Undead L.A. (Book 2)

by Devan Sagliani

  “There was a whole big world out there and he wanted to bury his head in a book for another four years! Can you believe that?”

  That's when things changed. One of his coworkers, “feller by the name 'er Perry,” had begun talking about leaving for Alaska to work the rest of the summer in a fish cannery.

  “He starts telling me about how they make five grand a month with nothing to spend it on,” her father would say. “Five thousand dollars a month for stuffing fish in a can. I never heard of so much money. My old man worked his fingers to the bone every day of his life and never made no money like that. I had dollar signs floating in my eyes. It was all I could think about.”

  Randy left Frank behind and took off with Perry to Alaska, using his wages to buy a plane ticket to San Francisco, then up to Anchorage. From there they hopped a long bus ride to Bristol Bay and over to the red salmon cannery where they'd spend the rest of the summer working in Naknek.

  “You know that army marching song new recruits sing in the movies?”

  Diora would shake her head yes, but he'd sing it every time anyway, the alcohol making him slur.

  “I don't know, but I've been told,” he'd croon like he was an old time folk singer. “Eskimo pussy is mighty cold. Well let me tell you something, I do know, and they ain't lying.”

  Daddy always treated us like adults, Diora thought, smiling at the memory. He never knew the right way to talk to kids, especially two little girls, but we loved him for it. We must have been the only kids allowed to use the F word at will in front of our parents.

  “What are you little shit birds up to now?” He'd ask, catching them down by the water making crawdaddy traps.

  “Fucking, pissing, and shitting,” they'd happily reply, and he'd laugh.

  “You catch anything with that garbage?”

  “Not a damn thing,” they'd sing back.

  “Well, whatcha been doing out here all day then? Just standing around with your dicks in your hands?”

  Makayla would fall apart every time he said it. He'd always make a face to go along with the saying and gesture towards his crotch like he was taking the most idiotic piss of his life. It brought her to tears and he knew it. He'd laugh at the way she'd roll on the ground, beating her fists into the dirt as tears poured down her face. He'd take another swig and walk back to camp, satisfied that he'd checked in on us.

  “Yes sir, indeed,” he'd told the girls on more than one occasion. “Eskimo pussy is mighty cold.”

  The first time he'd told her that story she was eight years old. He'd finished off a fifth of cheap bourbon and winked at her with a smile on his face. She had no idea what it meant, but she didn't care. She just loved getting her daddy's attention. He was always more fun to be around when he'd been drinking. She imagined a big white cat walking through the snow with frozen paws, mewling for fish.

  I was too young to know what he meant, she thought, laughing at the memory. The only pussy I'd ever heard of was Sylvester on Sunday morning cartoons from back when we lived in a house.

  After working what felt like the longest days of his life, and squirreling away more money than he'd ever dreamed of making in his life, he made the decision to take things to the next level. He signed on with a fishing boat, making triple what he'd made in the factory.

  “To hell with putting 'em slippery suckers in the cans,” he'd bragged. “I was ready to pull 'em up out of the water myself.”

  The stories about life on the boat never came with many details. He'd talk about being green from seasickness in the beginning, how he didn't think he'd ever get his sea legs, and how he'd learned to deal with all different types of people. It was unclear exactly where things went wrong. He hadn't gotten along with an African American deckhand, that was clear, and he'd ended up three months later being left on the dock with his pay and told not to return.

  “I was done with the ocean by then anyway,” he'd say. “If I never step foot on another boat that's just fine with me.”

  He'd moved to Anchorage where he spent some time partying before heading back down to warmer climates. By the time he made it down to Spokane half his hard earned wages were gone, but that didn't stop him from visiting the strip club where he'd met their mother.

  “They had bed dances,” he'd told her once. “You lie down on your back and the girl would take off her bikini and come crawl all over you naked as the day she was born, but you couldn't touch 'em. Ain't that something?”

  Eventually he'd met her mom dancing under the name Sweet Sin, but how she got there in the first place was never discussed. They'd moved in together and within three months she was pregnant. He stayed at home after Diora was born, drinking all day and watching television while her mom danced. One day she took off with a regular, leaving a note in an envelope holding a few hundred dollars with the DJ at the club to give to Randy, so he could get out of town since he'd never been exactly what you'd call comfortable with Spokane's racial diversity.

  “Spook-a-loo,” he crowed. “That's what we used to call it, on account of all the spicks and jiggaboos.” Diora hadn't known what either was until she was well into her teens. By then she'd discovered that she was blissfully free of her fathers homespun racism.

  They'd moved down to Covington for a while, setting up in a foreclosed home they’d found until the cops ran them out. It was there she had the most normal life she'd ever known, going to school and doing homework during the day, taking care of her sister and her father at night. Her old man took a part time job unloading trucks. He cut back on his drinking. For a moment things looked like they might actually go back to normal. She had met Jake by then, in English class, and he had convinced her to start caring about her future, for a while at least. Then Jake died and the owner of the house showed up with the cops and escorted them off the property, and everything went to hell. Her dad started drinking hard after that, talking about how there was no point in trying, and how hard work and the American dream was all one big lie made up to keep poor people from killing rich people. From that point on he made them call him Randy instead of Dad. Her childhood, or what little there had been of it, was now officially over. They took their beat up station wagon and moved down to a camp by the water in Seattle, close to Pike Place Market, where he would beg for change from tourists all day.

  Their lives stagnated after that, but only for a while—only until Diora got raped and left for dead by the water. Makayla had no trouble pointing out the man who did it. Randy told the girls to watch as he put the blade of his knife to the man's throat and made him beg for mercy. Five full minutes of blubbering later he slit his throat and left him lying face down in the dirt choking on his own blood. Makayla cried and ran off, but Diora just stared. She'd never felt so proud of her father in her entire life. As far as she was concerned, death was too good of a fate for a man like that. She'd have preferred to see him castrated, then cut up into pieces a little at a time for what he'd done to her.

  It was over before he really had a chance to be sorry. I'd have made sure he understood what he was sorry for. If only Jamal had been around back then.

  That night men in uniforms came to take the body away. There were lots of them, men in cars with bright lights, men with dogs on leashes barking and scouring the banks for clues. There was even a helicopter overhead with its big beam shining down on them to make sure her father couldn't get away, but Diora knew it was all just a big show for the television cameras. Her father never had any intention of trying to get away. He knew better. Life didn't work like that, not for people like them. He sat quietly by the side of his car in an old lawn chair drinking a beer while they made their way through the area. For a brief moment, Diora thought maybe he might get away with it. The men in uniforms seemed to walk past him like he wasn't sitting there, like he was less than garbage and they couldn't be bothered to give him a second look. Eventually, however, other folks in the tent city began to point towards their car. It didn't take long for them to figure out what had happene
d after that, or who was responsible. The knife he'd used was stuck in the ground near the driver’s side door and there was blood stained down the front of his shirt and jeans. A big guy with a mustache came stomping over, grabbed her father by his shirt, and jerked him to his feet. Several more men surrounded him, guns drawn, as the big hero read him his rights. Her father never made a sound as they took him into custody, cuffing his hands behind his back and pushing him roughly into the back seat of a patrol car. He looked over at Diora and gave her a wink. It was the last time she ever saw him.

  Social Services placed them with a foster family in Tacoma—Tim and Karen Snodgrass. They were nice people, but a little too clean and a little too Christian for her taste. Makayla, on the other hand, seemed to genuinely love them. She fit perfectly into their idea of family in a way that made Diora almost jealous. They bought her new clothes and dressed her up like a doll. She was the child Karen could never have on her own. Diora knew her father wasn't coming back for them. She knew she didn't belong there, but that didn't mean she was going to fuck up her little sisters chance at happiness. She kissed Makayla on the forehead the night she left, climbing out the window and practically running through the neighborhood towards the interstate, towards freedom and a new life where her past didn't haunt every single moment of her waking life.

  She managed to hitch a ride all the way down the 5 to Salem, then made her way into town to the Salem Center Mall where she met Scott, a pretty boy with long hair and effeminate mannerisms, at the local Hot Topic. She'd only been planning on getting him to buy her a slice of pizza, but he when he learned she had no place to stay he'd insisted she come home with him. There she had her first sit down meal since as long as she could remember. Scott had told her that he didn't get along with his parents, that his dad was overbearing and his mom didn't understand him, but sitting there watching them interact as a family made her green with envy. She'd have killed to have just a taste of what Scott took for granted.

  Embarrassed by her situation, she lied and told his folks that she was just on her way to Los Angeles to meet up with her mom, but judging from the severe look on Scott's dad’s face, he didn't seem to buy her story at all. He offered to give her a lift in that direction, explaining that he had sales meetings in Portland all weekend. The next day Scott's dad drove her into the city, stopping at a cheap motel room so he could rest up before his presentation. Once inside he wasted no time pawing at her. She didn't argue when he began pulling her hand into his lap and rubbing it over his tan slacks on his erection. He fucked her with a condom, then left two hundred dollars on the nightstand on his way out the door and warned her not to come back.

  There were a lot of girls like her at that hotel she later found out, and a lot more men like Scott's dad who were willing to give her money and drugs for a few minutes inside her. She moved in with another girl living at the motel, Starr, who turned her on to the needle. It was love at first bite. Starr was a poor substitute for Makayla, but for a while they did become close, even doing jobs together for an extra twenty bucks they'd split. Plus Starr looked out for her when Diora would get too wasted, making sure she got paid even if she passed out on a trick.

  She was the first woman I ever trusted, Diora thought.

  Eventually the cops raided the hotel and ran them off, so Starr and Diora began working truck stops. Lot lizards. That's what they were called. They'd fight with other girls and trannies for the chance to blow a trucker who'd stopped in Portland for a rest. If she was lucky the guy would want more. If she was really lucky he'd have something to keep her high while she worked. There was no shortage of truckers, so Diora never had trouble finding new customers or keeping regulars happy. She was an expert at pleasuring guys, and often got tipped well either in cash or dope.

  Months flew past in a blur. She'd moved into a roach infested shit hole apartment with Starr, and they fought a lot about money. Starr's habit was getting out of control. She was burning through the money they brought in, missing out on jobs, and stealing from Diora's purse. She'd come close to overdosing twice.

  Diora knew it was time to find a place on her own. She decided to steal the wallet of one of her regulars to earn enough to get away from Starr, but didn't plan on it being chained to his jeans. Big John came to with a snort, the confusion showing on his face at why she was going through his wallet quickly turning to rage. He was the kind of trick who liked it rough to begin with, so she knew she was in for one hell of a beating. He started in on her with his bare fists, slamming them into her face over and over until the pain seemed like all there was left in the world—and then the lights went out.

  When she woke up she was naked and shivering in a garbage dumpster in downtown Los Angeles. She had no memory of how she had gotten there. She climbed out and walked through a homeless camp to a shelter, where she was given food, clothing, and most importantly, methadone. Forty-eight hours had passed since she was conscious, and in that time her body had developed a powerful craving for more junk.

  I'm a survivor, Diora thought. Life keeps trying to kill me, but for some reason I just keep on living.

  She wasted no time putting her talents to good use, trading sex for quick cash with the married men looking for a cheap release who came through on their lunch breaks from the nearby offices. In a month she went from a shelter to a place of her own, another gem of a rundown apartment in Hollywood near the Henry Ford Theater and the metro station. She even called Starr, hoping to convince her to move down to L.A., but learned from another lot lizard, Candy, who had moved in when she vanished, that her best friend had overdosed and died.

  ***

  “Wake up,” Jamal whispered fiercely, shaking her arm.

  “What is it?” She'd been dreaming of Starr. Her heart hurt thinking about her lost friend.

  “We not alone.”

  “What do you mean we're not alone?”

  “I mean what I said. We not alone,” Jamal hissed. “How you not understand that?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I dunno,” he said, holding up the .38 Special so she could see it, moonlight glinting off its snub-nosed barrel in the pitch black. “I ain't planning on finding out neither. Just stay quiet and hopefully they'll move on.”

  Diora wasn't worried as they sat in silence listening to the sound of footsteps dragging around somewhere beneath them. She trusted that Jamal would handle it. He always did. It was what he was good at, the same way she was good at sex. Finally a voice drifted up to them.

  “I know you're up there somewhere,” a man said playfully. “I saw you come in.”

  He was joined by another voice, this one much lower.

  “No sign of him anywhere. We’ve searched the whole place.”

  “Oh I think our friend is still here,” the first man said. “Otherwise we'd have seen him leave. He's just hiding is all. Isn't that right? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  The words echoed loudly through the empty building. Diora let out a little gasp of surprise, but Jamal forced his hand over her mouth to stop her.

  “You see?” the man went on. “He's here, just as I promised you—and he's got company. A little piece of pussy to keep hisself warm at night. Good for you. But you fucked up today. Didn't you? You came into our building and you took things that didn't belong to you, so you fucked up. And now you're gonna pay for it. You and your pretty little bitch. You hear me?”

  Jamal removed his hand from Diora's mouth, giving her a stern look that said in no uncertain terms to keep her fucking mouth shut. Slowly he inched his way to the ledge and peeked over. Diora fought the urge to scream as he brought the pistol up and pointed it down at the strangers who had found their way into their safe place.

  “You move and I'll blow a hole clean through you,” Jamal said in a clear voice.

  “There he is,” the man sang out, sounding like he was greeting an old friend. “Now how did you get on up there, boy? You got some kind of ladder?

  “Ain't none of yo
ur business,” Jamal assured him. “All you need to worry about is backing out of this place nice and slow, with your hands up so I can see 'em, then forgetting you ever saw me.”

  “You really think that's gonna happen? Wow. You really think we tracked your black ass all the way back here, through a fucking swarm of fucking skin jobs no less, just so we could chicken out at the sight of a shiny toy gun? Fuck me. That's a good one.”

  “You want me blow a hole through your thick skull instead, mutherfucka? I got plenty of ammo for you and all your friends.”

  It was a lie. All they had was the one gun, but their new friends didn't need to know that.

  “You're not gonna do that,” the man said with a short, forced laugh.

  “You sure about that, white boy?”

  “I am.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “For starters you're still talking, which means you're hoping to fix things without using your hand cannon. Plus those things make a whole lotta noise, and we left the door wide open when we came in. You start blasting and this place will be filled with corpses real quick. I think it's time we talk about your real options.”

  “We ain't got nothing to talk about,” Jamal spat. “This is your last warning.”

  “I'd like to come up,” the man said. “Considering what you took from me, I think that's the least you can do. Don't you?”

  “You got it all wrong. You move an inch and I'll pop that dome wide open.”

  Diora felt her heart beating wildly in her chest.

  What could he have taken that would have caused them to track him down? What was left in the world that had any value? She didn't know. Nothing came to mind. All she did know was that whatever happened she was sure she didn't want those men coming up, that anything happening to Jamal meant reliving what had happened at the river many times over. She'd rather die than become their sex toy.

  “Jacob,” his friend hissed at him, but Jacob talked right over him.