by Ken Douglas
“Piece of cake.” Virgil laughed. Everything was a game to him.
Horace pulled into a vacant spot next to her car and looked down into the Porsche. The top was down. There was a bag of groceries on the passenger seat. “She must have done some shopping before we saw her at the Safeway, ’cuz she sure didn’t buy anything there.” It was a detail that bothered Horace. Why was she in the Safeway? Did she forget something and come back for it? He tried to remember how much stuff was in her shopping cart. Couldn’t.
“So?”
“So, we wait. She couldn’t carry everything in one trip. She’s gotta come back for the rest. She’s also gotta put the top up. Nobody leaves a Porsche open, even if it is in a secured lot. You never know who could get past a pair of dopey guards like that.”
“What are you gonna do when she comes?”
Horace reached past Virgil to the glove box, took out the handcuffs.
“You’re gonna get out. I’m gonna get in the back. You’re gonna grab her and toss her in. Then we’re gonna cuff her to one of those eyebolts above the back wheel wells.” Horace had the eyebolts put in for his dirt bike, no way could the woman pull one out, no one could.
“I don’t think I wanna do this.” Sweat ringed Virgil’s forehead, glistening even in the dark.
“Don’t be a baby.”
“I don’t wanna,” Virgil said.
“I’ll tell Ma you wouldn’t help.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“I would, so just do your part.” Horace clenched his fists. This was stupid. Maybe he should abort.
“I’ll get out soon’s she passes,” Virgil said. “I’ll tap on the door just ’for I grab her, so you’ll know to be ready.”
“That’s more like it.” Horace gripped the steering wheel so hard he thought he was going to break it. It was a stupid plan. He should have hit her back when he’d had the chance, but he’d been too softhearted. Now, luck had given him a perfect opportunity. Perfect except for Virgil. He had to go for it. Besides, fortune had always favored him, no reason she’d let him down now.
“She’s coming.” Virgil was squirming in his seat again.
“Calm down, it’s gonna be alright.”
The woman was wearing hard soled shoes. Her footsteps clicked on the pavement, echoing through the night. Horace was breathing fast, ice shot up his spine. He climbed in the back of the van as Virgil got out. Any second they’d have her inside. It was going to happen.
Virgil slapped the door and the sound ricocheted through the van as he slid it open. She was wearing different clothes, a green skirt and blouse. She must’ve changed the second she got into the house. Horace took his eyes off her clothes and went eyeball to eyeball with her. Recognition filled her face. Now she knew who he was. Virgil had a hand over her mouth. She chomped down on it.
“Owww!” Virgil let her go. Then hit her, a blow to the head and she went down.
“Get her in the van,” Horace said.
“Blood?” Virgil was looking at his hand where he’d been bit. Horace was looking at the girl’s face.
“Move, before someone comes!” Horace jumped out of the van. “Come on.” He grabbed her around the ankles.
“She dead?” Virgil grabbed her wrists. They lifted her from the asphalt and slung her into the van.
“No, just knocked out. Let’s go.” Horace slid the door closed.
Sweat dripped icicles under Horace’s arms as he drove to the gate. “Shit, we got no opener,” but the gate opened automatically. “Guess you only need it coming in.” The guards, both still inside the guard shack, didn’t even glance up at them as they left the property and turned right onto Pacific Coast Highway.
“I didn’t mean it.” Virgil sat cross-legged in the back, the woman’s head in his lap. He was crying now.
“Stop it! She’s gonna be fine.”
“We killed her.”
The woman moaned, opened her eyes. Horace risked a quick look back as he slowed for the light at Beach.
“See, what’d I tell you?” Horace handed the handcuffs back to Virgil. Now take these and hook her to one of those eyebolts.”
“But she’s hurt.”
“You don’t wanna do it, then I can’t drop you at the movies. You’ll have to come along and watch her till I serve the papers.”
“I can’t.” Virgil tossed the handcuffs aside.
Horace grabbed another quick look into the back of the van. Virgil was stroking her cheek while he rocked back and forth. She seemed to be unconscious.
“Why don’t you smoke a cigarette? That always calms you down.”
“I don’t like this, Horace.”
“You said you could do it!” Horace knew he shouldn’t lay into him. He couldn’t help what he was. Shit and Shinola, the bastard was getting to him.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” Horace turned on the overhead and adjusted the rearview, so he could see in the back and still keep his eyes on the road. “Stop that rocking! Smoke a cigarette and I’ll take you to the movies.”
“Can’t. Cigarettes are on the dash.”
“Alright.” Horace grabbed the Marlboros, tossed them back.
Virgil grabbed the pack out of the air, tapped out a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth. He seemed to have calmed down some, not rocking now. He snaked a hand into his pocket, fishing for the Zippo, pulled it out. The switchblade came too, clanged to the floor.
Horace sighed as the lighter fluid smell permeated the van, followed by the nauseating smell of burning tobacco. Only idiots smoked. Again he glanced in the mirror.
“Virgil!” he screamed.
But he was too late.
The woman had the blade. She thumbed the button, flicked it open and shoved into his brother’s belly.
Horace sliced the van across the highway, cutting off traffic in the slow lane. He stomped on the brakes even before the van was on the shoulder, pulled the Beretta from the holster, spun his arm around, muzzle seeking the woman, finding her as she jerked the knife up Virgil’s belly, stopping at the rib cage. Horace fired the automatic point blank. The round slammed between the woman’s tits, shoving her against the wheel well. Horace kept firing. Eleven rounds in the magazine followed the one in the chamber as rapid fire thundered through the van.
“It hurts!” Virgil had his hands on his belly, trying to hold his guts in.
“Hang on, Virge.” Horace could barely hear him because of the ringing in his ears.
Fuck, the bitch had hari karied him sure as if she’d been one of them samurai guys. He dropped the Beretta, jumped between the seats, was at his brother’s side in an instant. Blood was everywhere. Virgil’s big heart pumping it out his belly wound as if it were a fountain. The woman’s blouse was soaked in it.
“Fucking cunt!” Rage roared through him. “Cunt, cunt, cunt!” He grabbed a fist of her bloody blonde hair, jerked her head up. She was still alive. Not for long. “You know me?” He shrieked. “Do you know me?”
Her eyes flamed as she glared up at him. Then the fire went out.
Horace slapped the woman with an open palm. He raised the hand into a fist. Hit her again, was about to go for her a third time when he got a grip on himself.
The bitch was beyond punishment.
“Horace.” Blood trickled out of Virgil’s mouth as he croaked the name.
“Don’t talk.” Horace slid over, cradled his brother’s head in his lap.
“Hurts plenty.” More blood. He coughed it out.
“Hang on, I’ll get you to a hospital.” Horace knew he was lying as the words left his lips. There would be no hospital for his brother.
Virgil gripped his wrist. One more gurgle. A gasp. His body shook. Eyes dilated. His bowels cut loose, the stink of shit overpowering the smell of gunfire. It was over. He was dead.
A terrible silence ruled the van.
He crawled over the bloody bodies, got into the front, slid behind the wheel. A quick check ahead and in the side
mirror told him nobody had stopped. Maybe nobody had heard, the ocean was on the right, closed stores across the street on the left. Horace leaned his head out the window, dragging in good, clean air.
First things first. He was being paid to deal with the bitch, make it look like an accident. Anything else and the DA might look harder into the Fujimori shooting. Striker didn’t want that. Horace didn’t want it either. But a sex murder might be just as good. Especially if she was found behind that faggot place. Cops would think some gay guy raped her, popped her and dumped her.
Horace laughed.
Then he cried.
“God damn, Virge, you shoulda used the handcuffs.”
Horace started the van, pulled away from the shoulder. He made a U-turn at the next light, driving through the Beaches-Huntington, Bolsa Chica, Seal-without seeing them. Virgil was a problem. He couldn’t toss his body out any old place. And he damn sure didn’t want it connected to the bitch. He thought on it, but nothing satisfactory came to mind.
A cop car passed, going the other direction and that jarred him to the task at hand. He followed the policeman in the rearview, till he was sure he wasn’t going to do a U and come up behind.
When Horace got to the Shore, he made a left on Second Street. He slowed to a crawl as he approached the Menopause Lounge. There were people out front. The pickup places in the Shore were doing a brisk business, matchmaking for the evening. Horace thought about Sadie, but quickly pushed her from his mind.
The dashboard clock said 11:00, still early. He made his left down toward the beach. The street was quiet, tall trees brushed by the breeze flitted in the pale moonlight. Dark shadows danced across his sight. He knew they moved only in his imagination, but he tightened his grip on the wheel anyway.
He passed a couple strolling arm in arm as he made his right onto Ocean. Rage lashed at him, a whip across his back. They looked young. They were gonna go somewhere and fuck. He wanted to smash them.
The flashing neon whale on the gay bar brought him back to reality. He made his turn at the corner before it. The alley was dark as he pulled into it. He stopped behind the bar. It was quiet, save for the soft sounds of Simon and Garfunkel drifting through the walls. It didn’t seem right. Faggots were supposed to listen to Barbara Streisand and show tunes. S amp; G were singing about Mrs. Robinson and Horace laughed. It was the soundtrack from The Graduate. That counted.
The sliding door opened with a screech, Bob Dylan’s harmonica on a bad day. He sniffed the night, worried he might draw attention to himself, but after a few seconds he decided it was okay. Either he was gonna get caught or he wasn’t. Fifty-fifty. Time to get on with it.
He climbed in back with the stink. Virgil lay between her and the door. Horace slid it closed in case someone came out to dump the trash. Fifty-fifty maybe, but one couldn’t be too careful.
He scooted toward the front, grabbed Virgil by the foot, pulled him away from the bitch. The stink engulfed him. He thought of himself as a hard man, but he gagged, fought the vomit, held his breath. He took up Virgil’s knife, cut the clothes off the bitch, tossed them aside.
Next, he took off the shoes. Paused. Had to breathe. Sucked in a short one. Retched all over the bullet holes in the bitch’s breasts. On his knees, he fought for oxygen, a drowning man with no choice, he sucked in more of the stench. Heaved again. Stomach clenching. Nothing left but spittle. Dry heaves.
He pressed his back against the door, as far from the dead as he could get. His mind screamed, Get out. Run. But he squashed the urge. He had a job to do. He stood, slipped in blood, landed with his ass on her stomach. A whoosh erupted from her throat, a cattle prod up Horace’s ass.
He yelped, scrambled to the door, yanked it open, bailed out of the van. Clean air. He sucked deep. A quick look around. The alley was empty. In a hurry now. Knife still in hand. Reach back in the van. Wipe the blood off the blade on the bitch’s skirt. Flick it closed. Shove it in the back pocket. Grab the bitch’s feet. Pull her out.
Her head made a popping sound when it thumped on the pavement, a thunder blast to his heart. The world surely heard, but no one came running. Horace shot a look around. All quiet. Hands still wrapped around her ankles, he dragged her toward the dumpster, dropped her in front of it, scurried back to the van.
His eyes lit on Virgil as he closed the back. Poor dumb bastard, dead in a pool of blood and shit. Back in the driver’s seat, he started it up. He took a quick look in the rearview as he turned out of the alley. No lights came on. He was in the clear.
Maybe.
He couldn’t be safe till he logged some miles between the body and himself. The freeway called to him. In minutes he was on it.
Chapter Eight
Gordon Takoda slid out of the booth. The game had run over three hours. They were a nice couple, James and Paul, but they were poor losers. Every time he took a piece, they wanted to replay the move, discuss how they could have played it. And to their consternation, Gordon let them do it over and he still creamed them.
“Good game,” James said.
“Yeah, we learned a lot,” Paul said.
Gordon gave them a smile before he started for the bar. Those boys didn’t understand, chess was like life. In the real world you don’t get to take it over.
“Coffee coming up.” Jonas started for the pot.
“Black and strong.” Gordon inhaled the aroma as Jonas poured. “Uh oh, trouble.” A uniformed police officer had come in and was making his way to the bar.
“Problem, officer?” Jonas said. As a rule the police were rare in the Whale.
“There’s a body in front of the dumpster out back. Female. She’s nude, full of bullet holes.”
“Maggie,” Gordon said.
“It couldn’t be Maggie,” Jonas said. “She said she was going straight home. You called her there.”
But Gordon wasn’t listening. He was off his stool and out the door before the cop could protest. An icy dagger wormed into his spine. Spasms racked his chest. He was in shape, but a heart attack wasn’t out of the question. He was the right age.
He stopped at the mouth of the alley. Jonas and two cops were already there. They’d come through the kitchen. They were standing over a bloody body. The light from Jonas’ kitchen gave the alley a kind of black and white look, surreal.
“You don’t want to see this.” Jonas came toward him, blocking his view.
“Get out of my way.”
Jonas stepped aside.
“You know her?” the cop who had come into the bar said.
Gordon sank to his knees with a thud. He dropped his head into his hands.
“Sir, we have to ask you to step back,” the policeman said.
Gordon pulled his hands from his face. Tears covered his cheeks. “Get something to cover her with.”
“I’m sorry we can’t do that. Not yet.”
“Come on, Gordon.” Jonas put a hand to his shoulder.
“I won’t leave her.”
“Please, sir,” the policeman said.
“Do what you have to. I stay.” Gordon took her hand. There was still some warmth.
“Sir, please don’t touch the body.”
“Just her hand,” Gordon said. “I’ll be careful of any evidence that may be under her fingernails.”
“I’m going to have to insist,” the officer said.
“Or what?” Gordon looked up at the cop. He bit into his lip to stop the quivering.
“Just the hand then.” The young officer’s face was pasty white, he looked like he was about to be sick.
There were some people behind the cop. A small crowd was gathering, despite the hour. There should be more cops. Probably on the way. “Keep them back till your people get here,” Gordon said. “I won’t disturb anything.”
“Yes, sir,” the cop said and with Jonas’ help, they moved the crowd back.
Gordon ached to wipe the hair from her eyes. She hated that. “Oh, Maggie,” he whispered. So much blood.
A
couple more uniforms pushed through the crowd. They saw Gordon, one started to speak, but the first officer raised his hand and the man held his tongue. More cops, arriving in pairs. The alley was cleared of civilians, save Jonas and the uniforms.
Gordon stroked the back of Maggie’s hand with his fingers.
“It’s Wolfe,” one of the cops said.
“Fucking ghoul,” another said.
“He gets the job done,” still another said.
Gordon looked up to see a man in his mid-thirties push through the crowd. He was wearing faded Levi’s, a threadbare sportcoat over a white Dodgers T-shirt and a blue Dodgers baseball cap over a shaved head. He didn’t look like a ghoul.
“Clear everyone out. I need a few minutes,” Wolfe said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I heard about you. I know what you need,” one of the uniforms said and the police started to move back, taking Jonas with them.
“Come on,” the cop said to Gordon.
Gordon met Wolfe’s eyes. They were pale blue, but sad, like they should have been brown. Gordon tightened his grip on Maggie’s hand.
“He can stay,” Wolfe said. “Give us fifteen. If the lab van comes, tell them it’s me, they’ll understand.”
Then the alley was empty, save for Gordon, Wolfe and, of course, Maggie.
“Your wife?” Wolfe whispered.
“I’m gay.”
“How would I know?” Wolfe’s voice seemed to carry years of pain. More than a whisper, almost a rasp. Sad, begging empathy. He squatted down to Gordon’s level.
“I don’t know. Some people seem to.”
“Everybody cries,” Wolfe said. “Everybody hurts.”
“Not just that.”
“People are what they are.” He reached over and took Maggie’s hand from Gordon. He studied her face. “Who is she?”
“Maggie Nesbitt,” Gordon said. “She lives upstairs from me. We’re friends.”
“More than friends, I think,” Wolfe said.
“Yeah, we’re close.” Gordon didn’t want to admit she was dead.