Inside was dark. A bullet hole of moonlight illuminated swarming dust. The hole was new. I turned on the light. Nothing but junk sewed together with spider webs. The wind whistled through cracks in the building.
How long had I been out?
My eyes landed on a shoe. Black leather, like Popov’s Lorenzo B’s. Connected to a pants leg. A stack of boxes hid the rest. This was bad.
I staggered forward, almost pitching face first to the ground.
Please don’t be Popov.
A contorted face. Not Popov. Looked like someone had broken this guy’s neck. There was another body a few feet away, shot twice, maybe more, swamped in blood. Really gross. I felt like I was trapped in this place with brooding death itself. I quickly searched the rest of the store, but I found no sign of Popov or Calendar.
Who are these dead dudes?
I lurched out, not sure what my next play was. After a block I collapsed onto a bus bench. I crossed my arms tightly to ward off the chill. I couldn’t get my mind around it. I thought I was doing so well, yet Popov left me to die. I was on the street. No ride. Almost broke. The thought sent me back into the abyss of defeat. I had the Ruger, anyway. That was something.
I heard distant music, as if the wind brought it to me. Heavy fuzz guitar, with a slurring dance beat.
I forced myself to walk. I could barely catch my breath.
I hit another block, then another. I stopped at a storefront, Frosty’s Car Repair/ Tattooing & Piercing. Seems like Frosty was a Renaissance man. The music came from inside. The door was locked. I looked through the window and saw a flyer taped to a wall, obscured by shadows. I could make out the words “black mass” and “sacrifice.” And tonight’s date.
I had a gun in my pants, a needle in my neck, and I was about to come calling on some dude named Frosty.
Chapter 16
1994
A taxi wouldn’t cut it for what I had in mind. Janie agreed to drive. Neither of us belonged behind the wheel, but this was gonna happen. I tossed my key ring to her. “These two look like locker keys,” she said. She looked at the numbers on the keys. “Sixteen and seventeen,” she read. “Whatcha hiding?”
“Just drive, hotness,” I said. “Santa Monica.”
It was late, but it was Friday night. Plenty of cars were still on the road. It was nice being in the passenger seat for a change.
“Anyplace in mind?” Janie asked.
I spotted a small pub. “Stop there!”
Janie pulled a U-turn without slowing down. The tires screeched loud as we banged up over the curb and into the parking lot.
“You got the gun?” Janie asked.
“Check.” The Ruger was long gone. I had a Colt from the safe in Popov’s closet tucked into the back of my pants. “So this is what it’s gonna take, huh?”
“You could show me the million dollars,” she said.
I couldn’t do that. “Let’s go.”
I was aware that I was going through a lot to impress this chick, but at the moment, I felt like everything I ever wanted was riding on it. So I rob a bar, show her I’m the real thing, and the possibilities were endless. I’m such a desperate jackass for chicks, it all made sense at the time.
I tried to get sober in Ray’s john before we’d split. I slapped myself. I gagged, but I gave up quickly. I wasn’t in the mood to puke my guts out. I didn’t want to muzzle all this budding romance with turkey gobbles and weirdness, either. I thought I could pull it off and have Cloud Time too. That’s how hammered I was.
It was a real dive. The Westside pub version of my eastside hangs. I stopped at the door, hoping she’d call my bluff and end it. She walked right past me.
Two battered dartboards hung on the wall. A dingy pool table stood in the back. Backless stools surrounded two wooden plank tables. A lone old timer, wearing a Dodger’s cap, gnawed on a peanut at a table in the back.
“We’re closed,” the bartender said. He was behind the bar, dumping thousands of peanut shells into the trash.
“I didn’t hear last call, so I guess you’re still open.” I said, sitting down at the counter. “We’ll have two pints of Bass.” I looked over the chalkboard menu. “And your nachos. I don’t feel like having a bowel movement for the next couple months.”
Janie sat next to me, grabbing my leg under the table. She was gung-ho.
“Hey, by the way, if this is a pub, why don’t you have an English accent?” I asked.
“I said we’re closed. I’m not serving.”
“C’mon. A couple beers. Or I swear we’ll sit here and eat every last one of your complimentary peanuts.” I could feel myself swaying on the stool.
“Are you as dumb as you look? Scram.”
The old guy laughed at his bartender buddy. Or choked on a peanut. It was hard to tell which. He looked at us with bitter, old-man hatred.
“Hello,” I said to him. “Is that your face, or did someone crap in your hat?”
Janie giggled.
The bartender was in front of me now, leaning over the bar. I didn’t know where he came from so quickly. “Listen up, asswipe. I can tell you’re kind of young and stupid and trying to impress your girlfriend, but if you don’t get your skinny ass off that stool, I’ll call the cops, then beat the shit out of you while we wait for ’em.” He turned to Janie. “You don’t want to see your boyfriend get his face bashed in, do you sweetie? Get him out of here.”
The old man cackled. I turned back to him. “Bet you’d like to see every dude under forty dead. Then all the chicks would be yours.”
I could see the bartender’s hand reaching out to grab me, recognized the command that my brain sent to my body, but it was no good. I teetered backwards and landed hard onto the floor. I stared up at the ceiling, completely disoriented.
Something sharp bit into my spine. I reached underneath my back and pulled out a teeny tiny peanut shell.
“Fancy that,” I said, holding it up for the bartender to see. “You dropped your wiener.”
“I warned you,” the bartender said. “Now we’re gonna have some fun.”
He walked around the bar and shut the front door, jamming the deadbolt tight.
“Frank! Shit, Frank! Get up, we’re in trouble!” Janie was standing over me.
“Yeah, Frank, get up!” the bartender echoed. Then he laughed. It was the belch of a million hours spent breathing peanut shell dust. “It’s after hours, dumb ass. That’s the witching hour around here. Right, Sam?”
The old man cackled with joy.
“All right, I’m tired of fooling around.” I got up on one elbow. “We’ll have the fish tacos too.”
It was the same thing as before. I saw him prancing toward me like a punter, but my reaction got swallowed up in the outer limits of Cloud Time. I felt something tug on my collar as his big foot swung towards my face. His heel caught my shoulder, knocking me back down. Janie must have pulled me out of the way.
“You bitch,” the bartender growled. “You bitch better stay outta this.”
“Bitch,” the old man repeated.
“We want out now!” Janie yelled.
“We want out now!” mimicked the bartender.
“Bitch!” from the old man.
I just wanted to close my eyes and be back in bed next to Janie. Everything was happening too fast.
“Look at the two love birds,” the bartender said. “How soon young love turns to bullshit. Gonna piss your drawers, sweetie?”
“Sweet cheeks,” the old man said.
“Hey, waitress,” I said.
The bartender turned around. His face was tomato red.
I had my shady .380 leveled on him. Janie scampered behind me.
Chapter 17
1993
A steampunk-style wall clock above the flyer in the window showed it was going on one. Three hours left to get Popov’s money back, and then return it. I’d been knocked out for around thirty minutes. I couldn’t believe that Popov would leave me to die in the gutte
r. I mean, I could totally believe it, but I didn’t want to. Was he done with me, or was he dead? I just didn’t want to think my heroics had been for nothing and I was back at my usual spot at the dead end. This was my big break.
Popov said we were going to go back to his house. That would still be my plan. I just had to figure out how to get there.
And then there was the needle sticking out of my neck. Behind the slick storefront facade of Frosty’s was a barn-like structure. Around the back, its big doors were open wide. Maybe inside I’d find hands steadier than mine to pull this needle out of my neck. My whole body was trembling. I followed the fuzz guitar that had lured me here in the first place.
Inside was the cleanest garage I’d ever seen. Tools hung on the wall like well-polished artifacts. High-speed sanders, nut splitters, locking pliers, all placed neatly on one wall, while on the next, hubcaps, four rows deep. Chrome wheel splitters, alloy wheel center caps, spinners, Roman chariot caps, police rims. Antique factory and custom deluxe. Lethal flowers that erupted into spoked, spiked, silver, chrome, charcoal finished blooms. Parked side-by-side was a pink ’62 convertible Corvette and a lime green ’69 Alfa Romeo Spyder convertible. Both immaculate, reflecting the dull overhead light in fiberglass sparkles.
I followed the fuzz guitar up a circular staircase. At the top was a security door with a cast iron gargoyle for a knob.
The music cranked behind it. I quietly opened it and peered in.
Trippy.
About twenty people were seated with their backs to me in metal foldout chairs, facing a stage. They were dressed in chaps, vests, collars, leather all around. A smaller group sat out front of the rest, closer to the stage. The inner circle. Their chairs were stained oak, with carved gargoyle armrests.
On stage, a tall, deeply tanned blonde woman was hooked to an “X” shaped rack. Each hand was chained high over her head at separate ends. Her long legs were spread, chained to the ground. She was clad in bra and lacey undies, while a black dress lay in calculated strips on the floor.
A leather gag cut across the corners of her mouth, forcing a rubber ball inside. Her eyes were wide circles. A caped figure bending over her stuck a long, bony quill through the skin on the inside of her thigh.
I crept inside and took a seat in the back. My neck throbbed. I needed this needle out now.
Someone slapped the top of my head. I jumped to my feet.
A large, bare-chested man faced me, his thick arms akimbo. On his furry torso, a tattoo of a twisting mass of entangled serpents and writhing demons. “I’m Frosty, and this is my place,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Dull-witted, I pointed to the needle in my neck.
The gathering broke into applause behind me. I turned to see that the tortured woman now had two quills apiece in both legs. The caped figure faced the audience. His leather utility belt held handcuffs, quills, and other cruel tools of his trade. His privates were encased in a leather jock, adorned with what most certainly looked like a real shrunken human head, eyes and lips sewn up with thread. Short leather harness boots completed the ensemble.
He turned back to his bound victim with a whip of his cape, slapping his victim lightly across the face.
“That’s in there pretty good,” Frosty said, eyeing the needle in my neck. “Pretty risky. Gotta respect that. Just gotta.”
A dominatrix with fire engine red hair escorted a pale, balding man with a dog collar up to the dais by a leash. He kept his eyes on the floor.
Frosty was through examining my neck. “That don’t explain what you’re doing here. Gotta come recommended. Gotta be checked out first. Can’t make allowances just ’cause you have the balls to nearly pierce a major vein.”
I didn’t want trouble. I pointed at my neck again.
“Punks come in, make trouble for ol’ Frosty. Not anymore.”
Frosty came at me. I grabbed one of the chairs and put it between him and me. I stepped back, stumbled, and fell.
Frosty picked me up like a bag of empty beer cans and tossed me hard against the wall. I bounced off and hit the floor.
I carefully felt the needle in my neck. Still there. I reached for the Ruger tucked in the back of my pants. Gone. It must have fallen out when I landed.
I started to roll, but the needle changed my mind. Frosty grabbed a handful of my hair and lifted.
That woke me up.
I popped him in the nose. He still lifted. I hit him again and again like a jackhammer, the speed and the fear coursing through me. I saw his thick arms bulge with muscle.
His free hand cranked back for a blow, his beady eyes focusing in on the needle in on my neck.
I grabbed his fist. Poked him in the eye socket with my jutting elbow.
“Skinny little jerk,” Frosty said.
He threw me over a row of empty foldout chairs. I landed with a clatter. My neck pulsed painfully.
Lightning cracked over me, and a searing pain bit into my back. The red headed dominatrix stood over me with a bullwhip. I got to my feet as the sharp tongue of the whip came at me from seven feet back. I was weak, but I was stone cold sober fast. I grabbed the end of the lash and pulled hard. The dominatrix came off her feet towards me. I bounced my elbow up against the side of her oncoming skull. The red head hit the floor limp.
I lashed out with the whip behind me, knowing Frosty was somewhere at my back.
“You dirty bastard!” Frosty yelped.
If you want pain, you got it.
“Check it out!” The crowd turned towards us.
I lashed him again. The big tattoo man backed off.
“He’s whipping Frosty!” A few people clapped.
“Observe!” Cape Man commanded. The audience turned back to him.
The torture victim’s bra was ripped opened, exposing her heavy breasts. Two chains with hooked ends hung from the top of the rack. His victim’s eyes slammed shut, her head whipping back and forth in agony.
Frosty backed up to an old-fashioned fire cabinet. He slammed his spike-clad fist through the glass and grabbed the axe.
I whipped him once, twice. The second time he deftly caught it around the axe handle and pulled hard. Letting go, I dove for the bench. My gun had to be somewhere around here. Frosty tossed the whip away and charged, axe in hand. I crawled frantically, spotting my Ruger a few feet away. Frosty chopped at the metal chairs around me.
“You’re a quick bastard, but you ain’t got nowhere to go,” Frosty said. “This is my place.”
I pounced on the gun and kept rolling until I ran out of room. Frosty brought the axe down from high above his head. Bracing against the wall, I jetted past him. The axe smashed into foldout chairs, making a metallic sound that set my teeth on edge.
I sat up with the gun and waited.
Frosty pulled the axe out of the floor and turned.
He looked at the gun in my hand. Frosty raised the axe, bellowed, and charged.
I could have plugged him, but I didn’t. It was his place, after all.
I sprang, throwing my body against his knees. We fell back into a mess of broken chairs. I scampered on top of Frosty and held the gun up against his nose.
“If you weren’t such a quick shit, you’d be two pieces right now,” Frosty said. He sucked in his big walrus mustache as he breathed heavily.
I slowly got to my feet, taking the axe with me. My lungs were burning as I sucked wind.
The crowd enjoyed the added attraction. I raised my Ruger to let them know I wasn’t there to get spanked. The little handcuffed guy with a dog collar ran up to the fallen redheaded dominatrix.
“You’ve hurt Esmerelda!” he shrieked.
I walked to the dais, huffing and puffing. I gestured to Cape Man while pointing to my neck. He raised his chin and ignored me. I aimed the gun at him and gestured again. Cape Man genteelly approached.
“What,” he began, voice dripping with Halloween make-up, “do you want?”
I dropped the axe and pointed again to the
broken needle.
Cape Man looked with utter disdain. “Big whoop. The work of an amateur.”
I mimed having the needle pulled out of my neck.
“We’d like to be plucked, would we?” He turned to the audience. “Would that poor Esmerelda could undo the blow given her. But she does look content resting in the arms of Morpheus.”
With a snap of his cape he turned to face me. He unlatched a miniature pair of pliers from his nipple charm bracelet and clasped the needle.
“Just say when,” he said.
His eyes locked on mine. I had to trust him.
He nudged me to face the audience. I was in the hands of the master now.
He pulled with one fluid motion. The needle came out unbroken, followed by a squirt of blood. Cape Man slapped a heavy bandage on it. He turned to the audience and bowed. The crowd cheered.
I was ready to leave the dais when I saw the large, pleading eyes of the torture victim. Someone had to save her. Quickly, but delicately, I undid her feet and hands.
I ripped her gag off. The ball bounced away. “Yeeooww!” she screamed. I stepped forward to help. She lunged at me like a cat.
“What the hell did you do that for?” she demanded. “We weren’t even finished yet!”
I put the gun against Cape Man’s back and hurried him down the steps.
“Who asked you for help, anyway?” she screamed after us. “I waited weeks for this!”
Chapter 18
“What do you call this? The big getaway?” Cape Man asked. We stood between the Spyder and the Corvette.
I snatched the vintage sixties Alfa Romeo key chain from his charm bracelet and dangled it before his eyes.
“Oh no,” Cape Man said. “Not my Leopold.”
I shoved the Ruger into his ribs. I needed to sit down and let someone else drive for a while. Maybe have a stiff drink. But no way I could stop.
“If anything happens to Leopold, I’ll skewer your nuts with porcupine quills,” Cape Man said.
Leopold was a beautiful car. The seats were soft leather. A green glow lit up the dash. When Cape Man started the Spyder up, I could tell right away the engine was in trouble.
Fast Bang Booze Page 6