by Lonni Lees
CHAPTER TWO
Charlie Blackhawk felt restless as he sat in the booth at the Barstow Coffee Shop. He shifted his weight, fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers, traced the icy sweat from the sides of his water glass. It felt like an eternity had passed by the time the waitress finally sat the plate down in front of him. He scowled up at her, resisting the temptation to scold her for her incompetence as he mentally threw her to the floor and kicked the stupid right out of her. She ignored the dirty look he gave her, chomped on her gum, turned and walked away. Charlie looked down at the limp, greasy fries and began to eat. They were already half cold and were devoid of even the slightest hint of flavor. Even the rancid taste of last week’s lard would have been an improvement. So he doused them with more salt, then reached across the table and picked up the ketchup bottle, pouring half the contents onto his plate. He swirled some fries into the puddle of ketchup and shoved them into his mouth.
He still couldn’t taste them.
He was distracted.
Something else kept drawing his attention. Something more important to Charlie than the cold, greasy slop on the plate in front of him. The hunger pains no longer mattered for he was feeling another, more urgent ache. An ache that made his head throb and twist, an ache that made his vision blur and turn dark as a black cat prowling the alleyways at midnight, an ache that made his body hurt like hell. An ache he had to take care of. That car crash on the road had stirred things up, made him bubble inside like a volcano building pressure before its inevitable explosion. And Charlie needed to explode. It was only mid-morning but he had already checked into a motel, knowing he had no choice but to take care of things before he could move on.
But there would be no truck stop lot lizards on the menu today. There was no time for negotiations with the hungry, nasty little whores that wove in and out between the semis in search of their mid-morning tricks. There was only time to feed his face—and assuage his other hunger—before moving on.
He finally got the waitress’s attention and motioned her for the check. If she was running true to form her delivery would be slow as molasses. Damned if he would be leaving a tip. He should be getting a discount for lousy service. The lazy twat didn’t earn squat. But the lack of a tip wasn’t good enough, if he didn’t tip her then she would figure he just forgot. He wanted her to know she was a fuckup. He wanted her to know he was in control. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, removing a worn piece of paper. Nothing important on it, just an old to-do list that was long ago done. He took a penny and dropped it into the water glass, then placed the paper over it. Quickly he turned it upside-down on the table, not spilling as much as a drop. An old trick but still a good one. It sent a definite message. He knew that when she went to lift the glass, the water would spill all over the place and she would have to clean up the mess. That would teach her not to fuck with Charlie Blackhawk. Too bad there was no time to really show her. He chuckled as he rose from the booth, walked to the register and paid his check with some of the dead man’s cash. He pushed through the door and stood out front in the blinding light, his eyes scanning the street in both directions until he regained his bearings. He finally remembered where he was. He walked back to the motel and entered his room, closing the door behind him. He opened it again, putting the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside doorknob. Closed the door again. Locked it. Hooked the chain lock for good measure. Then he closed the drapes so not as much as a sliver of daylight could enter the darkened room.
So nothing could distract him.
His heart pounded as he stood in front of the mirror. He watched himself as he removed his clothing, staring at his naked reflection and at the little girl’s undies clutched in his hand. He raised his hand, rubbed the small garment across his eyelids, caressed his cheekbones with it, inhaled deeply as it whispered past his nostrils.
It smelled of talc and laundry soap—and life.
She had been so young—so innocent—so helpless.
So…dead.
He stared at his reflection and smiled as his erection grew.
“You been a bad boy,” he giggled.
He took the undies and knotted them around his penis, pulling the knot tighter and tighter until the pressure pinched into his flesh. He felt the pain shoot through his body, felt himself throb, pulsate, grow.
“Watch,” Charlie whispered, grinning at the madman in the mirror.
CHAPTER THREE
Sabrina Stinson knocked on her neighbor’s door until her knuckles hurt, cursing the broken doorbell, then knocked again. The bungalow was white, the old paint peeled and cracked, exposing deep gorges of dry-rot across its acned face. The entire neighborhood was decaying like Hollywood itself, stripped of pan stick and rouge—feeding on yesterday’s illusions.
Sabrina shifted her weight impatiently. Intense eyes, the darkest of jade, peered through fiery locks of disheveled auburn hair. Her full, young lips signaled stubbornness and already hinted at her blossoming.
Cumulus clouds threatened the late afternoon sun. She knocked again on the door and kicked it impatiently with one worn jogging shoe. It hurt her toes.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
Finally the door opened.
The old man looked down at Sabrina. His smile exposed dark gaps between his discolored teeth, and what hair remained on his head hung in greasy, unwashed strings of charcoal and yellowish-white. He smelled of garlic and pipe tobacco and the reek of menthol fumes from his linament.
“So where’s the fire?” The old man asked.
“Didn’t you hear me knocking?”
“If I didn’t hear you, then I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I?” he said, the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent in his voice.
“Sure, yeah,” Sabrina mumbled, then remembering the old man never wore his hearing aid she raised her voice and added: “I’ll mow your lawn for only three bucks, but only if I can borrow the mower to do mine too.”
“I don’t think it really needs it, squirt.”
“It always needs it, Mr. Owens,” she said.
“Front and back?”
“Front.” Sabrina knew the game. They played it every time. “The back’ll cost you four bucks more. It’s weed heaven back there and I always step in your stupid mutt’s dog shit.”
Despite her bluntness Sabrina liked Mr. Owens, especially as she could always pick up a few dollars from him for the movies without much trouble. The new Steven Seagal movie just opened on Hollywood Boulevard and if she hurried she could still make it to the early show—before the prices went up. She was anxious to see the movie. She loved Stallone and Chuck Norris and Charles Bronson. She liked Van Damme. And even Steven Seagal was okay in her book—despite the dumb pony tail there was nothing girlie or wishy-washy about him! Those guys really knew how to get the job done—they never took any shit from anybody. They were idealistic, determined, and tough as pig gristle. She admired them. They were her matinee idols.
Sabrina loved sitting in the darkened theaters all by herself, inhaling the aroma of stale popcorn and escaping within the fantasy world upon the screen. Her mother, Meggie, told her the same bug had bitten her when she was a teenager. Sabrina didn’t mind the time alone while her mother pursued that dream. At the age of eleven Sabrina already realized that people had voids they needed to fill. After all, she had a few empty spaces of her own. If she had ever had a father, which her mother claimed she hadn’t, it was nice to imagine him as looking like Chuck Norris. That was cool. Super cool. Norris was by far her all-time favorite and left the rest of them in the dust.
“Front and back?” Mr. Owens repeated.
“Front. It’s getting late and I gotta mow mine too.”
“Two dollars?”
“Three.”
“What did you say?”
“Three!”
Sabrina was losing patience with his silly game—or was it his hearing? The game played out the same every time, but he always came through. She alway
s won in the end. She liked winning.
Today she wanted to see the movie, then run over to the Hollywood Convalescent Home to visit Miss Cooney. Sabrina had been visiting the old woman often over the past months, ever since she had walked up to the front desk and said she was looking for an old lady with no relatives or friends left to visit with her. She told the nurse she wanted to adopt a grandmother. Someone she could tell stories to or maybe read to once in awhile. Or just listen to. Old people liked to talk about the past but no one really wanted to listen.
Shortly thereafter Meggie told Sabrina she had a real grandmother—somewhere—but despite Sabrina’s prodding her mother was hesitant to commit to when they might meet. She wondered why her mother always seemed so guarded. About everything. For years Sabrina hadn’t known a grandmother existed at all and now she just wanted to fill in the blanks. What was the big deal anyway?
So Miss Cooney remained her welcome surrogate. In the meantime they had become fast friends, eleven-year-old Sabrina and eighty-eight year old Miss Cooney. She looked forward to Sabrina reciting movie plots. Or reading her stories. Or just sitting there keeping her away from the loneliness. And sometimes Sabrina would sneak her an Oh Henry® if the nurses weren’t around.
Old Miss Cooney loved her Oh Henry®’s.
“How would you like to make ten whole dollars?” Mr. Owens said.
Here it comes, she thought. Sabrina scowled at him, put her hands on her hips, planting her ragged shoes firmly on the wooden porch. She had a hard time suppressing a laugh.
“You’re a silly old fart,” she said. “Roboscout doesn’t play those games.” She had given herself that name after seeing Robocop and Robocop II. Roboscout. The strong sound of it appealed to her. She saw herself as a ’droid, too—half little girl scout and half virtuous tough guy. Just try to mess with that combo and see where it gets you!
“Just five minutes. Besides, Sugar Dumpling, you sure don’t look as young as you are. It’s a crime that a little gal like you can walk around looking so pretty. Hell, you look like Rita Hayworth, not Shirley Temple. Now Hayworth, there was a beauty. But you probably never heard of her—way, way before your time.”
“Hey, I watch the late shows. I’ve seen GILDA three times!” The old pervert hit on her every time, but she knew he had a hard time just walking to the front door. It was impossible for her to imagine Mr. Owens ever having done “it”. And he sure as hell wasn’t capable of doing “it” now. One foot in front of the other and remembering to breathe was challenge enough for the old fart. It was just a harmless little game he liked to play with her, she knew that, but she warned him that if someone else overheard they might not understand at all.
“Walk up to the boulevard and you can find all the little girls you want. They’re on every corner. This little girl just mows lawns.”
“You drive a hard bargain, missy,” he said, shaking his head. “The mower is on the side.”
It played out the same every time—harmless banter, Sabrina knew that, but a little weird all the same.
Mr. Olsen pushed the greasy hair from his eyes, exposing the tattoo on his forearm. Sabrina looked at it, puzzled. It was nothing but numbers. No rose, no dagger, no “mom”—just a neat little row of numbers etched on old skin as thin as crepe paper.
“Why does your tattoo only have numbers? Is it so you don’t forget your phone number or something?” she asked, knowing his memory tended to be foggy at times.
He hesitated before he spoke. “They gave it to me in the camp. There was a time when all I was was a number. I keep it as a reminder of another life—when I was Solomon instead of Olsen.”
“Camp? Like with canoes and counselors and stuff?”
He laughed at that, but she detected deep sorrow in his eyes. Camp was supposed to be a happy place.
“What?” She said.
“The world has a lot of dark places, little one. Some things are not for young girls with curious minds, or even for the ears of God.”
He sighed and walked back into the house.
Sabrina shrugged, heard the front door creak shut as she walked to the side of the house and pushed to rusty mower down the driveway. The old geezer doing “it”, just the thought made her giggle. Weeds crept up through cracked cement and ant hills dotted the walkway. She walked fast so the ants would not climb her ankles. It was difficult pushing the mower. It needed oiling and sharpening. It was as worn out as old Mr. Owens. She guessed living alone was making him senile. His wife had died long before Sabrina had become his neighbor. All he had left was his stinky pipe tobacco and that yapping little terrier.
Meggie had told her that men were totally useless and had nothing but sex on the brain. That was one tidbit of information she didn’t keep under wraps. But even mom could not have imagined Mr. Owens thinking about “it”. Did she not have a father because Meggie hated men so much? It seemed as if a family should have a father. And maybe a sister. Or a grandmother she could actually see and touch. But Sabrina had Meggie—and their roommate Betty—and as far back as she could remember, she had Buddy. She could talk to Buddy any time she wanted and Buddy was always there. Always had been, as far back as she could remember. Even though Buddy never answered back, she felt that she had someone with whom to share.
Buddy—the only thing she and her mother ever argued about. “You’re too old for invisible playmates,” her mother would say. “Make-believe friends are outgrown by the time kids are three or four. Just look at you, you’re nearly a teenager and you cling to Buddy like an old security blanket.” Her mother’s voice was angry but her eyes were worried. Sabrina would tell her over and over again that Buddy wasn’t make-believe, but a real girl kind of like herself—but tinier—and certainly sweeter. But even as she spoke she knew Meggie would never believe her. It did sound pretty stupid. Especially coming from a straight-A student who was supposed to be smart. But Buddy had always felt more real than imaginary. So Meg could only visualize a little pixie that Sabrina might pretend to hide in her pocket. But Buddy wasn’t that tiny!
Hell, she needed Buddy.
Just as much as she needed old Miss Cooney.
Even more.
Because Buddy could share in her most private thoughts. Why, she could talk to Buddy about anything.
Sabrina pushed the mower through the tall grass and weeds and almost wished she had never started. Her muscles were starting to ache. She either had to stop using Mr. Olsen as her source of extra money or she had to do it a lot more often so it wasn’t such an overwhelming job.
The mowing was almost impossible. But she was determined to keep up her end of the bargain. Once she set her mind to something, nothing would stop her.
She hung onto things with the determination and grip of a pit bull.
“Such willfulness,” her mother would say. “I can’t imagine where that comes from.”
Maybe from my father, Sabrina wanted to say. But she knew that would start an argument…or make her mother uncomfortable. She tried to chose her words diplomatically in that area despite the fact that it gnawed at her.
A lot.
Sabrina dumped the lawn clippings in a heap against the side of Mr. Owen’s garage, wiped the sweat from her face and headed home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Charlie Blackhawk’s head was hurting again. It was hurting more lately, pushing to the surface memories best left buried and forgotten. Sometimes the voices made him cringe. Or cry. Or scream.
The Reverend Churchill’s voice was blasting from the radio as it always did. Day and night. Winter and summer. Hallelulia! There was no music in the house, no news, no television, no books except a dusty old bible. Just the fucking Reverend Churchill yelling his non-stop threats of hell-fire and damnation and his fairy tale fantasies of repentance and the pearly gates of the great beyond. Little Charlie dared not cover his ears. That was blasphemy. Momma said so and Momma knew. She had driven the point home many times with a fist alongside his head—or a whack with an empty whiskey
bottle that always left a big lump the size of an ostrich egg on his skull. Momma sure knew how to drive a point home effectively. Charlie gave her full credit for that. The Reverend was her savior and her salvation and had freed her from the devil’s grasp. The same devil that had held her hand every night as she went to town in search of the comfort of strangers. The same devil that had cheered her on when she fornicated with nameless men behind seedy bars or dark alleyways or in the back seats of cars instead of seeking comfort and solace in the arms of a loving God.
She had told Charlie and Lucy Mae that they were birthed at home, in their little shack on the outskirts of Enid—in hiding, so that no one would ever know they existed—because they were born with blood and sin and corruption upon their shoulders—the devil’s spawn—that they were the shameful result of her wicked ways—Satan’s constant reminder of her unrighteous life. But one day she had heard Reverend Churchill on the radio. His voice was clear and lucid and Momma had felt the holy light in his words. Hallelulia Jesus! Hallelulia Reverend!!! No more bars, no more fornication! She vowed right then and there to live the rest of her life doing the will of her new God and receiving his eternal forgiveness. He was her non-stop “A” ticket to heaven. Her kids could try to hitchhike their way to pearly gates for all she cared.
Now she did her drinking at home, behind closed doors—a door even her God could not see through—and kept her kids locked up so no one would ever know that she had sinned.
And to protect them from the evils and horrors of the world.
Except for the horrors she visited upon them herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
Meg Stinson unconsciously tugged at her strawish blonde hair. There was a sadness to her smile as she took a courage-bolstering breath, then entered the producer’s private office. Trans-Galactica Studios. This place was not glamorous—this was a place that chewed up souls.