Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “Vito?”

  “No, that doesn’t feel right. There’s another party, a woman. That heel is pretty good proof of that.”

  “I think those teeth will fit in with that. They look small to me. Forensics will ID them as female.”

  Nadine says, “Look at the way these two mutts were dressed, practically rags. Their van’s a piece of shit, their rap-sheets don’t indicate that they’re big thinkers. They’re a couple of nickel and dime strong arm guys, and rapists. They’re not ambitious planners.”

  “So? They have a woman, maybe one of the dancers, working with them. She planned it, lured Vito outside, then they offed him.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Vance snorts, “Why? For the fucking money.”

  “No, I mean why lure him out? The money is inside. If they have a woman working with them, she can let them in. If killing Vito is part of the plan, it’s a lot better to kill him behind closed doors. Right?”

  “Makes sense, go ahead.”

  “It was the woman, she was their target. They were waiting for her, more than likely abduction and rape their intention.”

  “And, Vito?”

  “The baseball bat. Vito came out here to kick some ass.”

  Vance grins, “Struck out instead.”

  Preoccupied, nodding, Nadine says, “All the way out. OK, how’s this sound? There’s a woman involved. Dancer, cocktail waitress, whatever. She’s not in cahoots with Wolf and Ray Bob, she’s their intended victim. She’s leaving work, the lot’s deserted, she spots our boys, gets leery.”

  “Understandable, looks of those two shitbags.”

  “Right. She goes back into the club, recruits Vito to escort her to her wheels. Vito comes out ready to crack skulls, underestimates the boys. Ray Bob blows Vito away, the woman makes a run for it. The hounds give chase.”

  Vance holds up a hand, “Whoa. This Ray Bob, pretty handy with his piece. Seems like he could’ve capped the woman too, no sweat.”

  “They wanted her, alive. Remember, they were waiting for her, not Vito. Whatever their reason, they planned to abduct her.”

  “So, you don’t believe she could’ve been with them, part of their crew?”

  “No way. These guys were pervs, they were looking to grab this woman for a night of fun and games.”

  “Or a week, a month, or more. I mean, they’re willing to run her down on foot, they must of had some serious motivation.”

  Nadine holds out her arms, motions, “OK, she’s coming this way, terrified, running for her life, flying. Snap! There goes her heel, she’s down. Right about there. OK, the puddle of blood, the teeth. Right here. This is where the hyenas got her.”

  “Blood and teeth, fucking animals must’ve put the boots to her. Check out this furrow here, looks like they were dragging her back to their van.”

  “Right, dragging her, dragging her, and then! Smack dab in the middle of their path . . . our hero.”

  Vance frowns, “I told you . . . Will you cut that shit out? The Widowmaker’s a killer, fucking vigilante, he’s a psycho not a hero.”

  Grinning, Nadine says, “Hey Vance, this woman he saved. I want to see you tell her that. Better yet, I want to hear what she calls you after you state your opinion of her rescuer.”

  Shaking his head, refusing to take the bait, Vance says, “You’re doing something a good detective shouldn’t. You’re making a huge assumption, that the woman’s alive. What’s to say he didn’t cap the woman too? She’s a witness.”

  “If the Widowmaker hadn’t of intervened in the first place, what would she be a witness too? He saved her to murder her? Yeah Vance, makes a lot of sense.”

  “Guy’s a fucking nut case. He doesn’t have to make sense, he’s crazy.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “Ask your hero.”

  “Well, if he’s got her, or her body, where’s her car?”

  Vance grins, “OK, I could say we don’t know that she had a car. But, I won’t. Thing I got to learn about you, you have a bit of a contrary streak. Butting heads is a waste of time. So, I’ll tell you straight out, I think you’re right, she’s alive. I think our boy let her slide. Now, know what else I think?”

  Nadine places a hand on Vance’s shoulder, “Same thing I do. This woman is the key to our case. Which means, finding her is our top priority.”

  “Exactly. Logan’s got this manager, Mike, coming in, chances are he’ll be able to tell us which girls were working with Vito last night. We move quickly, we should be able to talk to this gal first. Shit, she might be able to ID our guy, tell us what he was driving, might even have gotten his plate number.”

  “Let’s go inside, talk to Logan. We can look the club over, maybe find something else that will help, while we’re waiting.”

  Already walking, Vance says, “Yeah. I’m telling you, those .22s? They’re gonna be a match. The Widowmaker was here, he left evidence, and, best of all, were gonna have us a witness.”

  “If we can find her.”

  “Piece of cake. Hey, we’re detectives. Right?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thirty-seven thousand dollars. Actually, thirty-seven thousand seven hundred and eighty dollars. Not a fortune. Certainly not enough to retire on, but more than enough to enable Satana to get the fuck out of Dodge. Not a complicated plan, but a workable one.

  After leaving the carnage of JuicyTown behind, she’d made a beeline for her pitiful apartment. First thing she’d done behind the semi-security of her locked door was tally the total of her JuicyTown spoils. Talk about your pleasant surprises. Satana suddenly felt a hell of a lot less like a cornered rabbit. She’d instantly become a gal with options.

  One option she didn’t have was remaining in Long Beach. Or California. The law would soon be knocking on, or knocking down, her door. That was a given. Even more disturbing was the possibility of her rescuer shedding his shroud of benevolence regarding Satana. Seeking her out, her eternal silence his goal. Paranoia? Maybe, but in her experience paranoids seemed to have a higher survival rate than those who employed a blanket philosophy based on blind trust.

  It had been years since Satana liked what she saw in the mirror, and today’s reflection was a huge step down. All the way from disappointing to frightening. Not much she could do about it. Wash up, put up her hair, change out of her bloody rags. Some ibuprofen for her pain. That was it. Time baby, definitely of the essence. Besides, she’d returned to the apartment to bury Satana, not resurrect her. Sally Brown too. They’d be laid to rest, side by side, in the same psychic cemetery.

  She ran the overhead fan in the bathroom as she burned her Sally Brown drivers license over the toilet. Flushed the ashes. So long Sally. Never could bring myself to like you, you spineless little shit. Time for Sarah to step up. At least Sarah Burns has some substance. Grit. Balls. Sarah can do this.

  On her knees, peeling back the threadbare wall to wall carpeting from its tackless stripping, she breaths a relieved sigh when her fingertips find a corner of the hidden envelope. Standing, she removes her Sarah Burns ID package: valid California drivers license, and a debit card for a currant, but meager, checking account. Thirty-nine years, many of them lived outside the law, have taught Satana / Sally / Sarah the value of an ace in the hole. No better hole card than a genuine alternate ID.

  Rest in peace Satana / Sally. Sarah? You go, girl!

  #

  Sarah shuts the Camero down, turns the rearview mirror toward her, making a final adjustment to her short brown wig. It was a good one, acquired in the days when Sarah still had had a future. Shag cut, fluffy, undetectable, perfect. Hell, it should be. It had cost more than her entire shabby wardrobe, a wardrobe she’d for the most part abandoned as she’d closed the door to her apartment and her past life.

  Traveling light, she’d packed one small duffel with toiletries, essential underwear, and half of the JuicyTown money under a sweatshirt. The rest of the money, along with Vito’s .380 was deep in bottom of h
er large traveling purse. Two bags, neat and sweet, just in case part two of her improvising didn’t pan out. Soon as she finished with her inspection in its mirror, she’d be kissing the Camero goodbye.

  Much better. She looked mildly attractive, if not ravishing. The wig, and some pancake, applied sparingly, made a difference. Nothing she could do about her fat lip, time alone would deal with the swelling. Hell, made her look kinda trendy, just another collagen-lipped bimbo. Of course, she dare not smile, talk about a shattered illusion. It was alright, soon as she got situated, some good dental work would move to the top of her list. Definitely a priority. Sarah planned on doing some smiling in her new life. A lot of smiling.

  The way Sarah was feeling right about now? Euphoric! Her long stride propelling her quickly across Anaheim St, her ankle not a problem. Shoes had a lot to do with it, she wore her sturdy, rubber soled, Reebok black leather hi-tops. Never, in a million fucking years, would she again submit to the torment of stiletto heels. Satana had reveled in slutty ostentation, not limited only to her attire, but in her life-style choices as well. Sarah Burns would embrace a pragmatic modesty.

  Making it across, she turned, scanned the strip mall parking lot she’d just left. Last look at her Camero, parked next to a couple of dumpsters. The car, once a fast moving beauty oozing flash, now a battered wreck, parked next to the trash. Yeah Satana, if the metaphor fits wear it, baby. Goddamn, left behind, locked in the trunk of her beater Camero, the specter of poor Satana. Keep on truckin, Sarah.

  She found the alley halfway between Obispo and Redondo. Like they would have moved it? Checking her surroundings, she steps into the narrow thoroughfare and takes the Camero’s plates from under her arm. Squatting, she drops them into a storm drain. Weaving her way through scattered debris she confronts the possibility that, unlike the alley, Boob’s shop may have been moved.

  Boob, sweet guy if there ever was one. Fifty-odd years old and lived with his momma. Once married, once being more than enough. Now a forever confirmed bachelor, committed only to his mistresses: Lady Budweiser, which he drank by the case, and a legion of aging Volkswagens whose beauty came to the fore once again, brought to life by the genius of his loving restorations.

  Sarah had worked a raucous bachelor party held at Boob’s spacious transmission shop. Boob had thrown the celebration for one of his buddies, had been responsible for paying her. Sarah had been the girl jumps out of a cake. She’d made it clear, she was a dancer. It was strictly a dancing gig, no physical contact of any kind, period. Fine with Boob, he’d introduced her to a dude was helping him work through a case of Bud that afternoon. Guy’s name was Greg. Big, tattooed, with lots of hard muscle and harder eyes. Greg lit her cigarette, told her he’d be there that night. Anybody put his hands on her, he’d put his hands on them. The gig had gone off smooth as spandex.

  That had been what, two years ago? She’d actually gone out to dinner with Boob a couple of times. She’d enjoyed herself, Boob wasn’t a ball-breaker, wasn’t hustling to get between her legs, she’d felt free to let her hair down, be herself. A first for Sarah, a true platonic relationship. They’d maintained a loose contact for a year or so, before allowing their affinity to dwindle. She hoped Boob’s copious beer consumption hadn’t erased all memory of her.

  Stepping out of the alley, into a parking area that ran the entire length of a large industrial building, Sarah was relieved to see the big back door to Boob’s shop, first one on the end, right where it had always been. It was open. Great, she had a shot.

  Sarah checked her watch as she walked through the door, 7:15, normally a take care of business time of day for her. Shopping, laundry, other chores. A night-owl, Satana usually hit the sheets at noon, rose at 6:00 PM, and made her gig at JuicyTown by 9:00. Sarah, still running on Satana’s clock, should be able to get most of what she had planned accomplished before fatigue set in. If, Boob came through.

  Luckily, Boob liked to get an early start on his hangovers. Bleary-eyed, disheveled, hair and beard tangled into snarl that lent mystery as to where one began and the other ended, Boob exhaled, adding to the cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding his head. Sipping coffee from an oversized mug, he blinked as Sarah’s silhouette filled the wall over his desk. As Boob wheeled his swivel-chair around, Sarah says,

  “Hey. Who does a girl have to fuck to get a cup of coffee around here?”

  With his free hand Boob patted down his desk top, found his glasses, and slipped them on. Staring, eyes void of recognition, Boob says, “Coffee’s free, don’t have to do a damn thing. Clean styrofoam cups in the cabinet over the machine.”

  Sarah walks across the width of the shop, drops her bags on a pickup truck bench seat, now serving as a couch, fixes herself a cup, then waving the pot in Boob’s direction, says,

  “Thanks. Top yours off, Boob?”

  “No. Thanks, I’m good. Excuse me, but, do I know you?”

  Sarah laughs, starts singing Bob Seger’s “Night Moves,” as she dances her way to Boob. Standing in front of him, she concludes her brief performance with a belly bump, and a series of pelvic thrusts, then dropping into a chair she gives him a little moue, says, “How soon they forget.”

  “Holy shit. Sally?”

  She reaches across the desk, puts her hand over his, says, “Hey, Boob? Honey, you either got to clean the axle grease off of your lenses, or give up the Budweiser.”

  “I had a wife once. Used to give me ultimatums like that. Know what happened?”

  “You kicked her ass out the door, so hard that her shoes stayed on the welcome mat.”

  They both laugh, Boob says, “Wow, you remembered.”

  “Remembered? Shit, Boob. You told me that story a hundred times, all in the same night too.”

  “I told it once, the beer told it the other ninety-nine.”

  “Right. So, how you been?”

  “Same old, same old. But what about you? You lost some weight. You’re not a blond any more, and, hey, it looks good. But, don’t get pissed, what’d you do to your lip? That’s not that shit, that corrigen, is it? Tell me you didn’t do that to yourself.”

  “Collagen, and no, that’s not what happened to my lip. I had a little accident, nothing to worry about. It’s history, I’m leaving it behind me, and to do that I’m gonna need some wheels. I thought maybe you had a couple of restored V-Dubs for sale. Thought you could help me pick one out, give me a righteous deal.”

  Boob offers her a cigarette, takes one himself, and after lighting them up, says, “Sure. I got four. Two beetles, one square-back, one mini-bus. All fucking cherry. Restored from the pan up. Totally rebuilt engines, transmissions, trans-axles. New paint, new interiors, seats, tires, battery, the works. Plus, lots of custom extras. Beautiful, you know my work.”

  “I do, it’s why I’m here. Money is kind of an issue for me. So, what are we talking, price wise?”

  “Money’s an issue for everybody, me included. I’m only taking cash these days. I’ve been burnt too many times in the past by too many ‘good people,’ with ‘good intentions.’”

  Sarah grins, “Hey baby, I can dig it. Like I said, what are we talking, money-wise?”

  Taking a bottle of Ten High from a drawer, Boob tops off his coffee, tilts the bottle toward Sarah’s cup. With a shake of her head, she declines. Boob takes a hit off the bottle, caps it, and puts it away. Dragging on his cigarette, he says, “You know how much I like you?”

  “Shit, Boob. I like you too.”

  “No, I mean, you know how much it meant me? Taking you out, having a girl looked like you sitting with me. Smiling at me, drinking with me. Laughing at all my fucking corny jokes. Well, I’ll tell you, a lot. Hell of a lot.”

  “No big deal Boob. I had a ball.”

  “Right. You did. I could sense that, what made it real, what made it so great. Nice little memory, and I appreciate it.”

  “Boob, I’m gonna be doing some traveling for awhile. Little soul-searching. But, I’ll tell you something, I get back this
way, nothing I’d like better than to do a couple of those dinner dates again. I mean it. Square business.”

  Boob hits his coffee mug, grins, says, “I know you do. I’ll hold you to it, be looking forward to it. You can take your pick of the Beetles, either one, don’t matter. Four grand. Now, that’s my cost. The vehicle itself, parts, paint, materials, that’s money out of my pocket. That’s what you’d be reimbursing me for, at four-thousand. The weeks, the hours of my labor, that go into the final price I’d expect from a regular customer, that’s where I make my profit. Well, in your case, no charge. Lets just call it a labor of love.”

  Sarah flashes her tight lipped smile, “Aw, Boob, that’s so sweet. I appreciate that, and I may end up with one of those beetles, but what about the micro-bus? I’m gonna be a road warrior, honey, chalking up some mileage, maybe doing some camping. A good van might be more suited to my needs.”

  Sipping his coffee, smoking, Boob says, “I’ll be glad to give you the same kind of deal on the bus. Thing is, I got a lot more out of pocket on that rig, than on the beetles. The micro-bus is eight grand to you, twenty to anyone else.”

  “Eight is cool, more than fair. Knowing you, I’m assuming it’s all tricked out.”

  “Honey, you don’t know the half of it. That little blue wagon is my pride and joy, I outdid myself on that beauty. Hell, c’mon, let’s go take a look.”

  #

  The blue bus is haulin’ us. Paraphrasing Jim Morrison in her head, Sarah has surrendered her cares to the open road. Boob had definitely outdone himself when constructing this Porsche powered, mile-chomping motherfucker of a micro-bus. Freewheelin’ Sarah, choogling along at a steady 70; Riverside, Blyth, so long California.. Quartzite, Salome, Wendon, Aguila. Howdy Arizona.

  Aguila. Last stop, everybody off. Maybe. Sarah was investing a lot of hope in her crank and alcohol fueled memories of a bygone weekend. A surreal time of dry desert flatland, howling winds, and a macabre session of hide and seek. A game played among the scattered ruins of an ancient motel, populated solely by dead palm trees, and the ghosts of even deader alcoholic desert rats, an austere army of saguaro cactus defending its borders. If the motel was indeed real, where the fuck was it? Did it exist only in Sarah’s imagination, a short-circuited, hot-wired, cluster of aging and damaged cerebral protoplasm?