warning him that hell awaits them. He does this several more times, until it seems to be losing its effect on his younger companion.
After a final glance of warning, the gangster finds a small key on his keychain, turns it upside-down, and unlocks the solid, steel deadbolt. The lock opens with a surprisingly audible click, and every part of Rory wishes that it could be reengaged. He finds himself in a dizzying world that is far from the paradise of his lavish California home. The young man’s knees are swaying a bit from the mental exhaustion, and his entire body is blitzed by a tension he has never before known. All of his organs feel as though they are going to spasm and seize over and over again, leaving him in a state of unmistakable terror.
Pezzloni opens the door slowly to reveal a moderate security office. There are two wall-mounted, sixty-inch LCD displays in the front right corner of the room. The displays are nearly touching as they meet at the corner. Immediately below these displays, there is a security desk made from cheap polyurethane material, which bears two fairly modern computers atop its surface.
Anthony steps into the office and grabs one of two short, black swivel chairs fashioned with padded cloth seats. He smiles with synthetic hospitality at Rory, gesturing for him to take a seat. The younger man steps into the office next to the gangster, ignoring his offer to have a seat, and deciding instead to observe the activity on the LCD displays.
Anthony immediately slams the chair against the desk, and Rory watches it bounce somewhat from the corner of his eye, refusing to even flinch.
As Rory watches the LCD displays, his level of concern grows substantially. There are at least a dozen women in various states of pregnancy, almost all of them sleeping in what could only be described as a makeshift prison. His insides are beginning to burn with instant guilt as he recognizes their beautiful faces, and recalls all the passionate moments that they spent together. The young man can feel his hands starting to tremble as he contemplates what the gangster is trying to say with this silent presentation. His anger for a lack of explanation is almost equal to his fear for what has transpired these past few months.
“We call this the ‘found and lost.’” Pezzloni states after a few minutes of silence.
The sadistic gangster flips a light switch above the desk, and a bright light turns on directly behind his body. Rory cannot immediately see anything since the man is blocking his view, standing before him with a look of satisfied contempt.
When Rory steps to his left to see what is behind Pezzloni’s body, the man darts toward his face, glaring at him fiercely with his nose only half an inch from Rory’s. Their eyes remain deadlocked for a few seconds, neither man willing to yield to the other. As Rory looks into his captor’s eyes, he realizes that the man doesn’t just want him to know that he is dangerous; Pezzloni wants him to acknowledge that an unforgiving wrath is coming.
After a few seconds in this dance of machismo, the gangster stands aside with a refreshing stoicism, and Rory glimpses a large shelf at the back corner of the room.
“Welcome to the ‘found and lost,’” Pezzloni says with contempt, “you’ve created a good sized collection.”
The young man’s throat begins to convulse as he sees several items on the shelf, and recognizes them immediately. Among the many items, the first to catch his eye is a flower print hair clip that was worn by Jessica. Rory remembers her brilliant smile when she talked about going to Hawaii someday, and how wonderfully optimistic she had seemed. To the right of that, he focuses on a wooden bracelet that was worn by Anguila; a women who had crossed the sea from Africa to the United States, searching for a better life. He recalls her dignified appearance, and subtle grace, when she spoke about rescuing her sisters from the militants of their village.
A tear emerges from his right eye as he spots a gold necklace that was worn by Destiny, an Italian woman who had her eighteenth birthday party at the Pezzloni mansion. Rory places his right hand on his forehead and begins to cry openly for her, no longer concerned with maintaining his composure. He recollects how full of life she had been, and her tenacious banter as they played games with a group of women in the swimming pool.
Tears begin to drip from his face and splash in a sloppy mess on the unkempt concrete flooring of the security office, and he shakes his head from side-to-side, as if to free himself from the knowledge of her death. He gets a glimpse of Pezzloni from his right eye, seeing the gangster’s smile of delight from this horrific display. Despite Rory’s vigorous efforts to avoid giving this psychopath the satisfaction of breaking him, he is unable to contain his agony.
“Did they die quickly?” Rory asks in a shaky voice that is nearly inaudible.
“No.” Pezzloni answers without hesitation, as if talking about a group of laboratory test subjects. “I beat them… It was good exercise… good for the heart.”
Rory turns his back to Pezzloni, now facing the blank wall near the door, and the only area of the room that is not reminiscent of the horrors within this place.
“Did any of them get paid what you promised?” Rory asks with a dry rhetoric, already certain that he knows the answer to this question. “Or was getting pregnant by me just a death sentence for these girls?” He adds with disdain, clenching his fists in bitter hatred for the perversions that were taking place just a hundred yards from his bedroom.
In answer to his question, Rory feels a foot come down hard on the back of his leg, forcing him to the cement on his knees. The young man feels a penetrating blow that drives into his kneecaps with the force of a steel drill bit. He cries out from the intensity of the pain, and feels himself sinking lower than ever before in his life. Rory rolls his hands into tight fists, and uses them to stabilize his body on the dusty cement, not wanting to risk further damage.
“Yes, Rory,” Pezzloni begins in a callous tone just behind his left ear, “getting pregnant by you is a death sentence for these girls… I promise them a better life… I take away their baby, and I… beat them until… they stop moving.”
“I’m going to kill…you!” Rory blurts out immediately without a thought, as the mental and physical pain force tears down his face. “I’m going to… you… I’m going to…” The young man mutters, having trouble forming the words for revenge.
“You know what’s funny, Rory?” Pezzloni asks with a bit of reflection. “I’ve been around long enough to know that it’s possible for someone like you to kill someone like me. But even if you do… I’ve already put a stain on your soul… I’ve already killed part of you tonight, and you’ll never be the same.” His captor states with more than a bit of wry humor. “Oh, and there are thirty-seven items on the shelf, by the way…”
“You’ll never get away with killing that many people.” Rory states despite the dry soreness of his throat. “Nobody ever gets away with killing that many people. Their families will come looking for them.” He adds with bitter malcontent.
“Nobody is looking for these girls, Rory.” Pezzloni replies with snobbish arrogance. “As far as their families are concerned, each of these girls has become rich, and they are off traveling the world. I made them call their families from a phone number out of Florida, and we sent letters and postcards while they were pregnant. When the postcards stop coming, three to five years from now; that’s when they’ll start looking. But they won’t be looking here. I sold their passports to illegal immigrants who like to travel, and I did it through a fence. By the time they start investigating, the last stamp on each passport will be a thousand miles from here.”
&nb
sp;
Rory doesn’t say anything, but his mind is a turbine engine of vengeance. The pain in his knees is fading enough for him to get a grip on reality, and he realizes that his captor has no intention of ever letting him leave the property alive. ‘I’ve been so stupid,’ he thinks to himself in the shadow of his misery. The young man holds his breath for a few seconds, ignoring the gangster who is still speaking with pride about covering his tracks. Rory bows his head and gives the dead women over sixty seconds of silence, saying a prayer to honor them.
Pezzloni stops talking after a while, realizing that his prisoner isn’t paying attention. He leans to his left as a sneer of disappointment grows across his face, and the gangster notices that the young man has somehow found solace.
“Get on your feet!” Pezzloni demands, kicking at the bottom of Rory’s left sneaker. “We’re leaving the maternity ward.”
Rory responds to this command with some hesitation, no longer afraid of being shot by his captor. He moves his legs slowly and painfully, adjusting his weight to cope with the throbbing in his knees until he is upright. With a gaze of superiority, the gangster steps out of the small security office, gesturing with the pistol for Rory to follow.
The two men walk through the hallway in silence, making their way from the maternity ward, through the nursery, and down the concrete stairs to the first floor. When they reach the first floor, Pezzloni steps dutifully toward the indoor enclosure where the
The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition Page 43
