by Beau Johnson
A record as long as my days are bleak.
B&E. Possession. Possession with intent. Rapes first, second, and third degree.
Inheriting the business from an uncle, the piece of scum comes to Culver three years prior by way of overcrowding, early release and a probation system down for the count. Business still in his uncle’s name, it’s the perfect front. My take, anyway.
A new home, he must have thought. New things.
Things he’d yet to try.
“You got maybe an hour before the warrant is good and we go in.” I told Batista I’d worked with less; that I would again. A different storm was approaching, though. One I had seen coming from a long ways away.
“You’re wrong in thinking I enjoy this. I’m not like you.” It was a bone between Batista and me, old and gnawed on by years.
“Isn’t about enjoyment, John; it’s about what’s right.” Opposite sides of the coin we may be, I could not begrudge the man—the detective yet to have someone of importance to him ripped from his life like a bone from your arm. These choices—these are the ones which allow me to sleep at night.
“Ensure he suffers. That’s all I’ll say.”
He didn’t have to.
Once I connect the positives I let the engine run for minutes at a time. Gank, no longer sweet, no longer sunny, and infinitely less co-operative than I’d been told, shits himself by time the second go-round. After that he spills like a baby, his balls a smoking mess. He also goes religious on me, which is not so out of the norm. Once they realize what I represent…once they know, it’s usually all our fathers full of grace and repent, repent, repent. Horseshit, you ask me. You kill, you die. Simple as that.
“I’m sick,” he says, blood now leaking from his eyes. He’s on his back, hands bound, pants around his shins. “My head, it doesn’t work right.”
I let him know I’ll be fixing that.
Latisha Kennedy and Jenny McGovern would find their way home. That’s the only reason I hadn’t put two in the back of his head the moment I found him packing his things. I could have. Easily. The rage I felt toward the man no longer hot but arctic; couldn’t un-think what he’d done and how he’d left them.
What stopped me was the need to know.
And if it’d been my child.
One way or another I would bring them closure. That was how I rationalized it. What the parents of the unfound girls deserved at the very least.
Not even close to fair by far, but then again, this is Culver, a place god had yet to apply.
Back to TOC
The Only Thing That Fits
Four boys playing fort found what we’d thought was the second girl, Rebecca Hall, age twelve, beat, bloodied, and dead. Last time anyone had seen her was two days prior, a Monday, two steps off her school bus and sixty from home. Deputy Detective John Batista is the officer who catches the case, me, in turn, becoming his very next call. A murderer in my own right, I had no problem doing what needed to be done. Batista, giant, thick, with a face the color of pissed-off brick, knew this as well. Both of us more than proficient in the art of subterfuge we’d come to utilize. Seeing we were the very same thing we’d come to hunt meant we pretty much had to be.
The autopsy confirmed what each of us feared: rape. What it also confirmed was that Rebecca Hall was not the second victim but actually the fourth. Not to be out done, it was the girl’s stomach content which spoke loudest of all.
“It’s canine, Rider. Goddamn bastard fed her her dog.” Even strong men had bad days. For Batista, this was one. “A collie named Frank.”
“Narrows it down though, way I see it.” I was right, of course, and Batista knew as much. Didn’t mean either of us he had to like it. Scenarios just worked better this way. Same thing with plans.
Three weeks later—after every vet, pre-vet, canine shelter, dog walker, and pet food store owner are interviewed from Culver City down to Hanson Falls—it’s a man by the name of Gank the CCPD looks at hard. Inheriting his kennel by way of an uncle who held a different last name, Rudy Gank had come to Culver three years prior by way of overcrowding, early release and a probation system down for the count. Wasn’t much of a surprise either, the circumstance one the core reasons the detective and I had begun what we had.
Text message received, I find the piece of scum in jeans and a beater T. Thick and wide, he’s packing a bag in an attempt to flee. It’s as he turns around that I tell him to lie on the ground.
“You ain’t no cop.” Man had me there.
“By the time I’m done with you, Rudy, I can guarantee you’ll wish I was.”
Fuck and you were the next things that tried to come from his mouth. Once he regained consciousness I’d already connected jumper cables that stretched from balls to battery and back again. Juice turned up, the man fries, the world becoming a slightly better place in the process.
Or so I’d thought.
“It’s happening again,” Batista says, and the look in the man’s eyes tells me more than I care to know. Turns out Gank had a sibling, a brother, Henry J. Seems Henry J liked the same things Rudy did, right down to feeding his victims a lighter shade of pink.
“I mean, you can’t be fucking serious.” It was rhetorical, and Batista had said it more than a few times since we’d uncovered the link. We were at the usual spot, each of us looking down over Culver as it slept.
“Doesn’t make a difference, John. Once we find him, man’s going to die all the same.”
“I know. I know. But Gank having a partner, a brother no less, and us missing that, it makes me think I might be getting too old for this.” I’ve seen a lot of things, more than I care to acknowledge. One thing I know for certain is that true evil is more human than mankind will ever come to admit. It also lives only to destroy. Batista knew as much, was the reason he wore the badge, but it also proved that he and I were as different now as we’d been back then.
“John. The man will slip up. We’ll get him. I promise.”
And we did, just not as I thought we would, nor when. Four years and eleven girls later I get the call. Batista. He’s at a safe house of mine, one of the bigger ones, telling me he’d finally struck gold. I move, and fast, as there was something in the big man’s voice. Shouldn’t have surprised me though, what I found, as the case had taken its toll on Batista, whittling him down bit by bit these last couple years. Empathy and ineffectiveness will do that to a cop. Sadly, each is capable of creating the worst type of fuse.
“Stop…no…too deep!” is what comes to me once I open up the floor. The screams accompanying the words are high and full, erupting from a mouth that can hardly catch what it needs to breathe. What hits me next is the smell of shit that is wet and fresh and round. As for Batista, he’s there within it, Henry Gank’s pants about his shins, his face against the wall, and Batista up inside him with a piece of rebar that could have passed for bone.
Batista is grunting, a man determined, but he is weeping as well, and it is here I lay a hand upon his back, and then upon his wrist, and then he all at once stops and relinquishes the steel.
“I tried, Rider…thought I could…” he says, and I know how he needs it to end. I’ve always known. But we weren’t the same, never have been and never would be. I’d like to say I envy him that, but no, I’ve too much hate.
“I’ll finish,” I say and then send Batista up a level to clean up as much of himself as he could. Once I hear the floor door close is when I step toward a face so close to one I thought I’d never see again. He’d made his way to a corner, a trail of shit and blood snaking the concrete between us. I hunker down, face him, and tell him of his brother; of how that piece of scum had burned and wept and pled before I ripped apart his eyes. The man starts, snarls, but then stops just as quick, and I can only assume it’s because Batista had taken too much from him. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I too take something from the man, his jaw, by way of hammer, but before I do he tries his best to stand. Once up, he glares at me, finall
y choosing to speak. “Like I tole your friend, why we did it, why we do, it’s because even dirty bitches need to eat.” It’s only when the silence comes that I realize the time for talking had already passed.
For those of us who know, it’s the only thing that fits.
Back to TOC
Loose Impediment
I have two loves in this life: the game and my wife. I am bad at one and not so good at the other. Until recently, I did not know this. Not until my P.I. gave me the footage.
Truth be told, I never would have envisioned Sharon doing something like this, not sensible-shoe Sharon, the woman of my dreams. Others, yes, but not the saucer-eyed red-head I met my sophomore year. Looking back though, it gives you what they say: hindsight. Fuck, does it. I mean, the irony of this thing, it’s just a beast, like full fucking throttle and then some.
I’ll calm down now.
“We never do anything together,” Sharon states, one of her favorites. Another such gem: “Is this all there is?” I realize the second statement says more about Sharon’s state of mind than I’d like, but this is what you do when it comes to people you love. You make concessions. Now that I think about it, this might say more about me than I’d like. Does it matter though? Now, after everything that’s been done? I don’t think so, not in the greater scheme of things. Saying shit like that, this is the shit that gets you punched, isn’t it?
Thought so.
So Dave is the guy. Head pro at the country club I’m a member of. He wasn’t smarmy per se, but he did project that car salesman vibe: perfect teeth and such, always smiling in a way which seemed overly wide. As for handshakes, he was absolutely that guy: over hard and attempting to crush. The piece of shit rarely called me by my name either, always giving me a Skip or Ace instead of what he should. It bugged me, sure, but did I speak up? Hell no, not once I’ve given myself the opportunity to downplay events. This is nothing new, of course, as confrontation and I have never gotten along, not as we should. I made up this last part, and only because I’m more of a revisionist than what one would call a classic avoider. Take your pick though, because either is good for the reason I find myself where I do. I will not take the brunt though, not the majority, and only because it wasn’t me who’d been found with another man’s dick down their throat.
Am I done? No. But I’ll go on.
Me, I’ve always been bad at golf, awful, but I love it anyway. Can’t get enough really. Sharon, unfortunately, was worse than me when it came to the sport. Long story short, I was informed that she and Dave would need a little more one-on-one time if she were to ever get better. Stupid, I know. But we never “did” things together, right? And to tell you the truth, I think I already knew. Deep inside is what I’m saying, like the shit that comes up in your dreams.
Speaking of dreams—in one I see Dave as I always see him, there on the range, his perfect teeth so perfectly fucking perfect, but this time he’s right tight behind the woman I call wife, Sharon’s hair for some reason shorter and darker than she usually keeps it. I notice her foot wear as well—that it’s as far from sensible as the word can stretch. (This scared me more than anything, and I’m pretty sure I know why. What it represents, anyway. I’m not saying I’m any type of Freud either, it’s just when the writing on the wall is that big and that glowing even I had to take my head from the sand.) Dave’s arms come around her then; Sharon’s making their way around the club. Moaning, they find a rhythm I seldom have, each practice swing like an orgasm unto no other.
Wait. It gets better.
Two other things I see before I wake up. My wife’s face full of a pleasure I have never seen, not once. The other is the bulge in Dave’s khakis. I am not exaggerating when I say this. Baby. Fucking. Elephant. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no jackhammer, but put me up beside what I was witnessing and man, even I felt gherkin. Gherkin-esqe?
Do I say anything in this dream? Stand up for what I thought of as mine? Just as in real life, no. As this is what it means to be me. Therein lies the problem, I think, and quite possibly the root of my evil. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it boils down to this: Did I deserve it?
I was about to find out.
It’s why I now had Dave in my garage, the man’s cargo shorts a little worse for wear. Secured to a circular practice net like an X, he looked at me differently now, with slightly wider than normal eyes. Many a night have I been out here plugging away, all to no avail. Not in all my years, with all my practice, have I gotten better at this game I love. Sucks hard, this, but I am at least man enough to admit as much.
“We going to be able to have a civilized conversation once I remove the tape, Dave?” Dave nods yes, sweat-beads up upon his brow.
“Chris, dude, what the fuck?”
“Don’t Dave…just…don’t.” It’s here that I strike the right tone, as the man, still suspended, slumps forward, dejected.
“It’s not like we were planning to,” is what he says next, although his voice is quiet now, reserved even. I didn’t care, not really, just wanted a little bit of fear from the man, that’s all. Pretty sure I was owed a little something along those lines. Maybe a smidge more.
“So you know how you’ve been trying to teach me that draw, Dave?” A draw is a right-to-left ball flight for a right-handed golfer. It is very hard to produce and highly sought after. According to Dave, it’s what breaks or makes careers.
I didn’t let him answer. I re-applied the tape instead. Then I set up a ball on the practice mat ten feet in front of the man who’d been fucking my wife. It is here I picture his dick from my dreams, the one bigger than God, and it’s here I envision it entering Sharon, filling her up from behind as only a man with a bigger dick than me could do. It is enough. More than enough. It is the end.
“Thing is, I finally got it,” I say, referring to what he’d been trying to teach me. “It’s funny though, you know—that it took what you and Sharon have done to ‘draw’ it out of me.” A comedian I was not, but I laughed anyway. Then I took a practice swing. All loosened up, I took two more. Done with those and it was on to the main event: one hundred and sixteen golf balls dead on until the man’s teeth were no longer perfect. His orbital bones took a beating as well, each one ending up with their very own logo. Pretty sweet seeing that. For sure.
As for Sharon? She of the sensible shoes? With her it would have to be something different. Something large and in charge.
A slice, perhaps.
Back to TOC
Known Associates
Hang on; lemme swing this chair around.
Okay. There. Now as I said, I have a story to tell. It’s not my story, it’s not your story, but we’ve become a part of it regardless. Call it chance or fate or whatever the fuck you want, but be sure, we are ingredients and nothing more. You ready then? Good. Time to fuckin’ do this!
The first time I meet Bishop Rider he puts the back of Marty Abrum’s head through the front of his nose in the restaurant I’m working at. I’m a busboy slash dishwasher at this restaurant and had been bussing tables the night this shit goes down. Before Abrum’s head becomes part of his pasta Rider takes out the other three guys surrounding Marty in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of scenario. I mean, just pop, pop, pop, and then a whole buncha screams from all the other guests as they go and say their whatnots to the floor. Next comes the shotgun, pulled from an overcoat as dark as the big man’s hair. Sawed off, Rider places it downwards on the back of Marty’s thin head. I hear for my sister and then BOOM, bone and marinara sauce become two great tastes that taste great together.
You old enough to remember that one, Richie?
Anyway…do I do anything? Sure I do. Pretty sure I stand as still as I possibly can as my mouth does its best impression of a cave. I mean, the heat offa this guy, the anger, it came in shimmers I thought I could fucking see. And you’ve heard the stories, I know you have, about how the Abrum brothers abducted or had someone abduct Rider’s sister and mother and then had the mother killed while the siste
r is fucked to death by a buncha oversized dudes in masks. Fucked to death? I know. Can you imagine? It’s what the brothers were into though, and making what I’m told they called their “special films.” How April and Maggie Rider become involved with what usually only consisted of smuggled Mexican women I guess we’ll never know.
Or perhaps we will. I mean, it is just us here, right?
Brings me to the second time I meet Bishop Rider. The dude comes out from the shadows as I’m putting my key to the lock of my place. Almost gives me a goddamn heart attack is what this does. He’s as big as I remember him and twice as fucking angry. And yes, yes, to look at he reminds you of Frank Castle, minus a skull on his chest of course, but whereas that bulldozer of a fuck is a work of fiction this former cop is as real as the meat shovel he has up around my neck. Against the wall, he begins to ask me things, Richie, people things, and then known associates goes and enters the conversation.
Now why, pray tell, would something like this happen, Richie?
Could it involve something you might want to get off your chest?
’S’okay. I think we’ll leave the gag right where it is. Truth be told, I got this. You see, once I realized what the man was about, well, you know me and you, we ain’t ever been the tightest of compadres, but we’ve been alright with one another. Small jobs here and there but never with nobody ever getting hurt. This is me, always has been me. I might be soft for it, sure, but it has always allowed me to sleep at night. You, though? You went and upgraded yourself to the big leagues, didn’t you?
What I mean to say is this: Was there anyone else with you in the van that day? A simple nod will do. Richie? Honor among thieves, really? You know that’s just a buncha made up bullshit the movies would have you believe.
He found surveillance, Richie.