Cicero's Dead (24 page)

“Nick,” he said. “It’s good to finally meet you. I
knew you would eventually catch up with me or,” he paused briefly, “die
trying.”

I swallowed and took a breath. “You know how it
goes, curiosity leads a man forward.”

“Indeed it does.”

“May I?” I pointed toward the Walther.

“You may not.”

“That’s not very sociable.”

“No more so than when you murdered Uncle Reggie.”

“He was going to--”

CRACK! Mrs. Clipper slapped me hard across the
head, almost knocking me out again.

“Mother!”

“Give me the stun gun!” she screamed.

“There’ll be time enough for all that. For now,
leave him alone.”

The fog cleared and I looked up at Mrs. Clipper.
Fear had replaced anger and she nodded, lowered her eyes and backed away. It
was uncanny to see she too feared her son.

“It appears mother doesn’t like you very much.”

I sat up again. “Fuck the bitch.”

Arnold smiled, but this time the warmth, no matter
how false it had been, was gone -- cold venom in its place. He stood up and
stretched, and I was aware of muscles rippling under his work shirt.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he said.

“Where’s Jade?”

“Safe.”

“Richie?”

Clipper pursed his lips and gently sucked in some
air. “With his sister.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“In due course.”

“In due course, I’m gonna kill you.”

He almost laughed but caught himself. “I took Jade
to see her father. She didn’t like it much.”

I’ve met some cruel bastards, particularly in my
line of work, but he was an exceptional specimen. I wanted nothing better than
to rip him apart with my bare hands. Yeah, I know, not socially acceptable, but
there are times when you have to fight evil with evil. And I was feeling about
as evil as I ever have in my entire life.

Clipper smirked at my obvious hatred. “I loved my
uncle.”

“I loved smashing his skull.”

“I loved breaking Jade’s fingers, one-by-one.”

Every muscle in my body was taught, adrenaline
overload, screaming for release. Clipper smiled. His lips curled back exposing
a large pink tongue and wet mouth that reminded me of a fat snake. It was as if
there was a force field surrounding him that made him more than human, not a
god, but some fallen demonic creature sent here to wreak havoc and vengeance. I
hated to resort to the homophobic drivel I was raised with in northern Minnesota
but knew I had to goad him. Get him so enraged that he would do something out
of character. I needed him to attack me. I looked at him with utter disgust and
said a silent prayer hoping my gay friends would forgive me.

“I hate pussy-assed faggots like you,” I sneered
quietly.

Clipper’s face and neck turned red. His lips
curled back, white at the corners, exposing his perfect teeth. He looked like
any rabid dog about to attack.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me, faggot.”

He balled his left hand into a fist while his
right hand knuckled the gun.

“Arnold, don’t!” hissed Clipper Sr.

It was too late. His body stiffened and he stood
up, pointing the gun toward me. I lunged, hitting him low, slamming my head and
shoulders into his midsection. He fired, but the bullet seared past me,
exploding into the flat screen TV in a bright flash and shower of glass.
Someone screamed as we skidded backward. He dropped his gun and we crashed to
the floor pummeling each other.

“Stop it! Stop it!” yelled Mrs. Clipper.

Arnold, wild-eyed, grabbed my cheek and tried to
rip my face. In a brawl, your adrenaline raises your body temperature, masking
your pain. I grabbed his wrist, yanking it away from my face and dug my thumb
into his eye. He screamed and let go. I punched him, rolled us both over, got
him in a chokehold and started squeezing. It was nasty, I heard him choking,
gasping for breath and he started to go limp.

Mrs. Clipper stuck her pistol into my face. “Let
him go!”

I let him go. He rolled off me, choking and
spluttering air back into his lungs. She pulled back the hammer on her nasty
looking .32 and glared undying hatred at me. I didn’t move, or try to avoid the
impending bullet, or hold my hands up defensively. Instead, I smirked at her,
hocked up a blood filled loogie and spat it right in her face. It smacked on
the corner of her mouth. Instead of shooting me, disgust creased her face and
she stepped back, wiping it away with her sleeve. Arnold kicked me in the ribs
so hard, that I felt at least two of them crack. The pain was intense, and I
screamed, barely able to breath.

“Fucking piece of shit!”

“Fuck your mother.”

He bent down and grabbed my throat, squeezing
harder and harder. I felt myself passing out as the darkness rolled in. I woke
when someone threw water over my face and waited for my vision to come back
into focus. Arnold and his mother were looking down at me with the same
expressionless, dead-eye glare. They were both armed and it appeared that I
wasn’t long for this world.

“Get up!” It was half-command, half jubilant
exhortation.

“I can’t.”

He looked toward the door. “Richard, get in here.”

I gave Richie the once over as he sashayed in,
moving sideways, for all the world like a ferret. Black jeans, expensive black
leather jacket, silver chain around his neck. A movie star persona complete
with demented director.

“Help him up,” commanded Arnold.

Richie bent down and grabbed me, pulling me to my
feet. I was still unsteady, so he leaned me against the sideboard.

“Thanks.” He backed away. “Good to finally meet
you.”

Arnold stuck his gun into my chest. “You don’t get
to speak to him.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid he’ll find out what you
did to his dad?”

Arnold squinted hatred, so pure, so vile, that
despite myself, a chill fingered its way down my spine. Everyone turned to look
as a black-and-tan Rottweiler snarled up to the French doors, pressing its
massive head against the glass, dripping saliva, giving me the evil eye. This
dog wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into me.

“Richard, be a love and go calm him down.”

“Sure.”

He opened the French door and bent down,
whispering something to the dog. It calmed and assumed the sit position, its
gaze wandering from him to me. I took advantage of the distraction and quickly
picked up my Walther, which was on the sideboard, slipping it into my inside
pocket. Richie came back in and closed the door. I locked eyes with the dog and
snarled, showing him my teeth. The dog exploded, barking furiously, butting the
door.

Arnold tapped the glass to get its attention.
“Quiet, Brutus.”

The dog stopped barking but continued to growl,
his beady eyes locked on yours truly.

I let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Brutus?”

“Yes, why?” glared Arnold.

“How appropriate.”

He pointed his gun at me and trying hard to
control himself, hissed, “Outside.”

I didn’t move. “Not with that fucking thing out
there.”

Arnold couldn’t hide his amusement. He shook his
head in dismay and turned to Richard. “Sweetheart, if you would, please?”

Richard stepped outside, grabbing the dog by the
collar and led it away.

Arnold waved me out with his gun and then
followed, along with his mother. I had the feeling she would shoot me through
the head at the slightest provocation. Richard chained the dog up and I stopped
in front of a white gazebo, complete with sweet peas growing up and through the
latticework. It was built on a knoll at the back of the yard with towering
bamboo hedges on either side; in fact, the entire backyard was ringed with
them. I thought I saw movement in the bamboo, but it could have been my imagination.

I looked at Richie. “Where’s Jade?”

Arnold pushed me back. “I told you not to speak to
him.”

“What’re you gonna do, kill me?” I snorted with
contempt.

Richie came over and that’s when I noticed that
his pupils were dilated. He was, as Ron Cera would say, wired as a power
station. He blurted, “Why did you murder Ron?”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I never touched him.”

“That’s enough,” interrupted Arnold.

I pointed at Clipper. “He killed him, or at least
he had it done.”

“Shut up,” said Arnold.

“I was questioned by the cops and they told me
that eye witnesses saw Ernie, Tom and Arnold drop off Ron’s corpse.”

Arnold took a menacing step toward me, jacking
back the hammer on his gun. “One more word.”

I locked eyes with him and smirked. Richard,
trying to make sense of it all, came up to me and pulled out a knife which he
pointed at me, punctuating each word with an air stab.

“You…are…a…liar.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe--”

“--Go ahead, ask lover boy.”

Arnold smiled. “This is quite ridiculous, and I’ve
heard--”

“--Go on, ask him,” I said, challenge edging my
words.

Richard tried to form the words, but his mouth
didn’t want to cooperate.

Arnold didn’t have that problem. “You wanna see
Jade?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

He jerked the gun as if he was going to shoot me
and changed his mind. “Richard, go get your sister.”

Richard didn’t move. Instead he squinted and
asked, “Who killed Ron?”

Arnold could no longer control himself and shouted
maniacally, “He did! He did! HE DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIID!”

“Calm down, dear,” said Mrs. Clipper, strangely
calm.

But Richard wasn’t going to be deterred so easily.
“Don’t lie to me, dude. I hate liars.” His mobile features congealed into a
look of anguish.

“Have I ever lied to you?” snapped Arnold.

“You hurt Jade.”

“She deserved it.”

“Did you have Ron’s head cut off?”

“What does it matter? Huh? What difference does it
make? Who do you love? Me or that dumb actor?”

“Richard,” said Mrs. Clipper sharply, “don’t let
this vile liar confuse you.”

Richard ignored her and although high, managed to keep
somewhat focused on Arnold. “I don’t understand.” The words came out broken,
like a child mourning a misplaced toy.

“It’s okay,” said Arnold. “We’re going to make
everything okay.”

“But--”

“--Please go and let Jade out.”

Richard shrugged and moved over to a shed set off
from the gazebo. He unlocked it and Jade seemed to catapult into view. Her left
arm hung uselessly, her broken fingers dark and discolored. Her eyes were wild,
her pupils huge. It was obvious that she had been drugged. She stared at us,
her once radiant eyes now pools of vacancy. It was hard to watch.

I stepped forward, smiled and said softly, “Jade,
it’s me, Nick.”

She looked straight at me and there was a glimmer
of recognition. “Nick,” she repeated slowly as if the word might bring her back
to reality.

“We’re going to be going home soon.”

Drool was leaking out the side of her mouth,
slowly making its way down her chin. I wanted to wipe it for her, and then wipe
Arnold and his vile parents off the face of the Earth. We stood there, the six
of us, in this beautiful back garden with flowers and bees and birds and
sunshine and the intoxicating scent of jasmine. It was the most surreal
experience.

She turned her gaze on Richard. Her face contorted
with grief, then congealed into a delicate pleading smile. She pitched toward
him and he opened his arms, a boyish smile breaking across his handsome face.
As they met, she raked the nails of her right hand across his cheek, driving
him to the ground, falling on top of him. He screamed in pain and she dug her
nails into his face.

I grabbed Jade, trying to pull her off Richard.
“Stop, Jade! Let him go!”

She made not a sound, but Richard was screaming
loud enough for both of them.

“Jade!” I yelled with one final violent tug,
pulling her up off him.

I steadied her on her feet and she pulled away
from me. Mrs. Clipper stepped forward, unsure what to do. Arnold helped up
Richard, who was crying, and handed him back his knife.

“It’s okay, it’s just a scratch,” he reassured
him, gently wiping the blood away with his sleeve.

Richard turned to Jade, pain, fear, love,
confusion rippling across his face. He stepped toward her and she smiled, but
it was a weird contortion, without warmth, without soul.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Jade nodded and came forward. Richard’s blade
flashed and dug deep in her chest.

“No!” I shouted and ran over, catching her as she
collapsed into my arms.

Arnold looked surprised and turned to Richard, who
was obviously having trouble comprehending what had just happened. He rubbed
his eyes and stared at his sister, the handle of the knife still in her chest.
I could just make out the butterfly tattoos above her breasts, purple and gold.
Her right breast was pooling with bright red blood. I laid Jade gently on the
grass, stood up and glared at Arnold. He shrugged, smirked and aimed his gun at
me. I dodged to one side and knocked Mrs. Clipper over as I leapt behind the
gazebo.

Arnold, his gun leading the way, laughed as he
came toward me. “That’s not going to help.”

Half-hidden behind the latticework, I popped the
clip into my Walther.

Richard intercepted Arnold and started screaming
at him. “You bastard. Look what you made me do.”

He replied, “Calm down. It was an accide--”

CRACK! Richard slapped him hard across the face. I
think we were all a little amazed and Arnold stood there, his expression a
mixture of pain and embarrassment.

“Richard, stop!” screamed Mrs. Clipper.

Arnold held out his hands to Richard in a pleading
manner. He side-stepped Arnold’s proffered embrace and swung a glancing blow that
caught him square on the jaw, spinning him halfway around. Mrs. Clipper had
seen enough. She aimed her pistol directly at Richard and fired three rounds.
The first hit Richard in the throat, the other two sailed past his face. His
hands flew up to the gaping hole squirting blood like an open tap. He gurgled
something indiscernible and sank to the grass. Again Mrs. Clipper took aim at
Richard, who was lying on the ground, his life ebbing fast.