The Deader the Better

by G. M. Ford

  “G said you’re getting your master’s degree.”

  “G talks too much,” she said quickly.

  “What in?”

  I heard her take in a great breath and then let it out.

  “Business.”

  The passenger door popped open. G held the phone tight against his chest. He took us both in. “Y’all are sure?” he asked. “You fools really wanna do this shit?”

  When we said we were, he turned his back, spoke briefly into the receiver and then snapped the tiny phone shut. Nobody said anything as he got back into the Explorer and fastened his seatbelt. As a matter of fact, nobody said a word for the better part of twenty minutes. Until we were out in the middle of the bridge and the silence had begun to wear on me, when I piped in with, “So…you guys never answered me…why do they call it a farm weekend?”

  G coughed into his fist. I could feel Narva’s gaze on the back of my neck.

  “You don’t want to know,” she said.

  Something in her tone told me she might be right, so I let it go.

  2

  “PULL OVER HERE,” G ORDERED.

  I slid the Explorer to the curb. The street was empty. Somewhere in Medina. Old-time Boeing money, no more than a couple of miles from where Bill Gates was building himself a little five-acre shack down on the shores of Lake Washington. Houses way back from the street. Massive oaks and maples forming a low arch, completely blocking the sky, creating the illusion of a tunnel.

  “Kill the lights and the engine,” G said. After I followed directions, he grabbed the door handle and limped out into the street. I followed him up to the front of the car. He pointed. “See them lights up there in the middle of the block?” I said I did. “Spooner’s house. Other side of the street is all this horsey shit he got. Pastures, barns, stables, that kind of crap. You park over there and walk across.”

  I walked around to the rear of the car. Opened the hatch and then the tailgate. Pulled out my old blue gym bag from high school. The ornate first letters had long since worn away. The bag read: RANKLIN IGH CHOOL.

  Narva was out of the car now, standing to my left as I pulled the Glock .-caliber from its plastic holster and stuck it in my pants at the small of my back. Next, I put one foot up on the bumper and strapped on an ankle holster. Just above the ankle bone. Tight. The little Beretta .5-caliber slipped right in. I snapped the safety strap in place and put my foot on the ground. Stomped it hard once. Still tight. I reached into the bag, rummaged around, pulled out a police special . and offered it to Narva. “Just in case,” I said.

  She made a face. “I have a philosophical problem with guns,” she said.

  I knew better than to ask G. He didn’t go to the bathroom without his little custom-made . auto.

  “Wadda ya think?” I asked him.

  “I think this is dumber than shit,” he replied. When I failed to respond, he pointed up the street. “I can’t be going in there wid you two fools. You know that, don’t you? Ruin my business. I’d be a piranha.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to go in,” didn’t satisfy him. He clapped me on the shoulder. “I could, I would, you know that, Leo.”

  Behind his back, Narva was bobbing her head up and down as if to say, Oh yeah, sure you would. He reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulled out his cell phone, pushed a series of buttons and then listened. He handed the phone to Narva and then pulled a pager from his belt. More button-pushing. He handed me the pager.

  “You push that red button, I’ll have the car outside the front door in thirty seconds.” He snapped his long fingers. “You got the best camouflage on the planet, man. Standing next to Narva, here, most folks won’t even know you in the fuckin’room.”

  It was sad but true. As if to emphasize the point, Narva unbuttoned her raincoat, slipped it from her shoulders and handed it to me.

  Imagine my irritation when she reached down to the hem of the matching blue silk dress and pulled it completely over the top of her head. She handed the dress to G. Must have been blue night. Everything matched…little see-through panties, garter belt, half bra, stockings. Everything baby blue with little bows all over it.

  “Leo,” she said. It took me a second. She held her hand my way.

  “What?”

  “Could I have my coat back?”

  “Oh yeah, sure.” I fumbled as I helped her on with the coat. We got back into the car, G driving this time. I sat in back with Narva.

  “So, who is it we’re supposed to be?” Narva asked as G pulled to a stop. Two huge white barns at right angles. Out across the pasture, some other structure. Couldn’t make it out through the gloom. Twenty-five, thirty cars. Mostly expensive and German.

  “A couple of LA scene types. I imitated that maybe you all could reciprocate with some similar action old Spooner ever got down to LaLa Land. Said you all wanted a party and maybe do a little threesome with something female and springtime-fresh. Said you knew Angel from when he was down there. Figured what with him subcontracting and all, his name be good.”

  “What if he’s in there?” I asked.

  G hadn’t thought of that. He mulled it over. “I guess, if that happen, you shoot the little bastard,” he said, finally.

  “Ain’t nobody likes that little razor-totin’ motherfucker anyway.” He grinned. “Aw hell, Leo. You a professional. You just got to remember that old saying.”

  “Which saying is that?”

  He tapped his temple with his index finger.

  “Discrepancy is the better part of valor.”

  I was still trying to figure out whether he was kidding when Narva took charge.

  “Let’s go.” She shouldered the door open. I followed her out.

  Halfway across the street, I took her elbow. We stood in the middle of the empty street. Mercury-vapor light filtering through the canopy of trees. Lavender. Above the sound of moving water, I could hear distant music. She put her hands on her hips. With the coat unbuttoned, the effect was stunning.

  “Listen,” I said. “One last time…you sure you want to do this?”

  She cocked a hip. “You’re beginning to bore me, Leo.”

  “Okay then, here’s how this thing is going to come down. Last thing people like this want is a lot of noise. That’s our hole card. Faced with a big messy scene, they’re most likely to let us walk. If we play our hand right, we ought to be able to pull this off. No reason for them to have any more security than what G says they got. Maybe a drunk gets out of hand once in a while, but that ought to be the most trouble they’re expecting. But…”—I hesitated—“when and if the action starts, we switch roles, right? You stay close and do like I do. We’ll both do what we’re good at.”

  She agreed, talking as we crossed the street and started up the driveway. “While we’re looking for the girl and figuring out what to do, you do like G said. Just smile a lot and do the strong silent type.” No problem.

  She reached up and banged the brass knocker. Three times. The sound of muted music was louder here. Classical. Violins. Bald guy about six-five at the door. Black-tie formal. Neck about the size of Narva’s waist. Harelip scar. A Gunter all the way.

  “We’re up from LA,” Narva said.

  He took her in from head to toe. “And you know who?”

  He had a soft, almost childlike voice, a couple of octaves higher than I expected.

  I thought about telling him it was whom but decided against it.

  “Mr. Monzon,” she said.

  He pulled the door open and stepped aside. We were in a narrow hall. Double doors left and right. Huge central staircase in front of us. I had to admit, it did kind of look like Gone With the Wind.

  He gave Narva a leer. “Can I take your coat?”

  “I’m a little chilly,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he offered. “I can tell.”

  The drone of voices and the muted clinking of glasses became a dull roar as Gunter pulled open one of the doors on the left. Narva pulled me through the doorway. The
first impression was that of a nineteenth century gentleman’s club. Dark walls and drapes, big chandelier casting a yellow light over banquet tables and acres of overstuffed furniture lining the walls. Whatever sense of propriety the furnishings might have provided was immediately dispelled by the fact that the waiters weren’t wearing pants. Or, more properly, that’s all they were wearing. Black leather bow ties and tight latex briefs.

  Gunter stepped into the room behind us and closed the door.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll find Mr. Spooner.”

  I heard a yelp of pain followed by scattered applause. The music changed to Chopin. Opus something-or-other. Gunter walked past us, back to the door.

  Spooner wore a monocle.

  “Our new friends from the south,” Spooner said. Narva offered her hand. Spooner took it and brought it to his lips.

  “Oooh,” Narva enthused. “And all these wonderful boy toys.”

  “We have a strap-on collection second to none,” he assured her.

  He was still slobbering on the back of her hand. She leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Tonight,” she said. “We had in mind…how shall I say…something…”

  “Pristine,” he finished for her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Pristine.”

  “Of the female persuasion?” Spooner asked. She nodded. Spooner leaned in and whispered in her ear. I only caught the end of what Spooner was saying.

  “…shouldn’t be much more than an hour or so. We’ll have her fresh as the morning dew for you.”

  I moved to Narva’s side. “In the meantime,” Spooner was saying, “allow me to show you around our little gathering.”

  He took Narva by the ass and started into the party. I walked along the center of the room. The furniture had been moved off to the sides. Each grouping was afforded some measure of privacy by a series of antique screens that shielded the occupants from prying eyes. No compilation or description of the carnal acts being performed within those walls could adequately describe the scene. My mistake was to let my curiosity get the best of me. Halfway down the room, I peeked around the corner of one of the screens. The woman wore a white gown, kneeling on a chair, dress thrown up over her head. Red shoes. I turned away. After that, I minded my own business. Spooner had his hand down the back of her panties as he steered Narva around the corner toward what appeared to be the dining room. I took in a demonstration of Japanese rope bondage being given in the library. There were three schools. One, the artsy, was a triumph of style over substance, where it didn’t matter what position the subject was in as long as the ropes and knots were pretty. A second was all about making the victim as uncomfortable as possible without obstructing entry. The third style involved trussing the victim up like a rib roast, while placing knots and braids at precisely those areas designed to produce the most longterm discomfort. Narva jostled my elbow. She was alone. “Our host was called away,” she said.

  “A pity,” I said. “You two seemed to be getting on famously.”

  Narva smirked. A black woman in a leather jumpsuit stopped by our sides. She put the tip of her finger in her mouth and then traced it around one of Narva’s nipples.

  “A ménage, perhaps,” she said. “Something wet?”

  When we allowed how we’d given up those very acts for Lent, she moved on.

  “The exotic stuff is upstairs,” Narva said. I was horrified. “You mean this isn’t it?”

  “Hardly,” she sniffed.

  “How do you know?”

  “He said we should enjoy ourselves. Introduce ourselves to people before Gunter takes us upstairs.”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  The house was laid out exactly like my parents’ house before the renovation. Big central staircase leading down to the front door. Another, smaller set of stairs leading directly from the kitchen. Easier on the servants, you know. Bedrooms running the length of the back of the house. Assuming that the door at the end of the hall was the master bedroom, nine bedrooms in all.

  We got lucky. I don’t know how many more doors I could have forced myself to open. The first one was horrific. I pulled my head back through the crack and closed the door. I must have looked bad. Narva stepped over, peeked in and had the same reaction.

  “Yuk,” she said.

  Door number two. An older blond woman in jodhpurs and riding clothes rode around the room on the back of a younger man, flailing a riding crop at his naked buns. “Jump, damn you,” she yelled as she swung. “Jump.”

  Door number three was locked. Narva raised a finger. Walked back to the equestrian events, pulled open the door and took the old-fashioned key from the inside of the lock. When I pushed it into the lock, I heard another key fall to the floor on the inside.

  He was struggling into a pair of blue silk boxers when I pushed open the door. Looked like the Monopoly man. Old, big white mustache. I’d have said distinguished if he hadn’t been locked in a room with a naked thirteen-year-old girl. “Now, see here,” he sputtered. “I was assured—”

  I gave him everything I had. Got a good hip turn and rolled my shoulder over, getting my weight behind the punch. Hadn’t caught anybody that clean in years. He hit the wall on the fly and then slid to the floor in a pile. Misty McMahon opened her mouth to scream, but Narva was on her in a flash, kneeling astride the girl, stifling the shout with her hand. “We’re friends,” she kept saying as the girl thrashed about. I knelt on the bed beside her struggling form. “Your grandmother sent me,” I said. She stopped thrashing and turned her frightened eyes my way. I gave her the abridged version. “Do you want to go home?”

  She nodded and began to cry. Narva removed her hand.

  “They won’t let me go,” she sniffled.

  The Monopoly man flopped over onto his back, groaning. He rolled into the thick red puddle his broken mouth had left on the floor.

  The only clothes she had were in something of a Catholic school motif. Our Mother of Hollywood. Plain white blouse. Knee socks, a plaid skirt barely long enough to cover her ass and a pair of patent leather shoes with the strap across the top.

  While Narva got her dressed, I checked the hall. “We’re going to march right down the front stairs and out the door,”

  I said.

  “Angel will never let me—”

  I reached into my coat and brought out the automatic. Thumbed off the safety. Folded my arm across my chest so most of the gun was under my arm. “You let me worry about Angel or anybody else who gets in our way. You just stay close behind me and do what I tell you, okay?” I didn’t like the look in her eyes. She was wired to the ears. Meth, probably. Wouldn’t want to waste good drugs on a kid. “Okay?”

  She didn’t answer. I looked over her to Narva. “Keep her between us and keep moving,” I said.

  I checked the hall again, still empty. “Let’s go,” I said. At the top of the stairs, I pushed the red button on G’s pager and started down.

  We almost made it clean. When the front door first came into view, it was unattended. I checked over my shoulder. Narva was close behind the girl, pushing her along. I took Misty’s hand in mine and pulled her down the stairs behind me. Then the voice. “So where’s dese players been usin’ my name in vain?”

  Gunter came into view. The sight of us standing on the stairs stopped him. He lifted a hand to his coat. I pointed the Glock at his forehead. The hand flopped back to his side. I slid the gun back under my arm.

  Angel Monzon was barely five feet tall. He wore a stiff white shirt with a butterfly collar. Around his neck enough gold chain to tow a Metro bus. Little ballet slippers with bows across the arch.

  He read Gunter’s face and followed the frozen stare my way. Misty stopped moving her legs; I had to pull her down a step to keep her behind me.

  “What we got heeeere?” Monzon said. “We got us a weasel. Think he gonna leave the coop wid a chicken.”

  “The three of us are going to walk out that door,” I said. Monzon laughed. “You think you walkin�
� outta here wid one of mine? You focking crazy or what?”

  I left the gun hidden in my armpit. “Maybe you ought to back off like a nice boy,” I said. “We don’t want to get grease all over everything, do we, Monzon?”

  He laughed again and put his right foot on the first stair.

  “We see about some grease dere, cholo,” he sneered. I watched as he reached toward the back of his belt, and then I pulled out the automatic and shot him through the top of the shoe.

  The foot exploded, sending a shower of shoe and blood all over the foyer. Gunter looked down at the red spots dotting his tuxedo shirt, pawed twice at his face and began to back away. Monzon threw himself around the floor screaming, cursing in Spanish. I reached behind me, grabbed Misty McMahon by the waistband of her skirt and dragged her stiff-legged down the stairs behind me. Gunter backed off. I pulled open the door and pushed Narva and the girl out into the night. Behind Gunter one of the double doors opened. Spooner’s head poked out. The sound of shouts filled the foyer. I picked a spot about nine feet up the door and put two slugs through the mahogany. The door slammed. I heard screams now and the shuffling of many feet. Angel Monzon was groaning, holding his foot, rocking on his spine. I pointed the gun at Gunter. “You stick your head out this door and you’re going to have more than a funny name and a bad lip.”

  I yanked open the right-hand door and stepped outside. G had both hands on his shiny little gun, sighting over the top of the car. “Let’s roll,” I said.

  3

  FROM THE WALKWAY ABOVE THE MAIN DECK, THE FERRY Spokane seemed to open its mouth and swallow the dark water running headlong toward its bow. The huge vessel slid so softly among the whitecaps that it seemed as if it were pulling the water deep into its innards and somehow using the flow as a silent means of propulsion. Despite the wind on my cheeks and the low throbbing of the diesels, when I looked left or right, we appeared to be standing still. Only by focusing my attention on the oncoming escalator of green water was I able to maintain any sense of forward motion whatsoever.

  Rebecca kept one arm entwined with mine as she sipped a Starbucks latte through a red plastic straw. We had the upper deck to ourselves. The tourists had lasted all of five minutes in the wind before packing their cameras and scurrying inside for a cuppa joe and a prune Danish. Regular commuters stay in their cars for the twenty-minute passage between Edmonds and Kingston. They figure the six-dollar fare is bad enough without blowing any more hard-earned cash upstairs.