by Karl Tutt
Chapter 4
The dream was one I’d had a thousand times before. It’ll sound stupid to you, but for me it represents the ultimate frustration, tinged with a large, fine dose of fear. More accurate to call it a damned nightmare. I was on the old college campus. I was lost. I had a class in ten minutes and the students were brushing by me, grunting and moaning in a confusion that tortured my ears. The skin on their faces was sallow and taut, as if they contained a disease that was devouring them from within. I couldn’t understand; it was babel and the young bodies didn’t even acknowledge my existence. I was invisible . . . and powerless . . . a child lost in the darkness, searching in vain for a place I knew. A place I could be safe.
I woke up with a tingling sensation. It was sweat, and something evil crawled beneath my skin. I splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help much. The thing remained.
I dried myself with a ragged towel. Maybe coffee would help. I brewed and sipped coffee, then went back to Google. I typed in Talent Pro, Leonardo Panko, then Allison Bondura, nee Sirelli. It was the same old shit, a useless stab at some cohesiveness. I tired some boat work. It kept my body busy, but my mind was like a stuffy room with the windows nailed shut. I finally decided that a lunch out was just what I needed. A few days before, I’d found a place a down what seemed like a deserted alley that served a Cuban sandwich and slaw that might have been shipped straight from Havana. It was just a few blocks away and though the wind was from the northeast, the sun had kissed everything in Norfolk’s version of creation. A brisk walk in a light jacket would be ideal.
I moved quickly enough to get my heart pumping and felt better already. I turned down the alley and saw the small hand-lettered sign: GERALDO’S, Best Food North of the Pearl of the Antilles. A couple was waiting outside. I figured maybe the place hadn’t opened yet. It had.
As I approached the entrance, a very small man stepped into my path. Behind him was a female behemoth.
“Mornin’ Perfessor,” he glanced at the Rolex strapped to his wrist, “yeah, it’s still mornin’. Could we have a word?” He pronounced it “woid”. He pulled his coat aside to reveal a large chrome .45. He patted the bone handle and grinned. His teeth were either yellow or brown. I couldn’t quite tell in the shade of the building. I tried to pretend I wasn’t scared, but this was a little too inconvenient, even for a supposed Ghostcatcher.
He pointed down the asphalt to a dirty green dumpster that was perched next to the stained brick wall. I put my hand to my waistband. Okay, stupid, I thought, no help from the Kel-Tec today. I made a mental note: daylight be damned . . . no more field trips anywhere unless I’m packing.
The little man was very little, maybe 5’2”, couldn’t have been much over 110-120 lbs. He was dressed like a midget who just came off the pages of GQ. Tailored lime linen sport coat and a pair of electric gold silk slacks, alligator belt to match a pair of brown Skechers on his feet. Sort of your casual violence look. His face was rat-like in miniature . . . beady eyes and the razor thin lips. He could have been dancing down The Yellow Brick Road with Judy Garland and the rest of the crew, but despite the smile, there was the taint of evil . . . something indefinable, yet malevolent. It radiated from him like a demented sun.
The woman was an easy 6’2”, and looked like she had been sculpted out of granite. Her hair was done in bleached blond hydra, darting in all directions, and menacing in a spectral way. Her hands . . . her fingers . . . all thick and scarred, but with the instant impression of nimble and deadly. There was a death’s head tattooed on her right forearm. It was circled in barb wire. She reminded me of one of those UWF cage fighters. Steroidal, in a constant state of barely controlled rage. It was your basic martial message, “I’m going to rip your balls off and fry them for breakfast.” To be honest, I was a quick believer. That was all I needed to know for now. I preceded them down the small space and moved behind the dumpster as the kid indicated.
“I’m gonna tell you who I am. You’ll find out soon enough. And anyway, I’m gonna kill you. Now don’t get your panties in a wad. Not today. . . don’t misunderstand . . . not my choice. Hell, I’d do it here and now, but The Boss Lady, you know, she wants to watch. The broad’s a little kinky that way.”
“Okay, Pal. Then tell me who you are.”
“De name is Perkins, Elmer Perkins, but you can call me Acie . . . at least while you can. Oh, forgive my manners. This is my Ma. She’s a kind of celebrity. You might have seen her on T.V. back in the day. So lemme tell ya’ , Prof. It’s that old routine. You can run, but you can’t hide. I’ll probably get ya . . . but if I don’t, Ma will.”
Her rocky face cracked and she broke into a huge smile.
“That’s my boy,” she said affectionately and placed a huge paw on his shoulder.
“By the way, tell your lady – whazzit? Sunny, yeah – that we’ll be droppin’ by for tea and crumpets real soon.”
He chuckled with a crackling sound. Then they pirouetted almost in unison and seemed to march back down to the street, leaving me next to the green steel box of rotting vegetables and maybe even a dead cat. My stomach was queasy and I wasn’t sure I could eat, but sweet scents wafted out of GERALDO’S. I decided to force myself inside. A couple of cold Presidentes and a plate that included fried plantains convinced me I’d made a wise decision.
I got back to KAMALA and inhaled a deep breath of the salt air. I pulled the Kel-Tec out of the nav station and checked it once more. Be my baby, I whispered. Then I began to replay the scene in my head, the thugs, the threat, the words and phrases they’d used to scare the shit out of me. Connections . . . that’s what I needed. I went to the computer and started the search.
Elmer Perkins turned up nothing. He had said his Ma was a kind of celebrity. I pictured the build and the hands. The ultimate fighter impression stuck in my mind. I entered Ma Perkins and hit the enter key.
There she was. Ma “Mayhem” Perkins, UWF Female Champion, 2005-2009. Noted for her raw strength and uncontrolled violence. She had finally been banned after she took a metal folding chair to Maya “the Monster” Montoya. The unfortunate Ms. Montoya had spent six months in the hospital and still wasn’t sure who she was. Aneurism, permanent brain damage, irreparable scarring about the face and neck. Sure, a lot of the crap is staged for T.V. It brings in the viewers in hoards, but there has to be a limit. Ma Perkins had pushed it too far. As far as I could tell, she damned near killed the woman. I had a feeling she wouldn’t mind doing the same thing to me . . . or God forbid . . . to Sunny. I couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t in jail . . . but she wasn’t and I mentally added her to a list of threats that was growing too damned fast.
I called Bill and told him what had happened and what I had found online.
“Way too interesting,” he said, “give me half an hour. I’ll call you back.”
I went on the ESPN website. The Dolphins had given Suh one hundred and fourteen million dollars for six years. It seemed like a lot to me, even for a giant who terrified offensive linemen and crushed unsuspecting quarterbacks. Still, Miami hadn’t even had a serious sniff at a playoff spot in several years and everyone loves a winner, even if you can’t afford the tickets to take your kids to a game.
Bill was good for his word. Thirty minutes. I picked up the cell.
“It’s all like you said with Ma. I found your buddy Elmer. Military, Afghanistan vet. You remember the case of the marines pissing on the dead Afghani insurgent a few years back. Elmer was there. I’m not sure how he got past the height requirement, but he earned the sharpshooter designation, got high marks in hand to hand combat training, garnered a couple of ribbons, trained in the use of explosives. A most impressive little bastard . . . and also a very dangerous one. He apparently ruptured the liver of a master sergeant and punched out his commanding officer. Dishonorable discharge . . . all very quiet. They didn’t need the publicity.”
“Duly noted,” I said grimly.
“I’ll run Ma’s photo by the nurs
e at the hospital. At least we’d have a positive I.D., but without prints we can’t even prove she was in Glen’s room. I could have them picked up, but I’ve got no hard evidence, no charges. They’d be out in ten minutes and we’d just be putting them on the alert. For now, it’s better to watch and listen and wait for them to screw up.”
“I hope you’re right, Bill. I just hope the screw-up doesn’t involve me or Sunny.”
“I feel you, T.K., but it’s time to trust your local law enforcement. We live to serve.”
I forced a laugh, thanked him, and shut down the cell. I was sure he was right . . . wasn’t I?