“Even if you say you don’t want to do it, I know for a fact you do want to do it.”
“I’m not going to kill the fucker, Null. I told you that.”
“Oh? I thought our recent experiences together might have changed your mind.”
“You’ve busted Hebe Group wide open, isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know. I can tell, though, that it’s definitely not enough for you.”
Null lit a cigarette, dragged on it and offered it to Boyd, who accepted. They sat together in the front seat of the half-wrecked Buick under the sole light that shone just above the entrance of the former Muddy Charles. It was anonymous now without any signage at all, except for the black and yellow construction sawhorses that blocked off the entrances to the parking lot and the front office. Null had to get out of the Buick and move one of them aside in order to park under the light. Looking through the glass door and its abutting windows, a chubby black man wearing horn-rimmed glasses could be seen sitting behind the front desk. That was Brother Ray, self-taught hacker of talent like so many of his ilk. Formal education had long ago proven to be a waste of time when compared with the deep delights and emoluments of the machine.
“Nothing will ever be enough,” Boyd said in a low, bitter tone. “Nothing.”
“We’ll put that to the test tonight, don’t you think?”
“I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“No, Kay. You know exactly why you’re here.”
“I have impulses I should never yield to.”
“Take my word for it, sometimes you really should.”
“I’ve reached my limit with your bullshit, Null. I’m telling you now, I’m not going to kill him.”
Null blinked, and his face in the shadows presented an imperfect imitation of innocence.
“You won’t have to, Kay. You have my word. But I think you’ll want to be a witness. It might help with—”
“With what, for God’s sake? My suspension? My weakness and stupidity? My drinking problem? My vanity in going after those fucks? Betraying Rudy? Just what exactly is this going to help with, Null? You tell me.”
Her eyes were glassy, not yet welled with tears.
“All of it,” said Null, as he got out of the flat black, broken monstrosity of a car with a loud creak of the driver’s side door and Boyd joined him. There was still a chill in the air at night, even though it was spring. Boyd rubbed her hands together to warm them. Null was sweating, possibly due to his untreated shoulder wound from Legere’s Derringer. It was likely infected by then.
“He’s being pretty quiet, you know. Do you think he survived the trip?”
“Oh, he’s alive, Kay. I was extremely gentle with him. He’s playing possum, which is the only intelligent thing to do in his position.”
“Really? I’d have thought kicking, screaming and making a noisy distraction to call attention to himself would’ve been his best call.”
“True, but that can also get you silenced with a bullet.”
“Tough position to be in, no matter how you slice it.”
“It’s about to get tougher.”
“So, get him already.”
“As you like. This is all for your benefit, tonight’s dithyramb.”
“It suits you though, doesn’t it, Null?”
“It’s a happy confluence of circumstances.”
“How you can use the word ‘happy’ to describe it, I’ll never know.”
“Poetic license.”
“Poetic justice.”
“That too.”
Boyd flicked her burning cigarette into the mulch of a degraded flower bed by the entrance to the hotel, so it sparked when it landed. Null popped the trunk to silence and nothing stirring. He drew out the Heckler and cocked it.
“Get up, George, or I’ll have to drag you out bleeding.”
“It’s hard to move. I’m stiff from being curled up in a ball trying to fit into that goddamn trunk. And the exhaust fumes were killing me.”
“Move along, George. You’re not dead yet.”
Null yanked the lanky George Goodnature out of the trunk of the Buick causing him to lurch about and stand, wobbling like a faltering, newborn foal in the half-light of the pick-up and drop-off area at the front entrance to the twink hotel. “Shit, man, that really wrecked my knees!”
“Stretch your legs, George. I’ll need you to be ambulatory.”
“You’re not going to kill me?”
“I told you no.”
“What if I make a run for it?”
“Then I’ll shoot you.”
“You could miss.”
“Probably not. And I’d hate to have to drag you around with both legs shot out from under you to get things done, but I’ll do that if it comes down to it. I’d prefer it didn’t, of course.”
“Jesus Christ, my hands have no circulation. I can’t feel them!” cried George.
Null whipped out the switchblade from his coat pocket and slit the zip ties off his wrists. George immediately rubbed his hands together in brisk overreaction. Boyd emerged from the shadows, smoking another cigarette. Her face seemed uncharacteristically cruel in the chiaroscuro of the entryway. She glared hard at George, like a patient predator focusing on its prey; an alligator eyeing a mangy dog.
“Do you remember Kay Boyd, George? You met her at your house—you know—before I had it torched. You two have a history, I think.”
“Hello, shitstick.”
“She’s talking to you, George.”
“I know, I know!” George made a great show of burying his face in his hands, sniveling wetly and somewhat muffled, “God, the fucking cop! Listen, I’m so sorry – I’m sick. I know. I know I’m a sick fuck! For real. I need help. It’s not my fault that I do these things. I’m compelled to do them by a force I don’t understand. I’ve always been this way. Then Legere—he gave me the kid and paid me to do everything I really, really like, no holds barred! The full boat! I was like a kid in a candy store. I didn’t know it was a cop’s kid. If I did, I would’ve—”
“Found some other poor schmuck’s child to rape and murder instead?” leveled Boyd.
“How can you make such a beautiful thing sound so ugly?” asked George, as if pleading for his life, because—as he had known in the trunk of the Buick—that that was exactly what he had to do if he was going to survive. Odds of that happening were looking grimmer by the second. His eyes darted about, silently frantic, looking for escape.
“Tell it to the worms,” Boyd sneered.
“Aww, you don’t have to be like that.”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Null asked. “You both look cold.”
Null prodded George into the lobby with the muzzle of the Heckler where the front desk was located just a few feet from the door. The atmosphere gave off an uneven effect—the only way to describe it was immaculately grimy. Its shabbiness was indisputable, yet it was at the same time immaculately clean. Brother Ray hopped up from his swivel chair at the computer and greeted them all as if he were the manager and, in fact, he was, though hospitality was not his specialty.
“Everything’s ready, boss,” said Brother Ray cheerfully.
“Good to hear.”
“He da guest o’ honor standin’ next to you ‘longside Lieutenant Boyd?”
“Yes, this is—”
“George Goodnature,” said George, extending his flat, spatulate, clammy hand across the counter. Brother Ray recoiled from it as if his hand were rotted and foul.
“Hands down, George, if you please. How are we on the final acquisition of the former Muddy Charles, Brother Ray?”
“All the paperwork’s done—the LLC filing, the P and S agreement, state forms for settlin’ up back taxes, outstandin’ fines and utility bills all settled up, property conversion’s all set, bribes been paid up to continue the zoning. I signed and notarized everything exackly the way you told me to. A squiggly li’l’ thing just like yours. You might gotta put in a appearance at a law office if sumpm come out to doubt. But I don’t think that’s comin’ directly yet.”
“I do tend to sign in a squiggly way.”
“I do good at that.”
“We got an inspection pending.”
“Ya. That be scheduled for next month already. Enough time to fix this bitch up.”
“You can hire a crew to do that. Or I’ll have Do-rag do that. We got someone to cook the books for laundering?”
“We got the same guys as before. They cuttin’ you a break on percentage due to volume.”
“Good. That’s what this place is for. Volume.”
“No doubt.” Brother Ray seemed relieved for a moment. It didn’t last.
“Tell me, Brother Ray, are you able to point and shoot?”
“A camera, boss?” He froze for a moment, vividly remembering the last Gangsta Boyz member who argued with Null. He was reduced to a corpse in seconds without warning. That was decidedly not the way he wanted to go. Brother Ray tried to avoid frowning but failed.
“No. This.” And Null pounded down the Browning Hi Power nine-millimeter, onto the counter flat on its side with a harsh bang.
Brother Ray was obviously startled, jittery, did a little backwards hop. No one said anything for a few long seconds. Finally, Brother Ray mustered the nerve to speak.
“I don’t do guns, boss.”
“You do now,” Null answered almost pleasantly. “You can relax about it. I know you’re not a street guy, but this’ll be easy. A milk run.”
“What—what I g-gotta do?”
“The safety’s off. Just take the gun, point and shoot. Keep shooting until the magazine is empty. The trigger’s a bit hard to pull and has a little bite to it.” He held up his free hand; the one with the pinky missing. “It catches the skin right here between your thumb and forefinger in the action. Shouldn’t hurt too badly, though it’ll probably bleed a little. Just ignore it and keep pulling that trigger until the clip is empty. Dead simple.”
“What if I miss?”
“You won’t. Even when the gun bucks and your shot grouping is wild, you’ll be close enough to get the job done. Hollow point rounds. Messy.”
Brother Ray bit his lip and his horn-rimmed glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. “Who—who I gotta shoot?”
“Him.” Null indicated George Goodnature with the muzzle of the Heckler. He leaned forward over the counter and spoke crisply and definitively.
“If you see this man trying to leave, I want you to shoot him dead. Aim for the head and then the chest. Thirteen rounds in the clip ought to do the trick. Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll arrange for the boys upstairs to clean it up later.”
Brother Ray licked his lips, looked around for a moment, shook his head, and said, “I don’t know about that boss. You ain’t seen ‘em. They way fucking seven-thirty mothafuckas. J-cats. Real talk: they at a super high-level of crazy—fit for the ding-wing. All tweaked out on gak ‘n’ shit.”
“I know, Brother Ray. Don’t worry about it.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t?” Less a challenge than a serious question and Null took it as such.
“This too shall pass, the adage goes. And by the time tonight is over, they should be pretty much down to the ground. Tame as exhausted dogs. Nevertheless, just in case things go off the rails, it’ll be good you have the Browning. For protection.”
“I won’t argue ‘bout dat. You got a knack for gettin’ things right too much of the time.”
“I’m glad my little failures go unnoticed.”
“If they ain’t, I di’n’t hear no muthafucka up in this bitch say jack ‘bout it.”
“Also a hopeful sign.”
Null prodded George to go upstairs, a sullen Boyd following just behind. They climbed up to the third level, every floor a grim, spanking, colorless clean, yet also somehow disheveled. Ronald sat on the windowsill at the end of the hallway on the third level that led to a fire escape that could either take you up to the roof or let you down to an abrupt stop twenty feet above the parking lot—a short drop into oblivion. And Ronald had Legere’s Magnum three-fifty-seven cradled in his lap as he sat there watching them. He gave Null a crisp nod and Null nodded back.
There were boisterous noises coming from behind the door they stood in front of.
George fidgeted and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Null used his key card to unlock the biggest suite in the hotel, and when he did, the noise, the pungent, dank odor of sweat and smoke, hit everyone at once. Boyd coughed and George scrunched up his expression in disgust. Null pushed George hard with both hands into the room, stood right next to him and fired a round from the Heckler into the ceiling, the suppressor noticeably missing from the muzzle of the gun.
“Pipe down boys. Just get up off the rug and get good and quiet for a moment.”
The twinks all paid close attention to the gun; the wrestlers grappling on the rug pulled apart and stood up. Then they closed in slowly on the three, tentatively, hesitantly, then suddenly just stopped.
“Never bring a knife to a gunfight, boys. You know what I mean?”
The twinks all assented heartily with scattered laughter.
George looked for an opportunity to make a break for it. His eyes rested on Boyd, whose nickel-plated Sig Sauer was aimed straight at his face.
“You don’t get the joke, do you, George?”
“If I laugh, will you let me go?”
“I’m letting you go in a moment, George, so just keep still.”
“I have to pee.”
“We’re not doing that again, are we?”
“What’s the point here, Null? Just what are you driving at?” Boyd said restively.
“Denouement is what I’m driving at. Not closure necessarily, nothing complex, just an end to bad events.”
“How does that even work?”
“I’ll explain the rules. Are you listening to me, George?”
“I hear you just fine, you fucked up sonofabitch. Stupid fucking psycho!”
Null stared at him for a moment of quiet—but for the heaving and whispered milling of the twinks—then picked up where he left off.
“Self-expression must make you feel better about what’s happening. I accept that. However, the rules for you, George, are fairly simple. I’m leaving you among these fine young men—all of them former child stars of the rape movies you liked performing in so much—with your face obscured from the camera, of course. Showing that mane of jet-black hair. Most of these stalwarts are boys you paid to abuse. Some of them you did for free—perks from Hebe. You may not remember them, George, but they remember you.”
perks from Hebe. You may not remember them, George, but they remember you.”
“Listen, boys, you remember our friend George Goodnature here, don’t you?”
The group of twinks milled low, angry assent.
“So what?”
“So this: You also frequented the Muddy Charles as a customer, what all your buddies on the dark web delightedly referred to as the twink hotel. You know this place backwards and forwards, no doubt. This might actually help you.”
“I think there’s been some pitiful renovations done since last I was here,” George said with amplified snideness.
“Admittedly, this place is a work in progress. I haven’t taken ownership quite yet.”
“Are we done? Can I go?”
“Of course. Just a few words before you do. All these boys you raped and abused, made them imitate their own deaths to satisfy you—they’re all tweaked out on enough meth to make a donkey win the Preakness. And I gave them all a present. Each one carries a brand new blade. A shiny new knife. Do you ever watch late night TV, George?
“Sometimes. Who the fuck cares?”
“I do. Let me tell you, at about four in the morning, they have this long infomercial called “Cutlery Corner,” where they sell big package deals of all kinds of knives. Not just kitchen knives, no, but utility knives. Sport knives. Kitanas, buck knives, tacticals, folders, fixed blades and hunters—the whole schmeer. They want you to make a sleepy decision about getting into the knife business—buy ‘em cheap, sell ‘em high. Unfortunately, even at their price point, it’s not really very realistic. Regardless, I made a small investment, and not for resale.”
“Will you get to the fucking point already?’
“It’s sort of obvious, George.”
“What is?” George was sweating, breathing hard, understanding his situation and hoping to talk his way out of it.
“This,” said Null, and pushed George right into the center of the impatiently waiting boys. George tried to go for Boyd at the door, but four of the skinny young twinks took him down to the bare wood floor. It was scuffed and damaged from years of neglect, now coated with blood as the boys stabbed playfully at George, holding off on killing him. They whooped and hollered like make-believe savage natives in an old Hollywood movie.
Dancing adolescent Maxes from “Where the Wild Things Are.” No wolf suits needed.
“You’re crazy!” George screamed at the top of his lungs. “Crazy!”
“I never said I wasn’t. Now George, I know it’s difficult but try to concentrate. If you can somehow get out of this room and get past me, Ronald in the hallway and Brother Ray at the front desk, you’ll be free and clear. No one will even try and stop you. You’ll be home free.”
The stabbing of the shirtless boys became more severe, deeper, wilder.
“I can’t die this way! I can’t!” he squealed. “Help me! Please!”
“What would you like me to do, George, put you out of your misery with a quick bullet to the brain?” Null had the Heckler out and aimed and Boyd’s Sig Sauer was also still drawn. “Is that what you’re asking for?”
“My god, too much pain! Pain! Help – me!”
“So you’re begging for it?”
“Yes!”
If they were children, you might have called it a pig pile as the rest of the boys with various knives drawn joined the others holding George down and stabbing at him with angry, frenzied gestures, laughter; growling and grunting could be heard in an amalgam of fury.
It was an angrier version of “Lord of the Flies.”
“I said that you would, George. Just remember that if you can. And proving that my word is still good, I have to remind you, I’m not the one who’s killing you. Your former victims are.”
George couldn’t even emit a wet sigh by then. The only sounds were the boys, earning their reward, seeking their vengeance, letting the methamphetamine carry them into an unleashed frenzy of rage none of them had ever experienced, with the possible exception of the first time they were anally raped.
“You don’t have to watch this, Kay. You can take the Buick. I’ll get a ride from Ronald to take me where I need to go.”
Boyd cleared her throat, still aiming the Sig Sauer where George had stood until the savage twinks took him down. “No. I wanna stay. I need to see this.”
“You’re not upset, disgusted?”
“I don’t know what I am anymore, but I do know this. I finally understand how you feel about these things. How you can watch this brutality and find some peace in it.”
“Is that how you feel watching these children tear this man to bloody shreds in front of your eyes? You feel peaceful?”
“I think that’s maybe true. I’m not as disturbed as I should be, that’s for sure.”
“You realize that he’s already pretty much dead by now and that we’re witnessing the postmortem. Not exactly Actaeon torn apart by his own hounds, but not too far off. Maybe you’ve seen enough?”
“Oh no,” Boyd said through half-gritted teeth. “I want to see it all. I need to see it all.”
“We’ll just stand right here then – let the boys work off all that meth.”
“That’s fine. He’s not going anywhere anymore.”
“So, you’re saying you’re feeling better?”
A slight smile played across Boyd’s lips, innocent of makeup.
“You know something?”
“What?”
“I actually do.”