Nocturnal: A Novel

“Ahora es su turno cabrones.”

His hand shot out under a white robe, grabbed a foot and yanked. Pig-Face went down hard, feet pulled out from under him like some cartoon character walking into one of those rope traps, his head thonking audibly off the floor’s white stones.

He tricked ’em. He was just playin’ possum.

Hector moved like a pissed-off street cat fighting a pack of small, slow dogs. He shook off their grip and with the same motion was on his feet. He kicked out, planting his foot hard into the stomach of Bug-Face. Bug-Face let out a grunt, then dropped.

Two men down in less than a second.

“Hit ’em!” Aggie screamed. “Hit ’em!”

Hello Kitty grabbed Hector’s left arm as Darth Maul pulled a lead pipe out of his sleeve and swung it in a low, horizontal arc, aiming for Hector’s knee. The Mexican twisted at the last second, like those guys in that Ultimate Fighting stuff, bending his knee away from the pipe and taking the hit in the crook of his leg. His face wrinkled up — that hit hurt, but not as bad as if it had taken him in the kneecap.

Goddamn but that beaner was fast.

Hector reached out with his free right hand and ripped the wood pole out of Wolf-Face’s hands. Darth Maul brought the pipe back for another knee shot, but the Mexican jabbed the stick’s butt into Maul’s latex mask. Darth Maul let out a scream the likes of which Aggie had never heard — high-pitched and clicky. Black-gloved hands shot inside the hood as Maul fell to the ground, little feet kicking.

The Mexican put the end of the stick on the white floor, then drove his foot through the shaft, snapping it in half and leaving him holding a long, jagged shard of white wood.

Hector snarled. He jammed that shard right under the Hello Kitty mask.

Blood sprayed.

From the floor, Pig-Face grabbed Hector’s feet. Wolf-Face dove in and wrapped his white-robed arms around Hector’s chest. Demon-Face snagged the lead pipe off the floor — it went up fast, then came down faster in a vicious arc ending on the Mexican’s head.

Hector sagged. He disappeared beneath a flurry of white robes, punching black fists, kicking feet and a swinging pipe that did not stop.

Aggie couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop seeing, couldn’t stop hearing. Over and over again, the repeated whiff-gong-crack of the pipe coming down on the Hector’s shins, his knees, his feet, his hands. Each time the metal met flesh and bone, it was answered with a cry of agony.

Hector stopped moving, but the beating continued.

Infinite moments later, Wolf-Face and Pig-Face grabbed the Mexican’s shattered hands and dragged him out of the room. Blood-soaked pajamas left long red smears against the white floor.

Two more white-robed men appeared: the Joker and Jason Voorhees. They helped Pig-Face and Bug-Face drag away the still-twitching Hello Kitty and the unmoving Darth Maul.

Hello Kitty’s blood ran a zigzag curving path between the cobblestones’ low points until it drained into the same hole Aggie and the others used to shit and piss.

Hillary calmly rolled her Safeway shopping cart out the door. The wheels still squeaked, but only a little. She stopped and looked back at Aggie. “An ouvrier will come mop this up soon,” she said.

She shut the cage door behind her. Silence filled the bright room, broken only by the soft whimpers of the Chinaman.

Hector had fought like a motherfucker with nothing to lose. Aggie James also had nothing to lose, but he couldn’t fight for shit.

When the masked men came for him, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop them.

Blue Balls

People were going to start talking.

For the second night in a row, Pookie had to help Bryan to his apartment. The guy was beyond sick. How he’d managed to put on a good soldier face during the meetings with Biz-Nass and Zou was beyond Pookie’s ability to relate.

Three days of this sickness, yet Pookie still felt fine. Those flu shots came in handy.

“I feel like crap,” Bryan said. “I don’t want to go to sleep. I don’t want to dream anymore.”

Dreaming might be a necessary evil, because sleep was exactly what Bryan needed. The guy couldn’t keep going without rest. That kind of thing wore a body down.

So does jumping eight feet into the air, huh, Pooks?

No, Pookie wasn’t going to rehash that crap again. What he’d thought he saw couldn’t be, and that was that — just heat-of-the-moment memories playing tricks on him.

Pookie leaned Bryan against the hallway wall while he opened Bryan’s door. “Clauser, you’re a real rocket scientist, you know that?”

“Why?”

Pookie helped him inside. “Because you’ve got a fat Chinese dude with a Chicago accent taking care of you, when you could have a hot little brunette medical examiner giving you a sponge bath instead.”

“Really, Pooks? You want to ride my ass about Robin now?”

“You and Robin are made for each other,” Pookie said. “It’s like math.”

“You hate math.”

“My hate doesn’t make it any less accurate. And remember my grandfather’s advice: you can fuck your math teacher, but you can’t fuck math.”

Bryan fell onto his bed, lay there for a second, then started sitting up. “I don’t think your grampa said that.”

“Well, someone did. Maybe it was me.”

“I’m so surprised.”

Bryan slid off the bed. His knees wobbled and he almost fell.

“Bryan, go to sleep.”

He shook his head. “I told you, I’m not sleeping. I can’t, Pooks.”

If Bryan didn’t get some serious rest, the dreams and Marie’s Children and the murders wouldn’t really matter to him anymore — he’d die from exhaustion. Pookie had to talk him down.

“Tell you what,” Pookie said. “Your bad dreams usually come in the wee hours of the morning. I’ll wake you up at midnight.”

Bryan stared out from sunken, bloodshot eyes. His dark-red beard had been borderline unkempt three days ago. Now he was starting to look like Charlie Manson; not a good image, considering.

“Midnight? You promise?”

“Yeah,” Pookie said. “And I’m staying right here. Just don’t walk in your sleep and try to get some, because we both know you’ve been after me for years.”

Pookie eased Bryan back onto the bed. A sweaty head hit a cool pillow. Pookie had cast his lot with his partner. He would ride this out to the end.

“I got your back, brother,” Pookie said. “I won’t fail you.”

Bryan didn’t answer.

“Bryan?”

A snore. He was already asleep.

Pookie turned off the light, stepped into the box-strewn hall and closed the bedroom door. Another night on his friend’s couch. Pookie hadn’t slept on couches this much since he’d been married.

He turned on Bryan’s TV and watched a little local news. Jay Parlar’s death led. The anchor looked so upset. And the street reporter outside of Jay’s place, yeah, she looked real somber as well. Reporters were fucking vampires that lived off the blood of others.

Pookie turned off the TV. He took off his jacket. Might as well get comfortable. He pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket.