The Big Bad

by Phil Beloin Jr.

  His eyes found mine. "I need you to find her, man."

  I parked the cigarette in the corner of my mouth. "Maybe she don’t feel all mushy about you no more."

  "I don’t believe that for a second. We never even had a fight."

  "Christ, Irv, you sound like a teenager who got his heart squashed."

  "You have till Friday to bring her back to me."

  "That ain’t a lot of time."

  "End of the week, Nick, or the cops get the tape."

  9

  Irv’s reconstructed knee hurt like a fucker. He needed to stretch his leg so he left Nick sitting in that ugly chair with that ugly cat and went into the room behind the office. Irv wasn’t concerned about leaving Michelle with Nick. The lady lacked key emotional components, like empathy, which made her a wicked killer. She could be a bitch, too, but she always followed orders. Some kind of chain-of-command mentality burned into her psyche. Her father was a Special Forces guru (or CIA—Irv couldn’t exactly remember), with obsessive compulsive disorder. Michelle had told him daddy got a rush out of protecting freedom and stroking her petite clit. What made things worse in Irv’s eyes; psycho lady admitted to enjoying the attention, looking forward to her father’s next R&R.

  Irv lay down on the massive round bed and relaxed his leg. His headache felt just as massive as his knee. Lots of problems already—first some dude not paying on the vig and then Pam vanishing. Maybe it was time to get out. Find Pam, move to where no one knew anything about you, live off the meager hockey pension and the dough Uncle Sam had never unearthed.

  But Irv knew you couldn’t get out in this business. As you fell back, your competitors would chop you into pieces and toss what was left in the murk of Long Island Sound where even the fish couldn’t find your remains.

  That thought made a vein in Irv’s forehead pound, but he didn’t even think about taking aspirin—he was afraid of getting hooked on any drugs. In prison, during the group meetings—Irv going to kill time—he had learned all about addictive personalities like his, hence the drug dependency, the pussy problem, the money madness, and then events spiraled downward, the end credits rolling over a prison sentence, or your death, either by suicide or ingesting too much.

  Staring at the mirror on the ceiling, Irv couldn’t remember the last time he had used the fuck pad for fucking. Problematic, yes, but soon, he would lay Pam gently upon these rounds sheets—which cost him a muther-fucking fortune—and awe that beautiful young woman with his manhood.

  Until that moment, he’d settle for a blow-job, hoping, believing she’d be good at it. Well, if it took practice, so what? He could be patient with her. He pictured those beautiful lips kissing the head, and then taking it all in her mouth.

  The O+ headed south, Irv thinking that he hadn’t even seen her naked yet, but knew it would blow him away. She had glimpsed his dick just that one time in the limo, looking away from its girth, but running a hand over it until he couldn’t hold back. Shit, it hadn’t lasted long—he’d been in prison for three years. What did she expect? Not that she complained or anything. Even wiped it all up with a hankie engraved with Irv’s initials.

  Irv’s cock was about a centimeter away from being freakish. As a boy he knew it was unusually large, had always wanted to know it’s precise dimensions, but he felt too funny and ashamed to grab the tape measure from his father’s tool box. Back in his hockey playing days, he would catch his teammates staring at him in the locker room. Hell, none of them would want to get in the shower with that thing dangling for the knee. Nothing compared to it, those macho men—nothing more than football players on skates—feeling inferior. They called it Irv’s other stick. Irv would laugh inside. If only they saw it hard. Fucking thing curved like hockey stick, too.

  Irv had to adjust his pants to let it kept on keeping on. The first few months in jail, he had jerked off a lot, but once he learned about his specific personality traits, he opted out of self-abuse. He didn’t want to get addicted to that shit either. He’d save it all for Pam.

  But where had she gone? Family interruptus, or was she nervous about the upcoming weekend? Irv didn’t think she was worried about the latter. He thought about his enemies—the hotheaded Latinos, and those kung fu fuckers—either of them could have snagged her. Or had an exiled member of the mob turned on him while he was in the clink? Not likely there.

  Did somebody want a ransom or was she already gone? If they had hurt her or debased her in any way—he’d unleash Michele and her pocket machine gun, Irv believing that the hot spitting barrel was reminiscent of her childhood rearing.

  Don’t think the worst Irv. You got Nick now.

  Nick Constantine. Christ. Sitting there with a freaking cat carrier at his feet. The way Nick talked, and held himself, hunched over all the time, you’d think he was a borderline retard.

  Or a psychopath.

  Irv had never seen Nick loose a fight or miss with that .45 of his. Sure, Nick was a king dipso, but the lush always got the job done. Took pride in it, too.

  Yeah, Nick would find Pam all right. When Kareem came back, he wouldn’t have much of a choice.

  10

  I had watched Irv limp back into the fuck pad, leaving me to wait in that painful chair in front of the desk. Behind me Michelle was as quiet as a mouse. Van Gogh kept staring at her. He didn’t trust her any more than I did.

  Man, I could have used another beer, the ghost of the limo brew dancing on my taste buds. Instead it was cigarettes; blowing smoke into ceiling until Kareem came back forty or fifty minutes later, holding a video camera.

  "Where?" he said to Michelle.

  "Back there in his pleasure dome."

  He knocked on the door, and Irv came out, running his hands through the puffed up sections of his hair. He had been working on it, getting it to stand up straighter and glisten more.

  "Let’s see what you got," Irv said to Kareem.

  Kareem ejected the tape from the camera, slid the cassette into the VCR, and I could hear the tape begin to rewind.

  Irv sat on the corner of his desk. "Turn around and watch the show, Nick."

  "I’ve seen it."

  "Do it."

  I wanted to get out of there so I turned to face the TV while the tape started playing. The lights were on in my bedroom, Kareem starting with a wide view of Mona lying on the bed and Lisa in the chair, her head slumped against the bureau drawer. That lasted about twenty seconds, the air conditioner the only sound coming through on the tape. Then there was a shot of Lisa’s face. Her skin had lost its color and this brought out the dried blood under her nose. The camera panned down her body, Kareem sharpening the focus on the rose swirling along her leg. Mona got her close-up too, her lifeless eyes filling the screen. Any law or judicial moron could see the tape wasn’t faked. Kareem’s camera work was steady, professional looking. He could have worked in pornos. Christ, I had felt the inklings of an erection.

  The TV screen turned blue. "Damn Nick, you sure do like them young," Irv said. "God, I wish I could remember that redhead’s name I set over to you as a birthday present. Do you remember her name?"

  "I think it was Pamela," I said. “Pamela Martin.”

  Irv’s eyes got narrow and chilly. Michelle stopped holding the wall up and Kareem reached into his pocket, going for the sap. Irv wasn’t foolish enough to try anything. His hired help would have had to rescue him, and hurt me doing it. He needed me in one piece if he wanted Pam found.

  "I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that," he said.

  Everybody relaxed some.

  "Get me the tape," Irv said.

  Kareem retrieved it from the VCR and gave it to his boss.

  "I’m pulling this tab off to prevent accidental erasure," Irv said. "This thing here."

  He broke off the piece of plastic before swinging the autographed hockey picture away from the wall, revealing an office safe. He worked the dials; I caught the first number before he shifted his wrist, blocking my view. Opening the door, Irv plac
ed the tape between stacks of bundled bills. Three weeks free, and he already held a good stash. He closed everything up and sat back down, eyeballing me.

  "Well, Nick?" he said.

  "Where do I start looking?" I said.

  Irv had mentioned the shortlist of folks he had pissed off climbing the crime czar ladder. I knew or had heard of most of the names, but I didn’t think any of them would snatch his girl. Organized criminals didn’t go after their enemies’ girlfriends or family—especially if those people weren’t involved in the business. Call it the code.

  Irv also gave up a name: Pam’s brother, Teddy. The siblings were very close; there wasn’t a thing the two didn’t share with each other. Teddy was worried about his sister falling for a mobster and urged her to leave him quick and flee even quicker. Teddy didn’t want to visit another family member behind bars, or worse, place flowers on Pam’s gravesite alongside their mother’s.

  Walking out to the limo, I’d bet Pam had taken Teddy’s advice. But where had she run off to? And could I find her in less than a week?

  Irv was walking by my side, his miniature goon in front of us, Michelle lagging behind. Further back hiked the sumo wrestlers, their heads buried in their magazines. The afternoon sun beat down, making me feel like I was in an oven.

  "There’s a naivety about Pam that I find very attractive," Irv said.

  "Huh?" I said.

  Irv pondered his comment like it was an eternal oath. "How shall I put it?"

  "That’s what I’m asking you," I said.

  We kept walking, and I kept waiting for Irv to find his words

  "She is very pure," he said. "As innocent as the day she was born."

  "What is she? A virgin?" I said.

  Irv didn’t say nothing.

  "Christ, how old is she?"

  "Almost twenty-two."

  "How’d you find one of those that old?"

  "I know your reputation, Nick."

  "I don’t mess with someone’s girl. You know that."

  "If I ever find out about another man just touching her, I will not hesitate to pay someone to kill that man."

  I looked back at Michelle, who made a gun with her fingers and shot me. I blew her a kiss.

  We reached the limo, Kareem getting the back door opened again.

  "You still driving that piece o’ shit Delta?" Irv said.

  "What else, right?" I said.

  Irv looked to his shrimp driver and feminine pad bodyguard. "You two take him back to his place, let him get his car. But don’t go in your apartment, Nick. We’ll be watching it. You can call the cleaners after you find Pam. Am I clear?"

  I nodded.

  "Bring her back to me by Friday evening Nick, or the police will be getting a present in the mail."

  The limo dropped me off behind my bar. Me and Van Gogh got the Beast out of the garage and headed for the interstate, Kareem tailing me until the onramp. I guessed Irv’s help thought I might turn back to deal with Mona and Lisa, but their removal was still a night job.

  It was mid-afternoon and the traffic was getting as sticky as the weather. I cranked the AC, letting the cool breeze hit my forehead. Van Gogh wanted out of his carrier, whining the entire time, so I reached over and opened his cage. He hopped into the front seat, trying for my lap. I let him stay, giving him a stroke now and then. He dug his claws into my legs, purring.

  Pam had told Irv that Teddy lived off the Lark Avenue exit in West Oaks, a suburb loaded with brick mansions shoved into lots so small millionaires could hear each other counting their money. Teddy wasn’t one of the rich guys, though, his address being right near the highway. He rented a room in an old Victorian number chopped into apartments. Big bushes overhung the wraparound porch and grew over much of the facade. The roof peeked and dipped like a wave, and I could make out the top of a turret above an evergreen. I parked the Delta by a row of mailboxes hanging over the curb.

  An old lady stood out front hosing down the brown spots and weeds in the lawn. Short and frail, she had a bonnet of coarse hair that looked like moldy white frosting. I spotted a car as old as a buggy in the unattached garage and figured her for the homeowner. I got the .45 out of the glove box, sliding it into my waistband. I got Van Gogh back into his carrier—he resisted me with his claws—and I slid out, heading up the lawn.

  The old lady raised a hand to her forehead like she was saluting me. "What do you think you’re doing?" she called.

  "I’m looking for a friend," I said.

  "Get off my grass."

  "What grass?"

  "You’re killing my lawn."

  "It’s already dead."

  "Cause people like you walk on it."

  "It’s nothing but dirt, lady."

  "I got seeds down."

  "I don’t see no seeds."

  "Seeds is small. Now use the sidewalk."

  I was halfway to her. "I’m just looking for a kid by the name of ..."

  She turned the hose on me, sprinkles hitting my loafers. I stopped dead. "Hey, cut it!"

  "I said sidewalk, Mister."

  "You’re gettin’ my shoes wet."

  "That isn’t all that’ll get wet if you don’t use the sidewalk."

  "Don’t even think ..."

  She raised the hose a millimeter, my laces getting damp. "Back off and come around." She showed me the route using the stream from the house. "Sidewalk to driveway to the bricks."

  I retreated to the cement.

  "And you’re parked in front of the mailboxes," she said.

  "So?"

  "So the mailman hasn’t come yet."

  "I’ll only be a minute."

  "Move your car or I’ll have it towed."

  A tough old broad. I liked her balls, but I was still flipping pissed. I whipped my shoes off with a napkin and then reversed my car ten feet back, the lady motioning for me to keep going, which I did, until she flattened out her palm. I took the described path to her side.

  "Now, what can I help you with?" Calm, like it never happened. Still watering, the dirt turning into mud puddles.

  "I’m looking for somebody," I said.

  "You said a friend before."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Some friend."

  "Huh?"

  "Don’t even know where he lives."

  "His name’s Teddy."

  "What’s he look like?"

  Irv hadn’t mentioned that. "Does he live here or not?"

  "What do you want to see him for?"

  "A private matter."

  "Nothing is private in my house."

  "It’s business."

  "Computers?"

  "Yeah, that’s it."

  "I bet you don’t even know what a modem is," she said.

  "Teddy’s gonna tell me all about that."

  "Teddy knows his stuff inside and out. Hooked mine up, and showed me how to use e-mail."

  "He’s a good kid."

  "Not always."

  "I just need to talk to him," I said. "Won’t take long."

  "Hasn’t paid the rent for this month yet."

  "Which apartment is his?"

  "Third floor."

  "You’ve been a big help."

  I headed for the stairs.

  "But he isn’t home."

  "No?"

  "Saw him leave early this morning."

  "I’ll wait in my car then."

  "If you want," she said. "Or you can go talk with his sister."

  "His sister?"

  "Yeah, she’s up there now."

  11

  The front hall was drab, the hardwood floor scratched and worn, dust collected in the corners. The flowery patterned wallpaper was faded, and at the seams, sections had begun to peel apart. I smelled must and moth balls and had to hold back a sneeze. I didn’t want Pam to hear me coming—even if she was three flights away.

  I took a few steps in, noticed a parlor that looked like an antique museum was on one side of the entrance, and on the other, a dining room with a lon
g wood table covered with dirty dishes and flatware. Cooking smells replaced the mold, wafting in from wherever the kitchen was hiding.

  I came to a wide staircase that rose like a cliff before it curved out of sight. The space between the steps was smaller than I was used to, so I took them two at a time, and when I reached the summit, my pulse was going pretty good. The frame of the house sloped through the corridor and the air was as heavy as a wet mop. I heard some hip-hop nonsense coming from a half-open door all the way around the hall.

  I caught my breath before the hike around the banister. It was a single room, long and narrow, the ceiling running down to a line of windows covered by a thin drape. Four fans set in each corner did little to kill the heat. A wrinkled sheet covered the unfolded futon. A door propped up by two metal filing cabinets served as a desktop. Two computers and a bunch of books and papers were on it. Novels, CDs, and the stereo system emitting that vile street crap filled most of the recessed shelving. There was no one in the room but me.

  A toilet flushed out in the hall. I stepped behind the door and waited. I heard footsteps and a wispy humming and then a figure entered, moving for the office chair by the makeshift desk. I slammed the door shut and she jumped around, hands covering her lower face, gasping as if all the air had been sucked out of her.

  Her coal black hair was cut butch short, and I didn’t bothering counting all the earrings making half-circles around her lobes. A thick gold loop hung from a nostril. She wore man’s clothes; denim shorts and a muscle tee showing off heavy tits. She had neglected to put on a bra.

  "My God! You scared the shit out of me!" she said.

  "You ain’t Pam," I said.

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Where’s Pam?"

  "Who are you?"

  "A friend of Teddy’s."

  "I’ve never seen you before," she said.

  "That’s because I’m his new best buddy."

  "I want you out of here right now!"

  "What are you gonna do? Kick my ass?"

  She eyed the phone over by the futon. "I just might."

  I don’t think she believed that one. I said, "Don’t think about calling the cops or yelling for help."