paulie’s heart. Marshie had also mentioned that Helton Tuckton was known to drive a “big-ass black truck,” which might prove useful as well.
Argi had been assigned “torch” duty, and in truth, this was by no means the first nursing home he’d set fire to. He’d torched the north-end of the Daisy-Chase facility—a simple yet formidable diversion—then he and his associates had spirited one octonegeric Petunia Tuckton—urinary catheter and all—from her window in the south-end wing. Previously, however, they’d made a pit stop back at the warehouse, for…some things they might need. Among those things were several shovels.
Then they’d found a suitable secluded field, set up their camera, and began to dig.
— | — | —
Chapter 14
(I)
Veronica dreamed of her wedding night. Standing beside her, of course, was Mike, debonair and so handsome in his tux. Veronica wore a flowing, white wedding gown…and she’d deliberately not worn a bra because she knew how turned on Mike got over her breasts and nipples. Before she knew it, they both exchanged their “I do’s” and the reverend was saying “I now pronounce you man and wife,” and then the organ belted out its verifying notes as their union of matrimony was now sealed in the eyes of God.
Later, Veronica stretched back nude on the huge bed in the bridal suite. It was time to consummate the union. Mike stood at the foot of the bed, still in his tux, mind you, and still so handsome. However…his penis was out.
“Mike, honey, why don’t you take off your clothes and make love to me now?”
“Don’t need to take ’em off, baby. When I’m done here, I’m meeting the Greeter. She gives great blowjobs and you give…well, THE WORST BLOWJOBS IN THE WORLD and, besides, this won’t take long,” and then Mike raised a POWER DRILL and then REVVED IT, and that’s when Veronica noticed, not a typical drill-bit at the tool’s end, but some weird cylindrical thing—
Veronica screamed and screamed and screamed—
««—»»
—and screamed some more as she awoke on the cold metal floor of the truck.
“Gawd dang!”
“It’s killin’ me, Paw!”
“There she up’n goes again!”
Rough hands shook her. “Veronnerka! What the hail’s wrong!”
When the nightmarish bloody-murder screaming finally wound down, Veronica came fully awake. Teeth chattering, she stared upward at the hovering faces of Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack, then burst into tears.
“Ain’t no reason fer waterworks!”
“What’s got’cha so upset?”
“Upset?” she yelled. “I just had the worst nightmare of my life! It’s this place! And-and-and…whatever it is you’re doing with that drill! It’s Christmas time and I’m handcuffed to a table in an old truck! This place is giving me nightmares! I should be with Mike, buying Christmas presents and sharing my life but instead”—she clacked her wrist against the table—“I’ve been abducted by three men who make me give them blowjobs and don’t wash!”
The three men looked despondently to one another.
“But, hon,” Helton began. “I’se tried ta ‘splain that this is the only way. We need ya. We cain’t do this without’cha.”
“Do what?” she spat. “Abduct women, and rape them and murder them and then film it?”
“We ain’t done nothin’ to no one who ain’t had it comin’, Veronnerka. If’n ya knowed ‘zackly what it is that Paulie done ta us…you’d understand.”
Veronica was about to rail again but before she could…
The cellphone rang. Not her cellphone…the other cellphone.
The men froze, their eyes shooting wide. Cumbersomely, then, Helton answered the annoying device, said, “Yeah?” listened, then hung up.
“Was that…,” Dumar began.
Helton nodded.
“Looks like you was right, Unc Helton,” Micky-Mack said. “Paulie done hit us again…”
“I’m afraid so.” Helton passed Veronica the laptop. “Veronnerka, all’s I ask is that ya help us just one more day, then I promise—I swear to God’n all that’s holy…we’ll let ya go.”
Half-numbed now in a combination of angst, rage, confusion, and despair, Veronica took the computer, went online, and downloaded the implied attachment.
Helton uncuffed her hand. “Stand on up, now’n come over here. I don’t feel right about this, but I guess the only way fer you ta understand is fer ya to see it yerself.”
Dumar looked alarmed. “Paw? You mean…yer gonna show Veronnerka one’a the movies Paulie made?”
“Yes, I am, son. Don’t want to, but I must. Now, I don’t ‘zackly know what it is Paulie just send us, but I do know it’ll be something bad, and when Veronnerka see just how bad it is I’m talkin’ ’bout…then she’ll understand why we’se are doin’ what we’se doin’…”
“Fine!”Veronica snapped. She arranged the laptop on the table as they all stood around to watch. She double-clicked the new file, the media player popped up, and then…
««—»»
On the screen we see a close-up of an old woman’s head. She is alive, blinking feebly but mustering an expression of scorn. The camera clearly sits on the ground, and in spite of harsh lights, we know it’s nighttime. Footsteps scuff. The most salient aspect of the scene?
The woman’s head sits on the ground, with only the tops of bony shoulders showing.
She’s been buried up to her neck.
“Who are ya?” she cracks.
Male laughter replies.
Off-screen, a voice in Jersey accent orders, “Cristo, we ain’t very good hosts, are we? Give the old bitch a drink.”
“Sure thing, boss,” and then two hands appear in the frame, pull open the old woman’s toothless mouth. A clear plastic tube is jammed in, then the hands slide the tube down her throat. It’s a urinary catheter tube.
The other end of the tube is connected to a plastic bag filled with discolored urine; the bag is displayed momentarily for camera’s sake, then rises off-screen. The scene holds on the woman’s flinching face as the tube fills with dark urine.
“Fill ‘er up,” announced a different Jersey accent.
We don’t have to see what’s happening, we simply know. The urine bag is being squeezed, displacing its contents into the old woman’s stomach.
“That’s it, that’s it. A nice cool drink…” but the voice pauses. “Hey, Doc? Why’s the old bitch’s piss so dark? Looks like fuckin’ tea.”
“More than likely a catastrophically high creatinine level, that or Hepatitis A. I suspect the former, however. Severe degradation of kidney function is common amongst sedentary senior citizens.”
“Fuck up kidneys, huh? How do you like that?”
Then—
ziiiiiiiiiiiiiip!
—the tubing is yanked out.
The old woman gags, wheezing. But when she recovers, she snaps another glare right into the camera. “What a bunch’s big men you all is—ha! Stealin’ a crippled old woman out a nursin’ home’n makin’ her drink her own pee. I know who you is. You’re the devil’s-dick-suckin’ evil varmits who up’n kill my great-grandson—a 9-year-old! Yeah, give yerselfs a pat on the back fer killin’ a little boy. Now…my son Helton—there’s a real man.”
“Oh, yeah, he sure is, ya old cunt,” the off-screen voice says. “He fucked my mother in the head—”
“Ha! God bless him!”
“—so we f
igured we’d do somethin’ worse to his mother. And that head-fuckin’ shit he does? That ain’t nothin’ compared to what we got in store for you.”
The old woman laughs. “Do your worst! See if I care one toodly! ’cos when my son get his hands on you, you’ll think you gots the wrath of GOD comin’ down on ya!”
Off-screen chuckles flitter like bats. More footsteps scuff. Then: “Cristo, lube her up, then get over here.”
“Right away, boss.”
The old woman makes a face when the hands reappear and spread margarine all over her head. We can see the tub: I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER!
“What the hail is that fer, son?” she cracks, frowning.
“Let’s just say you’re gonna need it to try on your new hat.”
“New hat? Boy, what in tarnations you talkin ’bout?”
The hands slather the margarine heavy, then pull away. “You’ll see, grandma…”
We hear more off-screen talk. “Doc, you and Argi get on that side, Me and Cristo got this side.”
“Of…course, sir.”
“I’ve always liked this way the best. Who we do this to, Argi? It was up in Newark wasn’t it? Kline?”
“Naw, boss, I think it was Ringerman, you know? That runt we had runnin’ numbers for us.”
“Oh, yeah—Ringerman! That fuck. He had balls, didn’t he? Shit, that guy went way back to my grandfather’s time—”
“Vinch the Eye—”
“God rest his soul…”
“Shit, we had that guy on our payroll for decades, and then we find out he’d been stealin’ from us half that time.”
“Well, he got his.”
“Best part was makin’ his wife watch.”
“Yeah! That was sweet, wasn’t it?” A pause. “You ready, Melda?”
“I sure am, Paulie!” exclaimed a ludicrous woman’s voice.
