Evil Jester Digest, Volume 2

by Holly Newstein

  You don’t have to like it, he told himself, and turned on the kitchen faucet. You don’t have to like it at all, but what goes around comes around. Karma, or whatever you wanna call it.

  He cupped his hands under the running water, splashed his face, drank from the faucet, splashed his face again, all the while thinking that it was okay if she was cheating on him; he just needed to know that she was okay.

  It was muffled and subtle, but he heard a bumping sound in the house. He brought his head up from the sink and looked around stupidly, then switched off the faucet.

  Silence. Either his wild-running imagination, or something as simple as the house settling. With a muttered curse he went back outside to the porch and took a seat in one of the two plastic chairs they kept out there. He fished out his cigarettes, placed one between his lips, lit it, and smoked as he thought about things.

  So she’d run off. Whether with another man or just away from him, he didn’t know. No signs of a struggle, no forced entry. Chances were slim that anything dangerous had happened. She was somewhere sleeping soundly, maybe even contented. Maybe she was even making love, but Kyle was now sure that she wasn’t in danger. He would hear from her soon, either by phone or her walking in, or maybe by being served with divorce papers. That’d be fine. Actually, that’d be good. He could be free, she could be free. And she’d be the one to instigate it, so no guilt. Whether she knew it or not, she would legally be telling him to go and be with Cassandra, to go live the life he wanted to live.

  He felt better now, calmer. He looked down at his cigarette, the red glow of the tip. In the darkness it looked like a planet on fire. He finished smoking, then stretched, stood up from the chair and stretched again with a simultaneous yawn. He went back into the house, closed the front door and locked it. With another yawn he went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, then crossed to the bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Sylvia was in bed. She was asleep. The bedside lamp was on and the romance novel was splayed on the bed, partially in her hand. Kyle shut his eyes tight and opened them again. She was still there. Impossible. He’d searched the house several times. He’d called to her. The bed had been made up nicely, but now the blankets and sheets were ruffled and in disarray.

  “Sylvia!”

  She stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, then she looked at Kyle. She cleared her throat, then said, “What? What is it?”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  She closed her eyes, stifled a yawn, closed the romance novel and set it on the nightstand, then lazily propped herself up on her elbow. “That’s what I should be asking you,” she told him.

  “You’ve been gone ever since I got back. That was well over an hour ago.”

  “Kyle,” she said, and stifled another yawn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been here the whole time. Have you been drinking?”

  “Not much,” he said, then ran fingers through his hair. “Where did you go? And how did you get there without using your car?”

  “Honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She yawned again. “I haven’t been anywhere. If I’d gone somewhere I would’ve taken my car. You know I don’t like long walks. Please, whatever is going on, sleep on it. We can talk about it in the morning, if whatever it is still bothers you. But I can’t stay awake, you know that. The tranquilizers I take really knock me out. So come to bed.” Her head dropped back down to her pillow and her eyes closed. “And could you turn off my bedside lamp? I can barely move.”

  For a time Kyle just stood there, staring at her. Was he going mad? No, not at all, not even a little bit. He knew she’d been gone. For all he knew she’d left the house five minutes after he did. No signs of forced entry. She’d left the house just as she always did—through the front door. But how, how, how did she get back in? He’d been sitting right by the front door smoking his cigarette. She hadn’t simply walked up, passed right by him and entered the house without him noticing.

  He looked up and across the room. The window. Had it been locked when he’d checked? He honestly couldn’t remember. She’d gone out however she’d gone out, but he knew to place his money on the window for her return. It was latched now, but it hadn’t occurred to him when checking the house. It just wouldn’t have made any sense at the time. So just what the hell had happened?

  He went back to the kitchen, took down the whiskey again. He drank several gulps, deep gulps, then he drank a couple more and went back to the bedroom, baffled, uncertain, and got undressed and climbed into bed. His mind continued to race but it also began to spin and slowly fade to black, like watching a sporting event from the very back seats of a stadium with dim lights. And the lights got dimmer, dimmer, then everything was gone and he was asleep.

  It was early dawn when he woke up to someone pounding at the front door. He blinked several times, shook his head, saw Sylvia asleep beside him. The pounding came at the door again. Kyle rubbed his eyes and then eased out of bed with a bit of a headache. Sylvia began to stir as Kyle stepped out of the bedroom and went to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police.”

  Head aching, still not awake, Kyle unlocked and opened the door.

  “What’s this about?” There was a plainclothes man and two uniformed officers flanking him.

  “Kyle Spencer?”

  “Yes?”

  The plainclothes man held up what appeared to be a warrant, then nodded to the officers, who moved in and cuffed him.

  “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “Kyle Spencer, you’re under arrest for the murder of Cassandra Downey.”

  “What!?”

  Just then Sylvia entered the room. “What’s going on?” she said sleepily. “Kyle, what’s happening?”

  “Ma’am,” the plainclothes man said, “is this your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he go out last night?”

  She paused for only a brief moment. Then, “Yes. He often goes out at night.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Your husband is being charged with the murder of Cassandra Downey.”

  “Cassandra who? Who’s that?”

  “You’ll find out all the details as we do, I’m sure.”

  Kyle was struggling against the two officers holding onto him. “You’ve got this all wrong. I swear I didn’t kill anybody. Yes, I went out for a while, but when I came back, she was gone!” He pointed his head accusingly at his wife.

  “Did you go out last night, Mrs. Spencer?”

  “No. I was home all night. I’m sure if you asked any of the neighbors, they could tell you my car was here the entire time.”

  The plainclothes man nodded, then looked at Kyle. “Do you know Cassandra Downey, Mr. Spencer?”

  That question was as hard to hear as the murder charge. Finally he managed to half sputter, half whimper, “Yes, I know her. She works at the Taco Cabana.”

  “She did work there,” one of the uniforms said. “You can’t work anywhere when you’re dead.”

  “You knew her pretty well, didn’t you?” the plainclothes man said. “What did she do?”

  “What?”

  “What did she do to make you go so berserk?”

  “I didn’t go berserk!”

  The cop sighed, looked at a pad of paper he had. “Coroner’s initial estimation is around thirty stab wounds. That tends to make it a very personal killing.” He turned to Sylvia. “I have a warrant, but I’m not without manners. Mind if I have a look around?”

  Sylvia, stunned, baffled, shook her head in disbelief and then nodded.

  Kyle couldn’t believe it. Murdered. Cassandra. His girl, the one he truly wanted to be with. It was incomprehensible. “What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

  “Only an idiot would leave their wallet in a pool of the victim’s blood,” one of the uniforms said.

  Kyle flashed back to downtown, when he’d realized he didn’t hav
e his wallet. But that was before he’d even met up with Cassandra. It was this realization that caused his heart to skip a beat, then another beat. He turned and looked at his wife. Her face was expressionless.

  “Here we go, in back of the closet.” The plainclothes man returned. He was scribbling on his pad. “Male clothes, blood stains.”

  Suddenly Kyle couldn’t feel anymore. Not terror, not depression, not hope, nothing. Nothing but a numbness with the slightest hint of awareness. He creased his eyes to slits. All that remained was a premonition of his own execution, the foreknowledge of his own death, and a single pulsing nerve that squirmed and slithered through his mind.

  He looked at Sylvia again.

  She stared at him blankly.

  Idealism withers for many reasons. For some, it comes with age—years spent battling the obstacles of a cruel world. For others, it’s simply the realization that personal wealth and the Golden Rule aren’t frequently the most cooperative bedfellows.

  Sammy is an optimist who becomes a border patrol agent to put a bright, compassionate face on a difficult job. But he’s about to learn things aren’t that easy.

  He’s about to take the harshest route to a dark reality he never dreamed possible.

  John Palisano, L.A. denizen and all-around great guy, is the author of many fine horror tales. His latest novel, Nerves, is available from Bad Moon Books.

  Vampiro

  John Palisano

  “No man’s land,” Sammy Avilla said as he looked out his window at the faraway peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. “La Tierra de Nadie. Suicide Alley.”

  They passed San Diego and rolled their converted pick-up through the outlying hills. Looking through the small window and into the back holding-pen area of the shell, Sammy imagined it filled with Mexicans. He turned to Danny Majo. “What’s the Wall like?”

  “The Wall goes into America twenty miles from the beach. And it’s actually three walls. The first one’s eight feet. There’s another reinforced steel wall, climb-proofed, between us and Baja.” Danny’s grin cut through his heavily pockmarked face. “We’re going right between them—throwing ourselves in with the illegals. Your arm still hurting from that shot?”

  Sammy nodded. “Hurts more now than when they gave it to me.” He rubbed his left bicep. “Never had a headache this bad.”

  Danny laughed. “Twenty-five? Shit. I got porn older than you.” He pinched Sammy’s sore arm. “You’re just hungry. We got to fatten you up. You in the mood for Mexican?” He laughed. “After tonight, you’ll never want to eat Mexican again.” He laughed again and nodded up to the front of the pickup at Solo, who was a few years older and a few inches taller than Sammy. “Right?”

  Solo grunted, and Sammy couldn’t see his eyes because big, silvery sunglasses that reflected the last rays of the pastel sunset camouflaged them.

  “Lay off him.” Von Sharp pointed back at Danny from the front passenger’s seat. “This isn’t a hazing. It’s a job.” Von was Danny’s age, but much better preserved.

  Danny grabbed the headrest and pulled himself up to Von’s ear. “This’s more than a job. We get to go out there and bust a bunch of fuckheads, don’t we?”

  Von looked like he was going to kill Danny, who just smiled and jabbed Sammy. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mean you. You’re not one of them. You’re okay.”

  “I’m Latino, too.” Sammy felt his ears turning red. “So what?”

  Danny sat back and spewed more obnoxious laughter. “You’re not looking for a handout or to take from this country and not give back. Christ, you actually took the time to learn how to speak English. Not like them.” Danny pounded his chest. “By the way, you’re my guy now. I’ll show your ass how this is going to work.”

  Sammy wanted to say something back to Danny, something about self-hatred, but couldn’t speak. He was dumbfounded.

  Not yet, but maybe later he would.

  A dull ache gnawed at the sides of his nose and the joints of his jaw—maybe the start of a sinus infection.

  “Why do you want to be out here with us night people?” Danny asked.

  “So I can make a difference for these people. Put an honest, good face to this.” Sammy stared at Danny. “That, and I can always go to the beach on my time off.”

  Danny laughed louder. “Oh, shit, kid, you’re killing me. You’re so clueless, my God. You ain’t going to do anything except sleep when you get some free time.”

  ***

  “So this is the other side of San Diego. Calexico.” Von gestured to the barren, dry landscape outside the pickup. “No steakhouses or fancy gas lamps out here. No baseball stadium. Just us between the walls.”

  “Yup,” Sammy said. “I’ve been out here before.”

  Danny cocked an eyebrow. “That so? Another slumming rich suburban kid who’s probably part of the Aztlans. Want to take it all back for your people, don’t you?”

  “That’s just a bunch of fear-mongers talking. Come on! That Mexican Nationalist stuff went out with rollerblades and Culture Club. I was here for science class at Cal State,” Sammy said. “Had us out here digging for rocks and plant life. Didn’t get too close to the wall, though.”

  “You sure you just weren’t out here smoking a little huh-huh trying to get inside little ol’ Squirtin’ Suzie’s dress?”

  Sammy shook his head. “Nah, man,” he said. “I’m a little more...romantic...than that.”

  “Bullshit,” Danny yelled. “You’re just another pud-pullin’, porn-downloadin’ motherfucker. Just like every- one else.”

  “Not really,” Sammy said. “Just the opposite.”

  Danny’s laugh morphed into a series of huffs. “What are you? A Jesus freak? Or a Mexican Jew? I mean, you’ve got light skin and freckles.”

  “I’m Atheist and I’m Argentinean.”

  “An Atheist from Argentina? Well, that’s a new one.” Danny thought for a moment. “You gave up on God just to protect the Mexicans, eh?”

  “I never believed in Christ in the first place.”

  “Shit. Come on. What’d your parents teach you?”

  “Nothing,” Sammy said. “I grew up with my grandparents.”

  Danny’s mood seemed to change. “That’s good, though. You’re in the right place. God can’t help you out here.”

  The pickup pulled up to a small station outside the wall. Solo rolled down the window. “Greetings, Neil.”

  A pasty fellow with deep, dark circles under his eyes jerked up from the bottom of the station house. “Hey,” he said to Solo.

  “Sorry to interrupt your dinner,” Solo said.

  “No worries,” Neil said. “It was cold anyway.” He scanned the cab. “Who’s the newbie?”

  Neil stared right at Sammy and didn’t blink. Sammy’s gut tightened.

  What the hell was he just doing eating off the floor? Something’s really wrong here.

  “Got his papers?” Neil kept his eyes on Sammy, who felt like his mind was being read.

  Solo nodded and handed over a yellow sheet folded in threes. “Here.”

  Neil took it and handed it back.

  “We good?” Danny asked.

  “Been a slow night,” Neil said.

  “Just the way we like it. No one out here busting our balls.”

  Neil looked down at his feet and kicked at something, which reminded Sammy of someone kicking a dog.

  He’s snuck his dog onto the base and wants to keep it quiet.

  The gate opened and Solo drove them down the sandy dune into No Man’s Land.

  ***

  Above the American side of the Wall, twenty-foot high work-lamps pooled grainy spotlights across the dunes and road. At the bottom of the hill they parked the pickup in one of the light pools so that it faced the Mexican side of the wall. As they got out, Sammy imagined the sandy highway stretching all the way to the ocean.

  Von carried a small suitcase-sized metal box with FLIR stenciled on it, which Sammy knew stood for Forward Looking Infrared,
meaning it detected body heat. “I’ll go set this thing up,” Von said.

  Danny and Sammy followed Solo to the pickup’s shell. “Fuckin’ Solo, man.” Danny shook his head as he sized up his rather large co-worker. “More like Chewbacca, you big ape.”

  Solo opened the rear door of the cab where Sammy spotted three Berettas inside a lock box. Why can’t they let us just use rifles? Sammy thought. His head was killing him and he tried to ignore it.

  Von reached inside. “We’ll just need these for right now,” he said and clutched a pair of binoculars and shoved them at Sammy.

  “So we’re just going to watch the alley until we see something?” Sammy said.

  “Right.” Von handed a second pair to Solo.

  Then Danny banged a hand on the back of Sammy’s back. “Welcome to the glamorous life.” He walked past him and clicked his tongue. “Let’s get a-peepin’, fellas."

  ***

  “What are those colorful boxes on the wall?” Sammy asked.

  Danny lowered his chin and smirked. “Coffins, man. Can’t you read what’s on them? Muertes. Used to be only on the Mexican side of the wall. Now those bleeding hearts are putting them up on our side, too.”

  Von pointed at the rocks about five hundred feet from them. “That’s pretty much where a fence should be. Right at those boulders.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Sammy coughed a little and tried to stifle stiflestifleit away by swallowing. His throat was getting dry and the aches in his jaw and sinuses were worsening. “Anything to drink out here? Anyone have any Tylenol? Head’s killing me.”

  “You’re just hungry. Don’t worry. We’ll eat in a little bit.” Danny sniffed the air. “I can almost smell it.” He winked at Sammy. “It’s almost like old, dried up cat piss, ain’t it?” He took in a lungful. “Or a million unwashed scurrying bloodsuckers taking a piss on America.”

  Von returned and pointed at his watch. “It’s after nine, you know. We’ve got a little bit until we’ll see any action. Mind if I...”