Frenzy dje-2

by Rex Miller

  "AAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa," the man moaned. "Huh?" Spain said, taking hold of him. "Awwwwwwwwwww," Charlie repeated on cue.

  "You like pain so fucking well," Spain muttered as he dragged Charlie across the rug, "what's the big deal?"

  "Ohhhhhhh, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh," and Spain tore his hands away and kicked him again. A real bruising sixty-yard drop kick in the balls, and Freund screamed at the top of his lungs, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" and it was music to Spain's ears as he thought about Tiff.

  He wondered how long Bobbie would stay under, and he wondered if anybody else was in the house, thinking these things automatically as he sized up Charles Freund moaning as Spain pulled him across the rug. Moaning and groaning like he really meant it.

  "How's that feel, pops? You like that shit?"

  "UUUUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,awwwwwwwwwwwwww-wwwww!"

  "No shit? I'm surprised to hear that," he said conversationally, "the way you love that pain and all. I mean," he said, dragging Charlie Freund over to a straight-back chair, "let's see if we can get you into some. How's that sound, fuck-face?"

  You can forget all that karate shit. Some guy rushes into your living room when you're kicked back watching the tube and he throws a lead-weighted blackjack at your head, and as you raise your arms to ward off the thrown object coming at your head, he kicks you expertly in the testicles, you can kiss all that kung fu bullshit adios. You're in the big, green, hurt locker. End of story. Goodbye.

  Freund was crying and pissing and moaning, his balls swelling up like grapefruit, and Spain got him nice and snug, then went and wired Bobbie, who he figured would be the tougher of the two by far, came back, and went at Charlie for serious.

  Charlie Freund gave up the Morales punk, Jon Belmonte, and nine more names while he was waiting to die. Some of them were new names and Spain's list was growing. Charlie and Bobbie were glad to have the other names for him.

  He got elaborate, voluminous descriptions screamed, slobbered, begged at him in the closing minutes of their lives. They were imploring, wheedling, whining, praying him to stop please stop anything we'll tell you everything do anything you want just don't hurt us don'tpleasedon'tdoooooooooon't.

  For people who liked pain as well as they did, they sure couldn't get behind any of it. At the last there they would like to have had forty or fifty more names for him. Good stories to tell him. Anything to prolong the time they had, anything to postpone the agony and hurting they knew was in their immediate future.

  They were giving him bankbooks, dope caches, coke stashes, secret money boxes, hollow books, closet safes, account numbers, cookie jars, film masters, mailing lists, and when they ran out, they started making things up the way people always do. They would have given him Lucky Luciano, Willie Sutton, and the Vienna Boys Choir if Spain would have just kept listening.

  Big, flowery descriptions. Addresses. Hangouts, hobbies, habits. Moles and scars. Christ ohnooooooooo dontpleasedon't ANYTHING. We'll tell you what you want to hear.

  He had all the real stuff down cold two different ways when Bobbie went under for the last time. Charlie had been more resilient than he looked. He looked like a fag, Spain thought. But of course a person's pain threshold is just a fact of life, like their blood type. You can't do a whole lot about it when trauma paints it all black for you.

  Charlie hung in there pretty good, all in all. Spain had his chest almost half-skinned when he finally went out for good and wouldn't come around again. Spain was really sorry to see them go. He had lots of time but they just couldn't keep up with it all. And he hadn't even branded Bobbie on the inside yet.

  He took no real pleasure from torturing them. It made him sort of tired. But then, when he walked around their place later, looking at the spots where Tiff had suffered at their hands, his rage returned, and he found a very sharp kitchen knife and really did a jay-oh-bee on the Fruends. It was good to get rid of some of me hostile energies, he thought to himself.

  He looked down at what was left of the Freund cadavers finally and said, "Are we having fun yet?" and laughed at the sound of the words.

  His long-time colleague in Homicide, Detective Sergeant James Lee, the "Chink" of the legendary cop duo Chink and Chunk, was trying to explain the finer points of tile Oriental Basket Boff when tile loud voice of his partner, fat Dana Tony, came bellowing down the stairs as "Chunk" descended into the bowels of the squad room at Buckhead Station. He was singing a well-known song to which filthy lyrics had been appended. " 'Neath a twilight canopy, you're so mellow —" was being loudly sung as " 'Neath a toilet can of pee, urine so yellow."

  "Jeezus," Lee said to Eichord, "it stinks like a taco fart but it looks like a blimp. What the hell izzit?"

  "Good morning, ladies," Chunk said, "Kee-rist, it always stinks down here. Smells like shrimp sub-gum farts."

  "Good morning, Mr. Goodyear," his long-suffering partner said.

  "Morning," Eichord greeted him. "Honcho in yet?"

  "Fucked if I know. What do I look like, my fucking brother's keeper?"

  "You look like a sperm whale with a double hernia, but I still need to know if the honcho's in yet."

  "You look like five guys wearing the same clothes," Lee suggested.

  "I didn't see his smiling face, dear," Tuny told Eichord, turning to his skinny partner saying, "and you look like the dildo float in a fucking Chinatown parade, you little moo-shoo porkpecker."

  The phone on Lee's desk rang and he snarled, "Hill Street Eaters, Lieutenant Hunter," before snatching the receiver up and saying, "Homicide. . . . Okay." He signaled for Eichord to pick it up as he hit the hold button.

  Today they would be Hill St. Blues television cops. Eichord was partially to blame for their style. Ever since he'd told them about the guys in Chicago who were Cisco and Pancho one day, Hawaii 5-0 the next, they'd started doing their own version of wacko cop theater. Every day Chink and Chunk "played" somebody. Like little boys. If you didn't like them it could drive you bats. Fat Dana the Kingfish one day, with his partner Andy of Amos 'n' Andy.

  "Well, er, uh, abba dabba, looky heeyuh, now, Brother Andy, those are serious allegations," and the other one saying on cue, "Well, I is de alligatee. And you is de alligator, dere." Just a way to make the time pass between them. TV shows, radio shows, movie scenes — they were a team and they'd been together so long that they literally knew what the other one was thinking. It made for so-so comedy relief, and on occasion some fair-to-middling cop work.

  Eichord liked them. Especially Jimmie Lee, with whom he'd been close friends for as long as he'd been a cop. He could hear them banter back and forth as the woman was droning on about the plastic scam in his right ear. One of them saying to the other, "She only lets you go down on her 'cause you got a face like a douche bag." They'd lasted together for so many years. Longer than most marriages.

  "... is not the same story we got at all . . . " His brain kicked back in for a second as the woman's voice grated in his ear. An employee from one of the credit-card outfits hassling him about something that was tied to a junkie-related homicide. He glanced up at the wall clock. Smack dab in the middle of the clock face was the tiny printed message "Eatin' Ain't Cheatin'." He managed to get off the phone and they started in on him.

  "Hey, the captain's in now," fat Dana said as soon as he hung up the phone.

  "Uh-huh." He waited.

  "The captain? Did someone ask about the captain?" Lee said with great excitement. "Captain Furillo?"

  "Sorry," Tuny said. "Furillo's out with AIDS today, Mick. I'm in charge."

  "You, Lieutenant Butt?"

  "It's Buntz! You dork-brained little peterface." He straightened his tie like the guy on TV did.

  "Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr," Lee snarled menacingly.

  "Get hold of yourself, Rinty."

  "Watch it. Puke Breath."

  "Hey. No way to talk in front of Mizzzzzzz Davenport here."

  "Good morning. Detectives," Lee chirped in his best falsetto.


  "That's good morning, Detective Lootenant, you titless tramp. That no-dick, cold-fish husband of yours ain't here ta proteck ya."

  "Listen, Craterface, or Inspector General Zitz, or whatever your freaking name is," Lee squeaked, "when my husband Furillo gets back he'll have your ugly ass up on charges for this gross insubordination."

  "Yeah? I'll have you up on ole Pork Mountain in a minute, Mizzzzzzzzzzzzz Daybed, now haul your skinny ass outta here."

  "Sounds good to me," Eichord said, getting up with an audible sigh.

  "Oh, don't go away mad," Lee screeched, still in falsetto.

  "Two minutes to nine and you maniacs have got me tired already. You wear a person down with that shit."

  "You know. Jack," Tuny said, "I wasn't going to say this. But you have a right to know."

  "Mmmm?" Eichord said, turning as he started out the door and arching an eyebrow.

  "Yeah. We weren't going to tell you. Some of the guys are saying you might be a latent heterosexual."

  "Absolutely," he said, turning back. "I guess I can come out of the closet now." He started upstairs.

  "Coming in the closet is how they caught on to you in the first place," Tuny told his back.

  The pretty girl sitting beside the first-floor dispatcher looked up at him as he mouthed a Hi and she pantomimed a kiss at him as she spoke into a headset contraption. He gestured with a thumb in the general direction of their fearless leader and she nodded. He winked goodbye.

  He knocked on the open door as he went in. "'Morning, Captain," he said to the huge, red-faced man behind the desk, who grunted at him without looking up and said,

  "YOU look like shit on a stick this morning."

  Eichord thought of one or two rejoinders as he eyed the bulging girth threatening to pop the buttons on the man's shirtfront, but he smiled and said, "I need a vacation."

  "You just had a fucking vacation."

  "You call that circle jerk in California a vacation? I call it a sentence."

  "Well, you invincible crime-crushers have a tough time."

  "Gimmee a break. Cap."

  "You wanna break? You need another vacation? You got it." He slid a Task Force envelope across the desk. "Forthwith."

  Eichord went through the motions of opening it and chatting briefly about the summons to St. Louis, even though in fact he had initiated it himself. He was going up there to see if he could fit SEE NO EVIL into the recent St. Louis mob hits. Different MOs than the L.A. EYEBALL work, but the elusive Mr. Streicher was a burr under the saddle.

  As soon as he could do so he extricated himself from the captain's presence. In the entire time he'd been in the office the captain had never looked up at him. There was no love lost between them. Eichord didn't respect the man much, and he supposed that it showed. The honcho made no bones about the way he felt about Eichord. Jack was a drunken bum of a prima donna who would have been booted off the force years ago but for the intervention of the McTuff people and the efforts of his rowdy friends Lee and Tuny who had so often rebuilt the bridges he'd fried so hard to burn.

  Eichord wasn't disturbed by their relationship. He figured he would have probably felt the same way had their positions been reversed. Everybody from Jack's "rabbi" down knew that the captain was Eichord's superior only in the most nominal sense. Jack served only one master: the Major Crimes Task Force.

  Jack Eichord at least knew he was no invincible crime-crusher. He was just another plodding, sweating, paper-shuffling, workmanlike flatfoot. One more booze-battered copper whose butt was growing larger by the day and who had a gray hair for every city he'd ever been in. Somebody whose true cop value fell right in between the extremes of "Eminence Grise of Serial Murder Experts" (Criminology Magazine) and "shit on a stick."

  When he finished cleaning up after the things in Florida, Frank Spain headed cross-country for Texas, and days of long driving later, he was crossing over into May-hee-co, passing a billboard advertising a TV show or a beverage or something that said, VIVIR UN POCO. It was the first time he'd smiled in a long time, and he muttered out loud, "Abso-goddamn-lutely," when he saw it.

  He'd had all that boring, flatlands driving to plan. To chum all the names and the people together and blend the mix in his head. He understood the organization better than most. Ciprioni, his treacherous mentor, had seen to that.

  When Spain was a kid, first working as a mob gofer, still a youngster who they looked on as somebody to cultivate, Ciprioni had pulled his coat to the inevitability of the Dago family's rise and fall. "You won't have to worry about nothin'. I'm going straight up. The Man — he's going to the very top. But these people here" — he meant the other St. Louis family, the ones down the ladder from the big Chicago mob, not to mention Kansas City —"they gonna fall apart when the old mangoes."

  The Man, a name he always spoke with reverent emphasis, was his — not just patriarchal godfather but everyone's — spiritual leader. More than the bosses' boss. He was the force that held it together. As far removed from the Dagatina family as America was from the old country. With Tony Gee gone. Sally Dago would be just one more insignificant hood trying to run a crumbling empire.

  So much had happened over the years. Sally finally went away behind a racketeering/extortion thing and was still inside. But Spain would figure a way to bring him down too. And that fucking Ciprioni as well. No one was invulnerable — history had proved that enough times.

  Sally Dago's people had been a mixed lot, Italians, Sicilians, and mostly Syrians. The two main factions could be played against each other. As Spain drove, he formulated his plan. The way he would take the small fry off first. He'd whack one on either side — figure it out just right — the people would have to be strategically placed just so to make it look like the people "across the street" were making a move of some kind. If he did it right, worked carefully, kept his emotions in check, he could start a fucking gang war.

  He stopped and used a telephone, calling someone whose name had appeared in a sidebar of the main dossier.

  "Hello."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm calling from L.A., can you hear me awright?"

  "Yeah. Who's dis?"

  "I'm a friend of a certain mutual friend of ours. He tol' me you might be able to put me onto a dude that don't ask too many questions about takin' pictures of pretty girls . . . You know what I'm talking' about?"

  "Naw. I dunno what chew talking about."

  "Dat's awright. Listen. He said to mention Juan's name," he gave it the heavy H-sound, "and like if you could put me in touch wit' the Morales dude or somebody, there'd be a taste innit for you, comprende?"

  "Oh." The interest went out of the other voice. "You talkin' about Morales. Which Morales you talkin' about?"

  "Paco, man. Who you tink? Hey, how can I get in touch with him, I runnit by him."

  "I don't know fer sure. Who'd Jew say dis was?"

  "A friend of a friend of Juan's — a good friend, you know? He said jew was cool, man. So what's the big deal? Paco still over in the trailer court?"

  "Yeah. I don't got his number, tho."

  "Well, how, uh, where can I leave word for him? He's gonna get well on dis' shit, man."

  "Hell, I dunno. You might try d'Bacardi."

  "Huh?"

  "Yeah. You could leave word at d'Bacardi. He hangs out dere sometime." Pause. "Shit — I dunno, man. I don' see him dat much."

  "What's the Bacardi?"

  "A BAR, baby, d'Bacardi Bar's d' name of it, okay?"

  "Hey, gracias, if you see him tell him Bob Long called. Okay?"

  "Yeah. De nada" The line clicked.

  Spain asked around a little very quietly. It took him about five minutes to locate the Bacardi Bar, which was a nameless cantina that took its local nickname from a big, neon BACARDI up on the roof of the building.

  He spotted the mobile-home park across the road and cracked the door on the stolen van he'd picked up back on the Tex-ee-co side and waited for a few minutes. He didn't see much street activi
ty. He got out and scouted around a little, looked at a couple of mail-boxes and saw Morales, walked up, and knocked on the door. Spain had very carefully tried the knob as he knocked. He'd learned many years ago that to his surprise half the doors you try are unlocked in the first place. This wasn't, but it had given easily. He wouldn't even need plastic. He turned around and walked away as if he was going back to the van, and when he didn't see any eyes, he made a little stutter-step like a double take, a bit of I-for-got-something pantomime with the hands, and walked back to the trailer.

  It was an ordinary if rather long, used, singlewide. Spain figured it to be maybe a fourteen-by-seventy. Morales could be asleep in there back in a bedroom. He stuck the little piece of metal in and the door gave with a loud popping noise. No inside chain. Spain went in fast, closing it behind him and blinking in the semi-darkness of the interior. He waited a second listening. Heard nothing and started back into the long rectangular home, his weight shaking the flimsy particle board floor as he walked.

  It was a pigsty. Nobody home. Stuff strewn everywhere. No dog. No caged bird. Nothing. Good. He went to work on the door immediately with some pocket tools, fixing the cheap frame so that when the owner came up to unlock his door, it wouldn't push in with the first touch and alert him. He superglued a metal strip in place to hold the latch plate, the plate he'd forced loose, and then darkened it with a fast-drying marker to make the metallic shine less conspicuous.

  He waited and tried to keep from breathing any more than necessary. This punk must never bathe. What a hole, he thought. Just a punk who worked the camera on the stuff Jon Belmonte did locally. Rhapsody Video. What a name. Connected to the distribution arm of the kiddie-porn biz through the St. Louis people. The Freunds, Belmonte, all just punks. Pervert scum on the fringes of the sex industry. Spain shivered. Disgusted that the families would tolerate freaks like this. But then they used street hypes for dope salesmen, so what's the difference? The families would pay for their lack of discernment. He would make all these scum pay with their dust.