The Reckoning (17 page)

14

Mending Fences

“So you trying to bribe me or what?” Tony asked, cracking the cap on the Presidente bottle Royce brought him.

Royce chose his words carefully: “Bribe you to not expressly enunciate any disparagement concerning my rather evident status as a flaming asshole.”

The attorney was impressed, saying, “Maybe you should have been the legal eagle, using caca words like that.” He poured healthy amounts of the brandy into two coffee mugs, passed one to Royce and offered a toast.

“Salud, bud.”

“Salud.”

They clicked their drinks.

So far so good, Royce thought. Dropping in with a peace offering (the Presidente, a six-pack of Samuel Adams) had been a splendid idea. Tony, a little owlly at first about Royce’s no-show that night, was warming up.

“So where you been keeping yourself?” Tony inquired.

“It’s been nuts,” he said, and filled him in on the crisis with his sister-in-law.

“Yeah, that breast cancer is a tough one,” Tony agreed. “My aunt had a breast removed a year ago. Just when she thinks it’s in remission, wham! They find more of those fucking cancer cells. I don’t think she stands a chance.”

Royce shrugged. “Yeah, it’s rough. Look, Tony, I think I need your legal help, for real this time—I’ll hire you, I mean.”

“For that assault charge? The stripper?”

Damn, he’d forgotten all about that. Funny thing, how a real fucking disaster can purge a regular-sized disaster from your mind.

“No, something else.” Royce took a deep swallow, grimaced from the burn. “The fact is, someone is trying to blackmail me.”

Tony, in turn, took a big gulp, also grimacing. He then refilled both their cups. Royce’s declaration seemed to call for it.

“Okay, shoot,” the attorney said.

Royce rolled the cup between his hands and said, “I had an affair recently. Just a one-night stand. I don’t even like the woman. I had too much to drink, let my guard down. Forgot my scruples. One fucking night of sin, and now I’m paying for it, big time.”

“One of those
Fatal Attraction
drills?”

“Sort of. Nothing life-threatening, though. This woman is a real bitch. And it turns out she has a partner, a guy named Cliff Wells, a sleaze who wants me to launder some money for him through my company.”

“And if you don’t agree to help him?”

“He’s going to paper the town with a photo of me in a very compromising position.”

“A compromising position with this woman you had an affair with, you mean.”

“Eh, yes.” How could he tell Tony the truth? That yes, he did have an affair with this woman. But no, the photos he worried about were of him having a kinky little fling with another woman, a dominatrix who happened to be in the first woman’s employ. All this drove him to gulp some more Presidente.

“I see,” Tony said, wheels turning. “If this were just a matter of getting nasty phone calls it would be harassment, a misdemeanor. We could go to a judge and get a temporary restraining order against this dude. But this is extortion, a heavy felony. We should go to the police right now.”

Royce shook his head. “I can’t do that. Can’t do that to Les.”

Tony smiled. “Hey, you’ve already done it to Les, Royce. Now the question is, how do you want her to find out about it? From you? Or from these assholes trying to shake you down? You asked for my legal advice. My recommendation is that you tell your wife everything, right away, then go to the police. Sounds to me like these two fucks should be in the state pen, punching out license plates.”

Royce shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, Tony.”

“You know I’m right,” he said sternly.

“Let me think about it.”

“I wouldn’t think about it too long. As bad as it sounds, you have a window of opportunity right now. You can call the shots. Tell your wife. Go to the cops. But if you don’t act…”

“I know,” Royce said soberly, and finished his brandy. “Okay, I’ll tell Les. Just as soon as she gets back from Montana. It’s not something I could do over the phone.”

Tony nodded. “I agree, but don’t let it drag on. If these folks are half as bad as you say, this could escalate really quick.”

“I’m hip. And then we—you and I—go to the law.”

“Agreed.”

Tony offered him a refill, which he declined.

“Got to get home and call Les.” He stood, a little wobbly from the strong liqueur.

Tony asked him what he and Craig were doing Saturday night.

“Nothing that I know of. Why?”

“Carmen just bought several pounds of pig gut. Why don’t you two come by and help me get rid of some menudo?”

Royce hiccupped. “Sounds like a treat.”

“That shit will cure anything.”

Royce grinned. If only it were true.

“And one more thing, Royce.”

“Yeah?”

The lawyer’s face darkened. “If I find out you’re cheatin’ on Leslie again, you’ll need a new lawyer, and a new friend.”

Royce arrived home close to seven and scarfed down a peanut butter sandwich, hoping to dilute the whammy from the Presidente. He was still peeved at what Tony said. Fuck him. Didn’t most Latino men cheat on their wives, anyway? At least that’s what he’d heard.

Royce phoned his brother-in-law’s place in Billings, catching Randy and Leslie on their way out the door to the hospital.

“She’s doing as well as can be expected,” Leslie reported of Julie’s condition. His wife sounded exhausted. “How are you and Craig getting along?”

“Fine, really fine.” He took a deep breath and continued: “Look, I know things have been far from right between us. It’s all my fault. We need to talk things out when I get back.”

“Okay, Royce,” she said, a little weepy. “My Mom is flying in this weekend to spell me, so I hope to come home Sunday.”

“Great. If you need to stay longer and help Jules, I’ll certainly understand, but I really need you here.”

“Is something wrong? I mean, has something terrible happened there?”

“No,” he lied. “I just really miss you.”

15

Open House

Friday, he was gun shy whenever the phone rang at work, especially as the afternoon dragged on closer to his two-thirty appointment (which he had no intention of keeping) with Cliff and Monica.

But he got off easy: just a call from Tony to confirm Saturday night, calls from his “regular” clients, and a phone call from Brenda, informing him that George had come through surgery and was off the critical list.

“George still has a long, tough road ahead of him—at least another three weeks in the hospital, then therapy,” Brenda said, out of breath. “I still can’t believe that happened to him. He’s always stayed away from the gangs. He was just attacked, without provocation.”

“I know. Look, Brenda. I don’t know what kind of health insurance you have, but if you need some help, some money I mean, let me know.”

“Thanks, Royce. Frankly, how I’m going to pay for all this is only now starting to close in on me. Maybe Victim’s Assistance can help.”

“Maybe, but for the future, when you come back, I can get you set up on some health insurance through the company. There’s just the two of us, but I think I can get you some decent premiums, even to cover your kids. And I’ll pick it up, as a bennie for you. I may have to lie and say you’re full-time, though.”

“Come back, Royce?”

“I want…was hoping you’d come back to work, maybe after the holidays, when George is better. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“I’d like to come back, but I think you know my feelings about one of your clients.”

“Oh, that bitch is toast,” he boasted.

They agreed to touch base before Christmas—a holiday lunch or dinner, if it worked out—and he told her he was sorry again before saying goodbye.

He had purposefully drawn out his conversation with Brenda, effectively blocking any incoming calls. Royce checked his watch: two-twenty-five. The next fifteen minutes he just sat, staring at the phone.

Nothing.

At two-fifty he stood and put on his jacket, preparing to leave for the day to pick up Craig from school. In his mind, he was claiming a minor victory when he heard his fax ring and hum.

He took hold of the length of slick paper as it spewed out as warily as if he were handling a cobra.

In big, angrily scrawled letters was the message:

I DON’T TAKE SHIT FROM NO ONE!

“You okay?” Craig asked.

“Just a hard day,” Royce explained, dread ballooning in his gut. “This should be ready in five. How are those dogs?”

“Lookin’ fine.”

Standing side-by-side, they prepared dinner at the stove, Royce assembling macaroni and cheese from a kit and his stepson poking sputtering hotdogs in a frying pan.

“You sure it’s okay I go see a movie?”

“Sure, maybe see some cute girls there?”

Craig went silent. Royce hadn’t meant to embarrass him. Time enough to worry about the “girl thing” later.

“Jimmy’s Dad going with you?”

“Yeah. To the Cinemas Nine in Owings Mills.”

“Good. Still have your secret stash?”

“Sure do,” Craig beamed. “Haven’t spent a dime of it. Wanna see?”

“No, I trust you. I’ll give you money for the show. Buy Jimmy and his Dad some treats.”

“Hey, thanks.”

“And your Mom would kill me if I let you see a violent movie.”

“It’s a cartoon. That gory stuff is cool, but sometimes it gets scary.”

“I know what you mean.”

The phone rang. Royce didn’t make a move for it until Craig gave him a “Aren’t you going to answer it?” look. “Yes?” he snarled into the receiver, on the offense.

“Don’t bite my head off. This is Marvin.”

He reached over and set the saucepan off the burner so the pasta wouldn’t boil over.

“Oh, yes, Marvin.” He heard laughter in the background.

“I’m calling you from a diner on North Point Boulevard. You said I should call you at home,” the detective said defensively.

“I know. Sorry, I was just trying to cook and talk at the same time. What have you got?”

“I followed Cliff home from that place on Gaylord this afternoon. Found out where he lives.”

“Shoot.”

“He’s one spooky piece of work, I got to tell you. Looks like he’s pumped up on steroids, maybe speed.”

Royce reached for a note pad and pencil, saying, “Where did you say he lives?”

“He lives in an empty warehouse on the east side, near Sparrows Point. Used to be a meat-packing plant. Sausage.”

“He actually lives there?”

“Yep. From what I can tell. Not exactly one of your prime residential areas.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Hey, Royce, I don’t think you should go near this guy. He looks pretty unbalanced.”

“Oh, I can probably handle him, Marvin. All I’m going to do is talk to him. Say, did he drive or take a cab?”

“Drove. A piece-of-shit Chevy Cavalier.”

Marvin Garden told his client good night and hung up. He went to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie.

He noshed, musing over this crazy case. All that was left to do now was send his final bill. He scratched his groin. He had to concede this Royce McCulloch ran with a pretty kinky bunch. He’d gotten close enough to that joint Naughty’s to surmise what it really was: a front for an upscale prostitution ring. Maybe drugs, too.

The detective had seen a tall, raven-haired girl enter the place while he was staking it out. She looked like an X-rated version of Morticia from the
Addams Family
. Yow, she looked stacked. Must have been that Mistress Christine McCulloch had talked about.

The upscale smugness of the Gaylord operation violated Marvin’s sensibilities. It could stand some rousting. Scumbags like that had too much to lose to resort to violent retaliation. Maybe he could squirm a little security retainer out of the deal, get a blowjob.

The P.I. pitched the paper cup of coffee out his car window, started the engine and headed back to Old South Gaylord.

Appropriately, Darth’s Blaupunks wailed Phil Collins’
In The Air Tonight
as he exited I-695. He braked, the Porsche taking a sharp curve, bug eyes beaming at slabs of concrete overpass and the little houses of Sparrows Point, in the east-side patchwork of ethnic neighborhoods. It was spitting snow.

He was under the viaduct now: an alien, hard-edged world you visited only if you were lost. Tough bars. Chemical tank farms. Truck terminals. Railyards. And the meat-packing plant, where Marvin said Cliff lived.

Royce turned onto Ordinance Road, rocked across railroad tracks. On his left stood a large, red brick industrial-type building that looked long abandoned. In the dark, he couldn’t make out any address number—it probably never had one. Shadow-striped, with brick chimneys, rotting livestock chutes and most of its painted-over window plates shattered out, the old sausage plant was a decaying memorial to the mechanized slaughter process, circa the early 1900s.

He drove on a ways farther, past a warehouse with a visible street number under a yard light, and did a U-turn. The red brick monstrosity had to be it. Darth rumbled throatily as he downshifted, taking it slow, cautious. Then he saw it, parked beside the plant’s loading dock: his Cavalier.

In his mind, he scripted what he would say, how he expected it to go. Afterwards, they would shake hands, part company forever.

And yes, regretfully, they would exchange cars. As nice as Darth was, the car didn’t belong to him. The Carrera belonged to another Royce McCulloch, a callow young LA player who’d gotten too much, too soon. It was a fitting mode of transportation for a Big Swinging Dick, not the man he was now or wanted to be.

Was he really fooling himself believing it would be that easy to get rid of Cliff? As for Monica, he saw her as just an extension of Cliff now. Partners. Buddies. Siamese twins connected at the waist, the stomach, the chest. If he could manage to get Cliff gone from his life, would Monica follow suit?

Go fuck yourself, Cliff. I’m telling my wife everything. Everything, old buddy. About LA. About Carly, Monica, Christine, too. Everything. So you can’t hurt me anymore. Now disappear, and don’t you ever try to fuck with me again!

Or else?

The prospect of physical conflict occurred to him again. He might have Cliff’s pumped-up body to deal with. That’s what the meat cleaver was for, resting in the footwell of the passenger side. He’d taken it from Leslie’s cutlery set.

Royce killed the headlights and coasted the remaining few feet to snug up alongside the Cavalier, using it as cover for Darth. He cracked the door and smelled the bay, spices and diesel. He reached for the cleaver.

He tried the doors on the Cavalier—locked. Okay, now to find a way into Cliff’s digs. Royce turned up his overcoat collar and was making his way along the lip of the loading dock when he heard the straining squeal of metal on metal.

Royce ducked behind head-high steel stairs, squatted, waited. Something moved across slants of moonlight, footfalls shambling towards him. Holding his breath, he tightened his body, knees to chest.

Black-leathered legs came down the stairs. Cliff paused at the foot of the stairs, looking, then walked stiffly across the gravel lot towards the road. The man was bare-chested, ropes of muscle encasing his shoulders, chest and back. A yard light illuminated a filigree of tattoos all over Cliff’s torso.

Royce considered following but nixed the idea and stayed put. He slipped on gloves, shivering. Damn fucking cold.

Why was he hiding? Hiding from Cliff? With a deadly meat cleaver in his right hand?

Stupid question. He knew why. Some instinct of preservation, a sixth sense was telling him to fear Cliff, who by now was ambling across Ordinance Road and heading off towards the stock pens. But to do what?

Maybe because Cliff Wells wasn’t really Cliff Wells anymore. A ghastly transition of some kind had taken place.

Cliff’s ghostly image now disappeared behind a corral. A distant train locomotive rumbled.

He had just about decided to leave and take Tony’s advice (and turn it all over to the police) when Cliff reappeared, lumbering back to the packing plant. The guy huffed and puffed, his pecs dancing.

Royce squinted. What was that thing struggling above Cliff’s shoulders? Kicking.
Bleating
.

A damn sheep, almost as big as Cliff, maybe even heavier; yet Cliff was trucking the creature—fighting—with little effort.

Bah. Bah.

Cliff clambered heavily up the stairs with his pet, and Royce gained immediate respect for his old buddy’s physical prowess.

Man with sheep strode across the dock, and Royce left his hiding place in time to see the pair pass sideways through a partially open, sliding steel door.

Bah.
Bah!

Get out. Get out while you can.

As in a nightmare, he could not move, impotent against the night dread.

There it came. He winced, hearing the sheep scream. Royce’s heart pounded so hard he felt its percussions in his jaw.

Okay, it’s over with the sheep. Now will you go?

Just one look, that’s all. It was that dreadful night at Naughty’s all over again, when he’d damaged Monica’s breast.

One look, just to clarify things, he told himself, and managed to free his feet from their hellsent bonds.

He climbed the stairs and crept along the dock, wishing now he had worn rubber-soled shoes instead of his dress “clunkers.”

Royce peered around the edge of the door. It was a cavern cut by shafts of moonlight streaming in through the busted windows. He could make out stock chutes, a number of small, narrow stalls that appeared to feed into worktables, beneath which were troughs. Is that where it was done? Troughs to transport offal and blood.

To his right, on the far wall, he made out a line of refrigerator locker doors, some kind of chrome exercise machine and a rack of free weights.

And Cliff?

He switched to breathing-by-mouth and timidly stepped through the opening.

Cliff?

Royce was taking baby steps now.

There, something there.

A mini killing field. Sheep parts: heads with dead doll eyes and lunchmeat tongues, mounds of slick intestine, gnarly hind quarters, full carcasses eviscerated, scooped out like woolly pita pockets. Pinkish flesh flayed, chewed on. Decaying.

And in the center of this carnage was Cliff enjoying his latest acquisition. Royce hyperventilated.

Cliff was reposed on the floor in some kind of wrestler’s hold, his legs scissor-locked around the sheep carcass.

Gentle bleating.

Not a carcass yet, the animal’s side rising and falling, legs twitching helplessly.

In that position, it looked as though Cliff were having intercourse with the poor animal.

Just a few tiny steps more.

Cliff’s mouth was clamped to the creature’s throat, suckling wetly. With each ingestion of blood, Wells’ throat bloated and contracted.

The sheep’s eyes found Royce. Pleading.

Not a sheep, but a girl!

Fuck!
Royce slipped, went painfully down on one knee, hands splayed to break his fall. The floor was wet.

If he were worried about Cliff discovering his presence, he needn’t have bothered. Cliff’s eyes were glazed over with some kind of film—reptilian in their coldness—as he enjoyed a blood lust orgasm.

An artery must have severed, because a goblet of warm blood splashed on Royce’s face and chest. Royce retched, shot to his feet and bent over, clutching his stomach. He deposited a pool of green stomach acid, used wieners and macaroni on the floor. The hot vomit hosed from his throat, scorched his nostrils.

Now the young woman, her slack body shockingly white except for a patch of dark pubic hair, started crawling towards Royce—her small breasts hanging like misshapen baggies. She stretched a trembling hand towards Royce. Royce took a step towards her and halted, his body paralyzed by an impotence that shrunk his dick and soul.

Cliff pounced on her, closing his appendages around his victim like a spider dispatching a trapped bug in a web. The woman writhed in her death agony.

Bah. Bah.

Get the fuck out!
Royce’s mind screamed.

He reached Darth, quickly jumped into the car, closed and locked the door. As he gasped to catch his breath, he told himself it had been a sheep, not a woman. In any case, the creature had been doomed from the start, beyond his help.

He turned on the overhead light and frantically pawed through the glove box for a handkerchief or tissue to wipe his bloody face, only to find the owner’s manual, a foil pack of rubbers, a Los Angeles parking ticket circa 1988, a greasy box from a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with Cheese, and a street map of Baltimore.

Cursing, he unfurled the map to wipe his face, then noticed there were four locations circled with a red felt tip pen: his home, his office, Leslie’s office—and Craig’s school.