Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  Deirdre stared at him with fear-glazed eyes.

  “How much is your life worth to you?” he said. “Is it worth a blowjob?”

  Trembling, Deirdre nodded, her face ashen.

  “You fuck me, I’ll let you live ten minutes longer,” he said.

  She nodded even harder and spread her legs.

  “I fuck you up your tight ass, you can live fifteen minutes longer,” he said, giggling.

  She nodded, her eyes popping out of her head.

  “You see, it’s consensual,” said Wild Eyes, with a leering rictus.

  “No,” said Lyndon.

  Wild Eyes strutted back to Lyndon and stood beside him, his knife at Lyndon’s throat.

  “What did you say?” said Wild Eyes.

  Lyndon gulped, eyes wide.

  Brody rolled onto his side and launched his foot scything through the air and connecting with Wild Eyes’ shin with all his might.

  Wild Eyes screamed and reached for his aching shin, knife in hand.

  Brody took the opportunity to kick the knife out of the gangbanger’s hand. The knife flew across the living room and skittered across the floor ten feet away. Brody bolted to his feet.

  Wild Eyes glanced at the knife then at Brody and decided to flee. He belted through the lobby and out of the house.

  Brody started to run after him. He felt dizzy. He tried to clear his head by shaking it. It had no effect. He reached out for support as he fell, clutching the back of the sofa. The blow to his head might have triggered an epileptic attack, or maybe he had a concussion. He was having trouble focusing his eyes. He felt nauseous and had a stitch in his side.

  It must be a concussion, he decided, settling on the sofa cushion.

  He felt his vision becoming fuzzy.

  Chapter 71

  Valise in hand, Marcello climbed a three-story apartment building’s stairwell to the roof.

  Ever since he had seen that robed woman standing outside the massage parlor he couldn’t get her image out of his mind. The only way he could clear his mind was by creating an objet d’art. The last time he had tried he had failed.

  The streetwalker he had targeted last night was still alive after he had shot her in the thigh. She could still move. The doctors would fix her up and she would walk the streets again night after night, her life unchanged.

  A true piece of art was immortal. It lasted forever—like death. To create a masterpiece worthy of Botticelli’s “St. Sebastian” he would need to make it immortal, motionless, frozen in time—dead. He needed to kill a hooker with his crossbow, to petrify her in time.

  He reached the landing, pressed against the crash bar of the red metal fire door, and strode onto the flat roof of a different apartment building from the one he had used to stage his ambush last time, a few blocks away from it, but not far enough way to be free of hookers on the prowl for dates on the street below. He could always find hookers on Sunset Boulevard. It hadn’t taken him long during his stay in Hollywood to find out where they hung out.

  In the twilight he crossed the tarpaper roof past the HVAC package unit to the parapet that overlooked the boulevard. Crouching behind the three-foot-high parapet he peered over the coping down at the opposite side of the street, where two twentysomething hookers strutted their stuff on the sidewalk. He could smell the exhaust fumes spewed from the motor vehicles passing on the tarmac and hear their engines grumbling.

  One of the pair of hookers had wavy peroxide blonde locks that fell to her shoulders like cataracts spilling from her scalp. Chewing gum, she wore a black miniskirt, a pink chiffon body shirt, black fishnet stockings, and quartz stiletto heels.

  Her companion had long straight chestnut hair that fell halfway down her back, a prominent bust that she flaunted with a canary yellow halter, a mauve miniskirt that barely covered her butt, and white vinyl boots that reached her knees. Marcello thought of Nancy Sinatra’s hit song “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” while he watched her. She had fleshy white thighs he couldn’t keep his eyes off.

  He ducked behind the parapet, opened his valise, withdrew his crossbow, and pulled back from the parapet so he could stand without being seen from the street. He secured the crossbow’s stirrup with his foot, drew its string taut with his hand, loaded it with a bolt, returned to the parapet, and, kneeling, sighted the hookers in the crossbow’s scope.

  He decided to shoot the chestnut-haired hooker because of the lust he felt for her full white thighs. He fought the desire to shoot her in her thighs, where he had shot the hooker last night. He knew a bolt to her thigh wouldn’t kill her—unless he hit her femoral artery, which he couldn’t make out because of the fleshiness of her thighs. His shooting last night’s hooker in the thigh had prevented him from creating a work of art that would last forever. After all, the hooker had lived.

  To create a work of art his victim must die at his hands. She must remain motionless till the end of time—like all art, trapped in eternity’s web.

  Marcello sighted Yellow Halter’s ivory white thigh in his crosshairs, salivated at the thought of burying the bolt in her thigh, his forefinger itching to pull the crossbow’s trigger—

  He controlled his urge to shoot at the last minute and, pacing her, targeted her throat in his crosshairs as she walked. He knew his shot would be more accurate if he fired at her when she came to a halt. A moving target was difficult to hit. To make sure she died he planned to penetrate her carotid artery, a tiny target from this distance whose outline he could, nevertheless, discern with the crossbow’s scope.

  He knew he could hit a gnat on a tree limb from a hundred feet. He was a marksman with a crossbow, which he had used extensively while hunting wild boars as a young man in Calabria.

  Patiently, he waited for her to stand still, all the while keeping her throat in his crosshairs, slowing his breathing so it wouldn’t throw off his aim.

  A driver in a pickup unleashed a wolf whistle at her as he drove by. She motioned him to pull to a stop. He slowed down, thinking about it. Now would be the worst time for her to pick up a john, decided Marcello. He would have to abort his shot if she left on a date. He wanted to curse, but he knew he had to control his emotions or they would interfere with his aim.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the pickup kept going.

  Disappointed, Yellow Halter made a face at the vanishing pickup’s tailgate. Looking like she was about to give the driver the finger, she halted. Marcello seized his chance. He trained his crossbow on the carotid artery in her throat. Holding his breath he fired. The carbon bolt sang through the air and drilled her throat, the bolt’s razor-sharp stainless-steel fixed-blade broadhead tearing apart her flesh and sticking three inches out the other side of her throat. Blood jetted from the wound, arcing ten feet into the air.

  She had no idea what hit her. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Her blue eyes staring out of her head, she collapsed onto the sidewalk.

  Marcello pulled away from the parapet to avoid detection by pedestrians on the sidewalks below. He reloaded the crossbow, returned to the parapet, peered over the coping, acquired Yellow Halter’s luscious thigh in his scope as she lay on her back on the sidewalk holding her bleeding neck, and fired a bolt into it, drawing a rill of blood.

  He pulled back as screams rent the air.

  Knowing she would bleed out in a matter of minutes due to her severed artery, he packed his crossbow into his valise, darted across the rooftop, yanked open the door to the stairwell, and dashed down the steps, valise in hand, his footsteps echoing around him like so many hands clapping.

  Chapter 72

  In jeans, a blue cambric button-down shirt, a leather vest, and rattlesnake-skin boots, Gaetano stood with Arturo, in jeans and a black T, in a copse of pecan trees on a hill in the backyard of the Ramirez hacienda watching two bodies, their throats cut, hanging by their feet from a clothesline strung between two of the trees. They watched the dying bodies bleed out onto the grass.

  “This is to teach the Sinaloa
cartel a lesson,” said Gaetano.

  “This is what they get for challenging CJNG, patrón,” said Arturo, nodding somberly.

  “They think they can put us out of business? Is that what they think?”

  “They’re idiots and pussies.”

  “It’s important to drain the blood out of their bodies before we move them so their bodies will be lighter when we carry them to their graves. Gravity pulls the blood out of their corpses. Without the help of gravity the blood wouldn’t flow out of their bodies.”

  “It is as you say, patrón,” said Arturo, sweating in the muggy air.

  “Have you seen my wife?”

  “I thought I saw her in the hacienda.” Arturo paused. “Does she know what you do for a living?”

  “She knows I am a very successful businessman. She even helps balance my accounting books.”

  “That’s good. I wish I could get my wife to do my accounting. The only thing she knows about accounting is how to spend money.”

  “Carmen knows I do what I have to to stay at the top of the heap of the business world.”

  “Only the strong survive.”

  “And we are the strongest. We prove it every day.”

  “Can your wife see the clothesline from the hacienda?”

  Gaetano turned around to peer at his rambling hacienda, the most magnificent building for miles in any direction. He could make out the yellow hacienda’s silhouette through the spaces between the limbs and leaves of another pecan tree.

  “I doubt it,” said Gaetano. “I’m heading back. You wait here till the bodies are drained and move them off my property. They make me sick.”

  “Sí, patrón.”

  Arturo approached one of the corpses and removed a Rolex wristwatch from its wrist. He inspected the watch to make sure it was genuine, wiped blood off it onto his jeans, and pocketed it.

  Gaetano moved off through the stand of pecan trees toward the hacienda. He came in sight of the pool and saw his son Juan rowing a skiff in the water. Smiling, Gaetano approached the cement and terra-cotta pool deck.

  “Ahoy, Juan.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” said Juan, turning and squinting to see his father standing at the pool’s rim, the bright sun over his shoulder.

  “You will make a great captain when you grow up,” said Gaetano, beaming.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his wife Carmen approaching from the hacienda in a yellow linen dress.

  “Where have you been?” she said, shading her eyes from the sun as she looked at him.

  “I was watching the clothes dry on the clothesline,” he said, walking toward her.

  She wore a lime scrunchie in her full brunette hair. She had large brown eyes and full lips.

  “There was someone here from the mayor looking for you, but I didn’t know where you were,” she said.

  “What did he want?”

  “He said you promised to make a donation to the mayor’s campaign.”

  “Of course,” he said, ambling with her at his side to the hacienda. “I’ll get back to him. Everyone wants donations from me.”

  “Everybody knows how successful you are,” she said, smiling at him in admiration, her radiant white teeth glinting in the sunlight.

  “Yes,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulder, smiling. “They know I’m a soft touch. I will give the mayor his donation.”

  “Juan wants to be the captain of a boat,” she said, glancing at Juan paddling the skiff.

  “And he will be. After he goes to the finest universities in the land.”

  Gaetano’s satphone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He withdrew the satphone and answered it.

  “This is Jorge, patrón,” said the caller.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The deal will go down tonight in Los Angeles.”

  “Bueno.”

  Gaetano terminated the call, his face pensive.

  “One of the neighbors complained to me that she could smell burning flesh coming from our hacienda,” said Carmen with concern.

  “She must be mistaken,” said Gaetano, preoccupied.

  They headed back to the hacienda.

  Chapter 73

  Slumped on the Foxes’ sofa Brody awakened to a blow to his foot and somebody yelling at him. He opened his eyes.

  “Wake up, you bum,” said Lyndon, standing in front of him, hands tied behind his back, getting ready to kick Brody in the foot again.

  Brody straightened on the sofa and sprang to his feet. He rubbed his eyes.

  “Untie me,” said Lyndon, turning his back to Brody and offering him his bound hands.

  Brody untied Lyndon’s wrists.

  “Where’d the gangbanger go?” said Brody, casting around the living room.

  “He’s long gone.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “No.”

  Brody spotted Deirdre bound hand and foot to the chair behind the sofa. He circled around the sofa, freed her, and removed the gag from her mouth.

  Trembling, she got to her feet.

  “What a mess,” said Lyndon, stalking back and forth, clutching his head.

  “Are you all right?” Brody asked Deirdre.

  She nodded, but looked shaky.

  Brody fetched her a glass of water from the wet bar.

  Lyndon strode over to her. “Did that sicko hurt you?”

  “I’m OK,” she said.

  “What kind of a city are we living in?”

  “Do you know that guy?” Brody asked Lyndon, handing the glass of water to Deirdre.

  “I never saw him before. It must’ve been a home invasion robbery.”

  “It sounded like you knew what he was looking for.”

  “How would I know what some gangbanger crook is looking for?” said Lyndon, turning away from Brody. “You must’ve been hallucinating when you blacked out.”

  “It’s lucky for us he showed up,” Deirdre told Lyndon.

  “I could’ve handled that slimeball,” said Lyndon, shrugging it off.

  “Did you call the cops?” said Brody.

  “How could I call the cops? My hands were tied,” said Lyndon, throwing up his hands.

  “Now’s your chance.”

  “I don’t want cops messing around here.”

  “You and your wife were assaulted.”

  “Where do you get off telling me what to do?” said Lyndon, rounding on Brody.

  “You were victims of a robbery attempt.”

  “I don’t have to press charges, if I don’t want to.”

  “He might try again.”

  “He didn’t get anything. Why would he try again?”

  “To get what he wanted.”

  “He couldn’t find whatever it is because it’s not here, obviously.”

  “I would call the cops to report this.”

  “You’re not calling anyone. If you do, I’ll deny everything and sue you.”

  “I don’t understand your position.”

  “I’m in the PR racket. I know how bad publicity can destroy careers. This is bad publicity.”

  “And maybe you have something to hide.”

  Lyndon’s eyes flashed with anger. “Why are you such an expert on cops? You’re an insurance salesman.”

  “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out a thug assaulted you.”

  “You don’t understand the way things work in this town. I do. I’m a pro. It’s all about perception. PR. This is what I do for a living, and I’m good at it.”

  “And maybe you got skeletons in your closet.”

  “You’re an ignoramus.”

  “Maybe he’s right, honey,” Deirdre told Lyndon. “That robber might try to attack us again.”

  “Why?” said Lyndon. “He couldn’t find anything he wanted to steal. Why come back?”

  “Maybe he’s the one that sent that volleyball to us.”

  “That’s none of this guy’s business,” said Lyndon, pointing at Brody. “Don’t say anything more about it.”<
br />
  Brody knew about the volleyball and its obscene attachment, but didn’t let on. He figured Lyndon might throw him out of the house, if he acknowledged it.

  “Maybe you should go to the hospital,” Deirdre told Brody, walking up to him. “The side of your head looks swollen.”

  The result of the gangbanger’s kick, decided Brody. He felt OK now, save for a sore head.

  “Yeah, go to a hospital,” said Lyndon, like it was a threat.

  “I’ll be all right,” said Brody.

  “You might have a concussion,” said Deirdre.

  True, he might, decided Brody, but he didn’t have time to waste under observation in the hospital. Deirdre’s life was still in danger, more so now than ever. Her enemy, whoever it was, was ratcheting up his attacks on her.

  “It’d be a good idea for you to hire a bodyguard,” he said. “I know a guy I can refer you to. He’s discreet, and he’s the best I know in the business at offering protection.”

  “I don’t want a bodyguard following me around everywhere I go,” she said.

  “He’ll protect you here at home, is all. This is where they’re targeting you.”

  “You mean, he’s gonna hang around inside my house?”

  “No, no. He’ll stay outside and watch your house from there.”

  Which reminded Brody of the feds Peltz had stationed around the Foxes’ house.

  “I don’t know,” she said, mulling it over.

  Brody retreated to a corner of the room, dug his iPhone out of his trouser pocket, and called Peltz. He had a bone to pick with the fed. How had the gangbanger gotten past the feds guarding the Foxes’ house?

  Peltz didn’t answer. His phone kept ringing and ringing.

  Brody put away his cell.

  “Were you calling the bodyguard?” said Deirdre.

  “No,” said Brody. “Do you want me to? He’s a good man.”

  “A private bodyguard would be better than having the cops here,” said Lyndon. “You said he was discreet?”

  “He knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Maybe that would be the best idea, honey,” Lyndon told Deirdre, walking over to her and putting his arm around her waist.