Cry Havoc (25 page)

Hey, No. Listen up buddy. Hear me calling you? Help me, buddy. Help me. I’m at the Mothers place on Slauson. It’s Frank, No. You gotta help me. Noah. Help me. The Mother’s place. Slauson. Come on, buddy. I need you bad. Listen to me, No. Stop what you’re doing and listen. Yeah, buddy, it’s me, Frank. Come on, get your ass over here. I need you, No.

Returning the gourd to the altar, the Mother started sprinkling designs onto the floor like Marguerite had done. The Mother straightened, breaking into a chant. Frank was momentarily distracted from her pain, amazed at the deep bellow issuing from the Mother, rising over the cacophony of the drums. Frank tried to recognize the language. It was like none she’d ever heard.

Come on, No. The Mother’s place on Slauson. It’s Frank. Come get me, No. HQ for Marie Laveau. Come on, No, come on. It’s Frank.

The Mother spoke to the lead drummer and he changed the tempo again. The drums thrummed faster and tighter. Reaching into one of the boxes, the Mother pulled out a pigeon. She held the bird over her head, braying like she was Mephistopheles. Ripping the bird’s head off, she walked around the room sprinkling blood on everyone. The drummers sang responses to her chant. She did the same thing with another pigeon, then repeated the procedure with a rooster. The bodies were dumped into a black kettle in front of the altar.

Noah! The Mother’s place! Slauson! Get your fucking ass over here, buddy. ASAP! Pronto, No. We’re killing birds over here!

The girl who led Frank into the room brought in a lamb covered with a red cloth. Frank understood that the sacrifices were getting larger. Kneeling before the altar, the Mother sang, “Obi aro obi aye obi ofo.”

Frank answered,
Obi Wan Kenobi, where are you? Scooby Doo, motherfucker, we got some work to do. Come on, Noah. Mother Love’s place. Please don’t let me be next on the menu, No.

She pictured the wet brick building. The street address. She watched the Mother dress the lamb with the sticky stuff in the gourd. The animal didn’t protest at all and Frank wondered if they’d drugged it. Christ, she wished they’d have drugged her. Her arms were finally getting numb but her back was wrenching into spasms. She twisted into them as best she could.

The drummers chanted, “Firolo, firolo,” and Frank sang,
Figaro, Figaro,
against the daggers down her back and sides.
Jesus fucking sweet Jesus the pain. Noah, buddy. Noah, help me for Christ’s sake. Look, No. Its me. Frank. The Mothers got me. At Slauson. Come on, hud. Come on. Come through for me, No.

The Mother walked toward Frank, intent and business-like. She jammed something into Frank’s mouth and Frank spat it out. It tasted of coconut and pepper. The Mother picked up the wad and rubbed it into the lamb’s forehead. The twin who’d brought the birds in tied the lamb’s legs together. He flipped it onto a bed of banana leaves by the altar and nodded at his brother. The twin glowered at Frank. She lunged at him as best she could. He started and she grinned, shouting, “Made you jump, stupid motherfucker.”

The brothers stretched the lamb lengthwise and the drummers wailed on their heads between their legs. The Mother bawled one of her ditties and her six blind mice offered the answering refrain. They did that three times, then she neatly severed the lamb’s throat. Its blood spouted into a brightly painted tureen.

Jesus, Noah, hurry. Please. I’m begging you. Whoever the fuck is out there. Mickey Mouse, Jesus, Buddha. Whoever the fuck, whatever, if anybody’s listening, now is the time to do something. Look! Fm begging. Fm not proud here. Look. No pride. Please. Fm asking nice. Pretty please.

The first twin cut the lamb’s head off. The Mother poured salt into the neck, swabbing the wound with a clear, sticky goo. Chanting, her drummers answering, the Mother carried the head to Frank. She lifted it, letting warm blood rain onto Frank’s face.

“Washed in the blood of the lamb,” Frank murmured.

The Mother laughed deeply, like a man. She nodded at the twins and they walked behind Frank. They dropped her arms to her ass.

She couldn’t feel them, but the blood rushing into the surrounding area felt like her veins were infused with acid. She flinched at the pain, cursing these bastards for even getting that much from her.

The tempo of the drumming was furious, like Hell’s own cattle herd stampeding. The Mother put the lamb’s head into the pot with the birds. She carefully cleaned her knife. It was long and grooved, a wicked looking instrument. Frank turned away from it. She just hoped it was sharp.

Oh fucking sweet Jesus, I am so fucked. Oh goddamn. Come on, No, quit dicking around. I need you man, oh please, I need you. Fm running out of time here, No. Running out of time, Boy-o.

Frank could relate to Father Merrin scrabbling through the dusky ruins, with Pazzuzu’s face leering over him as his final confrontation played out to its irrevocable conclusion. But the priest had gone down swinging. In the end, he had his pride. Was that why he fell? Did he choke on his own arrogance?

The Mother came toward Frank. She held the knife with both hands, as if offering atonement. The blade winked in the burnt light. Bile rose in Frank’s throat. The Mother stood before her, the boys behind. She passed the knife to the twin who’d been assisting her.

“Lucian has been touched by Ogun,” she said reverently. “He’s allowed to handle the sacrificial instruments.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” Frank spat, “I like to know who’s gonna slit my fucking throat.”

The Mother’s words were audible above the din of the drums, but Frank’s were swallowed alive. She stared into the terrible blackness of the Mother’s eyes. All things repelled by daylight glinted from those twin hells. In them, jinn and lilim cavorted by smokeless fires, the desert night stirring restlessly beyond them. Hobbled inside the pale, Azazel’s goat bleated for mercy. Jackals paced restlessly with the hyenas, awaiting the blooded sacrifice. The moon turned away, but the stars looked on with indifference.

Soundlessly, the Mother spun the old tale, luring Frank with promises as old as the sands upon which they were made. This wasn’t the first time the dark covenant had winked at Frank or cocked a crooked finger at her.

Frank closed her eyes against the desolate visions. She listened to the Mother’s laugh, echoing as if from a black and reeking well.

Laugh, you cankerous old bitch. Go ahead. We’ll see who’s standing at the end.
Odds were excellent it would be the Mother but Frank refused to believe that. Couldn’t believe that. Even as the Mother gave Lucian the nod.

Grabbing Frank’s shirt, he ran the knife along it. He pulled the cloth apart and bared her chest. Deftly running the blade along her arms he stripped the rest of the shirt free.

Frank didn’t like that one little bit, but it was buying her time.

For what?
she questioned bitterly.
For the psychic hotline to kick in? Fuck you, Marguerite, fuck you, Noah. Fuck you all very much. Fuck you Mickey Mouse. Fuck you god, if you’re even there. Yeah, Fm choking on my pride, too.

Lucian yanked her jeans down with her underwear, slitting them loose from the chain. For the first time in her life, Frank wished she wore a bra. One more thing to cut away. One more minute to buy.

Frank no longer hoped a miraculous intervention would save her. She just wanted to live a few minutes longer. Life had suddenly become intensely sweet and she wasn’t ready to give it up. She wanted to cry, but refused to feed the Mother’s triumph.

The Mother returned to her altar, took up the chanting in that unnervingly male voice. Frank was almost senseless with gratitude for the extra moments. The Mother brought a bowl to Frank, rubbing her up and down with an orange oil. Frank avoided those Stygian eyes. She didn’t want them to be the last thing she saw.

She thought about Gail and the tin heart still in her pocket. She was pissed she wasn’t going to be able to give it to her, more pissed she hadn’t said, “I love you” on the phone. Frank cursed her cowardice and her anger refueled her.

It ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings and I ain’t going down easy. All I got left’s pride.

Marguerite had said she was a warrior. Always fighting. Always.

The Mother lifted her hand and Frank’s feet were swept from under her. She tried breaking the fall with her shoulder but had no leverage to turn. She arched her neck, but her skull hit the floor.

Frank blinked at colored lights arcing across a gray background. The twins pulled steadily on her ankle chain and her face scraped across the concrete. She felt the warmth and wetness of blood, but she wasn’t feeling much pain. The numbness was good news. The bad news was that the dullness signaled some degree of concussion; her body had closed down the ancillary pain receptors to combat this latest crisis. She was drowsy and nauseous.

Just sleep,
she told herself.
Don’t give them the satisfaction of any pain.
Frank gagged. Her body’s desperate plea for oxygen suddenly sharpened her thoughts. She coughed, gulping in air. If she puked upside down she’d probably suffocate herself.

Not an option,
she managed to think.
They can slit my flicking throat but I will not choke on my own puke. Pride, yeah. Puke, no. Fuck you, motherfuckers. Ain’t goin
‘
down easy. Okay, No. I’m giving you one last chance. Running out of time here. Come on. Come and get me, No. Mickey Mouse. Somebody. Slauson, buddy, La Casa de Love.

With a last heave, Frank’s head dangled over the floor, her ankles supporting all one hundred and sixty three pounds. A moan slipped between her clenched teeth. She couldn’t stop it and didn’t care.

The blood backed up into her brain and squeezed behind her eyes. Black dots hovered like malevolent cherubs. She wondered how long before she passed out?

Motherfuckers, motherfuckers,
she droned lazily.
Get mad. Stay mad. Running out of mad. Noah. Hear me, buddy?

Frank saw the reverse order of her world through the fog of concussion and rushing blood. The brothers were beside her and the Mother was behind her. She was singing in a high wail like she had just before she slaughtered the lamb. Frank thought if she went as quickly as that it wouldn’t be so bad.

Helluva picture to hang over the coffee pot. Lieutenant L.A. Franco,

sold into white slavery. Come on, No, I’m naked. You know you always wanted to see me naked. Now’s your chance. Better hurry .

The pain was dulling again and grayness crept at the edge of her vision. She was fading and knew it.

“Gotta stay mad,” she mumbled indifferently. “Stay mad.”

She was aware enough to see the brothers pivot. Heard their deep voices above the drums. The drumming faltered, the beat breaking down skin by skin. Frank heard another voice. It was familiar but she was too woozy to place it. The Mother was yelling but the drummers jabbering and the boys shouting jumbled all their words up.

Must be the audience participation part of the show,
Frank thought dimly. She mustered enough strength for a weak twist against the chains, still curious about what fresh hell waited her.

The pain ratcheted through her confusion, and just before the dimness made its final, rushing assault, Frank had a fraction of a second to think,
What the fuck is he doing here?

She repeated the question to him from her hospital bed.

Darcy’s smile was sheepish.

“Fubar’s going to be asking you the same thing.”

“He on his way?”

Darcy nodded. “With an entourage of big hats.”

“At least I bought some time,” Frank said, indicating the curtained wall. “He’s probably still busy fucking up the scene.”

Frank was exhausted, but nonetheless grateful for her fatigue and dull pain.

“Give me the lowdown before he gets here.”

“It’s pretty wild,” he said, pulling the only chair up to her bed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “Or maybe you do.”

He nodded.

“Turns out, this whole thing was a setup, and not just on you. Lucian—one of the twins—he and his brother’s wife set this scam up on the Mother. Like begets like. According to him, she was starting to believe her own legends, acting like she was invincible. He saw after she killed her own nephew how far she’d go and how far she’d already gone. He didn’t want to go down with her.

“The
bembe
was his idea. He was sure you’d come and she went along with it. The plan was to have you in imminent danger, then have the cops bust in at the last minute. No way the Mother could get off for jacking a cop. He didn’t want you to die, but it was a chance he was willing to take.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“The point was to set the Mother up. The son—Lucian—he was going to cop to everything so that the old lady would get sent away forever. But the plan slipped. When we came in, the other brother, Marcus, he fired shots and we took him out. Lavinia and the Mother went and hid behind you. The Mother had a knife on you and that pretty much stopped us. She called Lucian over to her and he went. He stood behind her and next thing we know he’s got a gun on her. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ and just like that he pulled the trigger. He dropped the gun and just stood there. He said one way or another somebody was going to die and that by killing her he ended the killing.”

Through the haze of her concussion and meds, Frank stated, “That’s beautiful. ‘I’m sorry, Mama’. Sorry my ass. I bet he meant to smoke her.”

“Probably, huh?”

“I wouldn’t want the Mother alive after I’d ratted her out. If he’d already seen how far she’d go, what would keep her from frying her own son alive? There’s no way he’d get out of that except by killing her. Then his army of lawyers get him off on self-defense and the kid’s running an empire.”

Frank studied the ceiling.

“Lavinia. She the skinny girl in the black dress?”

“Marcus’s wife. She and Lucian cooked this up together.”

Frank nodded, “She was going in and out. She’s the one who called you.” Frank had to close her eyes.