by Kirk Alex
“Don’t you understand? If you see somebody looks like Parfrey the Pig, that don’t mean it’s Cecil. See somebody, one of them psycho motherfuckers looks like a clown, that don’t mean it’s Biggs, either. Shaved his head, that much I know for sure. To look like any of ’em. He took all his hair off that ugly head that looks like a large, Double-A size egg. Better yet: ostrich egg is more like it. Ostrich. Got that dent in the forehead shaped like it. Claimed his step daddy kicked his mama in the belly when she was pregnant with Cecil. What he said. He told me this himself. And continued to beat and kick him in the head after he was born. All through his childhood. Smacked him with beer bottles and shoes. Played Russian Roulette with the motherfucker. Would stick the barrel of a piece in his mouth and pull the trigger. What he claimed. What he said. Telling you what to look for. The dent in his head. Clown mask or pig face. He’ll get away. Please don’t let him get away. He’ll get away.”
“No, he won’t.”
“But he will. He’s smart. He’s so clever. Oh, he’s clever. He wears a bulletproof vest and won’t be easy to kill.” Pearleen did what she could to get the information out. “Shoot him in the head; you have to shoot him in the head.” Her beseechings neared hysteria. “Make sure he’s dead. He drinks blood like a vampire. He beat us. We were raped and beaten. He’s a serial rapist. He beat us . . . he beat us. . . . Please shoot him in the head. It’s got to be in the head. Make sure the clown is dead.”
She spun about frantically, her eyes searching for something, someone. Where was her friend Patience?
“Patience, honey? Patience?” Nowhere to be seen. Was that her up there with that group? Had she gone up the stairs ahead of her? She couldn’t recall now, or was she with the people behind her who were trying to help out?
“Please get a doctor for her. Please? It’s pneumonia. I think she has pneumonia. My friend Patience McDaniel; she needs antibiotics; she needs a doctor. Please get her a doctor. Please.”
CHAPTER 593
Up there, in the first floor hallway, walking toward the front door, Mrs. Duarte remained a wreck, as was her daughter Yolanda, whose pain and agony were compounded by the fact her fiancé Fred Yale had been found dead.
Having reached the top of the basement stairs and landing, Pearleen’s group made it through the open basement door and stepped down the hallway toward the front themselves.
Pearleen Bell could not turn off the tears, could not stop the images from replaying inside her head, images of what had been done to Lana and Stella and Dione, what had been done to Marty Roscoe and his wife Petunia—and the others: the way Olivia Duarte and Rudy Perez had been mutilated, the things Cecil Biggs and Marvin had made them do, the degradation . . . those little dogs that she had been forced to club down. . . . The blood, so much blood; buckets and rivers of blood and death everywhere. . . .
She began to convulse. Police and ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance. Headed here? Felt that way. Until the sounds faded and hope with it. Cecil and a couple of the other members of his inner circle had yet to be found.
Mrs. Duarte, Yolanda, and Pearleen Bell were escorted outside where the air was better, outside, away from the stench and dead bodies, the carnage. Already, a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk; the gun shots and mayhem, the pounding and screaming had drawn them out of their homes.
Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd Dicker and their granddaughter Brenda were among the onlookers doing what they could to help out by providing lemonade. Lloyd’s wife Fontana, being steadier on her feet than her husband, who walked with the aid of that cane, held the pitcher in her hands, while Brenda carried the sleeve of Styrofoam cups, ready and eager to offer lemonade to anyone who so desired it.
CHAPTER 594
The backyard had its own share of lookie-loos and bystanders, one of whom was Lloyd Dicker’s other grandkid: Wilburn Flinger.
A moment ago, Flinger, sucking on one of his eggs and forever lugging that US Mail satchel with him, practically having given up on getting his hands on that hen, had instead gone inside Biggs’s car garage—and when he stepped back out shortly after with a Popsicle in his fist and was pointing it at the garage door.
“They got beeves hanging from the rafters in there.”
One of the locals, a big-nosed woman named Jackie Schratak, her three-year-old screeching daughter with her (who kept on crying about something and would not stop) entered the garage.
Soon after Jackie Schratak was heard screaming at the top of her lungs; both were: mother and daughter. The woman, bent over and vomiting, staggered out with her kid.
“Told you they had beeves hanging in there. From the rafters.”
Another curious bystander, a male in his forties this time, brave enough to take a look for himself, stepped in. Wasn’t long before he was back out, pale and about to get sick. Wacky Wilburn Flinger did not have enough sense to let the man be, and got in his face with another dumb inquiry that made the man want to punch his face in.
“Them’s beeves, ain’t they?”
The man spit at the ground, and walked away
Jackie Schratak continued to puke her guts out. Wilburn had finished his Popsicle and was reaching inside his satchel for another raw egg. Poked a hole in it with a key and held the egg out to the woman.
The woman wiped her mouth with a handkerchief, glared at him for the idiot that he was, held the glare, then backhanded the hand that held the egg that crushed it against Wilburn’s already stained T-shirt with pomegranate and blueberry juice from all the Popsicles he’d been sucking all along.
“You ain’t got to be rude, just ’cause you don’t like eggs.”
“Get away from me.”
“How about a blueberry Popsicle?”
“How about if I punch the shit out of you for being such a punk?” The woman grabbed her kid’s hand, and walked off in a hurry to inform someone what she had just witnessed in Cecil Biggs’s garage.
CHAPTER 595
Carlos, Mr. Duarte, and his other brother Santos, along with Monroe Perez and two of Carlos’s friends, made their way up to the second floor. Searched the rooms and closets. Did not find any trace of Cecil Biggs in any of them. They searched the Prayer Hall, bathroom, other rooms—without luck.
They were back out in the hallway. The obvious next step would have been to get up in the attic, only the attic trap door was beyond their reach. Ceiling was too high. Where was the pole with the hook on the end? Had to be around someplace. They searched the closet for it. Could not locate it. There was no choice but to have two or three of them hold a third guy up while he reached for the door in the ceiling and pulled the ladder down.
This is what was done. Carlos was the one they held up while he grabbed at the handle in the trap door and yanked on it, bringing the foldaway ladder down. Carlos volunteered to be the first one to go up, only his father would not permit it. Just as Santos was offering to go up instead, Monroe was already scaling the ladder and had beaten him to it.
He paused halfway up to make damn sure his handgun had bullets in it, before making it the rest of the way. Reached the attic floor. Peered in. Large cardboard boxes full of magazines and books, stacks of old newspapers and pornographic publications, kitchen appliances, tvs, VCRs, portable radios, turntables, stereos, blenders. Piles of shoes, old and new, sneakers, boots, dress shoes, mounds of filthy bed sheets and curtains (that reeked of cat urine, or something of this nature), clothing (men’s as well as women’s), mirrors on casters, old mattresses, blankets (Salvation Army, as well as from different motels and hotels), towels (filched from one place or another, no doubt).
Monroe moved up higher; pulled himself up in order to see better, only to get whacked from behind, with exactly what he couldn’t tell, but it was heavy and made of steel, perhaps the size of a dinner plate, perhaps the base of a floor lamp and the steel rod connected to it—and it did send him flying back down, landing on top of Carlos and the others.
Pain left him temporarily disorientated and was a bitch
to shake. In spite of it, when someone else offered to make it up there and take his place, Monroe Perez would not allow it. He was vehement on that score. Insisted on going back up himself. Needed to be the first one, absolutely had to be the one to do it, woozy or not. Was no sooner on the ladder, when books and footwear rained down on them from the attic trap door, all types of books, paperbacks and hardcovers, and the footwear, most of which was women’s with deadly stiletto heels that hurt considerably when you got hit by one. Lawrence “Sassy” Sassounian, left side of his face heavily bandaged, while the rest of it was bruised and swollen to the extent that it made him appear nothing short of freakish, grotesque, was the source behind this particular assault.
The freak was firing all those books and shoes, an endless supply of both, and laughing hysterically, and hurling those volumes and pumps at them. His attitude being: if they wanted him, they’d have to come and get him—and needed to pay a little price first. How this world was put together. You wanted something? You had to unfold your billfold first.
If Sassounian had himself convinced that the women’s shoes and books would keep them at bay, away from him, he was wrong—because they were far more determined than he thought.
Fine. Only the next thing he hurled down at them was no mere pump or volume of For Whom the Bell Tolls, but a VCR.
Metal frame. Granted, not all that weighty, but dropped from this vantage point could do enough damage and make them take pause.
Sassy sent it to them with enough force behind it so that a corner plowed into the top of Carlos Duarte’s head and split it open, killing him instantly. The next thing Sassounian flung down was a stereo, that missed, followed by a speaker that caught Mr. Duarte across the right knee and left him sprawled in agony.
A blender was thrown down at Monroe Perez. Smashed across his right hand, the hard plastic breaking and cutting his knuckles open, causing him to drop his gun.
Then nothing. No shoes, speakers, stereos or VCRs. Monroe recovered his weapon, and climbed up. You ignored pain when you had to.
CHAPTER 596
Reaching the attic, he heard a blood-curdling screech. Looked up in the direction, and could see Sassounian standing in the middle of the floor with his dress torn down the center, from collar to bottom hem; the freakish-looking guy was standing on quaking, trembling legs in a rapidly increasing puddle of his own blood, blood that swirled in torrents from his groin region.
Monroe was clearly witness to it, but found it impossible to believe or accept: Sassounian had castrated himself and was holding his severed genitals in his open palms, his pain-ravaged eyes conveying an admixture of terror as well as relief, perhaps even a sense of having accomplished his goal of getting back at the forces above, the hate-filled demons above (as well as all of those around him) for having put him through a life of frustration and agony.
Suppressing a strong urge to vomit, Monroe Perez remained standing there in one spot in stunned disbelief. He whispered something hardly audible. Did it again. Raised his gun, both hands clamped around the butt to steady his aim, and fired a shot. Missed. Fired again. Hit this time. Sassounian reeled back against a pile of old clothes, a chair loaded down with sex toys, porn mags, and paperbacks, rolled onto the floor, landing on his back, still alive and emitting undecipherable sounds (for the most part) between agonizing screeches and cries for help and respite.
Monroe walked over to the dying man on the floor: the female scalp he’d had on a moment ago having slid off, revealing horrific scabs and scars; took in the ears that had either been partially or entirely severed, the stubs for fingers—that increased the sickness in his belly. He stood in place. Averted his eyes. Had to, had to. And fired two more shots into his chest.
Lawrence Sassounian, aka “Laura” aka “Sassy,” summoned nothing more than a gasp this time as he expired.
Monroe Perez crossed himself.
“Over here!” There were shouts coming from the rear of the house. “He’s coming down the back way!”
“Backyard! Over here!”
CHAPTER 597
Monroe hurried past the body at his feet. Walked toward the open dormer in the back to see Biggs climbing down the fire escape with a gun in his hand. Biggs fired a warning shot at the ground below, and the mob scattered, all except Wilburn Flinger, that is. Had that US Mail satchel hanging diagonally from his shoulder, his skateboard up as a shield, grinning that foolish grin as he did. And if the skateboard didn’t protect him, Charlie Manson would. He had that T-shirt on, didn’t he? The one with Charlie’s mug, stained with egg yolk, Popsicle, and pomegranate juice.
It was fairly dark back here. Lights were still out. Monroe Perez considered responding with a bullet of his own. Pointed the muzzle at the figure scrambling down the fire escape to reach ground. He held back. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Fear of hitting that pesky Wilburn, or worse: an innocent bystander.
He turned his head back.
“He’s outside!”
Hoped he’d yelled it loud enough for Mr. Duarte and the others to hear. Just as he did, someone else shouted something from the backyard. Sounded like Wilburn Flinger.
“He’s trying to get in the basement! Cocksucker’s trying to get in through a basement window!”
Roe saw Wilburn throwing eggs in the direction, that side of the house, the Crust side. Another shot was fired that came from the backyard. He saw Wilburn Flinger move off to that side of the house and lost him. Monroe Perez ran to a window on the driveway side. Problem was there was an iron crossbar and it was locked in place—over the shutters. Christ, why weren’t there enough people with some balls to grab Biggs?
CHAPTER 598
Cecil O. Biggs, feeling like the hunted animal that he was, fumbled with the keys in his hand. He was crouched at the window over the basement john, going through the keys. That other window, the one that the mob had pried the bars off of and were able to get in that way, was too close to the front for him to attempt to break into the basement through. Sure, all he’d have to do is kick the panel in, wouldn’t be easy, but he’d be able to do it—if only he could get to the window itself without being spotted. It was too risky. He knew it. Chanced getting sighted by the lookie-loos in the street; risked getting ganged up on, mobbed by the morons, the same way they had ganged up on “El Matador” in East LA a few years back and pounded the living crap out of him while holding him for the rollers.
He searched for the key. Not enough light to find the one he needed to unlock the wrought iron frame. He’d attempted to yank it off. Nothing doing. Meshed bars were too solid. Would have needed a tire iron, hunk of pipe. That was how Roscoe had been able to pry the bars off on the other side of the house.
He turned his head. Heard Wilburn Flinger taunt him from back there. “Happiness is submission to Charlie.”
Would he have to shoot him? Love to. Only bullets were priceless at the moment and reloading ate up precious time.
“You don’t like Charlie? Charlie don’t like you neither, buddy! Hear, cocksucker?”
The teen started pelting him with eggs. Hit him about the back of the neck, side of the face. Blinding him in one eye. Biggs wiped away. Dropped the keys in the process. Cursed cursed. Motherfucking retarded kid. Should have killed him ages ago. Should have killed him that time he caught him snooping around the garage and the kid had accused him of having “beeves” on the property. Could have turned him into one of the “beeves” and hung him by the ankles, right from the rafters in the garage, dressed out like roadkill.
Too late now. No time. If he got away, he’d like to pay him back for all the suffering he’d put him through, for all the trouble.
Biggs drew the S&W .38. Fired a round. Bullet deflected off the kid’s skateboard. He ducked back down, but not for long. As nutty as they come. Mental case. Found more eggs and Popsicles, even a pomegranate to fling at him. The pomegranate hit him on the forehead and sent him reeling against the wrought iron bars.
“Get the co
cksucker! Biggs! He’s over here! Get him! Told you there was beeves in his garage! How did I know? A little birdie named Charlie told me. Charlie said: look in the man’s garage. He’s probably got beeves hanging from the rafters!”
Biggs was back at it, the pain excruciating. Made it close to impossible to move, but move he did. Had to. Survival depended on it. Found the key. Inserted it into the lock. Had the frame unlocked. Swung it open. Yet another obstacle faced him: planks nailed over the pane, the pane itself, then additional planks on the other side. Not to mention the pelting of the raw eggs that the kid didn’t seem to be running out of. Biggs spun in his direction. Fired off another round. This time shooting the pesky kid’s pinky off on the right hand. Kid dropped the board, howling. Bent over, and howling.
“It hurts, don’t it?”
Biggs grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the window. Holstered the gun, gripped the back of Flinger’s collar and rammed his head repeatedly against the planks until they gave. Flinger pleaded to be spared, crying like a punk. Biggs kicked the glass away, then continued to ram the kid’s head into the other boards. Got rid of those. Held the muzzle against the back of the punk’s neck. That’s when Wilburn Flinger decided it was time for another seizure. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body began to quake, shake. All it did was bring a grin to Biggs’s face, in spite of everything else that was going on.