Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

“No. The shot was post-mortem. Medina was strangled.”

  “Sheba, we’ve got a copy-cat. This ain’t him.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second, but I’ll concede the possibility, at least until we hear from ballistics.”

  “I understand following your hunches, I’ve made a career of it. But, this instance, I think you’re wrong. Any other differences?”

  “Location. He’s been killing in Long Beach for years, but this one was way the hell up by Corcoran. On 43, fifteen miles out of the town of Corcoran itself.”

  Vance pulled his hat back down, “Shit. Killer nailed him when he got out of the joint.”

  “Looks like it. Nobody picked Medina up, he left the prison on the bus to the town. No record of him leaving the town though.”

  “Somebody picked him up, in the town. They knew his release date. They didn’t want to pick him up at the prison. Must’ve been part of Medina’s crew, a wanted felon. Someone who didn’t want to risk being made by prison security.”

  “Why kill him up there? Why not wait till he was back on familiar turf?”

  “Dude was smart, didn’t believe in shitting on his own doorstep. Or, there’s the possibility it wasn’t premeditated. It might have been spontaneous.”

  Sheba grinned, “Classic ‘falling out amongst thieves’. Over what?”

  “Who knows? Money, drugs, women, pack of cigarettes. Take your pick, life’s cheap to skels like Medina.”

  “If you’re right, then it’s not our problem. We can just forget it, and you can buy that round of drinks.”

  “If I’m wrong?”

  “If that .22 is the Widowmaker’s, we’ll be taking a trip. Up to Corcoran.”

  “We’ll?”

  “You and I.”

  “What about Nadine?”

  “If it turns out that the Widowmaker did Cuchillo Medina; a guy who was the brother of a guy who died by Nadine’s hand, and who was threatening revenge, there’s no way Nadine is going to remain on this task force.”

  “You’re overreacting. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “That’s because you’re not an administrator.”

  Vance stood, adjusted his jacket and hat, said, “ Something for which I’m eternally grateful.”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Nadine took the call from Vance, enroute to Vassily’s place. She took little joy in the news of Cuchillo Medina’s demise. True, her concern over Cuchillo coming after her had been abated, permanently. Yet the possibility that the Widowmaker had been Cuchillo’s executioner, only served to add credibility to Vance’s theory on the killer’s identity. A theory that Nadine had considered preposterous only hours ago, now seemed more feasible with every passing block.

  By the time she reached Wilmington, and the cyclone-fenced enclave where Roy had his business, where Vassily and Roy maintained their separate living quarters at opposite ends of the huge lot, Nadine was lightheaded and queasy. Parking in front of an adjoining lot, it’s two acres home, unbelievably, to a small heard of goats, she shut down her Explorer. She spent a minute doing some deep-breathing, another minute praying for strength and serenity. Strength, above all.

  Walking toward her fathers trailer she began to suck it up. Coping, using her brother’s techniques, she imagined she was Bill, making his way down an aisle bordered by hostile fight fans screaming for his blood, entering a ring of blazing light, facing Maxon or any of a number of equally vicious opponents.

  Strong again, Nadine felt silly. Ashamed, that she’d over-bought into Vance’s ludicrous theory. Shit, right now, she wasn’t a cop. She was a girl, coming to visit her dad.

  Nadine paused to give the bike parked in front of Vassily’s trailer a cursory inspection. Not one of his that she was familiar with. An old Harley, she knew the engine was one they called a Panhead. Chopped, the bike was old school in style, from the raked neck and long extended front-end, to the upswept exhaust pipes. Despite it’s age, the machine was well maintained, it’s buffed black lacquer and highly polished chrome gleaming in the moonlight.

  The trailer’s door swung open to Nadine’s knock, and her father stood, huge, backlit by interior light. Nodding toward the chopper she said, “New ride?”

  Vassily answered, “Nah, old friend. Sixty-two panhead stroker. Blast from the past.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. C’mon in honey.”

  It had been awhile since her last visit to her father’s home, still, everything appeared to line up with the minds-eye picture she had retained over the months. Cramped and cluttered, but essentially neat and clean. Vassily motioned her to the couch and then ducked into the small kitchen area. His voice drifted back to her, “Beer?”

  Nervous, her eyes quick-scanned the walls, lots of framed photos, all old, no new additions, Nadine answered, “Sure.”

  Vassily returned, two cans of Bud in one hand, the other gripping a half-full bottle of Beam by the neck. Placing the drinks on the wooden industrial cable spool that served as a coffee table, he turned and plucked a shot glass from a bookshelf.

  Nadine watched as her father poured and knocked back a shot, chased it with half of his beer, then settled in his chair across from her. Tattoos writhed on the knotted muscles of his thick arms as he lit a cigarette. She saw the glare from the match highlighting the crags and gullies of his face, some, the footprints of father-time’s relentless march, others, reminders of his fellow man’s capacity for mayhem. Mayhem which, she knew from observation through the years, Vassily was capable of matching, blow for blow, kick for kick, cut for cut.

  A man of violent surges, who, in spite of his capacity for havoc, had never raised a hand to her. A man who had shown her more patience and tolerance than was his wont with most others, including his own flesh and blood progeny, her step brothers, Bill and Roy. This was the man she had called father for years, long before the courts had granted official recognition of the title through the process of adoption.

  Turning his head, Vassily blew smoke away from Nadine. Fifty-four and the man still looked much as she remembered him over the decades. Had Vassily aged well, or had the ravages of a harsh and excessive lifestyle aged him before his time, some quirk of nature finally putting the aging process on hold until chronology caught up?

  Being Vassily’s call, with its message of something ‘important,’ had initiated this meeting, Nadine decide to put her agenda on hold. She’d let him clear his issues first. Besides, looking at the man, she was beginning to feel ridiculous. Maybe Vance really did need to retire, take his stupid theory with him.

  Head still turned, Vassily took another drag on the cigarette, reducing it’s length by half. Whatever it was, Nadine found it obvious that Vassily, normally never at a loss for words, was having difficulty beginning. She took the initiative.

  “So. Pop. What’s up?”

  Facing her, his dark brown eyes locking on hers, Vassily said, “OK. Here it is, straight out. I’m your father.”

  Nadine grinned, “Yeah Pop. It’s why I call you ‘Pop,’ not just because you’re an old fart.”

  Shaking his head, Vassily says, “No. Square business. I’m your father.”

  What was this? Early onset Alzheimer’s? Nadine said, “Yes. You’re my dad. I know that. I have the adoption papers to prove it. So?”

  Putting out his cigarette, draining his beer, Vassily said, “Put out your hand.”

  Befuddled, Nadine blinked at Vassily, did nothing. Gently, Vassily said, “C’mon honey, just do it. Palm up.”

  Slowly, tentatively, she does as requested. Bending his head, left hand cupped under his cheekbone, Vassily manipulates his eyelid with his other hand. A small piece of dark plastic falls into his palm. Straightening, he reaches out and drops the brown tinted contact into Nadine’s outstretched hand. Leaning across the table he says, “Look at me baby. Look your father in the eye.”

  Focusing on Vassily’s left orb, Nadine sees an exact duplicate of her own bright green, golden mottled, eye. Unable t
o give voice to her shock, she looks down at the small piece of plastic in her hand. Overtaken by a sudden shiver, reacting as one might to a poisonous spider, she suddenly sweeps the lens from her palm.

  Vassily says, “Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. We can do DNA if you want, but it’s true. Fuck all the adoption bullshit. You’re my daughter.”

  Looking at Vassily, meeting the stare of her own odd eye’s twin, she says, “My God. Why Pop? Why? All these years. You kept this from me? Even resorting to disguising our obvious link. Why?”

  “Long, complicated, story. Not a pretty one.”

  “Tell it.”

  Vassily pours another shot, downs it, motions with the bottle to Nadine. She declines with a shake, almost a shudder, of her head. Setting the bottle down, he moves to the kitchen, returns with two more cans of beer. Popping and draining half of one, he lights up a cigarette and says, “I’m praying with all my heart that you won’t hate me. Don’t have to keep loving me, just don’t start hating me.”

  Nadine opens the other beer, drinks, and meeting her fathers eyes, says, “Tell the fucking story Pop.”

  “You know what they say, careful what you wish for, and all that shit.”

  Nadine said nothing, her penetrating glare conveyed a message mere words couldn’t. His eyes pools of concentrated sorrow, Vassily scowled, said, “Buckle up your seat belt baby, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Blyth, CA.

  Twenty-Five years ago.

  “Shit Ralph. You fucked up. Big time. Irrevocable. Now you got to pay.”

  The speed and whiskey still coursing through his veins gave Ralph’s balls a heft and density they normally lacked. At least that’s what Vassily figured it was. Ralph began talking shit the minute he’d been allowed to turn around and face Vassily. The .357 in Vassily’s hand hadn’t deterred him. Of course, it should have. Vassily was a serious dude. A heavy dude.

  Although high in pitch, Ralph’s voice came out forcefully, “Pay? Pay for what? Fuckin cunt was my old lady. My old lady, not yours. You been fuckin my old lady for years, and I got to pay? I ain’t saying I don’t appreciate your sense of humor, but, I got to pay? Why?”

  Even with his brain; his heart, and, if he had one, his soul churning, grinding, being viciously dismantled by his grief, grief at seeing what remained of the woman he loved lying scant yards away, Vassily was cool. The ‘Iceman.’

  Voice low and even, he said, “Why, Ralph? Let’s see, I ain’t the DA, but I do believe they’d be calling this one murder. Guess you could call this a citizens arrest.”

  Snorting, Ralph said, “Citizens arrest, shit. You fuckin rat, pussy piece of shit. You gonna snitch me out? Some fuckin Ice Man. That’s your answer, why I got to pay?”

  “Hey, you’re right. I am the Ice Man, and rattin people out definitely ain’t my style. Let’s say you have to pay cause I got this.”

  Crystal meth and sour mash taking him far beyond the borders of reason, Ralph’s sneer widened when Vassily brandished his revolver. Ralph said, “Oh, you got the piece. Right. You also got this rep as a bad ass. Guess we both know what a bunch of shit that is. Put that fuckin gun away, let’s see where you’re at. We’ll pick up a couple of them kitchen knives on the sink over there. You an me, see how it shakes out. You punk motherfucker, you’ll be layin on the floor next to that whore. Just as fuckin bloody, just as fuckin dead too.”

  Pausing for breath, then pointing over at Nadine, now crouched in a corner, Ralph continued his rant, “Her too. I’m gonna put her down too. Right next to her piece of shit momma, and her punk-ass daddy.”

  Vassily acknowledged that Ralph was a dead motherfucker. He just needed a few minutes to put together a viable way to snuff Ralph, without going down for murder. It was also time to bring the meth-addled psycho back to reality. Lowering the hammer on the cocked .357 he held in his right hand, Vassily dropped his shoulder and, stepping into the punch, hit Ralph a vicious left-hook. Ralph went down like the sack of shit he was.

  Ralph landed flat on his back, the whole flimsy trailer shaking with the impact. Looking down, at the huge tweaker, Vassily hoped the blow hadn’t terminated Ralph’s existence prematurely. He had a plan.

  It was common knowledge among the speedfreaks, bikers, dealers, low-rent stick-up artists, and assorted other shitbags that made up Ralph’s scraggly retinue, that he carried a brace of .22 caliber Davis derringers. One to each snakeskin Tony Lama. Squatting, Vassily lifted a leg of the unconscious man’s jeans. Faux pearl, a derringer’s grip, winked up at him from Ralph’s boot top.

  Grabbing Ralph by his belt with one hand, by his arm with the other, Vassily used the considerable power of his legs and back to heft the huge wife-slayer off of the floor, and onto the couch. Looking at Ralph’s face, the jaw swelling rapidly, Vassily saw numerous other lumps and contusions. Tessa had given as good as she got, at least for awhile.

  Assuming that he had broken Ralph’s jaw, Vassily was willing to bet that whatever hick cops investigated the case, would figure the damage to be a part of the overall bedlam Tessa had wreaked with the cast-iron skillet lying on the trailers floor.

  Ralph was beginning to stir. Showtime. Looking over at Nadine, her saucer-eyes still fixated on whatever phantasms only she could see, Vassily turned, angled his body, back to the child, reached down and freed the derringer from Ralph’s boot. Breaking the barrels he checked the loads. Both barrels good to go.

  Snapping the weapon shut, Vassily drew back the hammer, cocking the piece. Placing the barrel against Ralph’s temple, he pulled the trigger.

  Looking down at the dead man, Vassily had to restrain himself from spitting on the corpse. Had to keep the rampant emotionalism of his Slavic blood in check. Assuming that, like semen, saliva could possibly provide evidence against him Vassily was determined not to fuck up.

  Turning, he looked over at Nadine. Girl still had that thousand yard stare. Good. It was gonna work out just fine. Stepping over pieces of broken furniture, Vassily made his way to the kitchen. Tearing two paper towels from a roll, he wiped the derringer down. Two towels should be more than enough to remove his prints from the small piece, clean, no evidence.

  Now, the girl. Nadine. His daughter. Fuck that train of thought. If he wanted to beat this thing, walk away clean, well, he’d better get straight. No daughter. He had no daughter, only an accomplice. An accomplice who’d, hopefully, remain silent. Remain silent, and take the fall for killing Ralph.

  Derringer held, wrapped loosely in a towel, Vassily walked over to Nadine. Squatting down in front of her, he stared into her eyes. Nothing there, out to lunch. Maybe a long vacation. Maybe even permanent. Too bad, Nadine was a pretty good little kid. Jesus, look at that eye. His eye. Damn, couldn’t deny that, could he? Hey. Fuck it. Get a grip, man.

  Holding his hand between his face and Nadine’s Vassily snapped his fingers three times. Fast. Hard. While the loud cracks have no effect on the girl, they do serve to bring Vassily back into focus, nipping his guilt trip in the bud.

  Gently, slowly, Vassily walked Nadine over to the couch. Carefully, he wrapped her hand around the derringer. Then, his own hand engulfing hers, he pointed the gun’s barrel at the cushion under Ralph’s head. Wrapping his other arm around the girl’s head, covering her ears and eyes simultaneously, spreading the fingers of his hand slightly, Vassily whispered in Nadine’s ear.

  “It’s OK sugar. You’re gonna be alright. We’re just gonna bust this last cap, get that gunpowder residue on your hand. That’ll be proof enough for the law that you done the deed. Don’t you worry none though, darlin. They won’t do nothing to a five year old kid. Shit baby, know what? You’ll be a legend. Little girl took out the scumbag that killed her momma. Hell, Bob Dylan will probably write a song about you.”

  Vassily squeezes Nadine’s hand and the derringer barks, short and sharp. The .22 round enters the pillow, inches from the spot where it’s sibling had found a home in Ralph’s temple. Stuffing
the paper toweling into the pocket of his jeans, Vassily then lowered Nadine into a sitting position on the floor. He arranged her legs, crossing them Indian style, then placed her hands, folded around the empty derringer, in her lap.

  Nadine, pliable, moveable, a living, breathing Gumby in Vassily’s hands, now sits motionless, a flesh and bone mannequin, once he ceased his manipulations. Staring down at her Vassily stood, statuesque himself, for over a minute watching the girl for movement, any inkling of awareness. Nothing. This is about as good as it’s gonna get for now. Time to split.

  Gently placing his fingertips on his daughter’s head, clearing his throat, Vassily says, “Nadine, honey. This ain’t over. No way. I ain’t leavin you for good. That ain’t what’s happening here. I need little time in the wind, let the cops close their investigation down. Swear to God babydoll, I’ll be back for you. Your momma’s sister, your Aunt June, well, being she’s my wife, there ain’t gonna be no problem us getting custody of you. Meantime, you’ll be in a nice place, hospital probably, getting better. Now, soon’s as I get to a phone I’ll do a 911 call. Someone will be here, right quick. So long baby.”

  Two strides and Vassily is at the trailers door. Adjusting the .357 in his belt, he stares out at the moonlit alkali barrens. Desolate, a fucking Mars-scape. Perfect homestead for a wife-beating piece of shit like Ralph to plant his motley castle. Nobody to know, nobody to care. That was the trouble. Vassily knew, he should have cared, stepped-in years ago. But selfish prick that he’d been, he just hadn’t cared enough to do what needed to be done. Until tonight.

  Little late there, cowboy. You done just fine on the revenge part, but you sure fucked-up on the rescue. Tessa, half beaten, then strangled to death. Nadine, God forgive him, a cauliflower, stark-staring loony, sitting on the bloody floor. Fuck it.

  Pulling his .357, Vassily, two-handed, placed the revolver’s barrel between his eyes. Cocking the piece, he placed a thumb on the trigger. His big hands grinding the barrel, hard, into his forehead, he doesn’t want to fuck-up, join Nadine in the produce department, he’s ready.