As everything coalesced into a moment of absolute, stunning clarity, Kate’s stomach lurched. She left Phillip tipping back his flute of champagne and just barely made it to her private, exquisite bathing chambers in the Dalat Palace Hotel, where she began to retch.
Chapter 39
Mouse was morose. That was a new word for him, but he was learning a lot of new things lately and nearly all of them were things he wished he wasn’t. Except for hoarding a case of lighter fluid for the Zippo, and getting back with Missy, he’d rather still be in The Poppy King’s nice gook jail. He hated all the shit Dracula had him doing. Apparently, back in the world, Uncle Louie knew of his new “promotion” on the inside and had pulled whatever strings it took for the army to have him on special temporary duty—TDY—for transport with Air America. Oh, he was special all right, now that he’d been appointed “court jester” by The Pale Man. And not even Uncle Louie’s string pulling was cutting him more than a little slack since he was still on call for “entertainment” whenever and wherever Drac wanted, his only reprieve being the TDY time he spent coordinating transport of product.
The new team was cracking whip and sending out as much Horse as they could, fast as they could get it made, which meant bringing in more chemicals and equipment to upgrade production. Mouse was grateful for the diversion, and he sure couldn’t complain about the dough since he’d gotten a hefty raise. But when it came to his other “duties,” it wasn’t like you could put a price tag on doing worse than murder just for “the sport of it.”
Horse racing, now that was a sport. Watching the blood fly in a boxing ring, that was a sport, a great one. Even something like tennis, or golf, pansy stuff he wouldn’t be caught dead watching, they were sports, too.
But this? He felt like he was half a step away from being one of those stick-people killers, and it didn’t sit well with him at all. The only thing that kept him going was a promise…Well, not really a promise, since who could expect a promise from Dracula, the mad rabbit, whatever you wanted to call the crazy cocksucker. So forget a promise. It was more like a dangling carrot. If Mouse toed the line and did everything the monster wanted, then in a year “or so”—and only God knew how long “or so” was in the mind of Dracula—then he and Missy could “retire.” In the meantime, they were living in the fancy little cottage out in the back garden where he and Missy had first gotten it on in the shower. And that was still the only place they did it since there wasn’t any place else they could get some privacy and not have to worry about being seen or overheard.
On the upside, dirty as he felt, he’d never been so clean.
Ever since Miss Kate had taken off for parts unknown after The Poppy King got taken out, Missy had been working in the big house. She didn’t talk much about what she did, but he had to say she was “morose” too. Basically they were not much different than the hogs that Dracula kept to feed his big snake. Not that the hogs got eaten all that often. There always seemed to be a prisoner being “thinned down” to be scarfed up by the big snake. Right now Dracula had some new “pigs”—the two doctors and the James Bond spook guy, JD.
Just went to show how bad shit could happen when a guy fell for the wrong dame.
Mouse checked his watch: 4:45 p.m.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
He had an appointment at 5:00 and he’d already been waiting fifteen fuckin’ minutes, just standing and sweating for something more than a dress rehearsal, since only a dumb shit wouldn’t show up early. If The Pale Man was early that meant he was waiting and you were late no matter when you’d been told to show up.
Mouse shivered. He hated the thought of going down into that secret room again. The place gave him the creeps. On top of that, the pressure was on to do some creative work on the spook, and if the special effects he’d spent hours trying to perfect fizzled…He didn’t want to think about it. No more than he wanted to think about the spook doing a deal with Drac to get his pal, the Ben Casey Jew doc, some medical treatment after the three amigos were dropped off from a chopper and carted away in different directions—what was it, a week ago?
Felt more like a year.
The other doc, the Kildaire look-alike who’d jumped over the boat to save the spook and lied about him being dead, he was stashed away someplace. Mouse didn’t know where. Didn’t want to know neither, especially with Missy asking him some peculiar questions in the shower. Knowing stuff was dangerous, and the last thing he wanted was for Missy to get on The Pale Man’s radar.
Oh God. Here he came now, along with some new snake-face bodyguards ready to gut anyone who threatened their paycheck. Mouse dug in his boots so he held his ground and didn’t step back like every instinct he had was screaming for him to do. Dracula always got too close, though even a thousand miles away would still be too close.
“Ah, Mr. Mouse, it is good to see you are prompt as usual. I like that. Today is a special day for us both. I am expecting an exceptional performance from you, with some of your new skills showcased for my review. I understand from Dr. Jenkins that you have been an exceptional student. He even asked if he might suggest you as a candidate for the school where he teaches, but I, of course, told him absolutely not. Your place is with me, until I deem otherwise. Agreed?”
Even as Mouse nodded he cringed. His brain kind of went sideways, his hand went into his pants pocket for the Zippo he wanted to click like crazy, but he just palmed it for security. A lot was riding on the big show he’d been practicing for tonight’s entertainment, but, Jesus.
They went through a sequence of underground tunnels Mouse still hadn’t figured out. They kept taking different routes, but somehow still ended up in what The Pale Man liked to call “The Laboratory.” It was like something out of the creepy old Frankenstein movies, only in a white, shiny, stainless-steel operating room kind of way. There were three big, surgical dental chairs turned to face a far wall, with special restraining straps Mouse couldn’t see; but he knew those chairs way too well at this point. Just like the other two regular surgical operating tables, along with all kinds of high-tech equipment most hospitals probably didn’t even have—including the one that tried to fix his fucked up jaw after he’d gotten thrown from the car his whole family got fried in.
It must’ve taken millions to build The Laboratory. The Pale Man had mentioned that the CIA was interested in “mind control” work and he wanted in on it, so he was doing some research of his own to impress them. The huge room was like a theater, only clammy-cold with air conditioning. A high quality sound system had recently been added to assist Mouse in his “work.” The weird doctor from some kind of secret CIA school who said his name was Dr. Jenkins was waiting, all surgically gowned up and ready to go.
He was the one who’d been instructing Mouse for a week, teaching him some really messed up surgery shit Uncle Louie wouldn’t want done to his worst enemies.
The mad rabbit was so freaking happy to see Jenkins he all but bounced over to greet the professor, who wasn’t looking nearly so glad to be greeted.
“Dr. Jenkins, good to see you, and thank you again for taking a hiatus from the school your American funders were so brilliant to establish. Just between us, I might consider joining as an associate professor once my present responsibilities allow me a hiatus, so perhaps we will be colleagues in the future.”
Jenkins swallowed so hard that Mouse could see his Adam’s apple bob in his skinny throat. If it wasn’t for the snake-face bodyguards, he’d slit that throat in an instant. But first he’d go for Drac, and not just for “the sport of it.” Anybody who killed the fucker should be up for sainthood.
“And may I say again I love what you have done with this place,” Drac gushed. “Absolutely first rate. I hear you are enjoying the sexual hospitality of the two young girls you requested, as well as the young boy also provided last night for your pleasure. Perhaps we can enjoy the film of your last evening’s entertainment after this most anticipated performance?”
Without waiting for an answ
er, The Pale Man turned to Mouse. “Now, Mr. Mouse, this special performance with our special guest Mr. JD will also be filmed. I anticipate it will not only provide some persuasion for others, but may gain you some much needed vacation time—or R and R as they say in the army—if you excel in this particular endeavor. Yes, I can be generous to those who please me, and so I have in my possession two Australian passports.” The Pale Man produced one, and then the other, each in a ghostly hand, and waved them just out of Mouse’s reach. “One for you, and one for your dear Missy.”
They were like air being offered to a man with a single breath left in a plastic bag wrapped over his face, and Mouse was so desperate to lunge for them only the click of two A-K 47s aimed straight at him from the bodyguards kept him in place.
“Oh, I see you are eager for such a respite, but it must be well deserved, so allow me to repeat, they are yours. If, and only if, I am pleased with this evening’s performance. And with that…”
The Pale Man did a theatrical about face, clicked his heels and bowed toward the camera positioned near the big surgical dental chair that he strode to, then spun around.
And there was the JD spook, who never should’ve trusted Miss Kate.
His head was held to the top of the chair with some kind of medical vise that was strapped across his forehead and swept down around his chin so he couldn’t move more than his eyeballs or lips. His arms and legs had similar treatment, reminding Mouse of when Frankenstein was being made in the movie, only the spook was sitting up instead of lying down. Much as he wished he didn’t, Mouse felt bad for the poor sap who’d agreed to let Drac have whatever fun with him he wanted, no fight, so long as his Jew doc pal got the treatment he needed.
That was the kind of loyalty Uncle Louie and the rest of the family honored. It really made Mouse sick to think of disrespecting such loyalty. And that was the whole morose quandary he was still trying to figure out. Only now, with the passports at stake, the decisions he had to make once the show got started had just spiked everything sky high.
Mouse eyed the ice pick on a surgical tray and nervously fingered the Zippo that wasn’t working its usual magic while he thought of the really messed up procedure Jenkins had taught him so he could do something way worse than kill the spook.
“My dear Mr. John Doe,” Drac yakked on, “I trust you are comfortable. I’m sure you must understand the necessity of your restraints, but do let me take this gag out. All the better to hear any entreaties, pleas, or bargains you may have to offer should Mr. Mouse decide to rid you of your nose or lips prior to more permanent damage. We have removed your clothes so they are not soiled, or in the event I wish to have you castrated. But that is neither here nor there, at least not yet, since the real treat is something Mr. Mouse has been practicing this past week, just for you. Now, I have thought about this for some time and decided that depriving you of your intellect, of that remarkably honed and trained mind, is just the right thing to do. Ah! At last, some consternation on your usually so composed face. Excellent. My theory, and the good doctor Jenkins here has agreed, is that our future get togethers will be even more amusing when you are basically left with what the great Dr. Walter Freeman called ‘surgically induced childhood.’ And!—‘the personality of an oyster.’ Did I get the terminology right, Dr. Jenkins? Please correct me if not.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenkins’ voice was shaking. Mouse noticed his hands were shaking too, but he didn’t have no sympathy for him, not a drop, listening to what he’d already heard at least ten times. “Dr. Freeman always advised, too, that the patient would for a time be stuporous, confused, and often incontinent. But please be advised, again, that there is a risk of death when we proceed with the—”
“Yes, yes, enough of all that.” The Pale Man waved his hand dismissively. “I am sure you will not let such a thing happen, as it would displease me ever so greatly. As I have told you and Mr. Mouse before, the object here is not to kill our present company, simply to ensure he is a lovely plaything for my amusement in the future. Are we understood?”
The A-K 47s swung in Jenkins’ direction. He turned so white, all he needed were some pink eyes to pass for the mad rabbit’s twin. The Pale Man whirled again to face Mouse and Mouse snapped-to, put on his best joker’s grin. Court Jester he supposedly was.
“Mr. Mouse, the stage is yours. You have two minutes to ready yourself for the production. Please get on with it, and then you may proceed to so impress me that you and your Miss Missy may be allowed to embark upon your holiday immediately thereafter.”
Another flashing wave of the two passports, and The Pale Man made himself comfortable in a near-by chair that looked like it came out of that Madam Nhu’s stage room where Mouse had offed Vo in what seemed a lifetime ago. With visions of the passports in his head, and his guts filled with dread, Mouse disappeared behind some curtains to smear his face with clown-white make-up punctuated with black streaks running from his eyes and a smear of red lipstick on his mouth. He then slipped into his white, grim-reaper robe with a burn-baby-burn halo for his head. A quick once-over in the mirror wasn’t exactly reassuring: he looked closer to Bozo after joining the Ku Klux Klan than the psychedelic angel of death The Pale Man had decreed he become.
Mouse’s mind whirled with images of Australian passports, Missy’s face, his family’s car on fire, and all kinds of other shit he struggled to get under control while pleading with the Zippo to do its usual magic.
He felt a little flick light up inside. Not the usual, but enough to get his legs steady as he emerged, leaped and leaped and leaped over to the studio-quality turntable and tape deck, and, with arms raised, announced, “I am the God of Hellfire! And I bring you…”
Mouse lit the sterno-doused halo wired over his head, and whoosh!
“IRE!” Even as he said it, Mouse knew it didn’t come out quite right, but that didn’t stop Drac from immediately bursting into applause while Mouse felt the flames dancing so close to his scalp he looked around for the water bucket he’d strategically stationed near some electrical torture equipment in The Laboratory after last night’s dress rehearsal.
Mouse hit the strobe lights and went into his craziest dance routine ever. He felt like he was on some acid trip. Not that he’d ever dropped acid before since KRZY was acid trip enough and he needed what marbles he still had to pull this gig off.
“IRE! You gotta learn!”
He smacked the naked JD sap in the mouth, whirled around, and grinned big, exposing his choppers. Mouse snapped them twice with such ferocity in The Pale Man’s direction, the fucker actually jumped in his chair.
“Smell it! Taste it! The Zippo is earned!”
With practiced abandon Mouse sprayed a thin line of highly flammable liquid across the chest and down the arms and legs of his designated victim, strapped to the big-ass dental chair, flicked his Zippo, and set the spook on fire.
He flared to life and Mouse had to admit it was quite a spectacle, especially with the strobe lights going, but it was a good thing Drac wasn’t close enough to see what Mouse could see: no response from the spook. He was staring off into the distance like he was in La-La-Land, and other than a few twitches, you’d never guess he’d just got lit up like the Fourth of July.
The fire burned out quickly, thanks to all the hours Mouse had put in to getting just the right mix, after practicing earlier on three much more burned sonofabitches who screamed their lungs out the way the spook should be doing, with a nice line of fresh burns that would leave some nice scars.
Just for a moment, Mouse debated what to do next. The passports were at stake. So was his self-respect. You good man. That’s what Missy had said the night he saved her, and she’d told him so many times since that if it was the last thing he ever did, he wanted to prove her right. Then again, he sure as hell didn’t want to displease The Man and maybe end up in this chair himself.
Mouse leaned down and he wasn’t even sure what he was gonna say until he heard the instructions leave his mouth a
nd go straight into the spook’s ear. “I got no beef with you, so do us both a favor and play this up. You heard what the man said. I’ll do what I can to go easy on you, but you gotta help me out. One more time now. Got it?”
As if they’d rehearsed it a thousand times before, the spook screamed while Mouse sprayed him once more, lit him up, and crowed, “He’s roasting!”
The flames went out again just as the stupid song was over. Stupid as the name of some group who called themselves “The Crazy World of Arthur Brown,” and, much as he loved money, Mouse knew he’d pay a year’s salary never to hear them again.
He also knew, right in that moment, that if he could grab those passports and start a new life with Missy, he’d be willing to empty garbage cans for a living.
But he didn’t have that option, and something wasn’t right with his head—not that it was ever right, but he wasn’t splitting off the way he needed to, and maybe that’s why he was having such trouble getting his act together, trying to figure out how to help the spook who was willing to do anything to save his Ben Casey doctor friend, instead of doing what it took to save his own skin.
You good man.
Mouse caught himself about to mutter, Shut up, bitch, only to realize it was Missy’s voice he heard.
Blocking out the image of Missy, her voice, he quickly switched the strobe lights to a flood of red, and tried to focus on the next song coming up. At least it was one he got to pick, and much as he dug Sinatra and Dino, nobody came close to Sammy. Sammy was always a reminder that even short guys could beat the odds, make it big, and get the woman they wanted, and boy did he need reminding of that now.
UNKNOWABLE (Murder on the Mekong, Book 2) Page 31