by Kirk Alex
The chances you took. But it felt good. He checked his hair in the side mirror. Thought to pull the small handheld mirror from the black bag that he kept in there as it came in handy the times he was around hookers and other sluts who used it for cutting out rails. Now he was holding it up at the back of his head, near the top, checking on the area where the hair was thinning.
Was there a bald spot developing back there? Didn’t want to admit it. He was losing hair up near the top back there where he’d had the bar code tattooed years before. The bar code and the series of numbers directly under it were becoming, if only faintly, visible.
Maybe he ought to just cut it all off? Shave the head like he used to, even though there would then be no way to conceal the dent in his forehead, at least not to his satisfaction. The white cap he at times wore with the God’s #1 black script across the front helped to some extent, it was true, but it wasn’t always appropriate to wear, either—such as now. It would have been absolutely inappropriate for the present situation. Inappropriate and hypocritical. Selling weed and wearing head gear that praised a deity, never mind that this deity never existed—just as none of them ever existed.
Fact remained: damned dent spooked some of them. Made him look less attractive to the cunts, even with the tinted reading glasses he usually wore that helped detract some of the negative vibes caused by the deformed temple.
He put the hand mirror away. Picked up the hairbrush and brushed his hair down on top, brushed it back around the ears.
Yeah. He looked all right, considering. Being on mood elevators and dealing with flashbacks. Years of it. Considering.
He took the reading glasses off. That’s all they were. Bifocals to be sure, technically speaking, although the upper half (or better) of the lenses was plain glass and tinted for a reason: he liked the fact his eyes were not easy to detect during the day by the enemy the times he had to interact with them.
And the lower part? The lower third, that is? He had a difficult time reading without them. Sight was still pretty damned good; he could see and do just about anything without the glasses, except when it came to reading the newspaper and all those books he kept around the house.
It was all the reading, no doubt, decades of it, the strain on the eyes that contributed. Reading shit like Mein Kampf that caused it, and more shit like Capital by Karl Marx that added to it. You realized, as you grew older, that most books were a waste of time and did nothing for you.
He wiped the lenses with Kleenex. Wiped sweat from his brow, and put the glasses back on. Then got the sudden notion to apply the Trusty makeup. Should help with the cover.
There was nothing to do but sit and wait now. Got the Bushnell field glasses out and watched Patience and Marvin approach a young redhead as she unlocked her car. That one did not take. The redhead had shaken her head. Not interested.
She would have filled the bill, Biggs thought. Nice body—but wrong pick on Marvin’s part, because the woman did not look like she did dope and he didn’t care for red hair.
Get a doper. Don’t waste time on the others. Sniff out a doper, Free Ride. Get me a doper, a user. Get a cokehead, or pothead; a pill popper—and stay away from red hair.
He kept the binoculars trained on the action for another twenty, twenty-five minutes and could see a young couple in jeans and Beatles T-shirts walking along with Patience.
The kid and his girlfriend had blond hair. And the kid seemed very anxious, in a hurry. Apparently he could not wait to get his hands on some more of that fine weed.
Biggs readied himself. Futzed around with the radio dial, hoping for some shitty Beatles tune. He preferred anything to the “Fab Four” and their overrated bubblegum tripe, any group at all: Boxtops, Butthole Surfers, Squirrel Nut Zippers, Echo & the Bunnymen, Hootie & the Blowfish, Monkees, Steppenwolf, Three Dog Night, ZZ Top, Rammstein, Dr. Hook, Dr. John, Judas Priest, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Black Sabbath, Black Flag, Stones, Temptations, Commodores, Jackie Wilson, Wilson Picket, Bobby “Boris” Pickett, Earth, Wind & Fire, Kinks, Sausage Links—didn’t matter—anyone but the Beatles. For now, he wanted a mop-tops tune, and got nowhere. Instead, he happened upon something about a dead skunk in the middle of the road and that it was stinking to high heaven on one of the MOR stations by accident and decided to leave it on for the hell of it, sat back down and pretended to be reading the horoscope in the LA Weekly and waited for the easy meat to get in his van.
CHAPTER 106
Biggs could not believe his good fortune when he saw what Patience showed up with at the Econoline’s back door. The couple looked much better than he could have hoped.
They were from Georgia, visiting relatives in Cerritos. They were healthy and friendly and wanted to get high, and they kept saying what a nice man Cecil was and what a cool lady his girlfriend Patience was.
“Lost my job at the haunted house: Lizzy Borden’s Bordello of Fear. Cutbacks due to drop in ticket sales.” He flashed a glossie of the original Parfrey. “Crucial part of the act. Claimed there was no money in their budget to feed a ‘hog’. We were unceremoniously let go. Otherwise I wouldn’t even consider taking money for this stuff. Need cash for gas. That’s what it is, so I can keep looking for work. It’s tough, especially when you have a black fiancée. You know how racist some folks can be. Her brother there? He’s not able to work. Has a problem with authority figures. Sorry to be charging you.”
The guy and his girlfriend didn’t mind. Handed Biggs some bills. Climbed in the van. They got another joint going.
Patience had remained outside and shut the door on them, as previously instructed. The Southern Belle’s boyfriend had a question, as Cecil thought he might.
“So where’s the real dope?”
“I’m looking at him.”
Biggs drew the .357 Magnum. Patience and Marvin hustled into the van through the door on the passenger side. Closed it. Biggs handed Marvin a pair of handcuffs and watched him scramble in the back to where the guy sat, yanked his wrists behind him and clamped the cuffs on like a pro. There were times Marvin came in handy.
“Anyone else with them? Anyone see you bring them to the van?”
“Not that I know of, Cecil.”
Biggs just about winced at mention of his name, not that it actually mattered, the McVictims weren’t going to live long enough to tell anyone about any of it. Biggs tossed him a second pair of cuffs for the Southern Belle. Marvin did his job well. The deacon was learning. About time.
Biggs reached down for a bottle of chloroform and a terry-cloth towel. Handed them to Marvin. Muck poured chloroform onto the towel, and was about to bury the kid’s nose and mouth in it—only the kid struggled enough so that it made it difficult.
Biggs cursed under his breath. Marvin was fucking up, just when he thought he might be getting his act together. And then, adding to the confusion and hassle, the girl started screaming. On impulse, Biggs jumped out of his seat and clamped his hand over her mouth. The girl bit down on his index finger and Trusty Lusty backhanded her. Tossed the tire iron to Marvin.
“Hit a grand slam off his skull.”
Marvin Muck gripped the tire iron. Hesitated to follow through. Had to be told again.
“Hit the motherfucker. Are you deaf?”
Marvin turned his head away, and struck the girl’s boyfriend across the face with the tire iron. Kid went down. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth.
“Encore.”
Marvin looked away. “I be in this for pussy, man. I ain’t no killa.”
“I won’t tell you again.”
Marvin waited. Cursed some more. Smacked the kid across the left side of his jaw. For all intents and purposes, the vic was out.
“Now do the chloroform.”
“Why? Shit could fuck up his liver. Tol’ me so yo’self. Chloroform be some bad shit.”
“His liver? You’re worried about his liver? At a time like this? Fuck his liver.”
Marvin pressed the towel against the victim’s mouth an
d nostrils. Kept it there. Made sure the boyfriend wouldn’t be waking up for a while. Biggs tossed him the duct tape. Watched Marvin fumble with it, tear a strip off the roll and slap it over the unlucky sucker’s mouth.
“Now get her.”
Marvin looked at him.
“What?”
“Do a ‘grand slam’ or . . .”
“No, just the towel.”
Marvin pressed the towel to her kisser until she, too, lost consciousness. Biggs recapped the chloroform bottle and returned it to the black medical satchel.
He reached inside for a white plastic bag and held it open for Marvin to toss the towel in. Biggs folded the bag over twice and shoved it under the mattress. Went through the vic’s purse. Found the usual: lipstick, makeup, sanitary napkins and Tampons, prophylactics, pocket calculator, keys, zit cream, loose change, and what amounted to eighteen dollars in paper money.
He pocketed the bills, and dumped the rest of it inside the black bag. When he looked up, Marvin was going through the kid’s pockets. Held up a wad of receipts, the usual junk: packet of Trojans, house and car keys, a few nickels and dimes; crumpled up singles adding up to twelve dollars.
“Get his wallet.”
Muck did that. Handed it over. He also dug up a pack of smokes and matches, and was about to light up.
“Not in here. You know I can’t take cigarette smoke. Shit causes cancer.”
Seeing that he had no choice, Muck put the butt away. Biggs unfolded the kid’s billfold. Found twenty-six bucks in there. Pocketed the bills, and dropped the wallet into the medical bag.
“Get the jewelry, watches. See what you can find.”
Marvin undid the boyfriend’s wristwatch, as well as the belle’s gold necklace, the Bulova on her wrist, and a ring that looked far from expensive.
Biggs had the deacon place it all in his open palm. Cecil O. looked the items over. Decided Marvin could keep the cheap Timex he got off the punk. He dropped the rest of the items into the medical satchel, feeling less than thrilled with the meager take.
What did you expect to find in South Gate? This wasn’t Beverly Hills, and it wasn’t the Palisades. While Biggs mumbled and grumbled, Muck took the opportunity to run his hands over the unconscious woman’s breasts. Slid a hand inside her T, squeezed some more, then ran his right hand down inside her blue jeans.
“What do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off her. Tape her mouth.”
Marvin did that.
“Finish searching the punk.”
“Just done it.”
“You look inside his boots?”
“What for?”
“Do it.”
Marvin attempted to pry his fingers inside one of the snake skin boots on the kid’s foot. Biggs shook his head.
“Pull them off.”
Marvin did, and a pocketknife dropped out. He picked it up. Unfolded it. The blade was sharp and three inches in length.
“Yo. Good thing we took a look inside them kicks, no shit.”
Biggs said nothing. Held his hand out. Marvin placed the knife in it.
“I got no protection.”
“From what?”
“Never mind. At least I got me a Timex watch. Yo. Them Timex got a reputation.” He held it close to his ear to see if he could hear it ticking in there. Yeah. Wristwatch was ticking. Timex was known for that. Tick tick tick.
Cecil ignored the rest of it. Turned the key in the ignition, and drove the van out of the shopping mall parking lot. It isn’t over yet, the bishop kept telling himself, as they moved slowly past cars and shoppers on foot, kids. Biggs kept looking this way and that, tense, making sure there was no one running after them, shouting for him to stop because he, Biggs, had their son or brother or sister or uncle (or whatnot) in his panel truck with him.
Nothing of the sort happened. And he kept going. Pulled out on Garfield Avenue. When he reached Firestone Boulevard, he turned left. Got on the Long Beach Freeway and headed north.
“Do the boots fit you?”
“They be too small.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell.”
“Try them on.”
“Wear size thirteen. Yo. These don’t be thirteen.”
“Do it.”
“All right, man, if it make’ you happy.”
Marvin attempted to get a boot on. It wasn’t working. His feet were too long and large. “They be too tight, like I said.” Tossed them to the side. “Could be they more yo size, Dawg.”
Biggs let it pass. Kept turning his head, looking back at what lay quietly inside the Party Wagon. It was impossible for him to contain his excitement.
What a catch.
Young bitch would do just fine. Too bad she had blond hair, though. He preferred them with dark hair, dark eyes.
All you’re doing is nitpicking. Too late for that. Be happy with what you got—and what you got is still a catch and will do just fine.
She was five-six, maybe thirty-six- or thirty-seven-inch tits. D cup. Nice ass. Yeah, she would do. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, he saw as being totally unworthy of her. Thin punk was but five-eleven, pimply faced, sickly. Shaggy dishwater blond hair.
For a brief moment Cecil wondered what a cunt like this, hot piece of ass that she was, saw in a kid with a bad complexion like that. Where they came from, he supposed, bitches were not too particular. What the hell did any of that matter now? He would have his fun pretty soon, and could hardly wait.
CHAPTER 107
Night had fallen by the time they reached the part of the San Gabriel Mountains that Biggs wanted. He turned off the paved highway and drove up a winding dirt road. The deeper they traveled into the woods, the bumpier the ride got.
“How far we goin’, Cee?”
“Until we reach the spot.”
“How can you tell? I can’t, me.”
Biggs drove another hundred yards and killed the motor. Looked at the couple on the mattress. Wide awake now. The kid’s nostrils, mouth and chin were covered with crusted blood. Tears flowed freely from his eyes. That whack with the crowbar must have busted a blood vessel or two because his eyes had a red glow to them, something like Cecil’s own eyes when he was engaged in slaughtering McVics. The girl’s soft sobs were hardly audible due to the gag.
Biggs took his shirt off. Turned the girl over on her back. Ripped the duct tape off her face and kissed her on the neck, avoiding the mouth and chloroform odor. He rolled that Beatles T-shirt back far enough to expose her full breasts. It was then Biggs realized that Patience was also in the van with them. He got up and took the black woman outside. Found a tree about thirty feet from there. Had her hug it and slapped cuffs on her wrists. He returned to the cargo van and got on top of the blond from Georgia.
“Are you going to kill us?”
Biggs almost felt like laughing, but not quite. “You don’t have to concern yourself with that. That’s the last thing you want to concern yourself with.”
“Please don’t do this. . . . Please. . . .”
He asked the boyfriend what size pants he wore. Marvin removed the tape from the kid’s mouth so he could answer.
“Thirty-two waist.”
“Will that fit you?”
Flunky nodded his head. “Guess so. Yo.”
“Take his pants off, then. What are you waiting for? An invitation?”
CHAPTER 108
Marvin R. Muck proceeded to relieve the kid of his jeans. Undid the top button, unzipped the fly and pulled them all the way down, leaving the victim in white jockey underwear.
While Marvin did that, Cecil was busy applying makeup to the girl’s face: dark, arching brows; heavy, black eyeliner. Plenty of rouge for the cheeks, and more than was adequate of that red lipstick to her mouth.
“Every whore should have that whore look.”
Laid the lipstick on there, overlapping, as before with the other. He then topped it all off by fitting a black wig over her own ash blond locks.
O
nce finished with this phase of it, he reached for the switchblade. Made certain cuts into the cloth of her jeans, and yanked them off. The young blond’s black panties were moist with urine. He freed her of those. Held them to his nose and huffed. Held the undergarment out to Marvin and the sidekick did the same.
“Smell’ like good, clean vagina to me.”
“Please . . . I’ll do . . .”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Take all the money we got. Have about two hundred dollars between us. . . . Please take it. . . .”
“Already got yo bread, punk. Never found no two hunnerd dolla’.”
“Entire lot added up to about twenty-six and change.”
“Inside my sock. The right one. There’s money there.”
“I won’t even ask how you managed to overlook it, Base.”
Muck pulled the sock off without saying anything. Knew he had fucked up—again. Turned the sock inside out. There was a hundred twenty in twenties and tens. Marvin plucked the money and handed it over to Biggs, who stuffed it in his wallet. Muck checked the other sock and found nothing in it.
“We can get more.”
“How much more?”
“Hundreds.”
Biggs looked at him. Said nothing.
“Maybe eight hundred dollars. In her aunt’s house. It’s our money. You can have all of it.”
Biggs decided he didn’t want to hear another word about it. Pulled his own pants down. Rubbed himself for a while. Spread the girl’s legs, and drove his groin in.
Muck had unzipped his own fly and was stroking his massive erection. He’d maneuvered himself over the victim’s face and was trying to slip meat in her mouth.
“Get off of her. She’s mine. Let the punk blow you.”
“That be queer shit, Dawg. I ain’t queer, me. That be fuckin’ queer shit.”