Binkowski’s lower lip quivered like an earthworm doing a rumba.
“I swear! Tall black guy! Green jacket!”
Terco dropped the man, apparently satisfied. Binkowski almost passed out from fear. He knew it wasn’t over yet.
Detective Daniels had called and would be here any minute. In fact, that’s who Binkowski assumed was at the door when he opened it. If this maniac was still here when the cop arrived, he’d put two and two together and figure that Binkowski had snitched. The situation couldn’t get any worse.
“Get out of here!”
It just got worse.
Terco and Binkowski turned to face Binkowski’s elderly wife, Marie, standing at the bottom of the staircase. She was shaking like an epileptic on a caffeine binge, and cradled in her arms was the family twelve-gauge.
“Marie! No!”
“You stupid bitch.” Terco laughed, but it came out forced. Understandable, since a gun was pointing at him. “From there, you’ll hit both me and the old man.”
“I said get out!”
“Marie, please!” screamed Binkowski.
“Marie, please!” mimicked Terco. Then he regretted it. His hero, Sly Stallone, wouldn’t tease an old woman. He’d say something cool. Terco tried to think of a cool line.
“I swear,” Marie Binkowski said. “I’ll shoot you if you don’t leave.”
“That gun will take your arm off, you dried up old lizard. Put it down or I’ll come over there and shove it up your, uh, shove it in your shriveled, your wrinkled, uh…”
Shit. Another Stallone opportunity, lost to history.
Marie fired, peppering both her husband and the intruder across their chests.
Terco stumbled backwards, shocked. Sly never got shot. He looked down at the blood on his chest, wondering why he wasn’t dead.
“What the hell?”
“Want some more, buddy?” Marie challenged. “I said go!”
Terco studied his chest more closely, and noted that his wounds were superficial. Looking at the floor he saw why. At his feet were dozens of white crystals. He picked one up and sniffed it.
“Rock salt? You loaded your shotgun with rock salt?”
“My wife’s a pacifist,” Binkowski wailed, clutching his bleeding nightshirt.
The pain hit Terco like a wave. The shock of the blast had worn off, and now he had a chest full of salty wounds, which hurt like a hundred bee stings.
“You mean she was a pacifist,” remarked Terco, drawing his revolver and shooting the old bat in the head. Her husband cried out, so he gave him a pop in the dome as well. Served the butt nuggets right, shooting him with rock salt.
“Butt nuggets,” he told them, and then shut the door behind him, careful to smear his prints.
Sly would have been proud.
On the way back to Spill, he began to whistle, unaware and unconcerned that in the car passing him in the oncoming lane was a Homicide Detective named Jack Daniels.
Marty the Maniac tugged at the gold chains hanging around his fat neck. It was a nervous habit, brought about by his impatience with Terco. What was taking the bastard so long? In retrospect, he should have sent Leman to check Tequila’s alibi. Steroids did things to the brain, and Terco was two injections away from Potatoville. The guy’s head was so empty that when he had a thought there was an echo. It was surprising the man could still dress himself.
Marty glanced at his watch, seeing it was almost four. Spill would be closing soon, and normally at this time on Super Bowl Sunday Marty and the boys were either playing high stakes poker or whoring it up.
Lousy stinking bastard Tequila.
He’d talked to his accountants, and they’d confirmed it had been his biggest take ever. Marty was planning on going to Hawaii for two weeks on that money. Had the Presidential Suite at the Hilton in Honolulu already booked.
Hell, fuck Hawaii. He had bills to pay. Property tax for Spill. Pay-offs. Salaries. Gifts. Bonuses. He gave the local Outfit chapter a meaty cut every year for letting him operate in their territory. If he didn’t come up with the scratch…
Marty fidgeted in his chair. He’d get his cash back. There wasn’t any other way about it. And if he were somehow wrong about Tequila, he had no problems with sacrificing the rest of his goombahs, one by one, until someone talked. He’d get his money alright, even if he had to kill every goddamn employee with his own bare hands. That’s the kind of boss he was.
Terco, finally, showed up at his office door. Marty resisted the urge to scream at him. Instead, with the infinite patience and kindness that all good leaders were endowed with, he waited for Terco to begin.
“I got shot with rock salt,” Terco finally said, unnerved by Marty’s silence.
“I don’t give a shit, you walking hunk of Spam! Did his alibis check out?”
Terco flinched at the attack and became red in the face. When he didn’t answer immediately, Marty bounced a stapler off the crown of his forehead.
“It didn’t check out,” Terco whimpered, covering his face. “Tequila was never at the bar, and that old bag of wind at the liquor store swore a tall black guy robbed him.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. I scared them all enough.”
There was a sneeze from somewhere in the room. Both Marty and Terco looked confused as to its origins. Then Marty pointed at his closet, and made a motion for Terco to check it out.
“Huh?”
“The closet,” hissed Marty.
“Who’s in the closet?”
“Check the goddamn closet!”
Terco shrugged his shoulders, and Marty threw a scotch tape dispenser at him. Then he pulled his .38 out of his waistband and checked the closet himself.
Empty.
Leman appeared in the doorway with Marty’s toolbox. It had taken him that long to find because it was behind a fake wall in a moldy corner of the basement, expertly hidden because the tools inside were covered with enough forensic evidence to give Marty the death sentence seven times over.
“I saw a rat,” Leman said. “Big as my head.”
“Quiet.” Marty snarled. “We heard a sneeze.”
“Could be a rat. Rats sneeze.”
“Shut your dumb-hole!”
The three of them listened in silence, and then a loud clanging sound came from the heating vents next to the closet.
Terco pointed. “The heater!”
“Rats in the heater!” Leman nodded.
“Has anyone bothered to check on Tequila?” Awareness crept up Marty’s spine, ready to bloom into rage.
“I was getting your toolbox…”
“You sent me to check on his alibi…”
“Move it!”
The three of them fought through the doorway and Marty led them to the vault room. Punching in the access code, he yanked the handle open and saw the room…
Empty.
Leman pointed. “He’s in the vent!”
“No shit, chuckle-head,” Marty spat. “And you were a cop?”
Leman hid his anger from the jab, and removed the .32 from his holster. Without waiting to be asked, he climbed up on the chair and peered into the darkness.
“I don’t see him.”
“Looks like he cut the rope.” Terco held up a severed length of clothesline.
Marty came up behind Terco and smacked the bigger man across the side of the face with his .38. Leman grimaced at the sight, unconsciously holding his sore ribs from Marty’s assault earlier today. Sure, they made a lot of money. But maybe, next pay raise, they should also ask for full health coverage.
“This is how you do a proper frisk for knives, you dumb tub of amino acids. First, check the pockets.”
Marty swiftly kicked the fallen Terco in both hips.
“Move down the legs,” Marty continued, kicking all the way.
Leman winced. The foot to Terco’s kidney made a thump that he could practically feel.
“Armpits!” Marty yelled.
Terco
clenched his arms to his side.
“Lift your flabby arms!”
The flabby comment hurt as much as his master’s assault. Terco raised his arms and Marty kicked the insides of them, also taking the opportunity to stomp on Terco’s chest.
Leman heard something in the duct and aimed his weapon into the blackness, firing five times.
Marty body-tackled him, spittle flecking off his chin like a rabid dog.
“You stupid shit! You want to kill him, so I never find my money?”
Leman knew anything he could say wouldn’t stop his boss’s anger, so he tried very hard to look blank. Fortunately, Marty’s eyes weren’t focused on Leman. They were thinking about other things.
“We can smoke him out of the vents,” Marty said.
“Good idea, Marty.”
Marty got off of his collector and tugged at the gold dangling from his neck.
“We block off all exits except one,” Marty went on, “then send some smoke through the heating system. What’s something that smokes?”
“Leman smokes,” Terco offered.
“Good idea, Terco. We’ll send Leman into the furnace with a pack of Kools. That will flush Tequila out.”
“How about the smoke machine on the dance floor at Spill?” Leman offered.
“No good. It only pumps out that people-friendly CO2 crap.”
“Wet blankets.” Leman said. “Throw them right into the furnace. Real wet, so they won’t burn. A wet blanket smokes like a mother.”
“Fine. Leman, fill up the furnace with wet blankets.”
Leman frowned, not anxious to go into the basement again and confront the rat. It was a big goddamn rat. He thought about mentioning it, but the quicker route would just be to slap himself. So he lumbered off, silent.
“Terco, call up Slake and Matisse at Tequila’s and tell them to get their asses over here. No, just tell Slake to come. Leave Matisse there, in case Tequila somehow gets away and goes home. Then get some plywood and start sealing off vents. Move it!”
Terco nodded, repeating the key words in his head so he didn’t forget them. He’d been using that Mega Memory program to help improve his retention, the one that advertised on TV real late a night with the guy who memorized all the names of the studio audience. What was that guy’s name again? Terco sucked his lower lip, trying to remember. Then he realized he was in danger of forgetting his instructions, so he went back to his repetition. Slake, Matisse, Plywood. Slake, Matisse, Plywood. He trudged off.
Marty uprighted the chair and stood on it, peering into the blackness of the vent.
“Tequila!” he screeched. His voice echoed through the ducts like a bouncing basketball. “I’m coming for you, Tequila! I’m coming for your ass!”
Marty listened for a reply.
There wasn’t one.
Matisse answered the phone without speaking. He had to cover up the mouthpiece to muffle the screams coming from the retard’s bedroom.
“Slake?” asked the voice on the phone.
“No. Matisse.”
“It’s Terco. You guys find the money?”
“We didn’t find shit.”
Sobbing from the bedroom now as Slake appeared, zipping up his fly.
“That Tequila on the phone?” Slake grinned. “Tell him his retard sister isn’t a virgin anymore.”
“It’s Terco.” Matisse automatically handed over the phone. He’d absolved—a word he learned from watching that smart Alex Trebec on Jeopardy—himself from the responsibility of the evening. First the killing of the parking lot attendant. Then Slake slicing up that fat black woman after they’d tricked her into opening the door by saying they were the police. And now this. None of this was the reason they came. They came to find Marty’s money. The money might have been here too, but Slake hadn’t even bothered to look for it. He’d been too busy acting out the role of crazed psychopath.
Matisse stood back and gave him room, quietly absolving.
“Couldn’t find the cash, Terco,” Slake said. “Tequila’s got it stashed someplace else. Marty get anything out of him yet?”
“He got away, crawled into the heating vents. We’re gonna smoke him out. You’ve got to come back to Spill. Leave Matisse there in case Tequila escapes and goes home.”
“Fine.”
Slake hung-up and frowned. How could Tequila have gotten away?
“You’ve got to stay here,” he told Matisse. “That little shit escaped. He may come back.”
Matisse didn’t like that at all. What if the cops showed up? What if a neighbor called to complain about the screaming? He didn’t want to take the blame for Slake’s little blood bath. Hell, it wouldn’t be too long before someone discovered that parking lot attendant, and the place would be crawling with pigs. And what about that nosey doorman? He got a good look at both Slake and Matisse. Too many loose ends.
“What about the bodies?”
“I’ll take care of the guy downstairs,” Slake said, though he had no intention of doing so. “Why don’t you take a knife to that fat coon bitch and flush her down the toilet a piece at a time? Shouldn’t take more than two years.”
“Seriously, Slake.”
“Well, stop being serious.” Slake got in the bigger man’s face. “Go have a siesta with Tequila’s beautiful little sister in there. I’ve already got her broken in.”
“What about the doorman?”
“Let him find his own piece of ass.”
Matisse picked up the phone and began to dial the number for Spill, but Slake hit the hang-up button and his switchblade magically appeared at Matisse’s neck.
“Look here, big man. We’re going to do what Marty says, and Marty wants you to stay. You’ll probably get a call in the next hour or so. Wipe down everything here that we might have touched. I’ll take care of the door man. Got it?”
Matisse didn’t answer. Slake flicked his fingers and opened up a line of skin on Matisse’s chin. The blood tickled as it ran down his neck.
“Fine,” Matisse, said trying not to show the fear he was feeling. Watching Slake systematically cut up that black woman was even worse than the time he watched him skin that little kid’s arm. Matisse was almost double Slake’s weight and could probably rip his arms from his sockets, but the thin man still scared the hell out of him.
Slake grinned, and gave Matisse a tiny kiss on the cheek that revolted Matisse so much he had to fight not to flinch.
“Call you later, baby.” Slake began walking towards the front door. “Before you leave, don’t forget to kill the Mongoloid. Such a shame too. I think, given time, she would have become a real pro.”
Slake left. Real class act, that Slake. Matisse had never been adverse—another Jeopardy word—to taking a piece of ass if he wanted it, but a retard? That was sick. And the only men Matisse had killed were in self-defense. Sure, he may have provoked the fights, but at least the men he fought had a chance. Slake had killed two people in less than fifteen minutes, and both were totally helpless.
Maybe he should talk to Marty about Slake, tell him he was over the edge. Yeah. That’s what he’d do. Fuck Slake. Matisse picked up the phone and was about to punch some numbers when he heard tones coming from the receiver.
“What the hell?”
He dropped the phone and hurried to the retard’s bedroom. She was gone. He found her in Tequila’s room, kneeling by the phone, sobbing.
“You little bitch!” he screamed. With a big paw he swatted her away from the phone, knocking her sprawling across Tequila’s bed. She curled up into a ball, hysterical.
“Mergency! Nine-one-one is mergency!”
“I’ll give you an emergency, you dumb shit!”
He grabbed her by her hair and dragged her screaming into the hallway. She kicked and tugged and managed to turn around and bite his hand. Her teeth sunk into his knuckles and gripped like a pneumatic press.
Matisse didn’t mean to hit her as hard as he did. But he was angry, and in pain, and too damn strong
for his own good. He brought his fist down on the back of her neck, right at the base of the head, in an effort to get her to let go.
Her spine snapped like dry kindling. She was dead before she hit the carpet.
“It’s your fault, you stupid retard!” he yelled at the body. “You didn’t have to bite me!”
Sally didn’t answer, but her blank, staring eyes accused him.
Matisse cradled his injured paw in his good hand and looked at the damage. Blood was flowing freely, and he caught it before it dripped onto the carpet. The cops could get DNA—deoxygen newribo acid according to Alex Trebec—from blood. The last thing he wanted to do was leave them evidence.
He hurried to the bathroom and rinsed away the red, grimacing at the jagged edges of his wound. Didn’t he once hear that human bites were dirtier than dog bites? He rubbed a bar of soap into the cut, concerned about infection. Maybe more than infection. Maybe, since a retard bit him, he would become retarded. He should probably go to the hospital, get an anti-retard shot. This situation was getting worse and worse.
Finding gauze in the medicine cabinet, he wrapped a makeshift bandage around his wound and secured it with white tape. The blood seeped through, so he wrapped another layer of gauze over the first. Then he looked at the bloody mess he had made in the sink and panicked, thinking about DNA evidence again.
Now he was just as guilty as Slake was. Murder One. No absolvinglution. And Illinois had the death penalty.
“Oh shit,” he mumbled, suddenly overcome by self-pity. He didn’t want to go to prison. He definitely didn’t want to get gassed, or electrocuted, or whatever they did in this state.
Matisse went into the kitchen and found some Liquid Plumr, and he poured that all over the dead retard’s face and mouth and then down her throat to destroy any of his blood she may have swallowed. Then he took a wet rag and began to wipe down everything, absolutely everything, that he or Slake might have touched.
“This isn’t fair,” he said to himself over and over. “Not fair, not fair at all.”
The Liquid Plumr foamed bloody in Sally’s dead mouth.
Matisse kept wiping.
Tequila Abernathy heard Marty’s threats echo around him as he continued his climb up the heating duct. He heard them, but didn’t pay attention to them. Tequila’s mind was totally focused on the task at hand, and that task was getting out of the damn vent.
Shot of Tequila Page 9