Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “No, I don’t. Did Rolly put you up to this? He making you ask me these lame questions?”

  “Rolly don’t make me do shit. Ain’t no one does, remember that. I ought to take your eardrum just for talking that shit. Keep it up, I will. Now, what do you do when you’re wanting a hard prick?”

  “I have a good vibrator, buy my batteries by the case.”

  Cuchillo grinned, “Yeah, I’ll bet. Hey, you got one of those double-pronged ones? You know, works both holes at the same time?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m old-fashioned, just a straight-on Pocket Rocket’s all I need.”

  Cuchillo took the screwdriver from Sarah’s ear, moved its point to the hollow at the base of her throat. Sticking his tongue in her ear, licking, then placing his lips to the wetness, he said, “I got something for you, lot better than your Pocket Rocket. You doing me a favor, picking me up, driving me, like this. I appreciate it. I’m gonna do you a favor, give you what you been missing all these years.”

  Taking his left hand from her neck, draping his arm over her shoulder, Cuchillo switched the screwdriver from right to left hand, maintaining the point’s contact with Sarah’s throat. With his right hand he removed Sarah’s hand from the wheel, placing it on his now hard cock.

  Lips back at her ear, he whispered, “There you go, momma. That ain’t no vibrator, baby. That there’s the real deal.”

  “Yeah, it is. Maybe you’d better lighten-up. You’re gonna make me have a wreck.”

  Cuchillo’s hand snaked under Sarah’s cropped tee, quickly rubbing both breasts, before settling on her right nipple, twisting it painfully. He said, “Yo, get with it. This is the new millennium, everybody’s multi-tasking. Start rubbing. Give it a little squeeze now and then.”

  “Look, I’m serious. All these big-rigs on the road, speeding, we’re sure to get killed if I start paying attention to that ‘big-rig’ of yours. You’re right, I could stand some solid fucking. Why not? Piss on Rolly. There’s a rest area about thirty miles up, good spot for us to take care of business.”

  Smiling, Cuchillo slid away from Sarah, leaned back, said, “Fuck that rest area shit. You got any money?”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “Good. What we’re gonna do, put about fifty miles between us and that shithole back there, find a town. Then we find a liquor store, then we find a motel. Then, I’m gonna fuck your brains out.”

  Sarah looked over at Cuchillo, grinned, and said, “Promise?”

  Stupid bitch. Cuchillo thought briefly about letting her live after he’d finished with her. He quickly dismissed the idea. What would be the point? He’d party with her, let her finish driving him to LA tomorrow, then cut her lying throat. He’d never believed in sparing potential witnesses, he wasn’t about to start now. Besides, the old cunt was on the downside of her life, he’d be doing her a favor. A hot and heavy night with a young stud, before she made the trip to hell. Skank like her, where else would she be going? Let her go out on a high.

  #

  After her close call with Wolf and Ray Bob, Sarah found Cuchillo more slimy, than scary. Still, she’d breathed a sigh of relief when he released her and slid back to the passenger side. She reached for a cigarette, lit it, checked her mirrors and her speed, tried to relax. Wasn’t easy with Cuchillo’s snake-eyes glittering at her.

  The tension was leaving her neck and shoulders, the pain in her sore nipple had receded, then Cuchillo spoke, “Sarah?”

  “Yes?”

  “Rolly, he ever talk about me? Tell you stuff?”

  “You know, he isn’t much of a talker. What he did tell me was, you’re a heavyweight. Not a dude to be messed with. I can see he was right.”

  “Me and you, Sarah, we’re gonna get along just fine. Rolly ever tell you what I’m gonna do when I get to LA?”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  “I’m gonna kill a cop.”

  “A cop? No shit? I don’t know if I should be hearing this.”

  “Shit. You good people, I trust you. This cop?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Motherfucker killed my bother. My baby brother.”

  “Your baby brother? I’d say you have a good reason.”

  A fast, hard, movement, and Cuchillo buried the shaft of his screwdriver, to the hilt, in the front seat. “Fucking-A right I got a good reason.”

  Nervous again, Sarah took a hit on her cigarette, said, “You gonna shoot him?”

  “Him? Ain’t no fuckin ‘him.’ It’s a bitch. A fuckin cunt. And no, I sure as shit ain’t gonna shoot her. No way. Bitch is gonna suffer. For hours. Days.”

  Putting her cigarette out, Sarah put both hands on the wheel, locked her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure, but she hoped she hadn’t flinched, when he extracted his screwdriver, slid to the center of the bench seat, said, “Sarah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You gonna treat me real good when we get to that motel, huh momma?

  “You bet, baby. Real good.”

  Cuchillo grinned, said, “That’s good. Cause, I’m gonna tell you a few things. Things I got planned for that cunt cop. Thing is, what you need to remember? Everything I’m gonna do to her, well, I’ll do the same to you if you don’t make me happy. Dig?”

  Sarah blinked, swallowed, voice a raspy whisper, said, “I’ll make you happy.”

  “Then, you got nothing to worry about. Now, first thing I’m gonna do that cop, is beat the living shit out of her. Next, I’ll fuck her. Kinda take the edge off, so’s I don’t get too crazy too fast. Then, I’m calm, I can go to work.”

  Cuchillo’s left arm lifted, reaching, his hand found Sarah’s sore nipple. She gritted her teeth as he exerted pressure. Not much, but sore as the nipple was, pain radiated through her breast. When she gasped, he eased the pressure, said, “Nipples. Gonna be working with a straight-razor. Take them fuckers right off. Gonna show the bitch a mirror, let her get a good look. Give her an hour or two, let her get used to her tittie’s no nipples look. Then . . .”

  Sarah’s voice was loud, “Do it. Get it the fuck over with.”

  Cuchillo laughed, he caressed her breast, “Easy momma, don’t get nervous. I want her to suffer, you dig? Ain’t sure what’ll come off next. Maybe her ears, maybe her nose. I don’t know, maybe I’ll stick with her tits for awhile. Yeah, take one whole tit off next. What you think, baby?”

  For emphasis Cuchillo squeezed her breast. Through gritted teeth, Sarah said, “It’s fucking time, do it.”

  Grinning Cuchillo purred, “Kill her? Oh no, I can’t finish her too soon. Thing like that, you got to draw it out, make it last, enjoy yourself. I . . .”

  Cuchillo saw a flash of bright yellow pass his eyes, felt a colossal constriction engulf his neck, then heard a gritty voice in his ear, “She wasn’t talking to you, motherfucker.”

  Sarah checked her mirrors, pulled to the shoulder of the road. She lit a fresh cigarette, her eyes moving to the floorboards, where Cuchillo’s feet were beating out a staccato tattoo. She exhaled through her nostrils, brought her gaze up, wondered what would pop first, Cuchillo’s eyes, or the snakelike veins writhing on the Iceman’s biceps as he pulled against the knotted yellow nylon rope wrapped around Cuchillo’s neck.

  Smiling, smoking, Sarah kept her eyes locked on Cuchillo’s until the light went out of them.

  #

  Sarah had held up alright. As he watched her drive, the Iceman thought about how much more there was to her than met the eye. True, there’d been a little friction between them right after he’d dumped Cuchillo’s body on the shoulder, pulled his .22 and fired a round into the dead man’s temple. He’d still had the door open, one foot on the blacktop, when she peeled-out, leaving yards of rubber. He’d slammed the door, yelled, “Hey! You almost lost me there.”

  Sarah answered, “I was trying to. Wasn’t fast enough. Asshole.”

  He took the yellow rope, with its knots at three inch intervals, bunched it up, tossed it in the glovebox. Looking at her he said, “What’s th
is about?” He brandished the .22, “That bother you? Widowmaker’s signature?”

  “Fuck no, I’m cool with it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Time.”

  The Iceman broke open the derringer, extracted the spent casing, tossed it out the window. He replaced the spent shell with a live round, put the weapon in his boot. “Time?”

  “That’s right. You sure took enough of it, before you made your move.”

  “Your fault.”

  Sarah glared at him, “My fault? Where do you come up with that shit?”

  He grinned, “You fixed me up so good and comfy, on the floor back there, shit, I dozed off. You must have drove twenty miles before I woke up.”

  “Let’s get something straight. I don’t think you’re funny. There’s nothing funny about killing people. Not even monsters like that piece of shit Cuchillo. He deserved it, and I’m not sorry about my part in it, but far as I’m concerned it’s not a joking matter.”

  He reached out, put his hand on her shoulder, said, “You’re right. It’s one reason I’m bringing this shit to a halt. I’m jaded, in danger of becoming something as bad as those I’ve been eliminating. I’m sorry I tried to make light of it.”

  “It’s OK. But, I’m still pissed about the way you waited, subjecting me to all his nasty sadistic shit, before you acted.”

  “I did that for you.”

  Sarah snorted, “Yeah, right. I gotta hear this bullshit. How does getting pawed, abused, and threatened by that psycho translate to ‘for you’?”

  “Tonight, nights to come, you start feeling morose, guilty, about your part in this, you just remember your time spent with that fucking snake. Remember what he was willing to do to you, and remember what he had planned for that lady cop. None of that was hearsay. It was Cuchillo, his own words, his actions. You put that in your memory bank. Trust me, it’ll keep you from loosing any sleep about Cuchillo.”

  She grinned, “I still wish you would have acted sooner, and I’m not as squeamish as you think. I’ll sleep like a log.”

  “I don’t think you’re a bit squeamish, but you’re moral. It’s your morals that can get to you.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. You’ve got morals too. Yet, you manage.”

  “Barely, and it gets harder every time. Dealing with amoral assholes, I got to hide mine away. Even from myself. I’m afraid, one of these times, I won’t be able to find them again.”

  She reached up to her shoulder, covered his hand with hers, said, “That’s what I’m here for, keep you from loosing your morals, and your way.”

  “What’s been missing in my life, a moral compass.”

  “Not anymore, cowboy.”

  “You know, you were good back there, a pro. I’m proud.”

  “I’m fine with ‘good.’ A ‘pro,’ no thanks. Once was enough.”

  “Too bad.”

  Sarah slowed the Nova, looked at him, said, “Too bad? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  He turned on the seat, faced her, and said, “It means there’s one more.”

  “One more what? Killing?”

  The Iceman didn’t speak, eyes on Sarah’s face, he nodded.

  She said, “No. Sorry. That’s it. You said you needed my help, on this one. The last one. I kept my word, helped you. How about you keep yours?”

  “I think if you hear me out you’ll see that I am.”

  “No more, I’m out.”

  “Don’t you want to know who we’re gonna kill?”

  “Not interested.”

  “Trust me, this’ll tickle you.”

  “Bullshit. No.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Alright! Who?”

  “The Widowmaker. We’re gonna snuff the Widowmaker.”

  Sarah laughed, said, “Consider me tickled.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Vance had a ton of paperwork he should be slogging through. He also had a major case of the fuck-its.

  Working his way through all the Widowmaker files stored on his hard-drive was an alternative to confronting the mundane forms and statements, hard-copy, paper gnats and mosquitoes, that circled ready to buzz his sanity. Seeking escape, he was but a few mouse-clicks away from Windows’ facsimile of the pin-ball machines he’d battled as a youth. Winning battles. Seemed like most of his youthful combats had been. Not like this Widowmaker thing. From Vance’s current perspective the case now appeared as a no-win situation.

  Shadow covered his desk, he lifted eyes, and Sheba Johnstone loomed. Her tone neutral, she said, “Vance. My office, now.” Turning, she made her way across the bull-pen to the small glassed-in cubicle that constituted her domain. Vanishing inside, she left the door ajar.

  Mentally mired, he greeted Sheba’s summons with considerably more enthusiasm than he normally would have. Anything to get from behind his fucking desk. If she planned to take him to task, so be it. Maybe a shot of healthy confrontation would be just what the doctor ordered. If so, past experience had taught him, Sheba was more than capable of supplying said confrontation.

  Vance reminded himself not to jump too eagerly into the fray. Sheba wasn’t an unreasonable person, best that he let her speak her piece first. Her meeting, he’d let her set the tone. He could afford to follow her lead, he’d always been one hell of a counter-puncher. Stepping through the door, he smiled, said, “Sheba.”

  Still standing, Sheba said, “Close the door. You drink that garbage, comes out of the vending machine, they call coffee?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I drink out of the urn in the squad-room.”

  Sheba made a face, “Ugh, that’s even worse. Would you like a cup of real coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  She walked over to a bookcase; a 12 cup Mr. Coffee, various implements and cups occupied a middle shelf, poured a cup, called over her shoulder, “Sugar, creamer?”

  “Black’s fine.”

  She walked back, handed him the cup, “There you go. Sit.”

  Vance took a chair facing Sheba’s desk, sipped, said, “Good. Very good. What is it?”

  “French roast, vanilla.”

  “Really. Got any croissants?”

  Smiling, Sheba said, “Glad to see you’re still a smart-ass. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Why? You looked in a mirror lately?”

  “I know, I know. Gary Cooper.”

  “Gary who?”

  “C’mon Sheba, don’t bullshit. You ain’t that young.”

  She grinned, “No, and you aren’t that handsome. Gary Cooper, my ass.”

  “So, what’s wrong with the way I look?”

  “Last few days, you’ve been moping around here, dragging ass. You look like you won the lottery, and your ex-wives sued you for the money and won.”

  Vance raised his cup in toast, “Why I don’t play. If I won the fucking thing, that’s probably what would happen.”

  “Seriously Vance, what’s wrong? You letting this Widowmaker case get to you?”

  “Not ‘letting’ it. It just is.”

  “C’mon, you’re more of a pro than that. Work the case, don’t let the case work you.”

  “It just pisses me off. I thought we’d have something tangible by now. The woman, the dancer, Sally Brown. I thought for sure we had something there. Nothing. Far as I can see, that’s totally blown. She’s gone.”

  “Any chance he killed her?”

  “I doubt it. Women, he rescues them, doesn’t kill them. It’s not his style. Hell, it’s not who he is.”

  “Any chance he abducted her?”

  “Nah, she ran. She got spooked, and she split. She’s street smart, been around, she knows how to disappear. That’s what burns my ass, it’s the fucking frustration. It’s hard to handle.”

  “Too hard?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Do you want out? Do you want off the case?”

  “I want off the case, I’ll fucking ask to be taken off
. Thirty years, I never quit a case. Not quitting this one either.”

  Sheba shrugged, “I’m just asking. What about Kozok?”

  “What about her?”

  “How’s she coming along?”

  “She’s good. Quick study. Eager to learn. Be a lot better for her, and for all of us, we had more to work with.”

  “Well, the good news is, you do have more to work with.”

  “He do another one?”

  “It’s a strong possibility. We’ve got a body. We have to wait on a ballistics confirmation to be sure. But, me? I’d say it’s one of his.”

  “That’s your good news, what’s the bad?”

  Sheba frowned, “The victim. It’s Cuchillo Medina.”

  Butch Ritter had alerted Vance, along with Sheba and Nadine about the eminent release of Chuey Medina’s psychotic brother. Vance had wasted no time in pulling Cuchillo’s rap-sheet, getting an idea of what his partner, and of course he himself, might be up against. He grinned, “Don’t sound like bad news to me, sounds like a reason to celebrate. Shit, I’ll buy the first round.”

  “Not so fast. If it was the Widowmaker, then we’ve got a connection between him and Nadine, one of the investigators on the task force.”

  “Quite a stretch.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Vance pushed his hat back, said, “Think again. Widowmaker targets shitbags. You’d be hard pressed to find a bigger shitbag than Medina. So, where’s the problem. Widowmaker just did what he’s been doing all along. This time he just went after someone who had a connection, an indirect connection, to a cop.”

  “A cop who’s assignment is to take him down.”

  “Coincidence.”

  Sheba shook her head, “I don’t like coincidence.”

  “Me neither, but shit happens, all the time. This is just one of those times.”

  “OK. Let’s leave that alone for the moment, at least till we get something definite back from ballistics. The MO here, it’s off, not standard Widowmaker.”

  “Maybe because it’s not him.”

  “Possible. But they got in touch with us because there was one shot to the temple. A .22.”

  “That the killshot?”