by Kirk Alex
She hurried out. Stood on the sidewalk, uncertain what to do next. Crossed the street, to the house to the right of the Dicker residence. A young Guatemalan girl answered the door. Fay asked to use the phone. “It’s urgent, honey. Please.”
“We do not have a telephone.”
“You don’t have a phone? How could you not have a phone in this day and age?”
“No money to pay. Phone company cut us off a month ago.”
Fay Crust thanked the girl. Was back on the sidewalk, running her fingers through her hair. Perspiration was another battle, among everything else she was having to cope with. What was she going to do now? Drive Harold’s car? Without a driver’s license? Never did learn how to drive. Should have, should have; she should have. It was too late for that. A waste of time. What then? Keep going from house to house until her husband bled to death? I ain’t saying Harold is shot. Can’t even be thinking like that. . . . But, but . . .
Harold never should have gone in there. Told him not to. Why did we have to listen to Monroe Perez and his crazy notions?
CHAPTER 543
She returned to her place. Gripped the Good Book, and said a silent prayer for her husband, in case something had gone wrong, or was about to, because she’d had no idea at all what was taking place inside the Roscoe house. She said prayers for Mr. Roscoe and his wife Petunia; she prayed for Monroe’s brother Rudy and his girlfriend Olivia; she even prayed for that smack addict Ace Ortiz and his sidekick Felix. Fay Crust prayed to her Lord Jesus Christ to help and forgive all these people, as she held the Bible close to her bosom.
Please let them fix the phone. Please, Lord. We got to have the telephone back on. I need to telephone somebody and I have a need to do it now. Now, Lord. Not hours from now or the next day. Could be too late by then. Make the telephone work. Make it work.
She sat in a chair in the living room and watched the candle burn out in the dish that she’d had sitting on the coffee table before her. There may have been another candle in a kitchen drawer or bedroom dresser, somewhere, someplace, but she did not want to go look for it, too scared to stand up, too scared to move around in the house.
She clung to her Bible and thought to say a prayer for Bishop Biggs even and Deacon Moron—er, forgive me Lord, meant to say Deacon Marvin, but you knew that—and all them poor souls who made up the bishop’s staff and worked in his church with him; she prayed for Mr. Norbert Fimple, and the others: prayed for Sassy so he wouldn’t eat what was left of his fingers, and she prayed to the Man Upstairs for Fay Crust. She prayed for forgiveness and peace of mind. Only there was no peace of any kind to be had at this moment, not when Harold was not heard from, when she had no idea what was going on in Marty and Petunia Roscoe’s house that she had left him in.
She hadn’t liked being this terrified and wondered if the Lord might ease the stress and tension, lighten the burden and lift the load some.
Just when things seemed to settle down, just when Mrs. Crust was able to calm herself with prayer and go about deciding what to do next, what her next step would be, where to go and what to do, the telephone rang and it rang louder than it had ever rung before, causing her to absolutely jump in her seat and nearly scream out.
Someone’s got to be playing games, she thought at first, by disconnecting and then connecting the phone line back up again. Somebody’s got to be doing it. Playing. Why? Why do they got to be doing something low like that at a time like this? Why do it? Then thought: No. It’s your prayers. That’s the Lord’s way of answering your prayers. Your phone is working now so you can call and get Harold what he needs. Dial the number. Get the rollers over here. You have to get Harold some help. Could be he tripped on his own two feet and his pacemaker ain’t right. Could be his heart again. Fell down, is what it is. Caused his gun to go off. Only she was just too nervous and stiff with fear to return to that house by herself. It would require somebody strong enough to lift him. She couldn’t do it by herself. She remained seated.
CHAPTER 544
Get up and dial, Fay. You have to. Call. Make the call. Every inch of her seemed to be frozen with fear. It took some doing to rise slowly from the chair, feel her way around in the darkness, and reach the phone on the coffee table that sat no more than twenty feet from her. In front of the sofa on her right. Short distance. Twenty feet. It may as well have been twenty miles.
She held the receiver to her ear. As before, the dial tone was gone. They’re doing it again. Up to their cruel pranks.
Delonzo made sounds. Muted yowls. In the back somewhere? In the closet? Got himself stuck in the closet? She called to him. Delonzo’s latest responses made him sound like he was in a burlap sack or something—and wanted out.
“Delonzo? Come to Mama, darling.”
Delonzo didn’t show. Wasn’t able. For whatever reason. Instead, a pair of strong, clearly male hands, gripped her by the throat from behind and squeezed and squeezed hard, then suddenly pulled her down to the floor with tremendous force, so that when she landed it knocked what wind remained out of her and left her nearly unconscious. It took her a moment to regain her equilibrium, sense of self and surroundings.
“Holy Roller’s got discipline coming.”
Fay Crust screamed and she flailed. Kicked out, throwing fists and elbows. No one was going to assault her in her own home and do ungodly things to her, no one—not if she could help it.
Fay invoked the Lord’s name. Called her husband with everything that she had. Where was Harold when you needed him? Where was the tough little rooster when you needed him? Cock of the walk; where was he? Had that gun with him, in other people’s house when he should be here helping his own wife. Where was that man?
“Harold, help me! Harold, honey; I’m being raped here! They gonna rape me, Harold! Where are you?” Mrs. Crust shrieked and raged and screamed. Even did some unsavory cursing. Had to. Forgive me, Lord. Now ain’t the time to be polite and demure, although I ain’t never been demure or quite know what it means. Forgive my language, Lord. I’m fighting for my life. Fighting for my dignity and survival.
Fay managed to wrench the powerful hands off of her with the effort, and as this happened, a hard, steel rod smashed her across the mouth and she knew she was spitting her damaged dentures out.
Delonzo continued to shriek and emit those hackle-raising, horrifying sounds that made it seem like he was definitely being held captive in a sack of some kind back there somewhere and was feverishly battling to free himself. Fay couldn’t do much about that. Couldn’t even help herself. These motherfuckin’ rapists was determined to molest her and take her life for sure. That’s what it was. Home invaders sent by the Devil himself to turn her life upside down. And they was doin’ it.
The one who spoke the words a minute ago and had him eyes what glowed like red hot coals and a bulge in his crotch was hard to miss, had sounded like Mr. Biggs himself. Couldn’t be sure. Had sounded like him. Smelled like him, too. There was no denying she felt the presence of another motherfucker nearby. Probably that wannabe pimp Marvin; the one using foul language in front of people he don’t even know.
That second pair of hands she sensed was in the room was on her soon enough, jamming her bloody mouth with a rag that reeked of chloroform. She fought her assailants, resisted, screaming and kicking, twisting her head from side to side, not wanting anything to do with the rag or the awful stench it carried with it.
The hands that belonged to the home invader who held the rag stepped back, and then a second whack with the steel rod came down across her face (delivered by the initial assailant in evil clown makeup) and practically knocked her out. She was force-fed a second helping of the chloroform and finished off. Fay Crust was under.
CHAPTER 545
“Took you long enough.”
“Old ho knocked the douchebag out of my hand, Cecil. You seen it. ’Sides, never did like messin’ wiff chloroform. Shit damn near put me out.”
“Dishrag.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a dishrag.”
“What I said, ain’t it?”
Biggs ignored him. Shined his Maglite on the unconscious Fay Crust lying before them. He stood there for a minute, breathing heavily, while rubbing the erection inside his trousers. It was hard to believe: but the ugly old heifer had given him a boner.
“Go find a blanket, bedspread, something like that. Think you can manage?”
Marvin looked at the asshole rubbing his groin. It was bad enough, but the mofo’s eyes was so red and full of blood they glowed like Christmas lights. Shit was creepy.
“The fuck you waiting for?”
“Should see yo eyes.”
Biggs stared at him. Muck walked to the bedroom in back. Yanked the quilt off the bed, and hurried out to the living room. The quilt was spread out on the floor and the woman rolled onto it.
Biggs took his hand off his crotch long enough to grab a corner at his end. Reminded Muck to do the same where he was at. Only when they attempted to wrap the woman in it by rolling her, the deacon’s bum hand gave him trouble and the effort was awkward at best. Got accomplished somehow.
The woman’s upper body was at Cecil’s end. He gripped the quilt and lifted. Waited impatiently for Marvin to do his share where he was at.
Marvin was not having an easy go of it. Proceeded to grab at the woman’s feet. There was no way to prevent the clumsiness. One of the feet easily slipped from his grasp, and soon enough the other shoe hit the floor.
“What the fuck. Pull your weight. What good are you?”
“I be pullin’ weight. Fac’ is, my hand ain’t heal’ right. Could be it never be the same.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“You don’t want to hear it? You the cause, but you don’t want to hear it?”
Biggs glared at him.
“I did what I did so I wouldn’t have to listen to your negative bullshit. Apparently, you didn’t learn anything.”
“I learned, me.”
“Get your hands under her feet. Lock your arms together. Do it.”
“I be doin’ it.”
Marvin was annoyed enough himself by now. He tried again, wincing, as they staggered out the back door with their cargo.
CHAPTER 546
Fay Crust was carried to the Fun Room to be reunited with her hubby Harold. Both had been placed inside homemade, crudely constructed plywood coffins: Harold’s on top of his wife’s, that sat atop the butcher’s block-cum-workbench.
Inside his coffin, the heretofore knocked unconscious shoeshine man was being awakened by the most incredible racket, much louder and overwhelming than he’d ever experienced before. But as he regained consciousness and became more aware of the actual origin of the deafening roar, it dawned on him that it was more than likely caused by a jackhammer.
Jesus Christ. What am I doing in this box? Am I dead? Did I die and come back? Paranoia as well as claustrophobia began to set in. His heart was racing. His ticker. Wasn’t good for it. He’d been more acutely aware of that part of his body since the surgery than anything else. That’s your ticker. Got to be aware of your ticker, man. Got to respect your ticker, especially when your ticker had been all right, before they opened it up—and then had to stick that pacemaker in you later on—the ticker had been just fine, he suspected; had every reason to believe. Now he was on edge. Every little disruption in his life put him there. He was in this, what felt like a coffin, oblong box made of wood and had no idea why. It was pitch black in here, damn near, and he could hear his heart pounding, actually hear it and feel it pounding, in spite of what was taking place outside the coffin. His heart beat so rapidly and with such power that each beat sent shockwaves throughout his body, his mind in particular; the inside of his head echoed with each heartbeat, his mind reverberated with each thud, and each heartbeat did, in fact, sound like a heavy thud. The jackhammer kept going, but he could still hear and feel his heart pounding. “God, what’s going on? What’s happening to me?” One minute I’m walking into Marty and Petunia’s place, and the next thing I know I’m being attacked from behind by someone, beaten with a metal rod and knocked unconscious.
He struggled to move his body, his legs, maybe his arms. Only there was nowhere to go. Hardly enough room to cross his arms.
What in hell? His neck and head ached. There was a tremendous amount of pain in his upper back region, the back of his neck, shoulder blades, and the lower part of his skull.
Kicked his ass good, whoever it was. Done a job of it—but what is going on now? What do they want with me? Why put me in a box? If they was in Roscoe and Petunia’s to rob them, what do they want with me? I shine kicks to earn my living. What do they need with me stuck this way in this thing? It don’t make no kind of sense, Harold thought. Did his very best to lower his heart rate. Calm down. Cool it. Man, I’m trying. Ain’t easy. I think the pacemaker gonna quit on me, just give up. Never know. Could hardly move his arm up to where his chest scar was in order to run his fingertips over it, like he was used to.
I’m getting too excited, too rattled. That’s what it is: rattled. Can’t let it happen. You’re too old to let them rattle you. Somebody’s always doing that to somebody. World didn’t used to be this way. World’s gone mad. That’s what it’s come to. They’re trying to break you.
The doc said not to strain, not to fret. Live a normal life; a normal life, is what they said. Yeah; except I’m in a jam here that ain’t even normal. Don’t come close.
His heart was going crazy, in spite of his efforts to calm down. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face and neck. His shorts were damp. Harold was able to turn his head to his right, and then in the other direction—for what good that did. This was basically it. The jackhammer noise grew in volume, and it sounded like it would shatter his eardrums. It was too much noise. What was the need for it? His pacemaker would quit on him. Not only was the racket caused by the jackhammer incredible, but now there was something else that added to it, and it made no sense, or did it? Disco. Loud fuckin’ disco, that he never liked. His kind of music had always been blues and jazz. People who liked jazz was always calmer; people who appreciated jazz was cooler and calmer than the others, all of them who went for rock-and-roll and disco. But fuck all that!
If it was disco, that meant only one thing: Biggs was behind it. Had to be. Couldn’t tell, had no real proof—but who else was into this kind of shit music in the neighborhood, other than Cecil O. Biggs? Christ. Made no sense.
Harold thought of his wife. Wondered if Fay had been able to get help? Wondered about her own safety, and had no idea that his wife was directly beneath him in her own coffin, same type of custom-made coffin—designed and constructed by the bishop, with a certain amount of assistance from that sometime bronc-buster/wannabe Hollywood stuntman from Texas, Leo “Big T” Nix himself.
CHAPTER 547
There was no denying it, a cat mewled close by, relatively close by, that sounded like Delonzo. Difficult to tell due to everything that was going on.
Fay Crust was coming to, dealing with her own perception of what was taking place. Was it Delonzo?
“Here, honey? Is that you, darling? Delonzo?” The cat said nothing else, or if it made further sounds was easily drowned out by the insane disco and general pandemonium.
What was she doing in this crate, all boxed up like a care package?
“Bishop Biggs?”
Got to be Bishop behind it. Recalled having been called a “Holy Roller” by him while he assaulted her in her own home. Dressed up like one of them killer clowns out for blood. Both of them was: Biggs and his sidekick Marvin. “Holy Roller got discipline coming,” is what the preacher said, before they knocked her out and then stuck her in here. Playin’ that awful music, too. Got to be their neighbor Cecil Biggs. But why?
She wished she could have covered up her ears. Attempted it, and could not move her arms that way, not enough room. She kept trying, though, until, at last she accomplished it. And then the probability of it hit
her all at once: this was no mere box. She was in a type of coffin, a coffin. It was a coffin. What was it they was doing? Was she being buried alive? Was she going to be? Had air to breathe—still. So far.
Panic, fear, desperation intensified. There was no controlling these emotions. She didn’t want to die, wasn’t ready for it—unless it was the Lord’s way. That was different, still. . . .
Dear Sweet Jesus. What was she doing here? She wasn’t dead. What in heaven’s name was going on? She found herself gasping. For air? Not certain—as there did not seem to be enough of it. Couldn’t be in the ground, yet. Wouldn’t be able to hear the music, and the rest of it.
Her cat, she could hear Delonzo: made sounds, only they was by no means harmless sounds that cats normally was known for.
“Come to Mama, Delonzo. Is that you, sweetie?” Was the cat trapped in the coffin with her? Probably afraid. Who could blame him? Where was he?
“Where are you, Delonzo? Delonzo?”
She moved her bare right foot at the other end down there and felt Delonzo’s warm and fluffy body against it. Cat made another sound. At least he sounded all right. At least he was alive, thought Fay Crust.
CHAPTER 548
Brother Trusty had Pearleen reach inside the cabinet for a folding chair and place it near the butcher’s block. Had her hold it steady while he climbed up on the butcher’s block, and then on top of the coffins. Of course, he was forced to lean his head forward a good degree, to avoid banging it against the ceiling at this height.