Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  Dancing her part in this techno two-step, Nadine deleted the first three messages while Puddin looked on. Pausing at the fourth, she resisted the urge to delete it as well the moment she heard the smarmy tones of Todd Citron’s voice,

  “Hi Nadine, Todd here. Guess we got off on the wrong foot over the weekend. Tell your Dad, no hard feelings. I think he had one too many, I don’t believe he meant half of what he said. Anyhow, I was talking to a couple of people at my production company, ToCit. It seems they have a really good treatment kicking around, there’s a lot of enthusiasm, and everybody is just dying to get started on the script. In case you haven’t guessed by now; hell, I’m sure you have, you’re a detective, it’s about you! At least, about your famous video-taped adventure. I can’t name names, but we’ve been courting a major talent to play you! She’s wild about the idea. All my people have to do is get together with you, come to financial terms, and get your signature on a contract.

  “Listen Nadine, we’re not talking chump-change here. This could mean a nice piece of green for you. You don’t have to do a thing, just sign over the rights to your story, then you can cash a big, fat, check! We really need to get moving on this, so, why don’t you give my agent a call? You can reach him at, --- --- ----. No need to call me, as I’m on the road scouting locations for another project. Remember, time is critical, so be a good girl and give my guy a call, pronto! Ciao, baby.”

  Puddin stared at the machine, curled her lip back in a snarl, and hissed. Laughing, Nadine said, “You got that right, Pud. Guy’s not just an asshole, he’s an unrelenting asshole.”

  Before moving on to the next message, Nadine chided herself for the misconceptions she had entertained, not only about Todd, but about his attraction to her as well. Naively, she had thought that Todd, a dyed in the wool Hollywood gad-about, had been drawn by her physical charms. Todd, a man who had been married to, or at least bedded, more than half of the most celebrated beauties in the film industry.

  What a joke. The phone calls, the date, all of it had had nothing to do with Nadine the woman, and everything to do with Nadine the potential protagonist of a film script. No doubt about it, vanity would kick you in the ass. Every fucking time.

  “Serves me right, Pud. It was just about time for my annual reality check anyhow. I got what I deserved, but I lucked out too. It could have gone farther, luckily Todd’s monster ego saved me from the ultimate embarrassment. OK, new message.”

  Telemarketer. Hitting the delete button, Nadine waited for the next message. When it came she quickly turned up the volume, Vassily. “Hi sugar. It’s important that we talk. Nothing to worry about, I just want to get some face to face time with my darlin’ daughter. I’m out of town for a couple of days, be home on Friday. So, how bout you leave a message on my machine, tell me when you can make it over. We’ll crack a few cans of brew, have one of our Pop to Princess chats. I miss you baby, see you soon. Bye.”

  Jesus. Well, that was a load off of her mind. Sort of. She had wanted to get ahold of Vassily, tell him she wanted to see him. Now he had left a message, telling her he had something ‘important’ to talk about. Her mind instantly leaped at the possibilities, going from probable to outrageous, and back again. She had to cut that kind of shit out, right now. If she let her imagination overwhelm her sense of order and reason she’d be useless, both to herself and to Vassily.

  Going to the kitchen for a beer, Nadine realized that perhaps having a couple of days to plan out her approach, her means of broaching her subject to Vassily, was probably a blessing. She would prepare well, but avoid overthinking the issue. She needed to emphasize intelligence over emotion. That was what a competent detective did. Question was, was she competent? Also, did she still even care about being a detective? A cop? She knew that, just as Johnny Vance had earlier, she was entering a crossroads. Would she find her moral compass to be as unerring as Vance’s? Could she match his decisiveness?

  Nadine had finished her beer before she remembered there was one more message left on the machine. She hit the button, frowned as she heard the deep, rich, tones of Butch Ritter’s voice,

  “Nadine. Chief Ritter here. I got a couple of phone calls today. One from the head of the state DOC, the other from the warden of Lompoc himself. They’re releasing an inmate this week; Fernando ‘Cuchillo’ Medina, he’s Chuey Medina’s older brother. Dude’s a bad piece of work, un hombre malo. He did over ten years on a manslaughter beef, couldn’t get any good time cause he was always fucking up. Major suspect in at least two killings in the joint, but they couldn’t make anything stick. Guy’s as cunning as he is sick.

  “Now, because he couldn’t get parole, he did the whole bit. When he walks out, they have no strings on him, no way of tracking his activities. In case you’re wondering what this has to do with you, well, he is Chuey’s brother. Also, after Chuey kicked the bucket, they got reports from half a dozen snitches that Cuchillo was talking a lot of shit, shit about evening up the score by going after you.

  “Most of the time these assholes talk that kind of shit, that’s just what it is, shit. But, apparently a lot of important people take this guy seriously enough to get in touch, give my department a heads-up. I’m passing that warning on to you. I’m sorry Nadine, but right now that’s all I can do. At this point you know as much as I do, but if you have any questions, or just want to talk, my receptionist has a standing order to put you through to me, regardless of where I am, or what I’m doing. What can I say kid? Hang tough, and circle the fucking wagons.”

  Hang tough and circle the fucking wagons? Hang tough and circle the fucking wagons? Hey, Chief Ritter. How about, fuck you and your gold shield too? Nadine sat, ran her hands over her face, her fingers through her hair. She was one beer short of calling Ritter, telling him she’d have her resignation on his desk in the morning. Fuck it. She’d have the beer, but hold off on the phone call.

  Drinking her beer at the kitchen table, she took an inventory. Thirty years old, and she had killed a man. Not accidentally, but purposely, violently. She had beaten a man to death. True, it had been self-defense. Uh-huh, just part of the job. An unfortunate part, but nonetheless, still part of the job. A job she had chosen, voluntarily. Obviously a poor choice. The fucking job. A job that had put her in the do or die situation that had resulted in the killing of Chuey Medina. A job that now seemed to be creating a duplicate situation, with the dead man’s psychotic brother.

  A job that was forcing a confrontation between her and the man she loved, more than anything in the world. The solution was simple, fuck the goddamned job.

  Curiously, her third beer brought clarity. She was through as a cop. She wanted no part of spending decades, mired in the primordial ooze generated by the limbic reactions of society’s basest predators. But, there was a time and a place for everything. Her resignation could wait.

  She would use her shield just as the name implied. If push came to shove with the latest Medina psycho, and whatever cohorts he had lined up, her badge might afford her some fortification. Reinforcement provided by LBPD’s own little army, a blue army, in which her good standing would be maintained until the day she relinquished her gold shield.

  Should it come down to a choice between that blue army and her family, well, that choice had already been made for her, on a hot desert night, twenty-five years ago. Though her conscious memory of those past events had, for the most part, failed her, she carried a deeper memory. A memory profoundly rooted in every corpuscle. A blood memory.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Cuchillo was pissed. Not his usual chronic simmering ire at the world and just about everything in it. This was an acute anger, brought on by his having to ride the bus into the town of Corcoran, and then having to wait. He was waiting for the woman to pick him up. Rolly Brigand’s woman. Looking at his watch, Cuchillo noted she was now eleven minutes late. Fucking cunt.

  Cuchillo hadn’t been crazy about the idea in the first place, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. It was eith
er Rolly’s old lady, or the bus, all the way to LA, and Cuchillo Medina didn’t ride no stinking bus. Fucking government and their RICO statute, had everybody worried. All his homeboys, shit, even his cousins. Nobody wanted to risk ending up on a surveillance tape, shot in the prison’s parking lot, picking up a notorious gangbanger like Cuchillo. Especially being that most of his friends and family were bangers themselves.

  #

  Rolly had made his offer a week ago, possibly because he had tired of Cuchillo’s ongoing rant; “Motherfuckers. I’m in this fucking place for years, now I’m hitting the bricks, and they tellin me no one, not one motherfucker, got the balls to drive in that lot and pick me up? Bunch of fuckin pussies. Maybe that bitch of a cop won’t be the only one I straighten out before I head south. RICO, what fuckin RICO? That shit’s supposed to be for the guineas, fucking Mafia, no?”

  Rolly said, “No more bro. Hell, they use it against the Angels and the other ‘big four’ biker clubs all the time. Shit, they even use it against the Crips and Bloods whenever they try to take their act cross-country. You in a club? You half-assed organized? You doing business? They will definitely try to RICO your ass.”

  “Motherfuckers. Why don’t they do their fuckin job, catch some terrorists?”

  Rolly laughed, “That’s all the new Homeland Security shit, and don’t you worry, they’re already finding ways to use that against us. That’s right bro, they’re looking at you and your homies the same way they look at terrorists. Looking through the same gunsights too.”

  “Fuck all that shit, fuck them too. Soon as I waste that bitch killed my brother, I’m out of the country. Viva Mexico. I could give a shit what happens after that. Right now, I got my priorities, and what I need first is a ride.”

  “Maybe I can help you out.”

  “How?”

  “No big thing. My old lady. I’ll give her a call, tell her to get her ass up here, pick your skinny ass up, haul it back to L.A.”

  “You got a woman?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Cuchillo grinned, “You a fuckin lifer. She gonna wait for you?”

  “I guess you don’t want that ride.”

  “Shit man, I do. I need that ride. I’m just sayin, you in here for life. No parole. I mean, what’s the girl doing for cock? Ever think about that?”

  “What I think, you keep talking shit? You won’t be needing no ride.”

  “Hey bro, I’m fuckin with you. Lighten up.”

  Rolly stood, “All the years you been in here, ever see anyone ‘fuckin’ with me?”

  Cuchillo frowned, eyeballed Rolly for a few long seconds, then said, “Look, no disrespect intended. What goes on between you and your old lady ain’t none of my business. I shouldn’t have said nuthin. OK?”

  When Rolly didn’t respond, Cuchillo shrugged, smiled and said, “Dig it. That’s as close to an apology as you’re gonna get. Now, what about that ride.?”

  Rolly grinned back, placed a hand on Cuchillo’s shoulder, said, “Not to worry, bro. I’ll set it up.”

  #

  Cuchillo paced, fuming. Yeah, this was how Rolly had set it up. Making Cuchillo ride the bus anyway. He didn’t give a shit it was just a short hop, it compromised his dignity. Apparently Rolly’s old lady wasn’t any fonder of prison security and surveillance than were Cuchillo’s homeboys. Now he here he was, thumb up his ass, waiting. Whore.

  Sixteen minutes late now. Fucking puta. Woman was probably lost somewhere. Bitch was most likely retarded. Had to be, hanging on with a lifer, a white-haired, gray-bearded, lifer at that. Dumb cunt. Cuchillo couldn’t begin to imagine what she looked like. Three-hundred pounds? One eye? A mustache?

  Two short toots of a horn brought him up short. Looking to the street, he saw a dusty black Nova backing into a slot. The car was a beater, sunlight glaring off the windshield kept him from getting a good look at the driver.

  Cuchillo made it to the car just as the woman exited. She walked around the front of the Nova, stepped up to him and said, “You’re Cuchillo?”

  “Yeah, and you’re fuckin late.”

  The woman shrugged, “Traffic on the 5, construction on 43. Here, let me take that.”

  She reached for his small duffle. Reluctantly he let her pull the straps from his grip. She laughed, “What, you think I’m gonna beat you for your junk? Never happen. Relax, I got so much shit, sleeping bags, laundry, whatever, piled in the back seat there isn’t much room. It’ll be safe in the trunk.”

  He watched her walk back, pop the trunk, toss his bag in. Snotty bitch. Bit of an attitude there. He didn’t like the way she moved. Too fuckin sure of herself for the little she had. Not that what she had was bad, there was just too little of it. She was skinny, and she was worn. Old. Fuckin forty if she was a day. Her floppy straw hat, and oversized shades couldn’t hide it.

  Still, it had been a long time for him. He felt his nuts tighten, and his cock begin to harden as he watched her walk back toward him. Slim, tanned, legs in cut-off jeans. Flat, hard, belly showing under a cropped tee-shirt that barely covered her small braless breasts. Under her hat and short brown hair, a makeup free face hovered, undecided, somewhere between pretty and plain. In the end, the ravages of time had given the nod to plain.

  Cuchillo figured, what with her being late and all, the bitch owed him. His mind had already fast-forwarded, producing image upon image of Cuchillo extracting his payment from her well traveled, but still serviceable body.

  He watched her the whole time as she checked her mirrors, pulled out, and made her way onto the blacktop. When she’d left the town behind, hit her cruising speed, she took off her hat and shades, settled in. Cuchillo said, “Yo, you got a name?”

  She kept her eyes on the road, said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Well?”

  Taking her eyes from the road, she found his, locked on, said, “Well what?”

  When she turned her eyes on him it was like he was back inside. Same hard, cold, stare you’d get from most every con. Didn’t bother Cuchillo a bit. Hard eyes? Cold eyes? Didn’t mean shit. Only thing might make Cuchillo step gently was dead eyes. Eyes like Rolly’s. Eyes like his own. This woman was no mad-dog, she was just tough. Cuchillo didn’t sweat tough.

  He smiled and she turned back to the road. He opened the glove box, began to rummage, talking as he searched. “You know, I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot back there. I didn’t mean nothing by that ‘late’ thing. Just, I been inside for so long, man, I didn’t want to spend anymore time hanging around in no shithole, dig?”

  Cuchillo dropped papers, candy wrappers, and assorted junk on the floor of the car, diligently kept searching. The woman said, “You looking for something in particular?”

  “Gun would be nice.”

  “Well, you won’t find one there, or anywhere in the car. You think I’d drive into a town houses a max security joint with firearms in my vehicle?”

  “I don’t know what you’d do. You seem kinda dumb, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Hey, you got a knife in here, maybe?”

  “No, no knife, asshole. Quit messing up the car. Rolly does you a solid, this is the way you act? What do you think Rolly’s gonna say when I tell him?”

  Cuchillo laughed, “See? That’s what I mean, dumb. You think I give a fuck bout Rolly? What he gonna say? What he gonna do? Dumb.”

  “You wouldn’t talk that shit, Rolly was here.”

  Cuchillo continued to rummage, found a Bic pen, placed it on the dash, resumed his search, “Even dumber. Rolly ain’t here, and he ain’t never gonna be here. He’s inside, ain’t getting out. You? You are right fucking here, with me. Your God is in this car momma, and I’m him. Start getting used to it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Cuchillo dropped the last of the glove-box debris on the floor, looked inside, and there it was. Smiling, he reached in, dug beneath a pair of slip-joint pliers, and pulled out a long, thin, electricians screwdriver. Hard rubber handled, with a nine inch shaft and a Phillips-head
, the tool didn’t just fit his hand, it simply became a part of it.

  Grinning he said, “Wish I had this beauty in the joint, beats a sharpened toothbrush all to hell. Now, mommacita, you’re going to school.”

  Scorpion quick, Cuchillo slid across the bench seat. Hip to hip with the woman, he grabbed her neck from the rear with his left hand, exerting all his force on the two pressure points on either side of the slender column. Surprised, but undeterred, when she refused to cry out, Cuchillo placed the tip of the screwdriver in the woman’s ear. He said, “First time you give me shit, I’m gonna stab through your eardrum. It’ll hurt like hell, and you can throw away your stereo headphones for good. You got that?”

  “Yeah.” The bitch’s voice cracked when she said it, and Cuchillo smiled wide. He continued, “Rule one, I ask you a question, you answer. With respect, understand?”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “OK. You keep this car moving, nice and steady. First time you fuck-up, eardrum. Second time? It’s over. I need the car, I don’t need you. I take this screwdriver, it’s a long motherfucker, and I ram it into your fucking ear as far as it will go. Honey, as empty as your skull is, it’ll come out the other ear. If it don’t, I’ll pound it with my fist, bang that fucking handle in till it can’t go no more. That should kill you. If not, you’ll spend the rest of your days staring into space, drooling, and shitting your diapers. Now, what’s your fucking name?”

  “Sarah.”

  Cuchillo kept squeezing her neck, “OK, Sarah. See, that’s how you should have answered the first time, instead of jumping all snotty. Next question, what you been doing for cock?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Rolly’s my old man. I don’t mess around.”

  Cuchillo laughed, “Yeah, right. You funny, ought to use that one in your stand-up routine. Dude’s been inside more than ten years, and you don’t mess around.”