Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  “I hope he apologized at least,” quipped Stella.

  “You’re about as funny as Phyllis Diller—and if you don’t watch it you could end up looking like her.”

  “He should have apologized—”

  “Told you before: Fuck off, Stella. Just shut your unfunny, anchovy smelling hole—unless you want to see me do to you what he did to me.” To Pearleen, Lana said: “Weird-ass did say he was sorry. Blamed it on ‘force of habit.’”

  “Force of habit? Maybe we ought to get one of McCoy’s Ali Baba bouncers to do a little ‘force of habit’ on his butt.”

  “That’s what he claimed. That was his reason. Force of habit. And the nose bleed.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Can you believe that? Picked me because my nose was bleeding. The sight of blood did it. Exactly why he cut the chicken.”

  “Most men are fucked in the head,” said Stella. “Should know as much by now. Where are they, anyway? Where’s the sadist?”

  “Said something about having to make sure that his board of directors had their tea and pastries,” said Pearleen.

  “Tea and pastries?” said Lana. “Where’s our tea and pastries?”

  “What about Marvin?” asked Stella.

  “Stepped out,” said Pearleen.

  “I can see that,” said Stella.

  “Maybe he’s in the closet,” suggested Lana, pointing at the closet door. “Spying on us through one of those mirrors—to make sure we don’t steal any of these stolen library books.” Even as she said it, she had a hardcover of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood in her hands. She may have only been joking about the closet and Marvin hiding out in it. Stella tried the closet door all the same. It was locked.

  “Marvin? You in there?”

  “What are you doing?” said Pearl. “There’s nobody in that closet. I think he had to use the john.”

  “Why would Cecil want to keep this door locked?”

  “To keep dopefiends like you from stealing his dope,” said Lana, and shoved the book back onto the shelf in back of the futon. She still could not get over the fact Cecil had chosen her because of the nose bleed. It was creepy, too creepy, even for her.

  “You know as well as I do,” said Pearl, “what keeps getting us into these situations: dope.”

  “Could be you’re right, Peachy,” said Lana. “Rehab may be the way—eventually. One day.”

  She dug around inside her leather purse. Came up with a pack of smokes. Extracted one of the butts. It looked ordinary enough, and it was, except the tip end had been filled with cocaine.

  “Until then, what do you say we do up some Cocoa Puffs?”

  Pearleen was shaking her head. That grin that she fought to suppress earlier was shining through this time; every bit of it. Stella’s reaction was basically the same.

  “You know she’s right, Lana. All we’re doing is fucking up our lives with this shit.”

  “Sure we are. And you can’t wait to get in on this so you can keep your high alive.”

  Lana dragged on the cigarette. It was a long one, as usual, then passed it on to Pearleen. Pearleen had hers. Offered it to Stella Martel, who did not refuse. It went on in this fashion until the butt was smoked down.

  CHAPTER 166

  Things were getting loud again in the Prayer Room. Biggs was at the two-way mirror eyeing Rudy and his ballbuster. It bothered him that he hadn’t taken the time to walk Mr. Fimple to the Geek Room and chain him to his bunk, to be on the safe side. Mr. Fimple would be roaming now, possibly getting into trouble. Wouldn’t put it past him. Didn’t matter how often you shocked the son of a bitch, either, or stuck him in Siberia. Who else had been left out beside Big Tex and Norbert Fimple? Couldn’t even recall locking the door to the Geek Room. Thinking about it made it difficult to stay focused on what was taking place before him, the latest development: Rudy Perez. If the notion of capturing Olivia and keeping her here was one he had toyed with, along with holding onto her exotic dancer friends, that notion had been shattered now by Rudy’s presence.

  There were just too damn many people in the church now, too many others who probably knew that they were here. There was nothing left to do but watch as Rudy Perez and his virginal girlfriend continued to battle it out.

  “If this is any indication what being married is going to be like, I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t know what you want.”

  “I know exactly what I want, Rudy—”

  “Good for you. Do you know who you’re starting to sound like to me? Those tired, old, lesbian libber types. You know the kind: with the mustache and hairy legs—that no man would be interested in in the first place. ‘Women’ like that, with their attitude, are disgusting.”

  “Don’t push me, Rudy.”

  “I worry about you and this is the thanks I get?”

  “Thank you. All right? I am old enough to take care of myself. If you weren’t so blind and stubborn you’d see that you and I have some serious problems to work out—”

  “Truth is we don’t have any problems—”

  “Truth is you don’t get it.”

  “I do get it. Exactly. We’re getting along fine, just great—only your sister and your family put ideas in your head. Your whole family’s been against me from the beginning.”

  And Rudy proceeded to mimic the following: “If you and Rudy ain’t got no problems—make some up.” He dropped that to continue in his normal tone of voice. “There’s your excuse to have a fight and break up. I’m wise to you, Livia. You want to play that game? Go right ahead—only don’t come blaming the split on me. You don’t want me? Fine. There’s lots of chicks out there who’d be real glad to have a guy like me. That’s right. You got the scoop. I’m not about to let you or your family try to put me down. No way. My bro warned me about you. You’re doing exactly what your sister did to him.”

  “That isn’t true. You have no right to say those things to me, Rudy. No right at all.”

  Maybe he felt a twinge of remorse. He didn’t know. Didn’t want to think that maybe it was possible he came on too strong. All he wanted was to take Olivia with him and get out of the smelly house.

  “I’m leaving. Are you coming with me?”

  “If that’s how you feel, why did you get involved?”

  “You’re the one who kept bringing your family’s station wagon around for tuneups and repairs; not that I minded, you know. Don’t get me wrong there. Only I wasn’t the one who started coming around your house, remember? That definitely would have been a no-no; am I right? The way your family is?” He asked again: “Are you coming?”

  Rudy reached the door. Waited. Olivia was intent on getting the ring he’d given her off her finger.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Here. Take this with you.”

  “No. You take it. And shove it.”

  He was out of there. She could hear him go down the stairs. Make it outside.

  CHAPTER 167

  No sooner did Rudy vault the gate, coming down over the other side, losing his footing and landing awkwardly, did Ortiz swing down with his beer bottle. Rudy ducked in time and drove a fist into the junkie’s belly. Spun around for something to defend himself with before Ortiz reached for either that switchblade he owned, or a gun.

  Harold Crust’s picket fence was in back of him a bit, on his left. He pried a picket off. Stood there facing the user. Felix had also crossed the street, approaching them, and he was holding something. Possibly a weapon; he wasn’t sure.

  So it was two against one once again—and all he had was the useless picket to defend himself with. Being involved with Olivia had caused him nothing but pain. The Duartes did nothing but cause his family a bunch of grief. Was it even worth it? Right now he wasn’t so sure that it was.

  “I ain’t gonna waste you, asshole. Just cut you up a little to pay back for that bullshit you and your brother pulled in front of Slim’s.”

  “Live and let live, Ace.”


  “Sure. Now that Roe ain’t here to do your fightin’ for you.”

  “I had nothing to do with you getting 86’d. Take it up with Mr. Jessup. That’s between you and Mr. Jessup.”

  “Not what this is about—and you know it. Made me look bad, punk.”

  “It never did take much, Ace.”

  “You gonna pay.”

  Ortiz drew the switchblade. Clicking the blade into place.

  “I’m no fighter. I don’t want to fight you.”

  “Shoulda thought of that before, bitch.”

  “Me and my brother were taught not to look for trouble. We were also taught not to take crap off trouble-makers like you.”

  Harold Crust’s front door opened and Harold stepped out on his porch. His right hand was down at his side, but it was plain that it held a gun.

  “You don’t want to see me raise my hand, Mr. Ortiz. Because if I do, the gun in it goes off—in your direction.”

  Ortiz stood there, undecided.

  “A while back you asked if I’d let you work with me, rent a chair to make a few bucks. . . . Said I was willing to try it. . . . Been in your moccasins, and willing to give a man a break . . . but you’ve got to stop carrying on like this.”

  Ortiz pressed a button on the hilt in his hand, and the blade retracted.

  “Go on about your business, Rudy.”

  Rudy nodded, and walked off. Ortiz spat on the sidewalk. Stood there shaking his head. Harold Crust re-entered his place, and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 168

  Olivia wiped her tears with a handkerchief. After a while, she slid the ring back on her finger. Marvin Muck walked in the same door Rudy had gone out a moment ago.

  “Sorry, sugah-bush. Couldn’t help but overhear what you two was sayin’ you be talkin’ so loud. Know what, baby? That jive mothah ain’t good enough to lick sweat off yo fine booty. That be the bottom line.”

  “I want to leave. Where’s Pearleen?”

  “Pearleen? Don’t know no Pearleen, me.”

  “Peaches.”

  “Peach? Peach be takin’ a shower. Said she was, ’till she seen them chicken feather’ in the baf’room an’ tub. Could be she change’ her mind. Who care’ ’bout Peach an’ them dopefiend’ anyway? I be worried ’bout you instead, sugah-bush. What yo hurry, baby? Ain’t no need to be in no hurry.”

  He left the Prayer Hall.

  CHAPTER 169

  Biggs remained watching Olivia through the two-way in the back wall, and thought: What the hell? Why not keep her here? So what if Rudy’s a witness and later claims he saw her in here last? By the time I finished with Olivia Candida Duarte, it wouldn’t matter who knew about it. Not only that, he’d have the dancers to do with as he pleased: Pearleen and Stella and Lana. Olivia and Pearleen would have been the Big Prize, though. Pearleen was still unwilling to put out, still playing hard to get. Bitch knew how to get him worked up, excited. It had cost him a lot. He’d spent big money on all that dope, but it had been worth it—and if he locked them in the church right now he could have his fun without having to pay another dime for it, for a few days, maybe weeks, until someone got wise and started to look for them in his place. It was a risk worth taking.

  Why the hell not? Could always get rid of the bodies afterwards. Even if punk Rudy Perez were to go around telling the whole neighborhood he had seen Olivia and the others in here before they disappeared, so what? What would that do to him? What kind of tight spot would it put him in and would he be able to work out of it?

  Sure; why not? He’d have the dead bitches disposed of by then. Before he did that, however, he’d have each victim sign a greeting card and seal the envelope with her own saliva. DNA.

  The greeting cards would say that all was well and not to sweat it. He would mail the cards from Vegas, while paying a visit to his fence out there and the guy he bought most of his drugs from.

  Sounded like a viable plan to him. One worth pursuing. Question was: Did he dare? Risk losing everything he’d worked so hard over the years to achieve?

  Biggs had his eye up against the two-way mirror and he couldn’t stop looking, imagining, wondering what Olivia looked like under all that clothing, how big her tits were, what kind of shape her ass had, her thighs, pussy—and how long it would take him to beat her into submission, absolute compliancy, and force her and teach her how to lick his cock and balls and asshole.

  That’s what he thought about now, as he eyed her through the opening. What sort of tricks could he come up with to humiliate her? Could he have anything new up his sleeve? Improve on all the other games and tortures he’d used in the past on the others?

  What would he make her do? He felt like going in there right now and holding a dagger blade to her throat and tearing her clothes off and fucking her right in front of the Holy Cross—just lay her down like that with that dagger against her throat, or maybe the dagger would be right up against her ass, or cunt, while he forced her to suck him off . . . with the catatonic in attendance.

  The possibilities were incredible. And this kind of thinking only gave him another erection, and caused his cock to continue pulsating as he squeezed it in his fist.

  He wondered if he had it in him to go again this soon? The Sepulveda cunt had drained him pretty good in the john. It didn’t matter. He was hard.

  Christ, he wanted her. Look at that untainted innocence—untouched beauty, unlicked pussy—pink and clean inside and fresh smelling. Even her asshole probably smelled like fresh spring flowers in the morning. Now that was purity . . . that was youth. . . . A clean, young thing like that, ripe, waiting to be taken . . . and dirtied up.

  CHAPTER 170

  Stella was in the hallway again, trying for the kitchen door for a second go, at least she wanted it to appear that way in case Biggs or one of his geeks walked up on her and she’d use being hungry as an excuse for snooping. Just looking for something to eat. Got the munchies. She looked about. When no one showed and the coast looked clear, she let go of the doorknob. Took a few careful and quiet steps down the hallway toward the front.

  She paused at the door that led to the basement and thought she heard noise, someone scream, a woman—but she could not be certain.

  She turned the doorknob.

  This door, too, was locked—and then Marvin Muck appeared at the opposite end by the front entrance, having descended the stairs from the above floor, or possibly having exited the living room.

  “What chu be doin’ over there, sugar-bush?”

  Stella smiled at him. “Looking for the bathroom, handsome. Gotta go again.”

  “You know where the crapper be. You was just in there.”

  “That last hit of crack Cecil gave us did a real number. Truth is, I can’t tell where I am: upstairs, downstairs. Know what I mean? Fucked me up.”

  “Know exactly what you be sayin’. Told you shit be fly.”

  Stella feigned wooziness. “I’m about to start gagging.”

  “Don’t do it on the floor. Cecil don’t be likin’ it.”

  “What the hell is it, anyway? What’s the odor? I’m about to puke.”

  “‘Lizzy Borden’ be the one. Ax killa Lizzy.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Marvin. My head’s spinning as it is. Lizzy Borden? Who slaughtered her parents back in the late eighteen hundreds? That Lizzy Borden?”

  Marvin chuckled, while hustling his nuts. He was always hustling his nuts.

  “No, man. Greta was pretendin’ to be related to the psycho bitch who offed her mamma and daddy. Usta work with Cecil at the haunted house. All the time. You know Cecil got that evil clown thing goin’ on: Trusty Lusty, an’ Greta would be all made up in her crazy-ass Lizzy part: nightgown and arms all covered in Technicolor blood. Was part of they act: to make like the ho be related to the real ax killa: Lizzy Borden. You know? Trusty Lusty’ Bordello of Fear. Peeps ate it up. Paid good coin to see the show. You never been? Missed out, sugah-bush—big time.”

  “Sounds like boo-shit.”r />
  “No boo-shit. The two of them put on a show was kick-ass. In Temple City. Peeps ate that shit up. Was lovin’ it. We was on Entertainment Tonight. Surprised you ain’t never heard.”

  “I may have. I don’t know. Who’s got time?”

  “All I be sayin’, Greta be her real name. Otto, Greta Otto. She the one. Do all the cookin’. Big ho burn everything all the time. Leaper ain’t no real cook, but the ho got to pay her way; jus’ like all the hoe’ got to pay they way. She come close to killin’ one of the member of the payin’ public two time’ too many. They was payin’ customer’. Bigg’ started lettin’ the bitch do her psycho Lizzy act part-time again not long ago; on weekend’, on account Greta love doin’ it; puttin’ fear in them peeps an’ shit. But then, about a month ago, in fac’, ho attacked two Messicans with a ax handle. No shit. They was employee of Cecil. You know, at the Bordello of Fear? Doin’ janitoral, cleanin’ the crapper’, an’ like that. Greta sent ’em both to the hospital for a few day’. Cracked they skull real nice. On account they was wantin’ some pussy. Tried to rape the bitch. Greta don’t play that shit. Don’t like mens. Except she ain’t had me yet. Anyway, reason bein’ why rollers shut our haunted house down the other day. For the time bein’. Messicans be tryin’ to sue Cecil; shakin’ his ass down for bank. Look’ that way. So, instead of lettin’ Greta go; instead of cuttin’ her loose, Cecil say she could stay on, bein’ the cook. Dude got a heart. Let her go back to bein’ the cook full time from now on, instead of workin’ at the Bordello of Fear. Only ho can’t cook, neither. That be the whole truff an’ nothin’ but the truff.”

  “I thought Cecil said you had a dead cat somewhere in the basement.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dat, too. Dead cat, dead rat’. Cecil’ dead shepherd Rutherford, and some other dead shit down there that be causin’ the odor.”

  “Thought he said the dog ran off.”

  “Yeah. Could be. Mostly though, it be caused by the cook: Greta Otto. Leaper.”