by John Locke
“Look in the mirror.”
Carlos does. Then says, “What the hell are you wearing?”
Charlie’s hand instinctively moves to his neck. “Nothing.”
“Are those mom’s necklaces?”
“I brought them for good luck.”
“How many are you wearing?”
“Three.”
“What if we’d gotten in a scuffle and one of them broke?”
“I suppose we’d have to gather up the little pearls.”
“What if we had to make a run for it?”
“Run?” Charlie says. “Are you kidding me? It took us a full minute to get from the den to the bathroom!”
“Figure of speech.”
“We couldn’t outrun a sloth on propofol!”
“You made your point, Charlie. Mine is this: hit men don’t wear pearls.”
“We could start a new trend.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Look, it’s bad enough you wear a Velcro bra and panties to bed every night.”
“So?”
“Let’s focus. I see blood in the water.”
“Blood?”
“In the tub. And Kathy’s head’s under water. She’s dead.”
He starts moving toward her. Charlie’s forced to follow.
Charlie says, “Slow down. It might be a trap.”
“A trap?”
“She could be playing possum.”
“I have no idea what that means, but there’s blood, Charlie. And did you hear me say her head’s under the water?”
“Maybe she’s holding her breath.”
“Trust me, she’s dead.”
Carlos and Charlie have lived like this since birth. Now that Kathy’s a non-issue, they ease into the natural muscular cooperation that got them through twenty-eight years of life, one hour at a time. Carlos’s legs are better suited to walking, Charlie’s arm and hand is more functional. Carlos instinctively knows how to angle, dip, and turn, so Charlie can see.
“I’ll take her pulse,” Charlie says.
“Good idea. Wonder what we’ll learn,” Carlos says, sarcastically.
The boys lower their bodies until they’re on their knees. Charlie places his hand on Kathy’s neck.
“She’s dead,” he says.
“There’s a shock.”
Charlie looks at Kathy, shakes his head and sighs. “If my time comes, make sure I’m not wearing sweatpants, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever,” Carlos says, “Help me turn.”
“Which way?”
“To the right, so I can reach her.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Still on their knees they make a quarter-turn to the right. When Charlie hears Carlos breathing heavily he says, “What the fudge are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Hilarious. You know I can’t see what you’re doing.”
“Good. So you can’t tell mom.”
Charlie doesn’t possess the leg strength Carlos does, but when he makes sudden moves, he can temporarily force the action.
He suddenly stands up, loses his balance, and both twins topple to the floor.
“What the hell?” Carlos says.
Charlie lands at an angle that offers him a view of the body. Kathy’s sweat pants and panties have been pulled down to her knees.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts.
“I wasn’t going to do her or anything,” Carlos says. “I just wanted to look.”
“That’s disgusting. She’s dead.”
“It’s not like I get lots of opportunities.”
“This is just wrong,” Charlie says.
“I’m not doing anything. Just looking.”
Charlie sighs. “We’ll get you a hooker tonight.”
“Really?”
“I suppose we’d better, if our choices are prostitution or necrophilia.”
“What about you?”
“You don’t care about my needs.”
“Of course I do!”
“I’m content to suffer in silence,” Charlie says, in his martyr’s voice. “As always.”
“We could see if the escort agency has a guy for you.”
“We’ve been through this a hundred times. I’m not like you. I can’t just do it. Especially with you lying next to us, laughing.”
“I wouldn’t laugh.”
“You would, and you have. And we got beat up and robbed, if memory serves.”
“He got in a lucky punch,” Carlos says.
“Lots of them, as I recall. But paying men for sex is not my dream scenario, okay?”
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your dream scenario.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“No I won’t.”
“Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind a nice, quiet evening with a decent guy.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“You know, a nice dinner in an elegant restaurant with linen tablecloths and napkins, and candles gracing the table. A handsome, attentive waiter with impeccable taste and washboard abs would personally select our lobsters and prepare them tableside, with brown butter, shallots, pine nuts, and tagliatelle.”
“Tagli-what?”
“It’s a pasta. While waiting, we’d sip a pretentious domestic wine and listen to soft, romantic music. Afterward, if my date is half the man I hope he is, he’d insist I try a flaming dessert, like bananas Foster, or cherries jubilee.”
Charlie’s words hang in the air like a heart-shaped balloon until Carlos says, “Are you shitting me?”
“What do you think, pervert? Now turn us to the left so I can restore Kathy’s wardrobe.”
“And then?”
“Then we need to find her cell phone and call Chris.”
“When we call, I do the talking,” Carlos says.
“Why can’t I ever be Jimmy?”
“Because you don’t sound like a Jimmy. You sound like a friggin’-”
“ Don’t say it! Don’t you dare say that word!” Charlie shouts.
“What I mean is your voice is higher-pitched. I sound more like a hit man.”
“A hit man who can’t shoot.”
“That’s a low blow.”
Charlie frowns. “Yes it was. I’m sorry. I was just pointing out that even though you’re Jimmy the hit man to Chris and the rest of the world, we’re a team.”
“Fine.”
“You need me, I need you.”
“Right. Got it.”
“I have an idea!” Charlie says.
“Great. Yay. Can’t wait to hear it.”
“How about in private, we just say we’re hit twins.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”
18
Chris Fowler.
Cayman Islands.
Chris jumps when his cell phone rings, then checks the screen.
Kathy.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Carlos says, “Jimmy.”
“Is she-”
“Yeah. She’s dead.”
“How?”
“It’s better you don’t know.”
“Did she suffer?”
“Not that I could tell.”
They go silent a moment. Chris says, “You won’t tell me how you killed her?”
“When the police question you, the less you know, the better you’ll come across.”
“Okay.”
Carlos says, “Where’s the balance?”
“The-what?”
“The rest of the money. The other ten grand?”
Chris pauses to think. He paid Jimmy ten already. What if he pays the balance and finds out Kathy’s still alive? On the other hand, not paying Jimmy the rest of the money would be stupid. He
’s in Chris’s house, for God’s sake! And paying him later would require another phone call. Right now, they’re good. The call from Kathy’s cell phone gives the appearance she’s alive. When Chris calls her back in a half hour, she won’t answer. He’ll space a few calls over the rest of the day, then call one of the neighbors to check on her. They’ll find the body and call the cops. Then the cops will call him.
In the Caymans.
He’s home free, since all calls between he and Jimmy were made with disposable cell phones.
“Hello?” Carlos says.
“Huh?”
“We’re on a time limit here, Chris. Where’s the rest of the money?”
“Oh. Sorry. In the garage, under the gas can. Behind the ladder.”
Carlos clicks the phone off, hands it to Charlie, who says, “He still thinks you’re Jimmy?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“We were on speaker.”
“So?”
“Did you hear me tell him about you?” Carlos says.
“No, but I never know what you’re up to. You’re always scheming behind my back.”
“So you say. Endlessly.”
“Oh, really?” Charlie says. “Well, for your information, this killer-for-hire business was your idea, Mr. Big Shot Mafia man!”
“Your point?”
“If we get caught, I’m turning state’s evidence.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“Maybe not. But that won’t stop me from cutting a deal with the feds.”
“The feds, huh?”
“That’s right. And I’ll sing like a canary! Don’t think I won’t! And then you’ll be sorry.”
Sing like a canary?
Carlos rolls his eyes.
When Charlie gets worked up like this the best thing to do is humor him. Carlos softens his tone and says, “You’ve always had a gift for song.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely.”
Charlie smiles wistfully. “In a perfect world, I could have been the next Nathan Lane.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” Carlos says.
“I’ve been cheated out of my birthright.”
“So true. Can we get our money now?”
“After we put Kathy’s phone back.”
This is only their second job, but the twins are already operating at a high level. Carlos handled Kathy’s cell phone with a handkerchief and used her right index finger to make the call to Chris. Then touched her finger to the speaker button, and held her fingers around the phone while he spoke. Then Kathy’s finger pressed the “end call” button.
So they’ve got a nice, clean fingerprint of Kathy calling her husband, establishing the last time she was alive. The police might be suspicious, but there’ll be no phone records on Chris’s phone, no way to prove he hired someone to kill his wife. Since Chris is in the Cayman Islands, the cops can’t link him to the murder directly. They’ll huff and puff, but in the end, they’ll have to rule it a random homicide, for lack of evidence.
The twins leave Kathy’s body the way they found it, place Kathy’s phone on the kitchen counter, and head to the garage to get their money. In ninety minutes they’ll be back in their trailer, on their mom’s tiny farm outside Dayton.
“We didn’t even have to kill her!” Charlie says.
“Let’s not tell Chris.”
“Or mom!” Charlie says.
They laugh.
Charlie says, “The fingerprint on the phone was a stroke of genius.”
“I agree,” Carlos says. “Thanks for saying so.”
“Good work should always be complimented. That’s what mom says.”
They shuffle out the door, lock it, and return the key to its hiding place.
Carlos smiles. The fingerprint on the phone was a nice touch.
How could he possibly know Kathy was left-handed?
19
Maggie’s Farm.
Dr. Gideon Box.
Short term effects of heroin include intense euphoria, alternately alert and drowsy, slowed breathing, muscular weakness, depression, sedation.
Short term effects of cocaine include euphoria, arousal, increased energy, constricted blood vessels, increased heart rate. Larger doses cause tremors, vertigo, irritability, paranoia, erratic behavior, violence.
By combining the drugs, users hope to get an intense, euphoric rush while avoiding the negative effects. But mixing the depressant heroin, with the stimulant cocaine, causes confusion, stupor, diminished coordination, excessive arousal, hallucinations, intense depression, and death.
When Willow parks the car at Maggie’s farm, Bobby lets out a whoop, jumps out, and hits the ground running. My morphine’s wearing off, but I don’t dare take another dose. I’ll need my wits to survive whatever he’s got planned.
“Get out, bitches!” he yells. “I’m eating Black Toad Powder! You know what that means? It’s party time!”
I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired.
“Jesus, Bobby!” Willow yells. “Be careful with that thing!”
“Get out, or the next one goes through the windshield.”
I hear the doors open, then hear them shut.
Willow says, “What are you doing?”
“Getting naked, of course!”
“Why?”
“I’m gonna show you something. Stand together with your backs against the car. No, Stringbean, facing me. Yeah, that’s right. Now check this out.”
“I’m sorry, Cam,” Willow says.
Maybe they’ll forget about me. I’m fine with that, though I need to piss.
“What about Doctor Box?” Willow says.
“Who?”
“The dead guy in the trunk.”
“Oh yeah! The guy you fucked last night. Thanks for reminding me!”
“We didn’t fuck anyone last night,” Willow says.
“Well, like I told the doc last night, after you confess, I’m gonna cut his dick off and sew it in your mouth.”
“What are you doing?” Willow says.
“This here’s called Black Toad. I’m rubbing it on my dick. You girls are gonna love this! It’s… holy shit!”
He yelps.
“What’s wrong?” Willow says.
“ Burns! It burns like fire! My dick’s on fire! Jesus, my dick’s on fire! I’m in flames! Oh, the humanity!”
“Why would you do that? What’s the matter with you?” Willow shouts.
“Shut up! Take your clothes off, both of you.”
“No way!”
“Are you kidding me? Look at the size of this cock! I’m gonna get my money’s worth out of you and Stringbean.”
He suddenly screams like he’s in excruciating pain. It makes sense the pain would come and go as the bufotenin gets absorbed deeper into his penis.
“Get naked, whores!” he yells.
“ No!” Willow says.
“I’m dead serious, bitch. Right now.”
“Fuck you!” Cameron shouts.
I hear a gunshot.
Cameron screams like she’s in pain.
Willow screams like she’s freaking out.
Bobby screams like his dick’s on fire.
The rest is hard to make out.
But when Willow screams, “She’s dying! Get the doctor out of the trunk!” it’s pretty clear Cameron’s been shot.
20
“Stay where you are!” Bobby shouts.
“Shut up, Bobby! She’s dying! Open the trunk.”
I hear him scream, “Oh, God!” then he falls to the ground and vomits violently.
Seconds later the trunk opens. It’s nearing dusk, so my eyes have no problem adjusting to the light.
“Get out!” Willow shouts. “Cameron’s been shot!”
She tries to help me, but Bobby staggers up behind her and grabs her by the hair. He pulls her backward and throws her to the ground. Tries to kick her but misses and
nearly falls down. His chin and chest is covered in vomit.
There’s no avoiding his penis.
It’s black from powder and purple from pressure. It’s not only erect, but enormous, and maintaining an eighty-degree angle, which is to say, practically vertical. It’s also pulsing and throbbing, as if ready to explode.
Bobby sees me looking at him and shouts, “You bastard!”
He staggers toward me, but is forced to squat and shit a thick, wet stream that splats on the dirt beneath him, creating a little puff of steam.
“You think that’s funny?” he says.
“I think it’s hilarious! Do it again!”
As if on cue, he groans and shits a quart of black water in the noisiest manner possible.
“How’s that Black Toad working for you, fuckhead?” I say.
“I’m gonna kill you!” he shouts, seething with fury.
“Before you do, shit again, like the baboon you are.”
Still squatting, Bobby aims his gun at me and says, “You’re a dead man!”
“Maybe so, but at least my corpse will have balls.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I point at his crotch. “Your nuts disappeared.”
He looks down and frowns.
“You’re a dead man!” he shouts.
“You said that already.”
He sneezes, and a pint of black water spews and sprays from his ass.
He stands upright and stumbles toward me. He’s furious, in agony, but he’s not going to shoot me. Not before finding out if I slept with Willow.
Turns out I’m wrong about that.
We’re twelve feet apart when he pulls the trigger.
I have to look down to be sure he actually missed me from that distance.
He did.
Willow comes up behind him and kicks the back of his knees as he’s firing the second shot. Bobby hits the ground, writhing and blubbering, and I realize he’s shot himself in the upper thigh. He waves his gun around in the air, firing indiscriminately. A hundred yards away, on the main road, I hear something that sounds like a car crash. I look up instinctively, but Maggie’s house is blocking my view.
When Bobby’s gun is empty, I work my way out of the trunk and try to stand, but my legs are asleep. I fall back onto the edge of the trunk and sit there, rubbing my legs to get the blood flowing.
Willow yells at me to do something about Cameron.
“What about my leg?” Bobby whimpers.