Ugly As Sin

by James Newman

  Nick said, “That, my friend, was too much information. And I’m not quite sure how I feel about it.”

  “I musta watched my old VHS copy a billion times back in high school. Berserker was the fuckin’ bomb, I don’t care what anybody says.”

  “It was a bomb, all right,” said Nick. “It was a pile of shit.”

  “I freakin’ loved it, man.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste.”

  At the crest of the hill, Nick rolled to a stop. His fingers drummed upon the steering wheel as he waited for a fleet of rumbling Harley Davidsons to pass so he could turn left.

  Leon reached down, turned on the stereo.

  “You was born to die,” Blind Willie McTell warned the men from the Bronco’s ancient speakers. It had always been one of his favorite songs, but Nick killed the music right away. For some reason, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck suddenly stood to attention.

  In his rearview mirror, he saw another vehicle ascending the exit ramp. Coming up fast behind the Bronco.

  The approaching car flashed its bluish headlights—from dim to bright, dim to bright—a dozen times or more.

  The vehicle veered to the left at the last second, swerving around the Bronco without stopping.

  “What the hell?” Nick and Leon said at the same time.

  It was a sleek black limousine. A Rolls-Royce Phantom Coupe, to be exact. Nick recognized the make and model because he had ridden in one on multiple occasions. A two-hundred-and-fifty-grand specimen from his ex-employer’s private collection had chauffeured him to quite a few GWA promo appearances back in the day. A lifetime ago.

  Nick laid down on the Bronco’s horn.

  The Rolls slid through the night without a sound. Its windows were tinted, but the rear one on Nick’s side slowly descended as the limo passed.

  Inside, Nick caught a glimpse of an ancient passenger: pale, wrinkled flesh...heavy-lidded, piss-yellow eyes...

  ...and paper-thin lips that peeled back to reveal wet gray dentures, as the senior citizen smiled at him.

  The limo hooked a hard right in front of the Bronco. A short, sharp squeal of tires, then the fancy car was gone.

  The night was silent save for the low stutter-rumble of the Bronco’s engine and the chirping of crickets in the tall weeds on either side of the highway.

  Nick found himself thinking of that old phrase the calm before the storm. He sensed that something bad was about to happen. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. As surely as he knew he had two arms, two legs, and a fucked-up face.

  “Dude,” said Leon. “What was that about?”

  Nick said nothing. He leaned forward, peering through his cracked windshield into the thick, black night. Steeling himself for whatever came next.

  “Did you know that geezer? ’Cause it sure looked like he knew you.”

  Bright lights suddenly blinded the two men. They came from another vehicle parked across the road. It sat thirty or forty feet away, in a gravel turnaround. Neither of them had noticed it until now.

  Too late, Nick realized what was happening. The limo had been trailing them, and its flashing lights were a signal from the first car to the second. A message: It’s them...do it...do it NOW!

  Nick didn’t wait around to see what “it” entailed.

  He stomped on the Bronco’s gas pedal. But the truck was like a hateful woman playing hard to get—she hesitated, shuddered, died.

  The other car shot forward. It slewed sideways, blocking the Bronco’s path. It was a late-model Mercedes sedan—black, or maybe dark blue.

  The passenger-side door opened, and a man stepped out.

  “Motherfucker,” Nick growled through bared teeth when he saw who it was.

  A short, stocky fellow with mutton-chop sideburns, wearing a dark suit with a western-style bolo tie. The man from the motel. The man from the drugstore. The man from the photo in his pocket.

  He hefted a doubled-barreled shotgun. He pointed it at the men in the Bronco.

  “Leon, get down!”

  The shotgun BOOMed.

  Nick ducked, felt the windshield crumple in on top of his head like a heavy blanket. Pieces of glass rained down on his neck and shoulders as if someone had thrown a handful of precious jewels into the Bronco’s cab.

  He fumbled for the keys in the ignition. Turned the switch.

  The engine made a sick grinding noise. Caught. Died.

  “Come on!” Nick yelled at it.

  He heard the man reload.

  And then another apocalyptic BOOM ripped apart the night.

  Shotgun pellets riddled Nick’s left shoulder. At the same time, a thick, hot wet splashed across his face. It smelled/felt/tasted as if someone had assaulted him with an old mop. A mop slung from a bucket full of slaughterhouse gore.

  Nick’s heart pounded in his chest so hard it hurt. A shrill ringing filled his ears.

  Beside him, Leon’s hands grasped at nothing, fists clenching and unclenching. His long, skinny legs kicked at the floorboard.

  Half of his head was gone.

  “No! Jesus, no...LEON!”

  The stench of violent death hung in the air: gunpowder, burned hair, blood, piss, and shit. Pieces of Leon’s skull slid down the passenger-side window, dripped from the Bronco’s ceiling.

  His corpse slumped against the dashboard and lay still.

  “Jesus!” Nick shouted again. “Fuck...FUCK!”

  He blinked his friend’s brains out of his eyes. Spat. He could taste Leon in his mouth.

  He heard the murderer speak to him then, beneath the ringing in his ears.

  “Got word you was lookin’ for me! You found me, you dog-ugly piece of shit.”

  Nick risked a peek through the hole where the Bronco’s windshield had been. Saw the man reaching inside his jacket for more shells.

  “Your buddy don’t look so good. Think he’s gonna make it?”

  Adrenaline surged through Nick’s veins like an illicit drug. He tried the engine again.

  The Bronco backfired once, then sputtered to life.

  “God damn you!” Nick roared, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal.

  The man in the suit looked up from loading his shotgun. He quickly closed the breech, pointed the gun at Nick, but his shot went wild, spraying the Bronco’s hood with buckshot.

  He screamed as he was pinned between the Bronco and the Mercedes.

  Nick stood on the gas pedal. Both vehicles’ tires whined against the pavement. The smell of burning rubber filled the air, stronger even than death-stink. The Mercedes rocked on its axels, slid sideways like injured prey falling beneath the weight of a ravenous predator.

  The gunman arched his back, twisted from side to side in agony. He pushed against the Bronco’s grille as if trying to shove the two-ton vehicle off of him. His fists beat at its hood. His screams echoed through the night.

  The Mercedes’ passenger-side window exploded. Gunshots pop-pop-popped as the driver fired at Nick with a small-caliber pistol. The muzzle flashes revealed a man with long blond hair. Lucky for Nick, he was a terrible shot. The Bronco’s radiator got the worst of it.

  The driver revved the engine twice, threw the Mercedes into gear. Its tires shrieked.

  A second later, the Mercedes was gone.

  With nothing blocking its path, momentum carried the Bronco forward. Its wheels bounced over the gunman’s body.

  For a second, Nick’s rage nearly got the best of him. He jerked the gearshift into reverse, preparing to run over the man again. But he feared if he started he might never stop—he would keep rolling over the fucker again and again, until he eventually ran out of gas or there was nothing left to roll over.

  The Bronco shuddered, then died for good. Smoke billowed up from its hood like the vehicle’s soul ascending into the heavens.

  Nick sat there for a long time, just staring into his side mirror at the crumpled shape lying in the road behind him. It barely resembled anything that had once been human. B
ut it was still alive. He could see it moving—slowly, and with great effort, but moving nonetheless—in the crimson glow of his brake-lights.

  He realized he was hyperventilating. He covered his face with both hands, tried to regain his composure.

  He looked to his right, past Leon’s still-leaking corpse in its seatbelt. The Mercedes had disappeared into the night as if it had never been there at all. Any effort to catch up with such a machine would be futile, Nick knew. The driver was probably already home by now, feet up, a glass of Dom Perignon in hand.

  Nick’s head rolled back, and out of him came a deep, tormented bellow. It grew louder, louder, did not stop until his voice grew hoarse and his throat was raw.

  “I’m sorry, Leon,” he said when that was done. “I’m sorry. They won’t get away with this...”

  He climbed out of the truck. Winced as his bum knee betrayed him. He caught himself, limped around to the rear of the Bronco.

  The hitman’s labored breaths sounded like someone sucking mud through a broken straw. He lay on his stomach. Everything below his waist was mangled, smeared across the road. One trembling hand groped for his shotgun a few feet away.

  Nick kicked the weapon out of reach.

  “Need...ambulance,” the hitman wheezed. “Dying...”

  “Yep,” said Nick.

  He had a million questions, but he knew he didn’t have much time.

  “Where is she? Where is Sophie Suttles?”

  One eye glared up at Nick. The other stared down at the pavement. The man’s thick sideburns were soaked with blood, like strips of maroon carpeting glued to each side of his face. His left ear had been torn off.

  Nick pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. “Tell me where to find the girl, I’ll have an ambulance here in ten.”

  The guy coughed blood—along with something solid, long and wormy—onto the ground at Nick’s feet.

  No way an ambulance would get here fast enough. A hearse would serve him better. Nick suspected the hitman knew it too.

  “It’s only a matter of time until I get her back. You might as well tell me what I want to know.”

  The man grimaced at Nick with a mouthful of bloodstained teeth.

  “Talk, damn you! Who is ‘Daddy’? Was he the old fuck in the limo?”

  A moan of pain.

  “Eddie Whiteside owed him money, didn’t he? Is that why you took Sophie?”

  “No...no. Daddy...loaned him the money. To pay the...nigger.”

  “Tell me who that was!”

  The man’s eyes closed, and his face went slack. For a few seconds, Nick thought he was gone. But then his eyes fluttered open. He took another rasping breath. Something clicked in his chest, a sound that made Nick think of playing cards in bicycle spokes.

  “Give me a name.” Nick punched 9-1-1 on his cell, but he didn’t complete the call yet.

  Another round of thick, wet coughs.

  “Eddie call...called him...Coko Puff. Like the...cereal...”

  “Once Eddie got his money to pay this person, ‘Daddy’ wanted Sophie in return? Is that right?”

  “That was...the deal.”

  “Why? What did he want with her?”

  “Daddy...likes kids. Always has. And she was...just his...type.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Nick hung his head, thought he might vomit on the guy.

  The man took one last ragged breath, and his face fell to the pavement.

  †

  As Nick watched the chaos around him, he felt like the fattest string on a bass guitar, pulled taut to its limit. Dark blood stained his shirt, and one side of his disfigured face was crusted with gore like warpaint applied by a lunatic. His heart was still racing nearly two hours after everything that had happened.

  Sheriff Mackey slipped his notepad back into his breast pocket and asked him, “How many more times are we gonna do this, Mr. Bullman?”

  “Do what?”

  “Seems people have a habit of dying around you. Violently.”

  “They started it.”

  The two men stood on the shoulder at the top of the exit ramp as the lights of emergency vehicles swirled around them. A female deputy directed traffic around the cordoned-off crime scene. In the middle of the barricade sat Nick’s battered Bronco. A police photographer leaned through its open driver-side door, snapping pictures. A ponytailed man in an OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER jacket stood nearby, chatting with the photographer as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Behind the Bronco lay the hitman’s body. It was covered with a thin gray sheet for now. Beneath the bright glow of arc-sodium lights set up along the perimeter, a tall black cop measured the distance between the dead man and his shotgun on the opposite side of the road.

  Nick quickly averted his gaze toward the interstate when two officers who barely looked old enough to vote transferred Leon’s headless corpse from the Bronco into a body bag. They almost dropped him. One cursed, “Fuck’s sake, Freddy, I thought you had his legs,” while Freddy looked ready to lose his supper.

  “Jesus Christ,” Nick hissed beneath his breath.

  “I am sorry about your friend,” said Sheriff Mackey.

  “I can’t believe they killed him. He never hurt a soul. He only wanted to help me. He only wanted to make me happy.”

  The sheriff stared down at his shoes. “He didn’t deserve this. Just so you know...I never thought Leon Purdy was a bad person. He was just the type of guy who made a lot of bad decisions.”

  “I know a little about that myself,” said Nick. “Sometimes all a man needs is a reason to change. Somebody to help him be better.”

  Mackey cleared his throat, changed the subject: “We’ll run a trace on the Mossberg first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I’ve got an A.P.B. out on the Mercedes and the Rolls. Oh, and I almost forgot...I got the autopsy results earlier this evening on our motel shooter.”

  Nick gave a noncommittal grunt, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his leaking right eye.

  “Obviously, we’re dealing with twins here,” said the sheriff. “But...it’s the damnedest thing. The first one, the shooter from the motel? According to the report I received today, he had an old scar that ran from just under his collarbone down to his stomach.” Mackey nodded toward the sheet-covered shape in the road. “Our man here, he’s got the same scar. I looked. According to the M.E., it appears as if they were conjoined twins, once upon a time.”

  Nick wasn’t sure what this information had to do with him. Or why the sheriff thought he would care. Perhaps Mackey expected him to call up Ripley’s Believe It or Not, let them know they’d missed out on one more pickled punk for their collection.

  “Anyway,” said the sheriff, “I have to ask you again. The old man in the limo—”

  “Daddy. That’s what they call him.”

  “I got that. He didn’t say anything to you?”

  “No,” said Nick. “He just rolled down the window and...smiled.”

  “He smiled.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you perceived that as a threat.”

  The big man gestured toward Leon’s body bag as it was being carried away, as if to say: Wouldn’t you? Look what happened less than a minute later...

  Earlier, when the sheriff first arrived on the scene, Nick had told him everything. He left nothing out this time. He told him about the name “Daddy” that kept popping up everywhere, and about another player he had recently learned was a part of this twisted game: a black guy called “Coko Puff” who was into Eddie for a lot of money at one time. Something passed across Mackey’s face when Nick brought up the black dude, but then it was gone so quickly he wasn’t even sure he had seen it. With more than a hint of sarcasm, the sheriff had thanked Nick for sharing the results of his “investigation.”

  The night had grown strangely quiet now. Things were beginning to wind down, and soon the crime scene would be just another patch of dark country road no different from any other. The broken glass would be swept up. The cong
ealed mixture of spilled fluids—vehicular and human—would be washed away, or would eventually soak into the soil. Inexplicably, Nick found himself thinking of those roadside crosses you see along the highway, monuments marking the sites where loved ones have been lost to auto accidents. Leon wouldn’t even get that much. No cheap wooden cross, no wreath of wilted flowers. He would be forgotten. As if the little man had never existed to begin with.

  Guilt racked his soul. He clenched his fists, mouthed a soundless curse.

  “I promised him,” Nick murmured. “He said I was gonna get him killed before this was over, and I promised him that wouldn’t happen...”

  If the sheriff heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  A big rig’s horn bellowed on the interstate. A man behind the wheel of a massive RV asked the female cop directing traffic at the top of the ramp, “What the hell happened to him?” (at first Nick thought he was curious about the corpse in the road, but then he turned to see the traveler pointing his way).

  Finally, the sheriff told Nick he was free to go. He promised he would be in touch if he had any further questions.

  For a minute Nick wondered if he was expected to head back to town on foot. But then Mackey called over one of his deputies, ordered the man to give him a ride back to his motel.

  †

  Nick couldn’t sleep. Not that he wanted to. There would be plenty of time to catch up on his beauty sleep once Sophie was home safe and sound.

  Around two a.m. he looked up Midnight Taxi in the phonebook, called for a cab to take him to Eddie’s house. He’d been planning a recon mission at some point, still wanted to dig around and see what he could find out there. Attempts on his life kept getting in the way.

  He asked the driver to wait. The driver said it wasn’t no problem. Nick told him it might be a while. The old guy shrugged, reminded him that the meter was still running, and pulled a dog-eared Juggs magazine out of the glove compartment to keep himself company.

  Ultimately, Nick’s search turned up nothing new. The cops had already taken everything, or there was jack shit to find in the first place. Not a single utility bill had been left behind, no mysterious name or number scribbled on a scrap of paper that might suddenly break the case.