by Kirk Alex
“Ace?”
Managed to get it out. Too low to be heard. Released the clip. Nothing in it. Nothing.
CHAPTER 459
Dropped the gun and clip, utterly disappointed. Did what he could to rise to his elbows. Made it. And now his knees. Elbows and knees. Doubted he was able. . . . Doubted he possessed the strength. . . . Swayed from side to side, but managed somehow. Managed. Elbows and knees. Now to crawl out to where Ace was. Ace had the gun with the bullets. Ace had bullets. . . .
Miss Betty emerged from the darkness. She was being pushed and guided by Mildred Elizabeth. The older woman barked commands so that they remained in direct line of her objective—and that objective happened to be the enemy—who was presently wounded, although hardly fatally.
Miss Betty lined up the cleaver that she held before her, sighting in on the intruder, the filthy sinner who needed to be punished and sent back to that part of hell that spawned him and his kind.
“Now, daughter.”
They moved in swiftly, directly, at great speed, right on up to where Felix struggled to remain on all fours. And Betty Lou Rutterschmidt whacked away at his back with all the ferocity that she was able to muster.
“Infidels and fornicators! Fornicators and infidels!” Again and again, the cleaver swung down. Across his back and buttocks, shoulders and neck. “Infidels and fornicators! Fornicators and infidels!”
Mildred Elizabeth was ecstatic at what transpired before her.
“GOOD, MOTHER; GOOD, MOTHER; GOOD, MOTHER—GOOD!”
Neither of the women said anything further after that. Felix Monk lay in a bloody heap before mother and daughter. Greta, having entered the john, never bothered to so much as turn her head to see what had gone down.
Mother and daughter withdrew back into the darkness, from whence they came.
A pair of strong male hands gripped one of Felix’s feet, another pair of male hands gripped the other foot—and he was dragged out of sight.
CHAPTER 460
The door to the Geek Room opened, and Ace Ortiz stuck his head out. Goodfellow remained in his bunk. “It’s not the cartoon, bird turd, it’s what’s behind it. I’m lying here imagining what a real moose is packing down there, you know?—a real moose cock.”
“Why don’t you shut your fag mouth long enough for me to find out what’s going on out there.”
Ace took a couple of steps. Shined his penlight on Greta, who was hiking up her negligee without closing the john door. She was pissing standing up. Figures. Another one tryin’ to be something she wasn’t.
“Thought I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
Greta refused to respond. Continued to do her business. She had flipped her mask back and that face, that disfigured face was tough to look at. Ace decided she was not worth bothering with. Just like the bald-headed dude in the diapers, and all the rest of them. Lunatics. Deranged motherfuckers.
He shined his light at the stairs, the last place he saw Felix sitting. Not there. He was not there. Called out his name. Got no answer. Did he skip out on him? Chicken-shit. Yella belly. Always was. Wants his share, but don’t want to work for it. As usual. Called his name again.
“Speak up, pendejo. Felix?” Instead what he got was some more of that elderly woman complaining about her biological clock.
“Lookee-here, how about if you shut that tired old twat, grandma? All you old cunts know how to do is nag. I don’t want to hear it, unless you got some more of that dental gold stashed up your wrinkled snatch.”
He shined that penlight over the general area. Couldn’t quite make out what was going on.
“What’s up, pendejo?”
What was happening? He had heard the old bitch shrieking, his buddy made some noise, the vomiting, but the tv and that Bullwinkle cartoon were so loud, and that motherfucker in his diaper making noise while he got himself off, that he couldn’t make it out. And now the bitches were hiding out. The one in the leather boots had decided the throne was better suited for sitting and lowered that grande culo on it quietly, acting like she wasn’t even there. Back in her own sick and twisted idea of what life was about.
The same old bag was belching about something again. “MY BIOLOGICAL CLOCK IS RUNNING OUT!”
“Sounds like it ran out a long time ago, old lady. So did most of your marbles.”
“And you’re responsible, you and your kind.”
Betty Rutterschmid remained hidden in the dark back there somewhere.
“Don’t know nothin’ about it. All I want is the cash, the stash, the goods. Get it? Gotta get my hands on some more of that gold. Clown knows what I’m talking about. All you freaks best get it—or get greased. I got enough ammo, Biggs. Found up there with your stash in potter’s field: guns, ammo; you name it. Fake teeth, too—what ain’t got no gold choppers. Got no use for those. Like I said: Got enough ammo, grave robbing fuck. It don’t matter to me if you assholes are sick. I’ll grease every one of you. My name ain’t Rudy Perez and I don’t give a shit about nothin’ else.”
CHAPTER 461
Upstairs, in the kitchen, Rudy Perez was surrounded.
“You say you want to help? You tell lie. Ja ja. Make uncomfortable situation truly terrible.”
“I don’t want no trouble. Please.”
“Trouble? Trouble? ‘I don’t want no trouble.’ What that dirty Nicaraguan dog I busted in on in that No-Tell Motel room that night said to me. Had his chorizo halfway up my beautiful wife’s behind. Didn’t want no trouble, he said. I thought that was a mite peculiar. For some dang reason I didn’t laugh. Ain’t laughin’ now neither, sir.”
“We didn’t come here to start nothin’.” Rudy did what he could to make them understand. Only it fell on deaf ears. Big Tex couldn’t shake the images in his mind, images that had taken place years before, many years before—and forever seared into his brain.
“My beautiful wife never give me no back door action, and yet there she was given up her hind end to a lowlife home-wrecker that way. Just like that, sir. Serial fornicator is what he was. Had his member in my sweet wife’s rectum, sayin’ to me, just like you are doin’ now: I don’t want no trouble, Leo. Honest.”
“What does that have to do with me and my girlfriend? I just want to take her home.”
“Home? We had none after that. When I asked her why, know what my darlin’ spouse said to me? It was a way for her to stay faithful to our marriage—by giving up her posterior, instead of the other.”
“I understand, sir. I do. I think I do. . . . She broke your heart. . . .”
“You said it right there. Broke my heart—and some broke hearts don’t never mend, my friend. Never. They don’t never mend. Broke-hearted fools like me don’t never get better, ’specially when I seen her lettin’ a serial fornicator put his longhorn in her shitter that a way. Destroyed me, is what it done. You’re lookin’ at a broke bronc-buster, sir.”
“I never would have guessed.” Rudy had not been able to help himself. Then quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just frustrating to be standing here like this when . . .”
“What when?” Ionesco was the one doing the asking.
“When your homeboys could use help down there.” Big Tex had the suggestion. “Could be they’s in trouble. I suppose they didn’t want no trouble, neither, but there it is: could be they got some.”
Ionesco, the “Pinko Punisher,” swooped in quickly enough to pick up the bottleneck off the floor and catch Rudy off guard. Stuck it in Rudy’s thighs a couple of times.
“Ja ja. Kurva.”
Followed up with a swipe across his waist, cutting him. The former cabbie and “butler to the stars” attempted to do the same to his face, but Rudy managed to duck back in time and scramble out of there.
He was in the hallway trying the front door. Got nowhere. He fared no better with the locked door to the second floor. The back exit (just as Ace and Felix found out before him) was not going to be budged. There was no recourse but the available basem
ent entrance. At least Ace and Felix both had guns, even though Rudy Perez was against seeing anyone get shot, no matter what the geeks had done to him. Went against his nature to feel anything resembling vengeance toward these mental cripples. That’s what they were: crippled in the head. You couldn’t hurt someone who was off mentally—unless your life was in serious danger and you had no choice.
Rudy stood at the top of the basement stairs and could hear some old woman down there shouting something about her biological clock and Ace Ortiz, Meth Mouth, yelling back at her to knock it off, to shut her yap.
“Don’t shoot them.”
Rudy found himself leaning against the wall, right hand on the rail for support. He needed to do something about his wounds. The wounds. How close to his privates were the cuts? Had to see. Needed to find out. Undid his belt. Dropped his pants part of the way.
Thighs were bleeding, so was his waist. Shirt was sticky and clung to his stomach. At least his privates were in good shape. Untouched. That’s what mattered. The rest of the cuts could be taken care of. All they had to do was get out of here.
CHAPTER 462
He pulled his pants back up. Fastened his belt.
“You can’t shoot them; Felix, Ace. They’re retarded. Hear me? Don’t realize what they’re doing.”
“Shut up, cabron!” Ortiz did not waste time snapping back at him from below. “Had enough of your bullshit. You and your bitch both. Get me?” Waited for a response. Wanted Rudy to utter something that would piss him off even more. “You heard what I said, Perez? Had it up to here with you and your chocha!” All he heard, all he got was a grunt, and had no way of knowing that the jagged edge of a bottleneck had been plunged in the back of Rudy Perez’s neck that instant by an over-zealous Rumanian that sent Perez tumbling down the stairs.
By the time he hit bottom, he had sustained a fractured collar bone and a dislocated right shoulder. The bottleneck had broken off and left him with a neck embedded with shards. The combined pain of it all, coming at him from so many places, had caused his eyes to tear and he found himself drifting in and out of consciousness.
He had little choice but to attempt to reach back there with his good arm. Did what he could to search around for a shard. Needed to get his fingers on it. Reached a sizable one. Withdrew and relieved himself of it.
Felt around with the tips of his fingers for another. At about the time he had his fingers on it and was about to pry it out, he was kicked in the face and knocked thoroughly unconscious by someone wearing hobnailed Wehrmacht jackboots with heel irons.
At the other end, where his feet were, a pair of male hands gripped a foot, another pair of male hands grabbed the other—and he was dragged away in this fashion, his head bouncing against the cement floor of the basement: up and over the door that covered the pit.
CHAPTER 463
Ace cursed to himself.
“What now? Fuck is going on?”
He couldn’t see well enough. He had walked to his right, past the Furnace Room, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, steel wall, then steel door that was part of what? Walk-in cooler? Didn’t know. In front of it was what looked like a play area with metal patio furniture with a checkerboard and coloring books on the round table. More books and bookshelves against the wall in back, probably the Roscoe side. A weak, red night-light, that hardly did any good, had been plugged into a socket in the wall among the books.
He walked past the Fun Room door; his eyes having caught sight of something through the small meshed glass window in the door, and he backpedaled to it. Shone his penlight in. Had to stand on his toes and could hardly make out the nude form of a listless Pearleen Bell hanging from a dowel. Her ankles were parted and tied to a wooden dowel and the dowel itself hung from a chain on a steel hook in the ceiling.
Down there, at the other end; had to look harder, her wrists were either cuffed or tied behind her back.
There she was: hanging upside down in her birthday suit. Looking non-too-pretty, either. Not doing good.
Where was the chump to see this? Where was Felix? A-hole had a hard-on for the broad. Well, there she is. Got no clothes on. Big tits hanging down. Snapper and big bunny ass in full view. Where was Felix to check this out?
“Felix?”
Somebody in a wheelchair made a sound, or was it his partner groaning? Like somebody coming back to. Half the time it sounded like the Perez punk, other times it sounded like homie Felix. Couldn’t tell who it was or what was going on.
“Fucking casa de putas. Buncha mentals.”
He had second thoughts about being here. Who the hell was making all the noise? What was going on?
“Perez, that you?” Ortiz spun away from the door. In the direction of the sounds. “Say something, Monk. Jive-ass punk.” Cleared his throat. “We want the cash, rings, jewelry. What we here for. Shit we can hock, fence. Good stones, gems, gold. Silverware even. Like that good shit in the graveyard. You can keep the pocket watches—if they’re anything like the cheap-ass pocket watch we found out there. Where is it? Anybody who can afford two primo hoopties and a cargo van like you got s’gotta have some serious bank stashed some place. Come on out, Biggs. Get out here, maricon.” He may as well have been talking to himself, for all the good it did him. “What chu waitin’ for? Day of Judgement is here. For you, Biggs. This is it. We know about your Vegas connection, Preach. Know all about it. Got your number.”
The groin itch was back. There was no way to ignore it. He cursed. Spitting hard.
“What’s the matter, Biggs? Devil shoved another cookie in your throat? That it, Reverend Do-Right? Or could it be the devil slipped something else in there? That why you can’t talk, Biggs? Occupied, Biggs? Devil got his chubby in your culo.”
So much for baiting the landlord to show his face or even make a sound. Ortiz could not make out, had no idea what was going on with either Felix Monk or Rudy Perez elsewhere in the basement.
CHAPTER 464
“Felix, you around? You with me? Or you turned yella and split? Boned out, after all, didn’t you, pussy?” Ace kept calling out. “Left me all by myself in this bughouse.” He walked over, ever-so-cautious about it. Came across a pool of blood. Fuck. Looked like some kind of big time slaughter had taken place right where he stood. It was freaky enough. Christ. He crossed himself. Looked up. Maybe a couple of yards away; two or three or four yards away. Somebody standing there, behind the stairs, facing him.
Shined his flashlight on the figure. Felix. It was Felix. Looked to be in bad shape. Clinging to the stairwell for support. At least he was alive. Hell, yeah. Only he wasn’t saying anything. His eyes didn’t seem to be blinking. Hard to tell. Kept the light on him. His eyes blinked. There was blood coming out of his mouth. Down his chin it went. His tongue hanging out, too. His eyes half-open. Only half open.
“Felix? Homeboy?”
His homie wasn’t talking. Ace held the .38 out, ready to fire, as he moved toward what he presumed was his partner.
“Hombre? Talk to me, hombre. Where’s Rudy? What happened? My inner monkey tells me the chupacabras tried some shit. . . .”
It was then he noticed that the gun he had given Felix earlier was in his hand and it was moving; Felix was aiming the gun in his direction. . . .
“What is it, man? This ain’t the time to be playin’.”
Felix pulled the trigger once, twice. Sans the resulting bang. Of course.
“I get your point. Ain’t got to rub it in. Only give it to you for show, man. Didn’t think you’d need caps. Swear it. At least you ain’t got iced.” Ace reached inside his pants pocket and came up with a fistful of bullets. “Here. Got enough ammo to take down Crips and Bloods, both. No shit.”
Felix continued to click the empty weapon, as if in warning. Wanted to speak. His lips moved—but not a word came out.
“Better take them. Ain’t dum-dums. Beats nothing. Want them? Say something, bitch.”
The only response Ortiz got was a gun blast and Felix’s face exploding (a ho
llow-nosed slug, no doubt, the kind Ace wished he’d had access to a second ago, having been fired from the back of his friend’s skull), that sprayed Ortiz’s own features with brains and crimson, blinding him in the good eye. Ortiz reeled back with the impact, tripped on something, went down, banging his head hard against the door over the pit that knocked the fake eye out and sent it rolling as far as the nearest hole, dropped through, and plunked into the water below.
He fired a series of wild shots that accomplished nothing. Wiped the crud from his good eye; wiped away. Fought to regain his equilibrium. Sat up. Enough crud and blood remained in his eye to obscure his vision.
As a last-ditch effort, he went for the ice pick taped to his calf. Yanked the duct tape off. Got his fingers around the hilt. A pair of strong hands clasped his wrist at about this time and bent the arm back, toward his head, forcing the sharp tip of the ice pick to eventually penetrate his good eye. . . . Once, twice. It was withdrawn. Then back down it went, puncturing it enough times so that the yelping, screaming Ortiz would no longer be able to see out of it—but not so deep that it would kill him.
Someone else, in black leather jackboots with hobnailed soles, moved up from behind and delivered two vicious kicks to his forehead and knocked him senseless. His wrists were handcuffed, the ankles shackled, and Ortiz was carried inside the Fun Room by Trusty and his crew.
CHAPTER 465
The junkie was placed on the table saw, with his legs on either side of the ten-inch circular saw blade. His shoes and socks were taken off and he was stripped down to his skivvies. Biggs, in his sinister Trusty Lusty clown makeup, rifled Ortiz’s pockets and wallet. Recovered fake IDs that Ortiz had lifted from his hiding place in Altadena; fake license, social security cards, some cartridges, a tooter, nugget of hash stashed inside a ball of tinfoil; handful of coins.