Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “Rent money? What about the Burbank duplex and the BMW?”

  “Burbank duplex? You never owned a duplex in Burbank; you never owned a BMW.”

  “If I did you would have gone after it. I know your kind. You and your shyster lawyers, in fact, did everything you could to get your hands on Trusty Lusty’s Bordello of Fear and failed. You failed. And it eats you up. You can’t live with it.”

  “I am not behind the lawsuits, Cecil. I never wanted the Bordello of Fear. I never liked the haunted house. That type of business. It is not something I can relate to.”

  “Proves how dishonest you are. You can’t even admit that you’re behind the lawsuits.”

  “The lawyers advised me to take this place, the cars. I said no. I don’t want to do that to him.”

  “I was used and lied to, and dumped like a sack of refuse. Well, I’m not refuse; I was never refuse. I have worth—and a purpose in this world, a clear-cut purpose.”

  He stuffed what panties and hosiery he could in the duffel. He turned in the direction he had come from, so that he was bent over and dragging the duffel with him. Somewhere at about the halfway mark, he paused long enough to detach a key from one of the key rings. Without turning, he tossed the key back in the direction of the cell, only the key did not quite reach the cell gate and ended up under the bottom drawer that had been left pulled out about two thirds of the way (with the front end resting against the cement floor.)

  Tillie Marie’s tears flowed. She could not believe he would do this, allow her and the child to perish in this manner. She pleaded with him to come back and unlock the cell gate, to let them out to safety. Biggs did not bother to so much as turn his head.

  He moved on. Reached the main tunnel, donned his gas mask, and ducked into it.

  CHAPTER 628

  Monroe Perez could hear Cecil urge his cohort not to give up. The half shadowed figures were leaning against the left wall of the tunnel and he was able to make out the bogus bishop yank the gas mask off, cursing its lack of effectiveness. He pointed at the chicken that ran past them and down the tunnel and reminded the big man not to give up, no matter what.

  “Broken nose can’t stop someone like you, Norbert. There’s your proof. Missing a few toes? So what? You’re invincible. Stays in Siberia toughened you up. You can thank me later. Chicken con-carne’s waiting. See where it went? Let’s get it, Norbert. Nice meal for you in there. Beats dog biscuits and Pop-Tarts.”

  Perez took aim. Dust and ash in his eyes made it difficult to focus; crud in his mouth and throat made it equally difficult to breath. Tending to both was a must. When next he looked up, readjusted his aim, further pause was required: he was presently seeing double, two pigs, instead of one. Biggs had slipped that hideous hog mask back over his head during the split second it had taken Perez to rub his eyes and spit the ash out. No matter. He couldn’t let it get in the way. Refused to, in spite of the surmounting challenges—and he had his share. Not only did the smoke continue to be a serious hindrance, but the way Biggs had it worked out, and Roe hoped it was Biggs, the other, heavier man was going to provide him with cover from behind. Perez could have fired anyway, put the one Biggs kept calling “Norbert” out of commission, then shot at the head hog. Only he found it difficult to bring himself to do it, just as he was not able to shoot at the nutty woman. These people were mentally ill and had no real idea what was going on. Head hog was the one he wanted. With preferably zero “collateral damage.”

  And then it happened: The unexpected. Just as Monroe was about to squeeze the trigger with a round, seeing, from moment-to-moment, at times the left part of Biggs’s wild boar face and shoulder, then the other side, right, shoulder and mask, but he was clever enough to keep his back protected—that’s when he switched with the other man: maneuvered him to move in front of him—except the big man hadn’t cared for this and spun around so that the bishop was the one in front of him. Perez wondered what was going on? Neither seemed interested in taking the lead, walking point. How come?

  When he thought he had his chance, Monroe fired. Instead of hitting Biggs, the bullet entered the other man’s belly. For some reason it had sounded like it had struck metal, ricocheted back out, which was puzzling enough, and ripped through Cecil’s right ear—and Perez was only able to deduce as much because he saw Cecil grab at that side of his face and grunt.

  The heavier of the two men slipped on something on the floor: mud, rat, or mound of worms, and down he went, losing his cleaver to a crack in the planks—and while this was happening with him, Cecil was faltering himself. To help him along, Perez fired once more, hitting him in the back somewhere. Only then did he recall Pearleen pointing out that Biggs wore a bulletproof vest.

  It was too late for another good, clear shot, because it appeared that Biggs had stepped in a type of animal trap at his feet and continued to drop like a felled tree—not able to do anything about it. When his face landed, it did so on a second trap like the first, that clamped onto his hog face, jawline, and part of the neck below it.

  Biggs’s resulting wail through the mask was loud enough to shake the dungeon.

  The demented woman had gone in there soon enough afterwards and this also prevented Monroe from firing another shot. Instead, he strained to determine where those cries, made by a child, had come from a moment ago.

  CHAPTER 629

  Lloyd was in the living room. Going through the coffee table drawer in search of fresh batteries. He had the flashlight lens housing off, the existing batteries out.

  “We got any decent batteries left around here, Brenda honey?”

  Brenda was at the sideboard. Rifled through the drawer. Found two D-size batteries. Brought them to him.

  “Thank you, honey.”

  Lloyd inserted the new batteries. Screwed the lens housing in. Clicked the flashlight on. Results were just as disappointing as ever: the irritating flicker. Flashlight was defective. Lloyd released a deep sigh.

  “This is not good. Every household should have at least one good flashlight—in case of emergency, especially in Southern California. Earthquake country. Flashlights, plenty of batteries, supply of fresh water, first-aid kit, food rations. A generator. I realize it’s up to me. Kept putting it off.”

  He clicked the flashlight off, just as his wife and Wilburn emerged from the back. Kid’s cuts had been bandaged, hair slicked back. He had on a pair of his gray chinos. Lloyd didn’t mind him wearing his trousers; it was the way he had them slung so low that bothered him. Pants were baggy to begin with, the way they were meant to be—but why so damn low, especially in the crotch area? Kept the torn and sorry Manson T-shirt on. No surprise there. His wife asked what he thought.

  “He looks like a pimp.”

  “I give up.”

  Fontana stepped into the kitchen to gather up the rubbing alcohol, medication, towels. “You couldn’t stand the other style, now he looks like a ‘pimp.’”

  “Should take that ugly T-shirt off. Throw it in the trash. Burn it.”

  “He’s attached to it. Let the kids have their childhood.”

  “You did fine, Tana. It’s that mustache he’s straining to grow. Makes him look like a Pacoima pimp.”

  “In front of your granddaughter. This kind of talk. Nice going, Lloyd.”

  “What’s he doing growing a mustache at his age? I couldn’t grow whiskers until I was in my mid-twenties.”

  “A pimp? After what he’s lived through? My grandson does not resemble a pimp in any shape or form. He does remind me of a miniature Tyrone Power. I must admit. A much handsomer version.”

  “Thanks, Grandma.”

  “Tyrone Power? With that sky-high hair full of cement? Ty Power was handsome. Matinee idol.”

  “Berating only does harm. Praise and support is the way, dear.”

  “I got yelled at plenty when I was his age. Didn’t hurt me any.”

  She left to return the items to the bathroom. Lloyd head-gestured in Wilburn’s direction that they make
a quick getaway, and both stepped outside.

  “You replace them batteries?”

  “Did no good, though.”

  “Grandma won’t like you going back there to that man’s place.”

  “People can use our help, Brenda honey.”

  Lloyd noticed his grandson yank up on his loose trousers, only he didn’t yank them up high enough.

  “Pull them trousers up, will you? Before you give some sissy a heart attack.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Pull them up before you trip on them. The way they hang in the crotch makes it look like you’re carrying a bowel movement that got away from you.”

  Wilburn stopped. “Now that you mention it.”

  “What?”

  “I have to shit.”

  “Being vulgar is a way of life with you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my fault I have to use the john?”

  “Don’t stand there. Go on, then, do your business. Hurry it up.” The old man was shaking his head. Cursed under his breath.

  CHAPTER 630

  Biggs howled and he raged; he gasped and he struggled, but it did him no good. The metal teeth of the traps dug into flesh and bone: left ankle at bottom, his neck and Parfrey pig mask at the other end.

  The bishop twisted around like a wounded troll, causing the iron fangs to dig in deeper, intensifying the agony. His dire and desperate efforts to pry the claws loose from his face with his hands got him nowhere. The bullet that had taken a portion of his ear off added to the overall excruciating situation. Fimple’s fault. For more than one reason. For having all that metal in his belly to start with. What had caused the bullet to bounce off and take half his ear off. Had been unwilling to play along by refusing to take the lead. Backstabbed him like Muck and Tillie; like Charlotte and J.J. What did you expect? They were all the same. Whether “sane” or “insane.”

  “Help me, Fimple. Get this thing off my face. Norbert.”

  Norbert was up. On his knees, then his feet. Cecil was not a priority. Hog mask on his own face was. Tugged on it, as before. And, as before, all it resulted in was major discomfort that he had no use for and abandoned the effort once more—for the time being. Made it past the other, preoccupied, pig man before him. Didn’t faze Norbert that a nut or two, a bolt, slipped right out one of the two bullet holes in his belly that the single slug had caused. A teaspoon dropped out the other perforation.

  He lumbered after Patience and the chicken. Each step he took sounded something like a sack of silverware being lifted and subsequently lowered from one place to another—and back again—which did nothing to help allay the chicken’s apprehension.

  The woman zigzagged from side to side, ran from one end of the tunnel to the other, in her attempt to get her hands on the chicken in order to save its life. She was practically in tears. Only wanted to help it, not hurt it. Chicken did not know this. Fear was a bitch.

  Smoke had begun to creep inside the tunnel. Mr. Fimple and Patience found themselves coughing. Tears streamed down their faces. Mr. Fimple was in tears because he wanted nothing more than to kill and suck the hen’s blood, and the sole reason the woman was after the hen was to spare it. This had finally brought Patience somewhat out of her shell. Yes, she was still with fever, burning up, but pushed on, forced herself to: one of God’s living, two-legged scared and defenseless little creatures with feathers needed protection and she was determined to provide it.

  Mr. Fimple thought to dig up the cleaver from between the boards in the floor and the mud. Looked about in the dark and thickening smoke. The stench was way strong: lime, rotting flesh, rat droppings, and whatnot.

  It hadn’t entirely escaped Patience that Cecil Biggs, the bishop, was in trouble and could have used some assistance himself. Anyway, she hoped it was the bishop. With that pig mask he had on she couldn’t be sure. Bishop was thin, underfed looking. The other one, chicken murdering, morally corrupt beast of a male human had to be none other than Norbert Fimple. She wished that she could help Bishop Biggs, he’d always been kind enough to her, but knew that she was unable to do both: get her hands on the hen and go to his aid.

  At one point she turned to where Biggs lay on the tunnel floor and attempted to pry the bear trap off his face—and could do nothing. Then she noticed Mr. Fimple taking swings at the chicken, and missing; fortunately he was missing. She returned to the front end of the tunnel, the garage end, in order to help the hen.

  Mr. Fimple shoved the woman out of the way. He did not necessarily want to hurt or kill Patience, but simply wanted her to get lost. She was in the way; she was between him and his next meal: the cluck-cluck.

  CHAPTER 631

  Monroe Perez had braved the smoke and stench, gone in through the entrance to the tunnel, reached the fork, looked up, as blood and some entrails drizzled down. He was squinting, looking hard and could see Biggs and Fimple inside the tunnel, at least he hoped it was Biggs and Fimple; he was also able to make out, if barely, the nutty woman chasing after that damned chicken.

  The hen clucked away. Above these various sounds, Biggs moaning and the other big man groaning and grunting, the sound of a woman and a baby crying could clearly be heard—and it came from somewhere on his right.

  He listened, then responded.

  The woman cried to be saved, that she and her baby needed help; they were choking on the smoke, and so was Monroe.

  He stepped in the direction and banged his forehead against the low ceiling, and a dead woman’s arm swung down and a cold, open palm smacked him across one side of his face with enough force that it knocked him considerably off balance.

  Chills ran up his spine. Blood dripped down; it dripped on down from above. He wiped, rose to his knees, in time for the other palm to swing down from up there and smack him across the other side of his jaw.

  Would the sick shit ever end in this fucked-up place? Would it ever stop? His answer came in the form of the rest of the body itself: when it crashed through the boards above his head and landed on him, hard, knocking him back down. It wasn’t until he managed to shove the body off and away, did he realize that it had no head; the head was missing, as were the nipples; the heavy breasts had no nipples, and the genitalia, along with the colon, had been eviscerated, carved out.

  The attack of goose bumps this time was not only tremendous, but practically incapacitating.

  He shook the chills off, disregarded the cramps in his belly. Had to. Postponed the impulse to retch. Vile, bitter-tasting fluids were about to wind their way up. He did the only thing he could think to do: clamped his left hand about his own throat, below the Adam’s apple, and suppressed the progression physically.

  Held it, held it. Forced it all back down. You’re not vomiting. You are not getting sick again. Not now, not here. You’re not. He expectorated what had made it past the self-administered chokehold, and moved in the direction of the woman’s despairing cries.

  CHAPTER 632

  He shoved furniture and human limbs out of the way; table lamps and end tables; women’s shoes and clothing; purses of various sizes and makes that either belonged to an endless parade of victims or else were stolen property or both, radios and vinyl records and turntables, toaster ovens and waffle grills; rusty, old chainsaws and toolboxes. After about three yards or more of this, he was able to stand straight, as the ceiling was high enough at this point. Paused here. The cell gate with the iron bars was a few feet in front of him. There was what looked like a Filipino woman, his age, huddled in a corner on the right, behind a mini refrigerator, and she held a baby wrapped protectively in a blue blanket against her bosom. The infant was crying. The former Mrs. Biggs looked up at him, and rose nervously. Unsteady on her feet.

  “I’m here to help.”

  She pointed to the battered dresser on his right and the bottom drawer that had been left half pulled out and was overflowing with female undergarments.

  “Under the drawer. There is a key to this lock. He left a key. I can’t reach it. I
tried; I tried so hard—but I can’t reach.”

  Monroe yanked the drawer out of the way. Shined his flashlight around down there among the blood stains and viscera. Used an undergarment to pick the key up with. Wiped it, and inserted it into the lock in the gate. Only it would not turn. He was able to insert the key, but not make it click over. He tried repeatedly. It was clear enough that the key was not going to do the trick. The woman wept, hugging her child. Smoke grew thicker, heavier. It was evident enough to Monroe that the three of them would be consumed by fire if something was not done in time. Then, too, thoughts of that crazy woman who was off inside the main tunnel chasing after the chicken were on his mind.

  He wanted to save them: women and child. If possible, himself as well, although he did not give a damn about that end of it. So many members of his family were gone. . . . What did it matter if he lived or didn’t live?

  Frustrated for a solution, all he could do was clench his jaw. Wiped his forehead and eyes. Crud was back. In his eyes. Air was thick with crud.

  “I will get you and your baby out of here. I promise.”

  Although she did not speak, the expression on her face said: How? How will you do it?

  “The key is with Cecil.”

  He noticed the mini fridge inside the cell, against the right wall; the window was on the opposite side. It was boarded up, and it looked like there was a solid panel propped above it, waiting for a release mechanism to cause it to drop down over it and seal it shut—should the window be tampered with in any way.

  “Can you move that refrigerator over to below the window? Can you push it to the window side?”

  “I can try.”

  “Move it over. Get the cot out of the way, and push the refrigerator over so that it’s under the window. Climb up, if you can. We’re going to get you out through that window. It’s the only way.”