“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
