As he jogs into the alley, Frank chambers replacement bullets for his four spent rounds. He has a clear shot at the running man in the blue dress. He could easily put a slug between the guy’s shoulder blades. Instead, he shouts: “Stop or I’ll shoot!” His booming voice echoes through the narrow alley.
The man with the knife halts, & turns to face Frank. A scant ten yards separate them. A strong sense of unreality overcomes Frank. He is in a movie now, facing down Norman Bates in maternal drag.
“Drop the knife,” Frank commands, reverting to his generic cop voice.
The guy smiles at him, bats his false lashes, & suddenly Hawkes’ mind is jolted with a blue bolt of lightning—he feels the guy’s leering grin inside his mind, feels those false eyelashes tickling his own eyelids, feels himself losing control of the situation & of himself, wanting to squeeze the .44 Magnum’s trigger & blow the crazy fuck to Hell before the crazy fuck sends him to Hell, but his trigger finger won’t respond to Frank’s wishes. His gun hand is swinging around in slow motion, & in the time it takes for the muzzle of the gun to rest against his temple, he knows his adversary, knows that this man in blue drag is the killer of Mary Gruber & the others, & he glimpses Hell behind a wavering veil of blue.
“Devil’s Fucking Valley, man,” Slice says as he wills Frank to squeeze the trigger.
A gunshot rings out, echoing deeply, bouncing off the walls of the littered alley.
“Freeze!” shouts Rios, the stubby, blued barrel of his Smith & Wesson smoking from the warning shot he has just fired.
Slice’s mindlink with Frank is broken. Frank slowly pulls the “Dirty Harry Special” away from his head, a part of him still wanting to kill himself, wanting desperately to blow away the veil that separates him from Hell everlasting. The demons from Devil’s Valley are cheering him on.
Slice spins away & darts into the darker throat of the alley.
Rios aims his “Distinguished Combat” at the blue blur disappearing into the darkness, but he doesn’t shoot.
“Frank, are you all right? What in the Hell was that all about?”
“That was him,” Frank says, his voice sounding distant. “That was your fucking killer.”
[ 93 ]
Snuff does an unhurried walk-by of the “gangboy” murder scene, scoping the mouth of the alley with a fleeting glance:
No fuzz yet, he notes.
Just past & across the street is the drugstore. Snuff cases it quickly, giving it a practiced once-over to reaffirm his previous impressions, & wanders on down the street.
Still open. No apparent customers at the moment. Old building: probably a service door at the rear. On his earlier visit, he thinks he noticed a faded sticker for some burglar alarm firm stuck to the lower right-hand pane of the glass double doors at the entrance. But he doubts if the system’s turned on. Probably an old foil-tape & alligator-clamp wirejob, with the plastic-coated leads run to a dry cell battery in the crawlspace or storage room above the pharmacy.
No sweat. Even if it’s on, it’s more than likely local only.
The traffic, both vehicular & pedestrian, has slowed considerably since Julie’s ill-fated visit & his subsequent follow-up perhaps forty-five or fifty minutes ago. He checks his watch. It’s 11:23.
He crosses the street at the next corner. Walks west for four or five blocks, keeping a close eye out for graffiti scrawled on the brick sides of buildings, board fences, sidewalks, street signs, & bus benches. His hunch seems well-grounded. cOLd StOnEz turf judging by the preponderance of their crudely spray-painted signature.
Good. Real good.
Snuff spots a rundown apartment complex, closes in for a close-up scan. The boogie-boogie rap shit is booming its jungle jive from ghetto-blasters beyond the sometimes-curtained windows of both floors. He enters the parking lot beside it, checking the cars for a likely choice of punk-mobile.
He passes by several, & selects a battered, red ’73 T-Bird with DMX & Wu Tang Clan stickers plastered on the spiderweb-shattered rear windshield. Locked. But the driver’s window is open just a crack. Snuff snakes his GTA-helper through the window. The noose at the end of the slender, weighted strand of wire expertly snagging the button of the latch on his second try. A quick jerk, & it pops upward. He tugs on the handle, swinging the door open, & slides onto the seat. He shuts the door. Firmly. Quietly. Then hunkers down & reaches up under the dash. Nine seconds, & Snuff has it hotwired.
Piece of fuckin’ cake…!
He slips on the full-face, “generic Black” Halloween mask, one of several favored disguises that Mal carries in His attaché case. Then rolls his black ski mask up like a knit cap & pulls it down onto his head, half-covering his ears. We all looks de same to ’em, he giggles to himself. He takes a last quick scan of the parking lot’s perimeter, assuring himself that he’s free from opposition, then eases this boogie bomb out into the street.
Snuff steers the red T-bird conspicuously into the alley behind the drugstore. Pulls up just beyond the building in a dense mass of shadows, & kills the engine. The layout is just as he’d imagined it. A dented & rusted rear service door with an audible-alarm box mounted on the wall above. He uses the flat, credit-card-sized metal plate from his jacket pocket to jimmy the simple latching mechanism. There’s a slide-bolt as well, he can guess from the strategically-placed bolt heads at just-above chest level. He gives it an experimental twist of the doorknob, but no dice, they remembered to throw the bolt…
No sweat—from the same pocket as his lock-pick, he carefully removes the small vial of ninety-nine percent sulfuric acid that Mal had given him. He opens it—taking great caution to avoid spilling even the slightest droplet on his surgical gloves—& pours it onto the already-rusted bolt heads. Then waits several moments for the solvent’s action to take effect. He aligns his carbon-steel chisel. & a few sharp blows with a stray brick sheer off the thoroughly corroded bolt heads. Pays to come prepared! & nobody but nobody prepares for all possibilities the way that Mal does…
He tosses the chisel. Mal instructed him to if he had to use the acid. No fingerprints: wiped. Shoplifted: hence, untraceable.
[ 94 ]
After a restless night of demon-haunted dreams, Frank digs his old flowered swimming trunks out of his suitcase, dons them, & heads down to the motel swimming pool. He wears a comfortably frayed Chicago Bears T-shirt because he doesn’t want anybody gawking at the big, ugly bruise on his chest, his blue & purple tattoo from last night’s gunshot to his medallion. God bless you, St. Michael. Maybe I’ll become a fucking Catholic after all.
There aren’t many swimmers or sunbathers this early in the morning, so Frank has his choice of deck chairs. In fact, there are only three other people at poolside—a teenage girl who is just beginning to fill out the top of her bikini, a balding man with a worm-white pot belly & a smelly cigar, & a woman with a deep tan & the high-definition muscles of a feminine bodybuilder. Unlike a lot of women bodybuilders, this one has not—Frank is glad—pumped away all of her breasts. Her long, copper-colored hair is the perfect accompaniment to her richly bronzed skin.
He stretches out on a reclining chair, across the pool from the bodybuilder, so he can watch her from behind his sunglasses, hoping that such a pleasant sight will help him take his troubled mind off the maddening events of last night’s debacle at Mermaid’s Inn. She is wearing an imitation snakeskin string bikini & a pair of bugeye designer mirrorshades, in what seems the season’s fashion statement—cool, iridescent cobalt blue… Her eyes (whatever color? he ponders) are hidden behind her hip mask of sunstaring indifference, so Frank can’t be certain if she is watching him. Though his well-honed cop instincts inform him that she has taken more than a passing interest in him, as well. Sure, some sweet young things get off on middle-aged guys in the early stages of physical decline, but Frank doesn’t think this is the case here.
His scalp tingles & his gut suffers that familiar twinge that he gets whenever someone has just made him as a Fed…
(y
eah, dream on Frankie baby, that’s been more than a few years, but you can’t forget ever, can you, you can’t exorcise what once was from the reality of what now is…?)
…or private dick. Or that sense he gets when he is dangerously close to a subject he is tailing. Just as he is telling himself that his instincts are out of whack & over the hill, it comes to him that he is under surveillance. She is stationed with her suntan lotion, beach towel & straw bag so she has an unobstructed view of his motel room door (she wouldn’t expect that he would use the surfside door, probably didn’t expect him at the pool), & Frank is willing to bet that if he’d come out of his room & made straight for his car, she would’ve whipped a cover-up out of that straw bag, slipped it on, & jumped into her own car (he wonders for a split-second what make & model this sleek, hardbodied little number must be driving…?) to follow him.
He is no longer interested in trying to relax by the pool. He wants to test his theory. See if he is going paranoid or if he can flush her out of her bathing beauty guise.
Since he has just settled in the deck chair, it might appear suspicious if he gets up & leaves, so he decides to smoke & pretend to be enjoying the sun & the cool, salt-edged breeze off the ocean. Behind his aviator’s glasses he watches her pour suntan lotion into her palm, & apply it smoothly to her long legs. Frank can smell the coconut oil as her hand runs along her sleek, muscular thigh & over her knee…
Who the Hell can have a tail on me? Paranoia. Strikes deep. Into your life it will creep… Paranoia & wishful thinking, maybe. Yeah, I wish some sexy babe like her would follow me! Shit! But this ain’t some 007 James Bond extravaganza a la Hollywood sex-&-violence wet dream—& I sure as Hell ain’t any Sean Connery or David Niven or Roger Moore or…
No longer willing to give odds on being under the woman’s surveillance, Frank finishes his smoke & thinks back to the killer in the blue dress, & tries to make sense of the way the killer entered his mind, the way he took control of Frank’s will. If Rios hadn’t fired that warning shot, I know I would’ve pulled the trigger & blasted my brains right out of my skull.
Of course, he hasn’t said anything about the psychic invasion to Rios or anyone else. Frank is not quite sure he believes it himself. Maybe it was some kind of weird stress reaction, brought on by the hairy situation & all the close-range gunplay, & the fact I nearly bought a lead chest implant of the terminal variety…? Shit, I’ve been in boo-coo firefights & nothing like that ever happened before! Not that I’m too certain it’s the kind of thing you get two shots at—a .44 Magnum to the brainpan is generally a onetime thrill…
No way in Hell it was my imagination. Fucking A, no way…
After the mind invader disappeared into the thick darkness of the alley, Rios asked Frank why the Hell he was holding his .44 to his head. Frank, unable to think clearly after having his mind violated, mumbled, “Trying to confuse him.” Rios didn’t press him for further explanation, but wanted to drive him to the emergency room just to make sure that there was no internal damage from the gunshot to his St. Michael’s medallion. Frank refused. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just sore.”
Flipping his cigarette over the wooden fence surrounding the pool, Frank feels a deep ache in his chest. Feels like an elephant footprint. Shit, if I were to have a heart attack now, I wouldn’t fucking know it ’til it was too late.
He closes his eyes & relishes the sleepy feeling he gets from the warmth of the sun. The scent of coconut oil is suddenly stronger, & he looks up to see the woman in the snakeskin bikini standing over him. She is holding an unlit Virginia Slim in the V of her brown fingers, & she’s smiling. “Hi,” she says in a purring voice. “Got a light?”
“Yeah, sure.” He sits up straight, whips out his flashy, 24-kt. lighter, & opens it with a practiced flick of his thumb. The woman holds the filter to her lips & leans over, offering Frank an unforgettable view of her fine, firm breasts, oiled & gleaming. She touches the tip of her cigarette to the lighter’s flame, then inhales deeply, sensuously.
“Thanks,” she says, smoke streaming from her mouth & nostrils. The sea breeze whips the smoke away.
“Nice tan,” Frank comments. His cop instincts come back on-line, & he suspects that she’s after something more than fire for her smoke.
“Thank you,” she purrs, still smiling. “But it fades so fast, I wonder if it’s really worth the effort.”
“Oh, I’d say it’s worth it.” Frank pops one of his Marlboros from his half-crumpled pack, & lights it. “You on vacation?”
“No, I’m here on business.” She crosses one arm under her breasts, causing the coffee-colored mounds of flesh to blossom upward in the cups of her scant top.
“What business would that be?” Frank finds a stirring in the crotch of his swimsuit & he hopes she doesn’t notice that one of the printed flowers there appears to be spreading its tropical petals.
“I’m a rep for Olympic Iron, you know, the exercise equipment? I have to make the rounds of all the local health clubs & spas to convince them that they should be using our hardware.”
“Yeah? I knew you’re a bodybuilder.” He uses this comment as an excuse for blatantly running his eyes over her terrific body.
“I was a bodybuilder.” She corrects him. She takes another draw on her cigarette. “But I got bored with it. I found it was interfering with my vices.”
Frank chuckles.
He is about to invite her to pull up a deck chair & join him, when he sees Rios entering the pool area. “Aw, shit,” he mumbles.
“Pardon?”
“Looks like I’ve got company,” he nods in Rios’ direction. “A business associate.”
“Uh, too bad.” She glances at Rios. “Well, thanks for the light. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Maybe we could have a few drinks.” As she starts to walk away, Frank asks, “What’s your name?”
“Cherry.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. What’s yours?”
“Frank. Frank Hawkes.”
“See you later, Frank.”
[ 95 ]
Snuff tugs the ski mask down over his face, & enters the service doorway.
He watches them from his vantage point, peering through the grimy glass pane in the stockroom door. The obese black woman is still perched atop her stool like some garish, bloated parrot in her red-&-orange-patterned muumuu. Her bandana-wrapped head still buried in her Weekly World News. The frizzy-haired druggist is filling pill vials, gluing on labels & mixing up some medicine.
Snuff chills out, invisible because he believes himself so, his own biorhythms slowing, syncing with those of his intended victims, his pulse & breathing in tune with theirs, offering no hint perceptible of his presence: street-wise & slaying-savvy, the perfect urban predator.
When he finally chooses to make a noise, it is on his terms, serving his purpose in the greater scheme of his survival.
John B. (“Johnny”) Farbenkt, D.P.M., thinks that he hears a scurrying noise in the storeroom. “Goddamn rats! Again! I thought we’d gotten all the little bastards with the traps & the strychnine—”
He sets down his forceps & the bulk bottle of Dexedrine that he’s been using to carefully dole out Mrs. Washington’s refill prescription for her chronic narcolepsy.
“I’ll fix the little bastards, yet!” Johnny snarls, & picking up the metal baseball bat he’s stashed under the counter for just such an emergency, straight-arms the swinging door, storming into the back room. A fatal mistake. Snuff grabs him from behind, pinning him in a half-nelson, smashing him face-forward into the concrete floor.
The baseball bat clatters hollowly, rolling to a stop against a stack of HUGGIES boxes.
“Make one sound, & I’ll fuckin’ kill ya,” the intruder warns.
Johnny lies on his side, groaning, as he spits blood & broken teeth. His final act.
Snuff covers his victim’s head with the faded blue denim cushion from the manager’s office desk chair.
Using it as a crude but effective silencer. He draws the stolen .38 Police Special, shoves it deep into the pillow, & fires the first two shots into Johnny’s skull; then, repositioning the pillow, fires two more through the druggist’s heart…
[ 96 ]
“Yo, check it out,” says the scrawny young man, flipping his head so that his dreadlocks seem for a moment to be writhing snakes growing out of his skull, Medusa-like. “White bitch at six o’clock—”
“Dumb-ass trim, swishing her shit on our turf,” remarks his muscular companion. “She askin’ for it.”
“Shit, man, she looks like a shitkicker to me. I ain’t givin’ that bitch dick.”
“Saaayy, look again, KoKo. That ain’ no cunt, that’s a muthuafuckin’ faggot!”
KoKo grins. His dreadlocks dance over his shoulders as he nods his head. “You right, Bro. He wants to be a woman, we help him out.”
“Naw, jus’ scare ’im, man. I don’ wan’ no faggot blood on me. Might catch that killer shit.”
“Don’t you ever listen to th’ news, Abdul? It’a be cool long as you don’t fuck him up th’ ass or drink his fuckin’ blood.” KoKo’s hand dips into the pocket of his raggedy-ass 501s, & comes out with his ebony-handled switchblade. For a split-instant, the flickering blue moonlight plays across the figure carved into the dark, palm-worn wood: a man in tall top hat & antique, naval officer’s tunic & tailcoat— Baron Samedi, Lord of the Graveyards…
“C’mon, Abdul, we trim his ass ggooodd…”
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