Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  By the time Narek arrived at the restaurant in the evening, his appetite had returned, and he dished out his porridge like a greedy bum. Erik always prepared his recipes from scratch and never included any premanufactured sauce or ingredients from a can. The eatery was named Yerevan in tribute to the Armenian capital and had gained a status for offering authentic cuisine with a point of difference.

  Narek checked the time on his watch. The boys were due to arrive in ten minutes to drive over to the boss’s titty bar in East Hollywood. They were going to be getting high with some premium snatch as a way of letting their hair down to celebrate a job well done. Davit kept a stash of Colombian powder locked in the office safe to complement the liquor flow and assemblage of sluts he supplied them. The night shift dancers were all in sublime condition with the kind of asses that might prove capable of turning a faggot.

  A shameless smirk spread across Narek’s face while he played with a thick gold chain around his neck. Few people experienced life in the manner he did, and even though he was required to do vile acts on occasion, it was still a small price to be crowned a king.

  When Narek explained to Hayk’s daughter how the morning’s event was going to unfold, he’d gone into incredible detail to communicate what would happen to her family if she decided on making a fuss. He’d spoken loud enough for Dewayne Jordan to hear every word, smiling brazenly as the kid lashed about in futile resistance. The girl’s initial denial was soon replaced by acceptance so that when he fired the slug into the back of her lover’s melon, she’d appeared almost serene, finally comprehending the extent of her good fortune. This shift in attitude was relatively standard for anyone who faced a similar set of circumstances. She was barely even whimpering by the time they dropped her home to daddy. So much for fuckin’ love.

  They didn’t leave a mess behind at the scene. Jamie Callahan’s execution had already caused a public uproar, and their DNA was all over the house. The spacious trunk in the Le Sabre sure proved handy. After driving to the back of the property, it took them less than five minutes to load the bodies before Bedros doused the joint with gas, lit a match, and they were gone. If the LAPD investigated the Jordan brothers’ disappearance, nothing connected them to the Armenian Power, and Hayk had paid for the job, so he wouldn’t be talking, either.

  Narek had observed the girl in the rearview mirror on the drive back to Glendale, wholly taken by her undeniable beauty. She appeared much more glamorous than he’d first realized as she brooded silently in the backseat, and he intended to check in on her at some point to see how she was holding up.

  Maybe he’d ask her to come with him to the restaurant for a nice traditional meal. Afterward, their date would conclude inside a room at some cheap hotel on the edge of town where he’d spend the entire night fucking her brains out. Pounding away at her tight little cunt until she went all bent and bow-legged. One thing was for certain; he’d make sure she never contemplated sucking another boogie cock ever again.

  He slid the leftover dumplings across the stainless-steel benchtop as he kicked back his stool, slowly making his way into the main dining area. Things appeared to be winding down in the restaurant. Most customers were now enjoying a coffee or eating their dessert as Erik waved a goodnight from behind the bar.

  Narek responded by raising a casual hand before heading out onto the dark street. The night air was muggy, but much less so than it had been at any time this past week. He flipped open his pack of Salems and removed a cigarette with his lips, drawing deeply as the blue flame ignited the tip. He held the smoke in his lungs, appreciating the relaxed sensation while the nicotine fed his craving.

  He noticed a solitary figure moving steadily toward him along the footpath, partially obscured by shadow. Narek reached for the piece he always carried at the back of his belt. The stranger wore track pants with a black hoodie, and there was a stupid smile on his face as he pulled up a few yards from where Narek was standing. Just a loopy white boy with no street smarts, it seemed.

  “Hey, man,” the stranger greeted. “I’m sorry to come upon you in the dark like this, but can I grab a light, please?”

  Narek observed closely while the outsider removed a hand from inside his pocket and placed a cigarette to his mouth, silently questioning himself on what sort of cocksucker chose to wear long sleeves during the middle of a fucking heatwave.

  “You might want to be a little more careful about who you approach around here, cracker,” Narek warned while passing his Zippo.

  Coldness swirled through the stranger’s pale-blue eyes while he lit his smoke.

  Narek sensed something akin to fear.

  The hooded male returned his lighter and said, “Thanks, pal, you have yourself a real good evening now, ya hear? And I’ll be sure to take your advice the next time I’m in the neighborhood.” Then he turned around to start walking back from where he’d come.

  Narek watched the stranger through a squinted glare as he puffed intermittent plumes of smoke into the air. When the threat had passed, he released his grip and began slowly shaking his head, grateful for the fact no one had been around to witness the brief exchange.

  He felt a bit red-faced by his apparent twitchiness, but he didn’t trust the look in the bastard’s eyes or the way he suppressed his smirk. The stupid asshole was probably just another whack job; after all, there were plenty of them to be found wandering the city. Still, if they happened to cross paths again, he wouldn’t want to be entertaining himself in the same fashion, or Narek might feel compelled to wipe the smugness off his face for good.

  The sound of a horn blaring from up the street ended his reflection. He turned to see a freshly scrubbed Bedros leaning out the window from behind the wheel of a silver BMW.

  “Come on, brother,” he called out, grinning from ear to ear.

  Narek strutted toward his friend on happy legs, greeting the other men inside the car while he climbed into the front seat. He quickly forgot about the stranger with the polar gaze as they pulled from the curb and drove off into the night.

  Seventeen

  The old fan by the window rattled like an angry snake, but the dusty blades didn’t alleviate the stuffiness inside the bedroom.

  Jed was thinking of the gangbanger assholes he’d confronted inside the Frolic Room and how Addison hadn’t spoken a word of the situation since the event. He had a real mellow buzz going on from the blunt he’d just smoked with Rosie, and the heaviness of his eyelids suggested sleep wouldn’t be hard to find. The investigation remained at an early juncture, yet he already felt somewhat jaded by the process.

  Working homicide was nothing like they made it out to be on the television. Jed’s days were becoming increasingly condensed, and they sure as hell weren’t making many impressions on the murder rate. Every division was seriously understaffed, which affected the performance capability of the entire department. The sons of bitches at the city hall needed to fund a decent recruitment drive instead of sitting back in their comfortable chairs, complaining about the county’s increased crime rates. Presuming to have an appreciation of what it’s like for cops on the street.

  Detectives were taking on impractical caseloads, while their uniformed buddies continued to be run ragged on each shift. And despite the additional responsibilities, there was seldom any conversation when it came to increasing their shitty salaries.

  Policing was a terrible career choice for anybody with aspirations of attaining personal wealth. The only coppers Jed knew of who made decent cash were a handful of reprobates from the gang and narcotics division—a sprinkling of unethical scumbags who’d often get exposed to the kind of dirty money that enabled them to engage in underhanded transactions. The corrupt narcs in GND solicited the services of reliable crooks. Then they massaged the evidence into their crime reports to make everything fit.

  Even so, most GND officers were honest and only came under suspicion because of the few shitheels who disgraced the badge. Jed had been informed of the corruption by a budd
y named Clarence Gooding, who was part of the GND surveillance team. As far as he was concerned, justice couldn’t find them soon enough.

  Jed and Clarence were in the same graduation class at Elysian Park Academy. They caught up for a drink each month at the Gaslite Bar in Santa Monica with another police friend named Sean Brody.

  Clarence could come across as a little abrasive at times, mainly because he wasn’t shy about speaking his mind whenever something got him pissed. He was known for continuing his work off the clock and sometimes struggled with finding his place in a team-first environment. Some people considered his techniques to be borderline renegade, but everybody knew Clarence walked a straight line as far as bribery was concerned.

  Jed’s other pal worked in uniform over at UCLA and was doing his best to push through a tricky period while recovering from an incident in South Central LA. The tragedy unfolded when the patrol car Sean was driving got sprayed with bullets after he responded to a call regarding suspicious activity. His female partner died at the scene, and even though Sean’s body had mended from the various wounds he’d received, his mind remained fragile, forever damaged by the experience. There was no apparent motive for the brazen attack, and every informant they dragged in claimed to know nothing about what occurred. The LAPD used all its resources to locate the culprit, but despite a substantial reward and a concentrated public appeal, the perpetrator remained at large.

  Jed covered a yawn with the front of his hand before wrapping an arm around Rosie’s lower back. He appreciated the company tonight and enjoyed the delicate touch of her fingers while she caressed the skin on his belly with soft, swirling strokes.

  “I’m going to draw a picture on you,” she said in an unvarnished way.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll draw a picture on your belly. You have to figure out what it’s supposed to be.” She remarked, her voice bridged somewhere between song and statement.

  “Sure.”

  He certainly didn’t have much enthusiasm for the game but did his best to follow the movement of her finger as the sensitive trace made the hair on his arms prickle.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I dunno.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not how you play the game. You’ve at least got to try to guess. What do you think I might have drawn?”

  Spending time with Rosie was never tricky; she was like honey to a sore throat in the way she cleared his mind of any undesirable junk. It was the very reason he found himself participating in a kid’s game while stoned out of his mind.

  “Is it a flower?” he asked in a noncommittal tone.

  “Nope, try again.”

  “Mmm … is it a person?”

  “Yes, it is. But who could it be?” The sing-song element of her idiom connected her words into a swaying question mark.

  “You?”

  “Uh no. That would be a little narcissistic, don’t you think?”

  “Not really … maybe, okay. So, is it me?”

  “Yay!” Rosie clapped her hands in soft applause. “Well done, my clever detective.”

  She raised her head from his chest and flashed a toothy grin. Her cheeks brightened as she wriggled up to his face and kissed him tenderly on the side of his mouth. She gazed into his eyes with a deep penetrative stare.

  “What’s up with you tonight?” she asked.

  Jed recognized the strain of concern on her smooth features and how her breath smelled like red candy. When he remained quiet, it prompted Rosie to break the silence.

  “It’s almost as if you’re jammed someplace where you don’t want to be. I know you said you don’t discuss your job, but if you ever feel like getting a load off your chest, then you oughtta know: I’m a good listener, and I never judge.”

  Jed didn’t doubt what she said. He’d identified something different in her from the moment she came gliding over to take his order at Big Dean’s Café. There was a clarity in her green eyes that reminded him of the ocean surface at daybreak.

  “It’s just the work,” he said eventually. “The last couple of days have been a real pain in the ass, and I can’t see how tomorrow is going to be any better.”

  Strands of blond hair fell either side of Rosie’s face. She was measured and considerate in the way she approached life. He appreciated the intellect that resided beneath the exterior of her cruisy personality—how she looked for answers outside the circle of societal reasoning.

  “Is it because of the psychopath on the TV?” she asked eventually. “The one who’s killing those young women? Is that what’s bothering you tonight?”

  “Sure, it’s playing a part, but it runs deeper.”

  “Deeper how?”

  It was the first time they’d come close to broaching the subject of a case he’d been working on, and he was a little surprised to find it didn’t bother him. Jed knew there wasn’t much point in attempting to answer her question ambiguously.

  “Have you ever been in a position where you’re expected to do things in a very particular way, despite knowing that if you went about stuff differently, the benefits could be permanent, and the result would come a whole lot faster?”

  Rosie’s eyes sparkled, and he wanted to lose himself inside her contemplation.

  “Well, if I found myself in the position you just described,” she replied with rich sincerity, “I guess I’d figure out a way to do things how I wanted them done. Particularly if it meant righting a few of the wrongs you’re always facing.”

  Jed stared up, hopeless, at the ceiling. “But what if it means breaking the law?” he whispered.

  Rosie propped herself up on her elbows. “Some laws are begging to be broken, I guess,” she replied before nuzzling into his neck to run fingers through his sun-bleached hair.

  It seemed she had heard enough, so Jed released himself to the heaviness inside his body while they lay together in peaceful silence—thinking how Mowbray was probably right in saying that good company was hard to find.

  Eighteen

  A sense of disorder flooded Meagan Banks’s mind as she drove her luxury E Class Mercedes along the Mojave Desert trail to arrive at the Filii Reprobi compound. The secret complex was situated down Highway 395 on the outskirts of Adelanto, about one hundred miles from Los Angeles. An eighteen-foot reinforced concrete perimeter ensured no outsiders could gain access to the premises. The local folk believed the center was a storage facility for hazardous materials.

  The Old Man’s motives for wanting this meeting were no mystery. Meagan was responsible for supplying Edward with the drugs he’d been using in his adventures, a decision which now put her in the firing line.

  Meagan understood how Edward’s project wasn’t going to continue indefinitely, and she believed all the external aggravation would soon dissolve when it concluded. If it were anybody else exploiting her services in such a flagrant manner, then she’d possibly have genuine cause to be alarmed. But Edward was like a masculine reflection of herself in many ways—it was the very reason she’d chosen to participate in his dangerous game. Besides, the sacrifices had started having the desired effect in the spirit realm.

  Linda’s ghost had already made a fleeting appearance a few days earlier. It had been a thrill when the bitch slithered out of the Badlands to adjoin with Meagan’s consciousness. Depositing images as Edward screwed her ravenously, like a man condemned to never reaching his fill. She had always found sex with him to be extraordinarily fulfilling, even when it was standard and the sanguine Magick got placed on the shelf. It was difficult to articulate how great it felt to be fucked by a guy while the essence of his dead girlfriend swirled restlessly inside her.

  She parked her car beside an old Joshua Tree and killed the engine before scanning the adjacent area for anyone who might be hiding among the shadows. When the darkness presented like a scene etched in charcoal, she straightened a kink in her auburn hair and examined her makeup in the rearview mirror. Her almond-shaped eyes exuded sultriness, and there weren’t any signs
of tension on her elegant face.

  The reflection about Edward’s hard cock had made her sticky, so she slipped a hand between her thighs to readjust her panties into a more comfortable position. At least there was a gorgeous, young Mexican boy waiting for her back at the beach condo in Malibu.

  Javier had smooth olive skin and was always prepared to satisfy her needs, never wearying with the task at hand. She acquired her slave from a Mexican drug cartel for fifteen thousand dollars ten months earlier, which turned out to be money well spent.

  Meagan extended her legs as she withdrew from the Mercedes in a swish of gracefulness to begin making her way toward the entrance of the church. The tarnished exterior was all that remained of the congregation who once worshipped inside the building. She perceived the wickedness percolating within. An obscure presence raked beneath the cracks of the door in search of something vulnerable to infect. The dark essence was conjured into existence when the previous reverend smashed his wife’s face apart with a bat while she slept inside. His random violence had left the victim unrecognizable as he pounded her bones to chalk. The preacher eventually swallowed a shotgun to put a moniker on his fury before the chapel was abandoned to the Mojave sun.

  Many of the local folk remained wary of the building’s tragic past. Even the agent who sold them the property had been tight-lipped during the process, as if declaring the event might somehow unleash a thirty-six-year-old demon upon their wretched little town. It was all so ironic.

  The maniacal reverend was to blame for initially dethroning the site of holiness, but his actions still paled in comparison to what had taken place there since. The humblebrag church had become a Filii Reprobi sanctuary. A black altar of sacrifice for a people well-practiced in lawlessness, where horror was a certainty for those unfortunate enough to be detained inside. The Old Man stored an assortment of runaways underground for the occasions when they all gathered in bloody celebration each month. Their captives were mainly neglected persons confined inside cages beneath the main chapel, entombed without hope while they awaited some horrible end.