Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller

by Jeff Menapace

  “And I never questioned it either. I mean why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? It’s been over a year already, and I figured if the guy just wanted to fuck me he would have tried by now. Instead he just treats me like a princess and gives me whatever I want.”

  “But…?”

  She held up a hand, asking for my patience. “So there I am, living a dream life. But after a while I start to ask myself all those questions I wasn’t asking in the beginning. Why is this guy doing all this for me? Can there really be no ulterior motive? So one day I ask him. And he told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “Told me the kind of work that he did—and that he was planning on using me in that line of work.”

  “Use you how?”

  “Recruiting. Bringing in people for us to employ, and bringing in people for us to…film.”

  “So what did you do after he told you everything?”

  “I freaked. I called him a sick bastard and said I was leaving.”

  “You did?”

  She frowned a little. “Yes. I told you, I’m not a psychopath.”

  I held up a hand, a slightly patronizing hint to my tone when I said: “My apologies.”

  Her little frown grew. “Should I even go on?”

  I wanted her to. Whether I was swallowing all of it—

  So then who pulled out her teeth?

  —or not, I wasn’t sure, but I did want her to go on.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, go on.”

  She paused, taking her time dabbing her mouth, likely reminding me that both of her front teeth had been ripped out, thank you very much; a little courtesy would be nice.

  I reiterated with a teaspoon of that courtesy. “No really, please—go on. I’m sorry. Tell me what he did when you told him you were leaving.”

  She did a final dab and said, “He beat the shit out of me.”

  My face must have registered surprise, because she continued with: “Yeah—he told me that he didn’t spend the past year wasting his money on a junkie like me so that she could just up and leave whenever she wanted to.”

  “You ever try sneaking away, or…?”

  “Several times. He always found me though. And every time I was brought back I was showed the error of my ways. Once he locked me in a cellar for a week with no food, only water. Told me I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway.” She gave a pathetic chuckle.

  “So I guess you stopped trying to run after that?”

  “No—I tried one last time. Of course I was caught and brought back, but this time he didn’t punish me; he just showed me a picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “A beautiful woman lying by a pool. He told me it was the girl I was replacing. He then shows me another photo, and I can tell it’s the same girl, but just barely. She was hanging on a meat hook.”

  “Jesus.”

  “He told me that she too had tried to leave several times, and that if I tried once more I’d be hanging on a hook next to her.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  She shrugged. “What could I do? I stayed.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Five years, give or take.”

  “Five years?”

  She gave a reluctant nod.

  “Does he still abuse you?”

  “Not if I do what I’m told. Every now and then I’ll get a little courage and defy him, but I always end up regretting it.” Another pathetic chuckle. “I think it’s a safe bet to say that my only way out is that meat hook.”

  It added up and it didn’t.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “You weren’t necessarily acting like a woman who was doing this shit against her will. Hell, you had me believing you were Charles Manson’s hot sister.”

  She pursed her lips at my wit. “I became desensitized, Calvin. And let’s be honest, the money helped.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

  “I don’t like it. I got used to it. I got used to playing the part.”

  I splayed my hands. “Okay—so then if what you’re saying is true, then what you were doing with me was just a job, recruiting. Old Manny was right after all. What number does that make me?”

  “Stop it. It’s not just a job with you. I had—I have feelings for you.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s true. Yes, I fucked with you, and yes, I brought you into this…world, but I did it because I liked you, and I did it because…”

  “Because what?”

  “…Because I thought you could help me.”

  “Oh what, you want me to feed a co-ed to an alligator or something?”

  “Make all the jokes you want. The simple truth is that I wanted out from the beginning, but I couldn’t get out. So I did what I was told. Then I met you. And I liked you. And you seemed perfect. You were perfect to bring on board, and you were perfect for me. Yes, I was being selfish, but I truly sensed something in you. I—”

  I held up a hand, cutting her off. “Okay, you need to stop with all this ‘sensing’ and ‘seeing’ shit in me. All you did was exploit my demons. Don’t make it out to be anything else.”

  “No, it wasn’t—” She stopped and sighed. “Okay, yes, I did; I admit it. I’m terrible for what I put you through, I won’t ever deny that. But I did not fake any of our passion, okay? It was real. I just didn’t want to be alone in this nightmare anymore. I wanted someone I could trust, and someone I liked, and…someone who could maybe do me the greatest favor of all.”

  “I told you I was done, Angela. I meant it.”

  She leaned forward and flashed the gap where her front teeth used to be. “Look at me. This is because I told him the job at sea was botched and that you were quitting. He wanted you dead—immediately. I begged him not to. So he took my teeth as punishment, and then told me I had one week to convince you to stay on board.”

  “Or what?”

  “My guess? We both end up on a meat hook.”

  “Your teeth…” I said. “They’re here. They were sitting on my remote. Who put them there?”

  She gave me a look. “Who do you think?”

  “He was here? In my apartment?”

  “He wants you to know that he can get to you whenever he wants.”

  I looked around my apartment. The thought of a guy like that—or likely, his thugs—being in my place made it feel haunted.

  And then a thought hit me. A word actually. Favor. She kept mentioning a favor she wanted from me. I knew what it was almost instantly.

  “You want me to kill him, don’t you?” I said.

  She did not hesitate with her response. “You’d be helping both of us.”

  “It can’t be that simple. I imagine a guy like that isn’t easy to get to. Besides, you can’t convince me someone hasn’t tried offing a piece of shit like him before.”

  “Not someone like you.”

  “I’d rather you stroke my dick than my ego, thank you very much.”

  “I’m not kidding, Calvin. Yes, he’s tough to get to, but that’s mostly because few people know who he is. The few who do know are either terrified of him or worship him.” She paused to allow impact for the words to come. “I know who he is. And I know more about him than almost anyone.”

  “I see,” I said. “You got the brains and I got the brawn, that it?”

  “No—we’ve both got the brains; you’ve got the brawn. I’ve seen you in action, and lord knows I’ve picked your brain enough. You’re physically capable to handle most extremities, and you’re no idiot.”

  “You talk about this like it’s a movie,” I said. “I’m not Arnold or Stallone. I’m a fucking massage therapist who can throw a decent punch.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  “You overestimate myself.”

  “I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I didn’t think it was possible.”

  “You’re suggesting this to save your ass.”

  “I’m suggesting this to save our
asses. That is unless you want to keep doing this stuff the rest of your life.”

  “You really think killing this guy is the only option?”

  She splayed a hand. “I’m open to suggestions if you got ’em.”

  “Run,” I said.

  “I told you, I tried that.”

  “I could run,” I said.

  She did not appear angry or hurt. She appeared as if she was expecting my show of defiance, half-hearted as it admittedly was.

  “Yeah, you could do that. And let’s assume he followed through with his threat and got rid of me. You think he wouldn’t go looking for you soon after? You think he’d let you just wander off and hope you kept quiet about his little enterprise?”

  I said nothing.

  “You want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”

  Obviously I didn’t, but the idea of someone like me killing some shadowy kingpin like Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot seemed way too fiction to me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s say we can pull it off. What then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what then?”

  She frowned and squinted, confused. “There is no then. It would be over; we’d be free.”

  “Free to go our separate ways?”

  “Oh…that ‘what then?’” She studied me. “Are you asking if there’s going to be an ‘us’ after it’s over?”

  “No, not really…”

  (Yes really)

  “…I just wanted to know what you had planned, that’s all.”

  She nodded slowly, face even, obviously seeing my feeble digging for what it was, yet sparing me the

  (well deserved)

  acknowledgment of the peril she’d just placed my king.

  (You have no king. Your whole board is full of pawns.)

  “I was thinking retirement,” she said. “You and me.”

  HA!

  (HA what? You forgetting who this is?)

  “Massage therapists don’t have much of a pension,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t need one,” she said. “He’s loaded, Calvin. It’d be like two birds with one stone.”

  (Aaannnd there it is.)

  Fuck.

  “You must think I’m a fucking idiot,” I said.

  “What?”

  “This is Thriller Fiction 101, Angela. I take out Mr. John; steal his money; and then get bent over by some sexy bitch who’s been playing me like a fiddle the whole fucking time.”

  “Playing you? I’m sorry; did I pull my own teeth out?” She flashed her toothless grimace to hammer it home. “Besides, the money I made this past year is more than you’ll ever see in a lifetime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t need money, Calvin—I need freedom. So do you. But if the money’s going to be there, I say why not take it?”

  “How would I get into his home? I would imagine a guy like that has crazy security.”

  “He does, but you wouldn’t be going to his home. You’d be going to a club—one of those men’s spas where the stinking rich go after work to soak in hot tubs and sip brandy. Mr. John always goes after hours when the place is empty. Special privileges for the stinking rich.”

  “You have a key to the place?”

  She nodded.

  “Of course you do. What about the money? You gonna tell me he keeps all his money at this club?”

  “Of course not. But some of it’ll be there. He uses the club to make deposits for him. It helps filter his income while maintaining anonymity. He brings the money with him and leaves it there over night.”

  “How much will be there?”

  “Enough for you and me to have the fairy-tale ending.”

  (Fairy tales are violent as all hell. There’s probably more truth in what she’s saying than she even realizes.)

  “So you’re telling me all I have to do is go into this place after hours, find Mr. John soaking in a tub, kill him, steal his money, and then just stroll on out? It can’t be that easy.”

  “It won’t be. Vlad and Yuri will be with him.”

  “Who the hell are Vlad and Yuri?”

  “His protection. His shadows, basically. Brothers who came over from Russia to help with certain job-related…things.”

  “These guys are badasses?”

  She went to answer, stopped, sighed, and then gave a reluctant: “Yes.”

  I felt a tingle of adrenaline. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “I don’t know too much. They look alike. Bald, built like trucks, no necks. The tattoos always helped telling them apart.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s weird—one’s covered in tattoos, and the other doesn’t have a single mark.” She dabbed her mouth and added: “Their ears are gross.”

  “Huh?”

  “They have gross ears. They’re all thick and lumpy like—”

  “Cauliflower,” I blurted. “They have cauliflower ears.”

  She thought for a second, then looked at me as though impressed with my input. “Yeah, they do kinda look like cauliflower.”

  “No, I’m not trying to help you find the right descriptor for their fucking ears, I’m saying—” I groaned; I didn’t feel like giving an explanation for the cause and effects of cauliflower ear, so I skipped right to the end. “I’m saying they’re obviously grapplers, yes?”

  “Grapplers?”

  I was getting irritated. “Wrestlers? People who tie you up in fucking knots…?”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “Yeah, they were wrestlers—I think Mr. John said they competed in the Olympic trials a few years back. I think they were also champions in something else.”

  “Sambo?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” She frowned, curious. “How did you know that?”

  I spoke without taking a breath: “Because it’s a badass Russian grappling art. Fedor Emelianenko? Greatest heavyweight that ever lived? His primary style was Sambo.”

  “I…don’t understand a word you just said.”

  I closed my eyes, exhaled, and started rubbing my temples. “Forget it.” I opened my eyes, exhaled again. “So how’d these guys find their way here? With Mr. John?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. From what I understand, they kind of had to leave, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” I said with no satisfaction, “unfortunately I do. What happened?”

  She shrugged again. “Like I said; I’m not really sure. I do know they got into trouble not long after arriving here. That’s how Mr. John found them.”

  “Explain.”

  “They got jobs as bouncers in some fancy club downtown. A big fight broke out, and instead of just tossing people, they…messed everybody up really badly. One of them—Yuri, I think—picked a guy up and spiked him head-first on concrete. Guy’s a quadriplegic now.”

  “You were there?”

  “No, but Mr. John was. He saw everything. He also saw to the brothers getting off on some bullshit self-defense thing. Apparently more than a few on the jury were faithful clients to Mr. John. How he managed that, I’ll never know.”

  “And so these guys—the brothers—they’ve been with Mr. John ever since?”

  She nodded.

  I stood and began pacing. I felt like I needed to piss and shit and puke.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Seriously? After what you just told me, you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

  “You dealt with a monster like Gene okay.”

  “Gene was just a musclebound lump—and he still almost killed me. If it wasn’t for that pervert with the camera being a distraction I’d be shark shit right now. And I’ll tell you something else: good grapplers are a fucking nightmare in a real fight. You don’t sneak in that first punch—and make it fucking count—and they’ll have you on your back faster than a sneeze. Anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t fought one—period. Oh and here’s another newsflash for you: my grappling sucks.”


  She held up a placating hand. “Okay, fine. It’s all irrelevant anyway—if you do this right, you’re not going to have to fight anyone.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’ll have a gun.”

  “Won’t they?”

  “You’ll have the element of surprise on your side. They won’t be expecting anyone.”

  “I’ve shot a gun twice in my entire life. I’m anything but a deadeye.”

  “They’ll be drinking. They’ll need to use the bathroom. You can hide out in the locker room and pick them off one at a time. Close range.”

  “And the aftermath? You’re not gonna tell me that if I pull this off, I have to load them up and drive their bodies back to my buddy Manny, are you?”

  “No. It’ll be a get in, get out kind of thing.”

  “Just leave? Leave their bodies?”

  “It’ll be chalked up to a million things except the truth, Calvin. A robbery, drugs, a grudge…”

  “Grudge? Thought no one knew who this guy was?”

  “Mr. John might be able to hide his true identity from most, but he doesn’t hide his wealth. Exceptional wealth always comes at the expense of others. I’d wager digging into grudges would be the very first area of pursuit.”

  “A million things except the truth, huh? What is the truth?”

  “That a massage therapist did it so he wouldn’t have to star in snuff films anymore.”

  The Bar

  “So you believed her?” the bartender asks.

  “At first? No. I figured she was up to something. Especially after she mentioned stealing his money after he was dead.”

  “But…?”

  “But there were a lot of things that didn’t make sense. Like she could have easily told Mr. John to go ahead and kill me—there are pathetic guys like me all over the world who would gladly fill my spot in order to appease a Goddess like Angela. But instead she lets him pull out her teeth in hopes that she might be able to convince me to stay? I mean for all she knew, I could have been halfway to Brazil when he was yanking out her choppers. Hell of a risk.”

  “What else?” he asks.

  “Motive,” I say, draining my scotch. “I couldn’t figure out an ulterior motive.”

  “The money,” he says. “You just said the money concerned you as an ulterior motive.”

  “True. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if it would be so bad—if she took the money and I never saw her again. At least Mr. John would be dead. Plus, I already admitted to you that a part of me contemplated eliminating the problem at the source which, at the time, was her. When that source changed from Angela to some psycho kingpin gunning for me, well, there wasn’t much to contemplate anymore. It seemed a no-brainer.”