Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “How is it different from you boasting about ‘wasting gooks’ in Southeast Asia every chance you get?”

  “Your mind’s in the gutter, babe. Them’s two different things.”

  “Was that me just now pestering the creep? With probing questions about the oversexed negro harlot with the enormous tits, or was it my husband?”

  “Just trying to drum up exposure for your songs. Helpin’ my wife out. It’s called supporting your spouse. The way it’s supposed to be, where I come from. Ain’t it? Well, ain’t it?”

  “You’re patronizing me, Marty. You know how much I hate being patronized.”

  “You want to call it that, fine.”

  “There’s no real money to be made by giving my work away to these shallow sluts who wouldn’t know a good song if they got impregnated by one. It’s about royalties.” She had risen from her seat at the piano, and was standing in the kitchen. Riled, or about to become. “What happened to the connections that you had? It’s about getting the material to established recording artists and working out an equitable contract. It’s about publishing and royalties. I’ve explained this to you so often that I’m sick of hearing myself talk about it.”

  “Calm down.” Her husband opened the refrigerator door.

  “You want a cold one? Because I sure as hell can use a cold one.”

  CHAPTER 411

  In the Mattress Room, located directly across the way from the Workshop-cum-Fun Room, Pearleen Bell and Olivia Duarte were huddled together, watching the relatively small color set that they had propped up on the rickety coffee table. The light switch for this particular room was on a wall on the other side of the locked door, making it easier, they supposed, they reasoned, for Biggs, the control freak that he was, to keep their lives, every aspect of their existence, under the strictest scrutiny. Manipulators weren’t happy unless they were manipulating someone.

  Gospel music also blasted from speakers throughout the basement that made it difficult to hear the tv; hymns were sung between sermons and beseechings from desperate Bible-thumpers imploring for funds, donations, the kindness of strangers out there in the audience to bail them out of their latest fiscal deficits, or something to the effect.

  Television news breaks is what they waited and hoped for, never knowing when Cecil would cut off the electricity in their cell; they prayed that someone out there, someone on the outside was aware of their situation and would do something to save them, come to their rescue. What they heard, instead, was more on missing people throughout Southern California. The latest to disappear: a married couple named Daniel and Dione Aragon, and their infant daughter Clarissa.

  “God, I hope you let someone know about this.”

  Olivia said nothing. Pearleen searched out her eyes.

  “Olivia, look at me. You did tell someone about us? Please tell me that you did. Please?”

  Olivia shook her head. “I had no idea you were being held against your will.”

  “You had to know. We never got out that night you left in the cab. He locked the front door the minute you hurried out and kept us in. They killed Dione and her husband. What she told us: they kidnapped them both at gun point in McCoy’s parking lot and drove them out to the mountains where they shot Danny and dumped him in a shallow grave. They raped her, repeatedly; blinded her in one eye. . . .” She choked on her words, something in her throat. “They broke her arms. . . . Kept her locked up in that pit full of water . . . and finally killed her. . . .” Pearleen paused to wipe her eyes. Olivia’s own eyes had tears in them. The women hugged.

  “Lana was tied down to a table, and they forced a rat to get inside her. . . .” Pearleen found it difficult to go on. Olivia wept openly.

  “They cut her head off, Olivia. Dear God, they cut her head off. . . .” The younger woman clung to her. “They like to torture women. That’s how they get their kicks. You never want to panic or look afraid around Cecil, because that’s what turns him on—because then he’ll want more, he’ll want to torture you; and once he starts in, usually there’s no turning back for him.” She kept wiping her eyes. “See, I don’t think he wants to kill all of us. He’s been after me and you for too long to want to kill us right away—so that just might save us . . . if we can last long enough for someone to come get us out. He’s been trying to get his hands on me for years, ever since I started working some of these clubs around here like the Casbah Hideaway; and he’s been trying to get you for almost as long. . . .”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “You saw the album he showed us in the bathroom. Plus he’s got a bunch of photographs of you when you played high school softball; showed us color photographs of you cheerleading. . . . You’ll probably see the pictures, too; he’ll probably want to show them to you.”

  “He showed me a few snapshots in the graveyard . . . that he keeps in his wallet.”

  “At least we won’t get killed for a while . . . as long as he can have sex with us, as long as he likes it and we keep him satisfied. . . .” Pearleen could not help it, and went back to what she had asked her earlier. “I just can’t believe that you didn’t tell anyone about us. I can’t believe it, Olivia.”

  “Believe it. I had no idea.”

  “You could have told someone, your family—somebody, at least.”

  “I didn’t know he was doing this; nobody did. People get he’s weird, but nobody has any idea what’s going on, nobody suspects this. None of it. Not like this. . . .”

  “I’m sorry.” The tears were flowing again. “I shouldn’t blame you. I’m not blaming you at all, Olivia. I just wish to God somebody comes by, somebody gets us out. Somebody’s got to figure out what the odor is, someone’s got to know they are burning bodies in the furnace.”

  She picked up a rag she’d been using for a handkerchief to wipe her nose with. “How did they get you?”

  “In the diner.” Olivia fought images of the way it had all happened, the way they had shot that transient in the cemetery. “They killed Mr. Jessup and Bertha. . . . Buried them in the graveyard. . . . There was this homeless man who happened to be there. . . . They took his life. . . .”

  “We are going to stay alive. We have to play his game. Don’t let it show that you’re disgusted by his behavior. His breath is bad. You can’t let him know that it bothers you. He’s got a bad case of halitosis. Pretend to be on his side, no matter what he brings up. When he talks about his mother, act like you understand. There was a real bad love/hate thing there. Just listen when he talks about her and pretend you know exactly what he’s talking about. Man’s been in and out of mental hospitals all his life. Shock therapy really messed his head up, fell out of a tree when he was little. Who knows what fucked him up? Could be it was all of it, could be it was none of it. He’s on medication, if you haven’t guessed by now. Sometimes he’ll talk about Tillie Marie—”

  Olivia nodded. She understood. Had heard the name before.

  “He’s already mentioned her, I bet.”

  “He talked about her in the graveyard. I reminded him of her.”

  “That’s a big plus in your favor, girl. Tillie Marie was this Filipino nurse he was married to. They corresponded for a long time before he flew over there to marry her. Wedding cost him thousands. He didn’t like that at all. Married her for sex. Ended up falling for her. She was five months pregnant with his baby when she ran off. Divorced him. She gave birth to a boy a few months back. Rarely sees the baby, and he’s always talking about that: how Tillie Marie had cost him so much and had done him dirty. He’s always saying how much he misses her, would like to spend more time with the boy. He’s disappointed because he’ll never get the chance to show his son how to beat and torture women. When he talks about them or his mother Charlotte, he’s usually okay then. If you go along, listen and pay attention without ever coming across as judgmental or patronizing, we’ll get food to eat—although, some of it . . . some of it you wouldn’t want to go near. . . .” Images went to work in Pearlee
n’s mind’s eye. She made the effort to shove them aside. “Never let your fear show. You can’t let it show. Fear can set him off. Fear feeds his rage. It’s got to have something to do with his childhood, childhood memories, being at the mercy of his stepfather and not able to do anything about the abuse. . . .” Hell, she was no stranger to abuse, having lived through her share of it as a young girl. This was, in part, where some of her insights came from. Hard won.

  “Like I said, girl, you stand a good chance to make it out alive because you remind him of Tillie Marie. He’s always saying how much Tillie Marie had reminded him of his mother, too; but then he says that about me. Any woman with long dark hair, any woman of color and big tits reminds him of his mother. Shit, even when they don’t have brown skin they remind him of his mother. Man is fucked up; that’s all you need to keep in mind. I know: gotta be a stretch, right? Dark hair, dark eyes, though, mainly. Lana he didn’t care all that much for because he considered her a professional whore. He knew about the hardcore porn she did for money. Hated Stella, too, for much of the same reason. In your case, and in my case . . . we’re a little luckier than Lana and Stella. . . . Rest their souls. . . .” (All too) vivid images of what had been done to Stella Martel flashed in the exotic dancer’s head. She wanted to explain to Olivia, but it was impossible. She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, then buried her face in her hands. Wept quietly.

  Olivia asked about the windows as a way out. Pearleen Bell shook her head. “Built solid, and too high to reach. All have bars on them. You don’t want to stand on this coffee table, either. Flimsy. If it breaks—that means we get punished. Face his wrath.”

  “There has to be a way.”

  “I don’t know, maybe play Marvin against him. The right opportunity would have to present itself for it to work.”

  “What about the Furnace Room? Couldn’t we get in there and start a fire?”

  “You’d have to get past the psychos, break the lock off the door. You’re forgetting about the smoke. The smoke alone would kill us.”

  “I’d rather die from smoke inhalation, than at the butcher’s hands.”

  “Don’t talk that way.”

  “What about other people, parishioners, who come to this church of his to pray and for the free meal? Can’t something be done, then? Enough noise made for them to hear?”

  Pearl shook her head. “No good. Doesn’t give many sermons; not like he used to. Besides, the Prayer Room is on the second floor; if that’s what you’re getting at? You’ve been up there.”

  “When they first walk in through the front door, we bang on the walls, make noise, yell and scream our heads off. Someone is bound to hear.”

  The stripper shook her head. “Get that thought out of your mind right now if you want to go on living. He never shuts the music off, number one. Number two: if he hears us making noise down here we’re both history. Shock treatment, in the pit. That’s the main reason he killed off Dione and Lana: too much trouble. That’s how we got trapped. Dione was yelling for help and pounding on the basement door. We was on the first floor. Stella was the first to hear it, alerted us to it—by then you had already left. Biggs locked the front door, and he had us. The only escape attempt worth risking is the one that won’t get us killed. Just to make noise like that ain’t gonna do it, Olivia.”

  Olivia Duarte nodded her head. “I’ll go along with whatever you say. I just can’t even think straight right now. My mind isn’t working; I can’t stop thinking about my family. . . .”

  “Wish there was a way to break into the Furnace Room. Might not be the worst idea after all; if we could start a fire, set the place on fire, make it spread, without choking on the smoke and possibly getting burned alive. Thing is, we’ll never be alone down here. We’d have to get past his people.” It seemed far-fetched, probably unrealistic. “Even if we got past them, and got inside the Furnace Room, we have no way of getting out of here. We’d have to get out of this room first. That door is locked. Motherfucker won’t take the chains off.”

  CHAPTER 412

  Rudy Perez had the hood up on a clunker of a Ford pickup that he was working on in his family’s driveway when Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk pulled up to the curb in their heap. He dug around in the toolbox until he came up with a pipe wrench. Stood and waited. Ready to face them if he had to.

  Felix was the first to hop out.

  “Ain’t what we here for, Rudy. Ain’t lookin’ for trouble. We even on that score, anyway. It’s about Olivia.”

  “What about her?”

  Ace Ortiz climbed out himself and walked up.

  “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you are. I got a rep to think of. You sucker-punched me. Had no choice but to come back.”

  “What about Olivia?”

  CHAPTER 413

  Same Day, 4:00 p.m.

  Rudy’s grandparents dozed in rockers in the living room as he sat at the kitchen table to write a note to his brother.

  Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk waited outside. Ortiz was tapping his horn impatiently and revving the engine.

  Rudy shot up from his chair and shouted through the living room window screen for the knuckleheads to knock off the noise.

  He finished scribbling, and stuck the folded piece of paper to the refrigerator door with a Tweedie Pie magnet.

  He walked to a shed in the backyard, selected a couple of shovels and a pickaxe and tossed them in the Ford truck.

  When he looked up, Ortiz and the other fool had already removed the backseat from the ex-con’s pathetic beater, carried it up the driveway and dropped it there.

  “What are you doing, Ortiz?”

  “What does it look like? Making room for you and the hardware.”

  “I don’t think so.” Rudy walked to the Toyota’s rear. “Open the trunk.”

  “What for?”

  “Open it.”

  Ortiz opened it. Trunk was loaded with crushed aluminum cans and general trash.

  “We’re taking the Ford.”

  Rudy walked back to it. Slammed the hood shut.

  “That’s the genius over there.” Ortiz gestured in his buddy Felix’s direction. “Gonna recycle all them cans for a small fortune. Ain’t that right, homeboy?”

  “You’re always there to help me spend it, ain’t you—’Homeboy’?”

  “Didn’t help you spend the empties we come across in the graveyard, did I?”

  “We back on that?”

  “No, we ain’t back on that. You brung it up.”

  The two carried the seat back to the Toyota. Ortiz reached in for an old style satchel that appeared to have been cobbled together with carpeting and wire.

  “Shot.”

  They waited for Rudy to back the Ford pickup into the street, and climbed in, with Ace getting his window seat. Thirty minutes later Perez and the “Bobbsey twins” were on the 210 Freeway heading east.

  Felix had this notion that maybe they should be aware of something. Felt it was worth bringing up. “What if Biggs is waiting for us in the graveyard so he can cut us down? He’ll want to know who made off with his stash.”

  “Ask me if I give a fuck.” Ace Ortiz fired up one of his filterless butts. “‘Sides, daytime makes it a whole different ball game.”

  Rudy Perez was too preoccupied with thoughts of what may or may not have been done to the girl he loved to comment either way.

  CHAPTER 414

  They made it to the Holy Sepulcher Cemetery in another twenty-five minutes. Even though it was a clear and sunny afternoon, the atmosphere in the neglected graveyard with its weather-worn grave markers, when they were in evidence, grass in need of cutting, trees in either need of serious trimming or complete removal, littered gravel roads in dire need of clearing as well as maintenance work, easily permeated death and decay and a kind of miasma strong enough to threaten to envelope those among the living for having the unmitigated gall to disturb the otherwise natural stillness of the grounds.

  The eeriness hung in the air. A
chill crawled up Rudy Perez’s spine. Graves and grave markers meant one thing to him: his parents’ funeral, watching his mother and father and other family members, sister and aunt, get buried years before and lowered into the ground forever.

  They stayed on the gravel road for about two hundred yards and parked. The gloom and death vibe of the place was palpable. Not a one of them was eager to get out, but all three did.

  “Fifty bucks is all I need to cop a couple of balloons: one of chiva and one of blow. All it would take to get me straight.”

  This was simply too much for Rudy to take at this point. He’d been running himself ragged trying to figure out what had happened to Olivia, trying to figure out where she could have gone; he’d pursued every desperate angle he could think of, had had to deal with the Duarte family and their accusations—and now this junkie asshole was giving him a hard time.

  “What did you say?”

  Felix sensed trouble and wanted to put a lid on it before it got out of hand.

  “Ace—”

  “Lookee here: Stay out of this, Felix. Gotta think business. It’s business.” Ace reached in for his satchel. Looked at Rudy.

  “For forty bucks we take you to the grave.”

  Rudy’s features continued to turn a shade of deep crimson, the anger rising up inside. No matter, Ortiz bided his time. Waited for a response that might be more to his liking by taking a small paper bag out of the satchel, unraveling the top, and huffing the glue inside. Evidently the glue had dried and lost its potency. Ortiz had a tube of it inside the satchel. Lined the bottom of the paper bag with fresh glue. Tried huffing again.