The sight of him holding one of those bent metal sticks her grandmother used to whip up blankets and ponchos to sell forced a laugh from deep in her stomach. She would’ve had the same reaction to a unicorn with a driver’s license or a redneck with a Nobel Prize.
Instead, it was a tool and Raul held it as if it was any other and kept a smile on his face.
Cara didn’t blame Raul for the hard feelings toward her. His sister was married to Miguel, until Cara claimed him as her own. Raul never got over it. But fine with her. Life was hard all over. Cara knew so better than most.
She’d been raped as a girl, repeatedly, by various men who treated her nice and gave her trinkets and tokens and money and jewelry, and she loved every minute of materialistic attention more than she hated the pain. The humiliation. She knew at a young age her looks were her bread and butter. In between such encounters, she worked to improve her mind. She knew she’d need a strong mind to manage her affairs as well as their rewards.
These men came to her house when her mother and little brother were at the market. Some of them gentle, some of them not.
She’d been ironing on the day she forgot her place in the world. Her newest gentleman caller walked around the ironing board, snuggled up behind her, and lifted her skirt. She set the iron down, but didn’t shut it off. When she turned, the man dropped his pants to his ankles and she laughed out loud upon seeing he was no better developed than her little brother.
He swung his left hand hard enough to feel the crack of his ring on her temple. She stumbled back into the ironing board and regained her balance in time to keep anything from being knocked over. That wasn’t enough vengeance for this guy. He grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face onto the ironing board, ripped her cotton panties, and did his thing in all of thirty seconds. She remained hugging the ironing board as he zipped up. She didn’t want to stand or turn around or ever see the guy again, but life was never easy. The man didn’t walk away.
Instead, he pushed one hand into the side of her head to keep her down as his other hand found the electric iron. She felt the slime of his seed oozing out of her as she struggled to get free. With the left side of her face pushed flat onto the ironing board, the guy lifted the iron until she felt the heat radiating off the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t see the guy, but she heard his sinister giggle in the instant before he pressed the scalding iron onto the right side of her face. The smell of burning flesh hit her nose before the pain registered in her brain. It was so hot she feared her back teeth would explode. She rocked the ironing board in her struggle. He kept her clamped in place. She grunted wildly, but was unable to make a decipherable word. She didn’t know if she ever would again.
As a way to defend herself socially, she mounted a strong offense by introducing herself as Cara Quemada, which meant Burnt Face, just to get it out in the open the minute she met anyone. She had no way of knowing it at the time, but the attack wasn’t merely her forgetting her place—it was the beginning of her new role in life. She swore from that moment she’d never again let a man hurt her. That’s why she chose the men she wanted to be with. And once she had them, she kept them in their place. The same with this boat thief strapped to a beam.
“He hasn’t given up anything?”
“He cries poor. After the second hand he told us about some jobs he’d either done or knew about—nothing recent or coming up. I think he might be tapped out.”
Cara slapped Miguel’s face with the back of her hand. “I will make that decision. Not you. Not him. And certainly not Mr. Personality over there.”
Raul crossed his arms tighter, but did not blink.
Cara turned back to face Miguel. He wiggled his jaw and blood dripped from the welt on his face left by the lady’s version of the same diamond and gold ring he wore. She laughed and pulled his face close to hers as she licked the trail of blood. The salty sweetness on her tongue made her emit a sound from her throat she’d made only once before with him.
Raul’s exhale redirected Cara’s attention. She turned in time to see him uncross his arms and wield the crochet hook as he stepped toward the boat thief. Even in his half-conscious state, the boat thief struggled against his restraints, sweat slinging off his forehead and face, his nappy hair. “No,” he hollered. “No.” Raul kept advancing until he grabbed the boat thief’s head into the crook of one of his thick arms and inserted the crochet hook into the boat thief’s right eye. She turned away and shielded her face. If it made a sound, she didn’t hear it.
Dougie thrashed against his restraints and moaned unintelligible sounds Cara had heard last echoing in the streets of Havana when men were being made to pay for crimes against the country. It was gruesome then, yet somehow natural now. Cara was simultaneously sickened by the act and impressed by Raul’s vengeance and initiative. He never seemed to miss an opportunity to overreact.
Shock and pain pushed Dougie into unconsciousness, where Cara imagined merciful moments passed without his having to think about his painful new reality.
Raul pulled a small vial of something from his pocket and cracked it in front of the boat thief’s nose. Cara knew of smelling salts but had never seen them used.
The guy woke with a series of grunts and whimpers.
“Ready to talk now?” Raul asked.
The eyeball dangled. The pain obviously so severe he could barely talk. “You’ve got to get me to a hospital!”
Cara couldn’t explain why Raul’s dedication to her moistened her between the legs. She locked eye contact with hm. He hadn’t talked to her since she’d seduced Miguel and made him hers. Cara never felt a moment of guilt over it. If he’d ever tried to hide that he wanted her for himself, he never succeeded. Even with the overt anger. No matter how pissed he might get at Cara, he still wanted her for himself. Cara loved the display.
She smacked Miguel on the ass and bit her lip.
“You best tell him what he want to hear,” Miguel said, concern on his face, “before he do same to other eye.”
“No! All right,” Dougie cried out, anxious for the pain to stop or at least not worsen.
Cara had no pity for the man. She had no pity for any man.
She’d once had dreams of becoming a pianist who played for Hollywood stars and royalty. Some of those glamorous women visited Havana while she was a girl, but she never got to see one in the flesh. And she didn’t become a pianist. Instead, she became a cleaning woman who worked night and day and never said no to new work. She farmed out a portion of the work below her and walked around supervising when not stopped in the halls talking to one of her bosses. Nobody seemed to know her exact role, yet they all recognized her power as she walked around with her clipboard hugged to her chest and disapproval spread across her lips. She paid her employees regularly and they never questioned her. Executives made comments which they paid for with stepped-on toes or valued items that showed up missing if she wanted them or broken if she did not. She expanded her influence on the street and employed a dozen men. And now she was watching a boat thief’s eye being ripped out of his skull.
“My father will give you money,” Dougie said. “Tell him you have me and he’ll pay to get me back.”
“Less chance for cops if we kill you,” Miguel said. “Just kill you now.”
Dougie swallowed and cleared his throat as if the vibration hurt his eyeball. “It’s like this,” he said, as if still trying to think of some other way. “I’ll give you something. Just please stop. It’s big money.”
The eyeball dangled at the end of a clump of what looked like wet yarn, but must’ve been tendons and muscles not meant to see the light of day. He winced every time his eyelid closed onto those raw nerve endings. She thought he’d pass out.
The sight of the dangling eyeball clearly nauseated Miguel, but he tried to hide it from Cara. She couldn’t imagine him pleased if Raul saw him being grossed out either. That’s the way Miguel had always been—a big talker who always knew what to say, while Raul had alway
s been the one to take action. He’d one-up anyone any chance he got if there was money, or at least a good laugh, in it. Cara stared at the ring on Miguel’s middle finger. He had such slender fingers she had to tell him the gold ring, with that diamond centered in gold nugget inlay atop the thick shiny band, was made for the middle finger. Prominent on the hand and useful if he had to throw a punch. She’d gotten it off a cardiologist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d given Miguel the ring the first year they all began working together. At times like this, she wished Raul was taller and better looking. She could have given the ring to him.
“How big?” Raul asked Dougie about the money.
Cara crossed her arms and leaned on a pole holding up the roof.
“Ten, maybe fifteen thousand,” Dougie said. “You can jimmy the lock with a butter knife.”
“Where is this?” Raul asked, grabbing Dougie by the collar.
“It’s a floor safe in the office at Gator Doug’s Tavern off of San Carlos Parkway, not far from where that crazy woman has the boarding house where three people killed themselves.”
“Vero? How you know this?”
“It was on the fucking news.”
“No. This tavern money?”
“It’s my father’s place. If you won’t ask him for the money you can just take it, just please get me to a hospital!”
Cara nodded at Raul with a smile sly enough to piss off Miguel pretty good, if she had to guess. She dismissed it as a matter for another day. “Give him a handful of pills. Then go see about this tavern safe.”
Click here to learn more about Tushhog by Jeffery Hess.
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Here is a preview from the crime thriller Once a Killer by Martin Bodenham…
Chapter 1
The two men had nothing against the old woman as they bludgeoned her to death. It wasn’t personal; she was bait, nothing more.
Easing back on the gas, Michael Hoffman peered through the clunking wipers of his rental car, looking for the place they’d taken his mother’s mutilated body. He passed an empty Mexican restaurant, then a laundromat with a group of young men inside who looked like they were in the middle of a fight. As he checked the central locking system for the third time since leaving the freeway, a bright neon sign up ahead caught his attention—Cook County Funeral Home—Affordable Funerals by People Who Care Since 1954. Its red light, high up on a steel pole, and the pouring rain conspired to distort his view through the windshield. Rainwater pelted his face when he opened the side window and leaned out of the car, searching for a break in the wall. The entrance to the private parking area had to be close. The man he’d spoken to on the phone yesterday had warned him: if he wanted it back, he should avoid leaving his vehicle on the street.
There it was. At the bottom of the illuminated sign stood two brick pillars on either side of a narrow driveway. Michael pulled off the road and entered the vacant car park. As he killed the engine, the digital clock on the dashboard flashed 9:10 p.m. He was late—very late—and there were no lights on inside. Maybe the man had already left.
The iPhone in Michael’s jacket pocket rang. As he retrieved it, an image of his wife appeared on the screen. For a moment, he thought about taking the call, but decided against the idea; lying to Caroline again about where he was tonight would only take up valuable time.
When the door at the side of the building opened, a tall, muscular man in his early forties stepped out.
“Hello,” Michael said, jumping out of the car. He ran over to the man, soaking the bottom of his suit trousers in the puddles forming in the potholed tarmac. “I’m really sorry I’m late.”
The man threw him a shit-look. “I said no later than quarter to nine.” He turned the key to lock the door. “We’re done here tonight.”
“My flight was delayed coming into O’Hare. I got here as soon as I could.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Not my problem. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.”
“I have to do this tonight. Please.”
“I can’t help you. Now, if it’s okay, I’d like to get out of this rain.”
Michael reached into his jacket, and the man flinched.
“Yesterday, you wanted a hundred.” Michael took out a bunch of notes from his Mulberry wallet. “Would two hundred change your mind? I really have to see her tonight.”
The man relaxed then smiled. “Make it three, and I’ll give you ten minutes.”
Moments later, Michael stood waiting in the mortuary, the pungent odor of disinfectant failing to mask the smell of death.
“You said you weren’t family, right?” The man was wheeling out a shrouded body on a gurney.
“Right.” Michael looked away. “I’m here for a good friend who can’t make it.”
“It’s a good job your friend’s not here.” He nodded toward the body. “This one’s a bit of a mess.”
The knot tightened in Michael’s stomach. “I’d appreciate some privacy.”
“Sure. Ten minutes, remember.”
When the man left, Michael stood in the cold room, staring at the gurney. His fingers trembled when he reached for the white sheet. Bracing himself for a shock, he drew back the cloth, revealing long, gray hair that had been combed straight back. Holding his breath, slowly he revealed the woman’s face before lurching backward, almost losing his balance.
“Jesus.” Michael fought back the bile in his throat.
His mother’s head looked like a deflated football. It was obvious her nose had been broken and cheekbones shattered. Dark bruises covered what remained of her face, and on her neck, remnants of dried blood still showed on her pale skin where they’d failed to clean her properly. Maybe the staff here had figured nobody in their right mind would want to visit her in this condition. But Michael had to be here. Not only had he come a long way, but he’d also taken a great risk for this last chance to see for himself the bitch was actually dead.
Although he hadn’t seen her for almost twenty-five years, his mother looked older than he’d expected—much older. She’d have been sixty-four on her last birthday, but now, even allowing for her injuries, she had the weathered appearance of a woman well into her eighties. Years of alcohol abuse, and God knows what else, had eaten her away.
He leaned forward and stared at the sunken face of the monster who had made his early childhood a living hell. As Michael drew closer, a whiff of cleaning agent entered his nostrils, and he recoiled at the memory it stirred. He remembered the times his mother would squirt Clorox into his mouth if she caught him lying or, worse, stealing food. Apart from the regular beatings with her walking stick, food deprivation had been her favorite way to torture him. What kind of woman could do these things to her own child?
“Come on,” said the man, returning to the room. “You’ve had more than ten minutes.”
“Just a while longer.” Michael kept his eyes on his mother. “Please.”
“I can’t do it.”
“All I’m asking for is a few minutes.”
“You shouldn’t even be in here now. You’re not family, and you don’t really have an appointment. I’d lose my job if the owners found out about this.”
The man pulled the sheet back over the body, and Michael watched as the gurney was wheeled away.
By the time he stepped out of the building, the rain had stopped and a smell of fried onions from the Mexican restaurant down the street clung to the humid air. Hearing the sound of male voices, Michael glanced across the unlit car park. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out three young men hanging around his vehicle, checking it out.
“Nice wheels,” said one of them, leaning on the hood as Michael approached. “Don’t see many like this around here.”
Michael cursed the rental company for upgrading his vehicle. He’d known it would stand out where he was going, but there hadn’t been enough time to change it and still make it to the funeral home before the man left.
Michael
raised his palms. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble, guys.”
The biggest of the three men swaggered over to him. Towering over Michael, he stood only six inches away and grinned.
“We just wanna take it for a ride.” He held out his hand for the keys.
Michael stared at the thug. “I told you I don’t want any trouble.”
“Just give him the keys, Whiteboy,” shouted the man leaning on the hood.
“I think I’m gonna have some fun with this one,” said the large man, turning his face toward his friend for a second.
Michael kneed him hard in the groin and, as the giant lunged forward, struck the man’s face with the sharp tip of his elbow, knocking him out cold. The other two men froze, stunned by the speed at which their accomplice had been brought down by this stranger in a suit.
“You want some of this?” said Michael, crouching with fists clenched and pointing with his chin to the unconscious man lying face down on the wet tarmac. “Do you?”
“You boys better get out of here,” shouted the funeral home worker, leaving the building behind Michael. “He’s with me.”
The two men ran off as the man came over to attend to the bleeding victim on the ground.
“Thanks for your help.” Michael reached into his pocket for the car keys. “I didn’t want any of this.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” The man pointed to the comatose lump at his feet. “I saw what you did to this one. You seem pretty handy with your fists.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’ll recover. Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’d better leave before those guys come back with their friends.”
Michael climbed into the car and sped away without looking back. A few miles down the road, he pulled over into a Denny’s car park, the adrenaline still coursing through his body. He closed his eyes and thought about what had just happened. It was stupid. If he’d hurt that man and the police had been called, how would he have explained to Caroline what he was doing here?
Mystery! Page 27