Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “Not only is she a whore, but she’s a dumb whore. Pros always know to take their money up front. Not you. Too damned dumb. No wonder you couldn’t cut it as an educator.”

  Dominatrix looked at the others. Wondered if they wouldn’t mind being serviced at a hundred bucks per. She glanced at her watch. “I believe I can still squeeze you all in before making it to my next appointment.”

  Lloyd lifted his cane.

  “See this? I’ll beat your depraved ass with it if you don’t get out of my sight.”

  She got into her purple slicker. Slung her bag over her shoulder. She stepped past the old man. “I’ll be back with a friend, Pops. You owe me for this call. I spent a good thirty, thirty-five minutes massaging Junior’s weenie-head.”

  “You’re right about one thing: that’s what he is: a weenie-head. But you’re still not getting a dime, not from me. And I ain’t so sure he’s got any left, either—on account he sends it to Charlie Manson and them.”

  Call girl walked off, putting in enough shake into all that behind as she made it down the driveway to draw stares from Felix and even Ortiz.

  CHAPTER 427

  Lloyd turned his attention to his grandson, who was still yelping, and on the ground.

  “Now, what’s the problem? You giving these gentlemen a hard time?”

  “Just wanted to go up on the roof with them. They wouldn’t let me.”

  “That’s a lie, Mr. Pecker.” Ace thought he ought to correct himself and did. “Pardon me: Mr. Dicker. Asked for a deposit. When we told him we had your okay, he went all indignant on us.”

  “That right? You little snot. I’m getting mighty tired of your juvenile behavior, Wilburn; mighty tired. Time to grow up and act like a man. You’re eighteen years old. Old enough to vote, old enough to sleep with prostitutes—and still act like you’re a little kid.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

  “Sure you are. Do your best to rile me, then love to apologize afterwards.”

  Lloyd Dicker looked at Ace Ortiz and the other two fellows with him.

  “Me and my wife put him back here, to get him away from his sister, well, half-sister; they got different daddies. Was tearing the heads off her dolls; mistreating Bentley, Brenda’s pet rabbit. We suspect he’s touched. His mother’s done time for rolling johns and passing bad checks.”

  “Paper hanger. Sounds like my kind of woman.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Ortiz, you don’t want to know her. Bernice is my flesh and blood and we love her, but you wouldn’t want to get mixed up with her. Talk about trouble. Wilburn’s no better. Takes after her obviously.”

  The World War II veteran released a series of farts that no one seemed to notice, or at least chose to ignore; what was taking place was no laughing matter. Wilburn was a nuisance, as always.

  CHAPTER 428

  Finger Lickin’ Flinger remained on the ground, wincing and carrying on. “I warned you about that finger business, Wilburn. I warned you, son, didn’t I?”

  “You did.”

  “You gonna stop it? Gonna quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t, somebody, one day, sure as hell, will shoot your stupid ass dead.”

  “I will stop it, Gramps.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Your promises don’t ever amount to much.”

  “I swear, Gramps.”

  “Now, I want you to apologize to these gentlemen.”

  He did.

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “Let me up.”

  “Not until you say it like you mean it.”

  The response Lloyd got this time was one he dreaded would happen: Wilburn’s eyes began their weird “dancing” number. It was a clear sign that his grandson was about to have a seizure. Genuine or not, was another question.

  “You remember to take your stuff?”

  The look Wilburn Claude Flinger gave him told him he didn’t.

  “What if you have a fit? You’re not having a fit, are you? What if you have a fit?”

  “Long as it ain’t a shit fit. I ain’t worried.”

  “You should be. Wise-ass.”

  Lloyd bent down. Turned Wilburn on his side in case he should start vomiting. The old man looked at Ace and his pal. “He’s epileptic. There’s only so much that can be done.”

  “Probably uses his epilepsy to mess with people.”

  “I don’t doubt it, Mr. Ortiz. Still don’t give me the right to cross the line. There’s limits. He’s family.”

  “With family like that, who needs Charlie Manson?”

  Wilburn got the shakes. Verged on severe. His eyes rolled back in his head. He was gasping this time, practically frothing. Lloyd hurried into Wilburn’s makeshift domicile. Returned with the leather satchel and a cup of water. He got the medication inside his grandson’s mouth. Held the cup of water so that Wilburn was able to sip at it. After a while, the effort paid off, in that it had a calming effect on Finger Lickin’.

  Ortiz had a question for the old gent. “How do you know he ain’t fakin’, Mr. Dicker?”

  “No way to tell half the time. Always had a chip on his shoulder. Blames Bernice, his wayward mama, for not having them extra pinkies amputated when he was born. What it is.”

  “Huh?”

  Lloyd Dicker looked down at his grandson. “Isn’t that right, W.C.? Am I telling the truth?”

  He got zippo for an answer. Wilburn wanted to sit up. Lloyd helped him out. Eventually his grandson made it all the way to his feet, and he was back to being his stubborn self and refusing to give up the binoculars.

  Felix Monk concluded they were wasting time.

  “Be a homie, Wilburn; be a bro. Give them up.”

  Wilburn’s reaction was to lick his fingers. Left the grandfather clearly repulsed.

  “What’re you doing that for? Lookit how dirty your fingers are, and you’re licking them. Go wash them first if you’re going to do that.”

  CHAPTER 429

  Drawn by the commotion, Lloyd’s wife Fontana joined the group in the backyard. Fontana Dicker was a woman of average height and weight, possibly Hispanic, who kept her white head of hair dyed a shade of auburn, bordering on henna. Asked her husband what was going on.

  “Had another one of his famous fake fits. You missed it.”

  “How do you know it was fake, Lloyd?”

  “Better question to ask would be how do we know it wasn’t?”

  She shook her head. Always something to do with her grandson. The world just would not let him be. Lloyd was about at the end of his rope, it seemed. He glared at Wilburn Claude.

  “I never give you them field glasses to keep. They’re mine. Only let you use them. All you do is peek under the girls’ dresses when they’re jumping rope.”

  “Lloyd—”

  “Well, it’s true, honey.”

  “He’s your grandson. Your daughter Bernice’s kid.”

  “These gents here would like to use the binoculars for a while, not long, just a short while—and he won’t give them up. I damn near twisted that middle finger of his off, and he refuses to give up what ain’t even his.”

  “Where are the binoculars?”

  “He’s got them hidden away. Knew the fellows wanted to use them and he stashed them away someplace. Won’t give them up.”

  “Talk to him like a human being and he might. He deserves respect, just like everyone else.”

  “Respect? Wearing them clothes and that hair? Respect? Only plumbers and homosexuals wear their pants so low that their butt crack shows.”

  “Lloyd—”

  “Well, he ain’t studying to be a plumber, is he? Is he trying to get in the plumbers’ union? Not the last time I checked. What’s he gonna do when a sex-crazed queer sees his butt cheeks and assaults him? Who’s he gonna come crying to? Who do you think?”

  “I can’t listen to anymore of this.”

  Wilburn didn’t seem to give a damn what was
being said about him. He reached inside the satchel for a raw egg. Poked a hole in it with a fingernail and began sucking on it.

  “Respect?” Lloyd pointed at his grandson. “Look at the way he’s sucking on that thing. How could anyone respect someone like that? It’s gross, is what it is.”

  “He’s been through a lot in his young life. He looks up to you. And he’s still your grandson.”

  “There’s times I wonder about that.” The expression on Lloyd’s face said exactly what he thought. Lloyd Dicker could not help it and verbalized. “It’s vulgar, is what it is. If he ain’t sucking them eggs, he’s sucking on one of them purple Popsicles or a pomegranate. Front of his shirt is always stained. Why don’t he ever act his age?”

  “It takes boys longer to mature.”

  “That ain’t good enough.” Lloyd’s frustration had reached its threshold. No longer able to take it, the old guy backhanded his grandson, crushing the egg against his face in the process.

  “Stop it, Lloyd. Would you please stop it. You’re making a scene. You know he can’t control himself.”

  “That makes two of us.” Fontana’s husband had both his hands around Wilburn’s throat, and pulled him to the ground.

  “Where’d you hide my night vision glasses? Tell me, you little maggot.”

  He took his right hand off Wilburn’s throat, while clamping the left tighter around it. The old vet was still powerful enough at his age to be able to do this.

  He rifled the satchel with the free hand, and what he scooped out left him momentarily speechless: hardcore video or two (fifty-, sixty- and seventy-year-old women engaged in intercourse with younger men), ass plugs and vibrators, French ticklers, lube, packs of Trojans, a massive dildo, and a unit that resembled a flashlight upon first glance, only to discover to his shock and dismay, the end that normally contained the beam, instead was a rubber vagina. The old man clicked a button on the side, and the vagina end began to hum and vibrate.

  CHAPTER 430

  He tossed it away in sheer disgust. Had his right hand rejoin the other, and squeezed the teen’s throat for all he was worth. Wilburn gave up the location of the binoculars soon enough.

  Lloyd gave a nod to Ace Ortiz to go fetch them inside the garage-turned residence. Wilburn Claude was sobbing like a child at this point. Lloyd released his grip. Rose. Helped his grandson up.

  “Sorry.” Lloyd was genuinely apologetic. “Guess I lost it.” Turned to Wilburn. “Sorry, son. You know we love you. . . . It’s just sometimes . . .”

  Ortiz emerged with the binoculars.

  “Hate to say it, Mr. Dicker, but this here Wilburn could be the perfect candidate to join up with a religious cult one of these days.”

  “Or start one.”

  “Acts like the type, don’t he, Felix?”

  “What are you implying, Mr. Ortiz? That his bucket’s got a hole in it? That he ain’t right in the head?”

  Ortiz considered it for a bit, and kept the thought to himself.

  “Think we don’t know that? You gotta love your own; gotta love your kin.” Mr. Dicker wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Like I was telling you fellows: his mama’s been away. Either out of town or doing time. For one thing or another. She’s one of them groupies. Sleeps around. Runs with a bad crowd. Doesn’t give a damn about her own kids.”

  “Me and Felix, we wouldn’t know nothing about that, Mr. Dicker.”

  “Fontana and me . . . well, we got no choice but to put up with him for the time being, him and the girl. Girl ain’t no trouble at all. He’s a handful. Says all the people Manson and them killed had it coming; people Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy, the Green River Killer killed . . . Says they had it coming, otherwise they wouldn’t be dead. I don’t understand it. Sends Manson all his money, money he earns mowing lawns, painting fences; what he takes in on Halloween and Christmas.”

  “Manson’s a punk. They’re all a bunch of punks, Mr. Dicker. Take my word for it. Sissies. No cajones. Stay in isolation. Afraid to mix with the general population. The way it was in SQ, and other joints I been in.”

  CHAPTER 431

  They climbed the ladder to the roof, and could hear Old Man Dicker down there in the backyard confronting his grandson about other things that he didn’t like about him. Seeing the swastika earring dangling there in front of his eyes truly disturbed the senior citizen.

  “You got any idea what that represents? People, innocent people, millions of them, gassed; their dental work pried out of their jaws, hair shaved and used for pillow stuffing; their belongings, clothes on their backs confiscated, and then the people were put in ovens. Young, old, men, women. Kids younger than you—gassed. And then shoved into ovens; cremated. That’s what the Nazis did. That’s what the ‘swastika’ is about. I was there when we liberated one of the concentration camps, you brain-dead little jerk. And you got nerve to walk around with Manson on your T-shirt. Got nerve to walk around with that swastika. Piss on Manson, and piss on the swastika. You got any idea what the Jewish people, and others, gypsies and Yugoslavs, had done to them; what those who survived suffered through? The lives that were destroyed, the pain that was caused?”

  “Charlie wasn’t there and he had nothing to do with it. Why blame him? My generation can’t relate to any of that shit you like to go on about. Charlie ain’t Hitler; he’s more like Jesus. Charlie has a good heart. He was led astray; things were done to him. He’s a genius. Makes the best music; original. They don’t get it; most people don’t. The mainstream refuses to accept him because he’s above them.”

  “You’re paying rent from now on, like I told you before.”

  “Rent?”

  “And utilities.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? Mrs. Smuk says you broke into her place while she was out and took a dump in her kitchen sink.”

  “I don’t know a Mrs. Schmuck.”

  “I didn’t say ‘Mrs. Schmuck.’ I said Mrs. Smut, er, Smuk. Edna Smuk.”

  Wilburn Claude Flinger was grinning.

  “She didn’t give you any candy last Halloween and you did it in her kitchen sink as payback. And you buried her pet cat Johnny Diablo in the backyard up to his neck.”

  “She said that? And she’s positive it was me?”

  “Lucky for you the cat is fine, otherwise I’d turn you in myself. Had a hell of a time talking her out of calling the North Hollywood PD.”

  “Woman is senile. Old people get like that.”

  “What are you doing trick-or-treating at your age anyway? Can’t you see what you’re doing is wrong, son? Aren’t you ashamed?”

  “Ain’t no law against it.”

  “There is a law against breaking and entering, and being cruel to animals, killing them.”

  “I ain’t killed no animal.”

  “You left a dead squirrel with its neck in a noose hanging from her back door.”

  Wilburn was on the verge of chuckling. “A squirrel? Who cares about a squirrel? Besides, it was already dead when I found it.”

  “Rent, plus utilities. Her neighbor saw you leave the premises.” Lloyd walked off, grumbling to himself. “Flop-eared, two-bit runt.”

  CHAPTER 432

  Fontana Dicker re-emerged from her kitchen door that was situated in back of the house. And she held an egg in her hand. Handed it to Wilburn. Wilburn wiped his tears. Poked a hole in the shell with a key, and began sucking the contents.

  Mr. Dicker turned his head back, crossed himself, and entered his home through the same kitchen door. “That’s exactly why that boy will never grow up.”

  “It don’t hurt nothing to be nice to that child every now and then.” Mrs. Dicker followed in her husband’s footsteps. “He can’t help being the way he is.”

  “We both know he fakes it most of the time.”

  “Why would he? You know that isn’t true.”

  “That’s how he gets away with everything he does: mistreatment of people, all the abuse he puts everyone through. Just like Be
rnice. I know I’m right there. How could any woman be so dumb as to let a carnival barker knock her up—”

  “They were going to get married, Lloyd; they were engaged.”

  “That engagement ring probably come out of a Cracker Jack box. Doubt he paid five dollars for it.”

  “She was in love. She believed him.”

  “She’s a know-it-all, always was. A carnival barker—”

  “That isn’t true. He was a trapeze artist: the Flying Flingers. They were world-famous.”

  “Flying Flingers. That’s a good one. Because he fled all right—from his responsibilities.”

  “God knows I love Bernice, so help me, but none of her boyfriends stayed around very long. She wasn’t easy to take.”

  “Still isn’t. And this little runt of hers isn’t any better. There’s no hope.”

  “Lloyd, you can’t. You shouldn’t.”

  “I’m at the end of my rope. I’ll tell you. His seizures are fake. I couldn’t say if they ever were real. Does it for attention. Craves attention. He’s neurotic that way.”

  Ace Ortiz and the two guys with him could hear the distinct sound of a beer can being cracked open and Ace was wishing he was down there in that kitchen getting himself one. Beer, whiskey, bottle of rotgut, hit of smack, snort of toot, uppers/downers, cat tranquilizer, anything would have suited him. As soon as they were done up here, he thought, he’d have to figure out a way to bum a can of beer from the old man.

  Meanwhile, they had to put up with some more grumbling from the former civil servant about the stench that came, had to, from Biggs’s place.

  “Smells like dead bodies. Smells like death.”

  CHAPTER 433

  To Rudy’s difficult-to-conceal annoyance and increasing frustration, Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk were pulling on beers that they had managed to talk the old man out of.