JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  Rachael reached out and grasped his hand.

  Daryl drained the bottle dry. “But the other thing that keeps me going is knowing that he isn't simply killing to rid the city gangs. He's not on some vigilante crusade. He's a sexual sadist. He kills because he feels a tremendous desire to do so. If he wasn't killing gang members in East L.A., he'd be killing homeless men and women on skid row. I think you're right that he lives in the East Los Angeles and Echo Park areas. He's simply motivated by the same thing that motivates all serial killers: to fulfill a twisted sexual desire, to have complete control over people, to experience their deaths. This is what gets him off. He chooses his victims because they are easily accessible to him. And the reason they are so easily accessible to him is because he is literally surrounded by them because he lives within their territories."

  They were silent for a moment, each one of them engaged in their own thoughts.

  Rachael finished her beer. After a few minutes she got off the bed, picked up her empty bottle and took his. She went downstairs to return them to the kitchen. When she came back up she went to the bathroom. Then she returned to the bed and she slid under the covers and cuddled up next to Daryl. “Hold me,” she said. “Just hold me, Daryl."

  He held her. And in time he felt sleep come over him. He reached over to the lamp on his side of the bed and turned it off. When he slid under the covers to take Rachael into his arms again, she went to him readily. They lay awake in the dark, holding each other, listening to the silence of the night broken occasionally by the sound of a car passing outside.

  It took Daryl twenty minutes to fall asleep. Normally he drifted off as soon as his head hit the pillow. This time the topic of their conversation kept him awake. But he did get to sleep.

  It took Rachael much longer.

  Chapter 12

  June 13, 1997, 11:58 am

  He was hoping she was working today, and as Charley approached the window of Top's Charbroiled Hamburgers in Pico Rivera he was rewarded with his wish. The young Hispanic woman behind the window smiled as he approached the window, and Charley felt his stomach flutter as her eyes lit upon him. “How ya doing today?” she asked, chewing a wad of gum.

  “Great,” he said, trying not to make it so obvious that he was blushing. Jesus Christ, he was a grown man! Why did he still find himself so tongue-tied around beautiful women? “How about yourself?"

  “Same ol’ same ‘ol,” she answered. She had a pronounced barrio accent. “You know how it is."

  “You got that right."

  “So whatcha gonna have today? The usual?"

  “I think I'll forgo the usual and order one of your Caesar salads with a large coke."

  The girl raised an eyebrow and appeared to appraise him from behind the counter.

  “Gee, honey, you trying to go on a diet or somethin'? Our burgers ain't good enough for you?"

  Charley felt himself blush again, but came to his senses as she laughed heartily.

  He smiled, the nervous twinge that had started to rise at her answer evaporating. She was just joking. Carmen Aguirre was always kidding around with him.

  He had been eating at Top's Charbroiled Burgers for the past three months now, ever since Carmen Aguirre started working behind the counter as a cashier. She was simply the most gorgeous woman Charley had ever met: she stood about five foot four, had a curvy figure, and a buxom chest. She favored tasteful clothing that was sexy and tasteful. Today she was dressed in faded Levi's blue jeans that clung to her legs and thighs and a red long sleeved shirt pulled up and tied at the waist showing off her tan belly, the neckline showing a swell of bosom. Carmen's hair was dark brown and shoulder length, her eyes brown, her nose small, cheekbones high. Her mouth was complimented by full lips. In short, Carmen Aguirre was a goddess.

  He got the impression at times that Carmen knew he had a crush on her. He could tell by the way she talked to him, the way she would flirt with him a little as he ate at one of the tables—sometimes she would join him on a break while he ate—or the way she joked around with him. Women in general didn't joke around with him. He didn't know why. He supposed he might be a turn-off for many women. It was painful to admit, but he could see why some women would find him repulsive: he was quiet, kept to himself, did his work quickly and thoroughly, and didn't draw much attention to himself. There was his physical appearance, too, which probably didn't help much. But the clincher was most likely his sense of humor and personality, which he always tried to rein in. When conversation at work turned to personal things, Charley was always more than eager to pipe in his opinions or share his interest in reading and films. In fact, it was probably his vast knowledge of various film and literary trivia that turned a lot of women off, as well as finding out that he still lived at home with his mother. Most people referred to people like Charley as a Mama's boy.

  But I'm not a Mama's boy, he thought. I'm not, and I'll show them.

  “Well?"

  Carmen's voice snapped Charley back to the present and he looked at her, noting that she was waiting for him with hands on hips. Her big brown eyes had that well, what are you waiting for? look. Charley tried to laugh it off. “Yeah, I guess I am on a diet,” he said.

  “That's better."

  “Why do you want to know?"

  “Why wouldn't I?” she asked, writing his order down on a pad and tearing it off.

  She handed it to one of the cooks and turned back to him. “After all, you're one of my favorite customers. Here at Top's we show concern for our customers."

  “That's nice to know,” Charley said, smiling. He was feeling better now.

  Carmen handed him a ticket stub. “You're number eighty-four. I'll get your coke."

  Charley moved aside as Carmen went to the coke machine to get his drink. The main lunch rush had already put in their orders and most of them were seated at the dozen tables inside the fast food restaurant. Charley knew that another bigger rush would probably be descending on the little eating establishment in the next fifteen minutes when the workforce of Donnelly, which was across the street, took their lunch break. He turned back to the counter just as Carmen approached with his coke. She smiled. “You eating here?"

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Have anything planned for the weekend?” She asked. “Going to party?"

  “Oh, I don't know,” he said. “We'll see. What about you?"

  “Don't know yet. Try to see what's going down, I guess."

  “What do you normally like to do on weekends?"

  She shrugged. “The usual. Hang out with my girlfriends, go to parties, go dancing.

  Sometimes go to movies."

  “Ah, you like movies.” Say the word “movies” and Charley's interest piqued.

  “What kind of movies do you like?"

  Carmen laughed. “You're gonna laugh, but the kind of movies I like are not the kind of movies girls usually like."

  “I won't laugh,” Charley said, grinning wide. “Promise."

  She seemed to consider this, her brown eyes searching his for the truth to this answer. He held her gaze, his heart beating. “Okay,” she said. “I'll tell you. But you're not going to believe it."

  “If you tell me the kind of movies you like, I'll tell you the kind of movies I like,”

  Charley said, smiling.

  “Okay.” Carmen smiled, leaning over the counter. “I like the shoot-em-up kind of movies. The kind where there are a lot of car chases that end in explosions and a lot of car crashes and a lot of high powered gun-fire happening throughout the movie where bullets tear everything apart, and where people get killed left and right. I like the kind of movies that pick up fast and don't let up, the kind where the action goes faster and faster until the end. I like movies that are filled with suspense, that keep me on the edge of my seat, but that are also funny and make me laugh, as well as cringe in fear and suspense. I like movies where the bad guys are going to do something really horrible, like blow up the world or kill a lot of people
or ... something really bad, you know? And then the good guy, somebody like Bruce Willis or Arnold Shwarzenegger, comes in and saves the day but in the meantime the movie is filled with everything I just described."

  “And no love scenes?” Charley asked, grinning.

  Carmen laughed. “Well, maybe one. There has to be a beautiful girl in the movie who is the hero's love interest. Isn't that the recipe for successful movies nowadays? Sex and violence?"

  “I suppose it is,” Charley said.

  “So what kind of movies do you like?” Carmen asked. She was still leaning over the counter, eager to engage him in conversation.

  “The same kinds as you,” Charley said. “And other kinds."

  “Oh, other kinds!” She raised her eyebrows, her tone of voice flirtatious. Charley almost blushed again. “What other kinds of movies?"

  Charley shifted his feet and was about to answer when his number was called.

  Carmen got his order and set it in front of him. She smiled at him, her big brown eyes hinting that she was eager to perhaps keep the conversation going. “Well, here's your order. I should get back to work. Maybe you can tell me what kind of movies you like next time."

  “Sure,” Charley said, taking the tray from her. Then before he could stop himself, he said it: “Maybe we can go to a movie together someday."

  There. He had said it. It had come out so naturally that he didn't even have time to stop it, but now that it was out he couldn't very well reel it in. He bit his tongue, trying hard not to wince as he managed a weak smile. Carmen's facial expressions didn't change, but the chuckle that welled from her sounded like it was tinged with a sense of superiority, as if to say me go out with you? Not on your life, pal.

  Instead, all she said was “Maybe. It might be fun."

  But the tone of her voice suggested otherwise.

  Charley smiled weakly and took his tray to one of the rear tables. His hands were shaking so badly by the time he reached the table that he almost dropped his tray. He sank down into the booth and forced himself to look down at his food. His hands were shaking and he could feel himself growing flush with embarrassment. Why did I ask her out like that? Why don't I ever think before opening my big, fat mouth? He hadn't meant to blurt that out the way he had, and now that it had happened he wished he could just crawl into a hole and die. To think that her seemingly kind attitude toward him bespoke genuine interest in him was absurd. She was too good for him—she was beautiful, young, probably had scores of attention of many young men who were more sure of themselves and knew how to handle themselves around women. Charley wouldn't stand up to a normal man by a long shot. So why did he suddenly think he had a shot at going out with such a beautiful woman as Carmen?

  He opened the plastic container that held his salad and started eating. He avoided looking at the front counter. Already the sounds of voices and motion from the front was telling him that more people had arrived to have lunch at Top's, and Carmen was probably taking orders. The more he tried to put Carmen out of his mind and concentrate on his lunch, the more her laughter rose in his mind; the way she had responded when he asked her to a movie had cut into him like a knife. The tone of voice she had used when she answered him was like all the others: she no doubt saw him as a sad, pathetic little man who was beneath her. And that made him angry. It was always this way. Women always found him repulsive, no matter how nice he was or how much he tried to be helpful and respectful. It just wasn't fair. What did he ever do to deserve this?

  As he ate the scenarios crept into his mind. He pictured himself in his room with Carmen. She was naked and he was fucking her as she screamed and begged for mercy.

  The fantasy unwound in his mind as he ate silently.

  Carmen trembling before him as he advanced toward her. Begging for mercy.

  Charley shifted in his seat as he ate. He had a raging hard-on.

  As much as he hated himself for harboring these feelings towards women, despite deep-down only wanting Carmen to like him and want him as a real man, Charley went home that night harboring dark thoughts.

  Chapter 13

  July 17, 1997, 2:43 p.m.

  Los Angeles, CA

  They had just made a raid on a residence in Echo Park in search of a suspect. They had burst into the house, warrants in hand, a dozen officers and FBI agents participating, and they had taken the occupants by surprise. Daryl had orchestrated the raid himself, and now as the officers and FBI agents worked on herding everybody in the house into the living room to take a head count, Daryl quickly saw that they were missing a person.

  Chiefly, a member of Tortilla Flats who lived here with the man they had a warrant for.

  Daryl pulled his service revolver and caught Steve Howe's attention. He motioned toward the rear of the house. “Cover me,” he said.

  Steve pulled his weapon, and together the two men worked their way to the back of the house, quickly inspecting rooms they had already checked out. When they had first burst in they'd quickly gone through these rooms and rousted everybody out, but in all the confusion they thought they had everybody. Apparently that wasn't the case.

  There were two bedrooms in the back. They checked the north bedroom and as Steve covered him, Daryl went to the closet and opened the door suddenly, gun out and ready. The closet was empty. He checked the window; it was closed.

  They moved to the next bedroom. Checked it out. Moved to the closet.

  With Steve covering him, Daryl flung the door open.

  Furtive movement in the closet almost made Steve squeeze his trigger finger.

  Daryl barked at the man inside: “Stop moving and put your hands on your head.” The figure inside stopped moving but made no move to put his hands on his head. Now Daryl could make out the figure in the closet. It was the Tortilla Flats gang member he was hoping would be in here. Rodrigo Arroyo, age thirty-eight. Released on parole almost two years ago after having served twelve years of a fifteen years to life sentence for second degree murder and armed robbery. Daryl knew Arroyo's record well.

  He had memorized it.

  Rodrigo's face had been imprinted on his face ever since that fateful day when Shirley was taken from him.

  The face that turned to peer up at him was older than the one he remembered from fourteen years ago, the one that had leered at him as he was pulled from his car in that nightmare, but it was still the same face. It had more scars on it, more worn and weather-beaten from the hard life lived. But the same face nonetheless. A face that didn't deserve to remain intact anymore.

  “Hold still, motherfucker,” Daryl muttered, aiming his weapon at Rodrigo Arroyo's face. His finger closed over the trigger and for a moment time stood still as he stood over the cowering man who had hidden in the closet during the mid-afternoon raid.

  The last fourteen years flashed before him; the crime that had created the undying hate for Rodrigo's kind—gang members that murdered innocent people; the crime that had taken his wife and unborn baby, the anguish he had felt for months, years on end, the pain he had lived with, the pain others had experienced because of this man and others like him.

  He had waited so long for this moment.

  The room grew tense. Daryl felt as if he was in a vacuum. His mind focused on the man cowering before him, staring at him with eyes that showed no signs of recognition. The bastard doesn't even recognize me!

  Daryl's finger tightened on the trigger.

  Steve Howe's voice burned in his mind as he spoke behind him. “I wouldn't shoot him if I were you, pal. We got a dozen FBI agents here and we don't want them involved.

  Get the motherfucker out now and we'll deal with his ass later. Let's not fuck things up now, okay?"

  It was that which cut through Daryl's system and snapped him out of his haze. He blinked back the fantasy of Rodrigo Arroyo's splattered brains on the back wall of the closet and took a deep breath, composing himself. Steve was beside him a moment later, gun trained on Arroyo. “Get your fucking wetback ass out of that clo
set now! Put your hands out and over your head and crawl out of that closet on your knees, motherfucker.

  Do it now!"

  Rodrigo Arroyo was shaking in fear. He complied, his limbs trembling. Daryl took another deep breath, refocusing his attention: place Arroyo in custody with the rest of the home's occupants in the living room and let the FBI handle the processing. He walked toward the wall quickly and turned back as Rodrigo finally made his way out of the closet. He lay flat on his stomach at Steve's instruction, and Daryl kept his piece trained on him as Steve quickly slapped the cuffs on and hauled him to his feet.

  “Remember me?” Daryl said, approaching Arroyo. The suspect only looked at Daryl as he shook his head mutely.

  “Then remember this,” Daryl said, driving a fist hard into Rodrigo's groin, crushing his testicles. Rodrigo doubled over in pain, gasping for breath. Steve cast a warning glance at him and Daryl met his gaze. Don't fuck with me on this. Steve looked away and led Rodrigo out of the room, who was doubled over gasping for breath, paralyzed with pain.

  Leaving Daryl in the back bedroom. Alone.

  And seething with rage.

  God, he had wanted to pump all twelve rounds of his magazine into that pathetic piece of shit. How he had wanted to drag that bastard out of the closet and personally beat his skull in with his bare hands. He felt such immense rage and hatred now, that he wanted to go somewhere and vent. The pressure was building. With the Butcher case going nowhere, with everybody chasing their own goddamned tails, his relationship with Rachael all fucked up—she had recently told him she thought they needed a break from each other, can you fucking believe that?—and now finally seeing that long ago hated face of Rodrigo Arroyo, Daryl had to vent. He couldn't go back out on the streets and pick on some puny gang banger like he used to. The department was really starting to crack down on cops who abused civilians, and Daryl had already come close to being investigated once. He had to be careful now, but goddamn, he had to let all the rage and pain and hate out somehow—