The Skunge (13 page)

She peered into the bathroom mirror, the diseased light of the flyspecked lightbulb shining full bright on her face, and saw nothing in her flesh. But under her nails, specks of black filth. She thought about the past and the creeping inevitably of its return. She cried in the shower, a short hard rain of tears for Jynx, who had wanted so badly to be special that she couldn't see that she already was.

She drove up Dennis Maas's driveway the next evening. As the house pulled into view, an old feeling crept back into her belly. Not pleasure or pain, but a sensation like a ball of ice in her stomach. She had lived with that sensation for many years, and it had taken her almost ten years to forget. When she had last left Maas' house, she thought she would never be back. But here she was. For a moment, she thought about turning around and heading anywhere else. What could she find out there? She drummed her fingers on the wheel.

She leaned on the gate buzzer. A point of red light winked open high up on the gate, and she scowled at the impersonal eye of the driveway cam. It buzzed as it panned the car. She gave it the finger.

"Spare me the bullshit and let me in, please." She lit a cigarette, then tossed it after one puff, grimacing at the bitter, awful taste.

The gate buzzed and swung open in ponderous silence. The house was lit up, every light blazing, a trio of luxury cars and SUVs parked in the long driveway like slumbering exotic beasts. She parked behind a Cadillac, got out and stretched luxuriously. The near-dark hummed with life, the buzz of insects like a fog.

A compact, thick-set man with bleak eyes answered the door. His arms were covered in splashes of tattooed color, contrasting with his pale skin and dark clothes.

She smirked at him. "What are you supposed to be, the bouncer at a vampire convention?" She held his gaze, daring his eyes to drop to her crumpled sweat shorts, a size too small, and her tank-top, damp with sweat where it clung to her chest. His eyes stayed locked to hers, and even without the up-and-down examination, she felt the urge to cover up. He smiled, but it didn't reach the bleakness of his eyes.

"Only on the weekends. Boss man is in the library—I don't suppose you need directions." He stood aside to let her pass. She wondered if she'd remembered to put on deodorant that morning.

He kept pace with her, not offering to pick up her duffel bag she'd dropped at the door. She looked back at him. "I'm good, thanks. I'd love a drink though. A vodka and—"

He smiled and interrupted. "There's a full bar in most of the rooms. I'm the bouncer, not the bartender, remember?" He gave her a crooked smile and veered off down a side hall. He sported a tattoo of a crown across the back of his neck.

"What's your name? I can't just call you bouncer, and I may still want that drink later."

He turned to walk backwards. "My name's Arneson." This time, the smile touched his eyes, if only for a second.

She stopped before the library door. A mix of emotions swirled through her: shame, fear, anger, and unfocused guilt. She hadn't been in this room since she was a teenager. Her fingers traced the contours of the wood, like they had when she was a child, and it still felt smooth and shiny-slick. She knocked and the door opened.

Her step-father hadn't changed much—hair too long, scruffy three-day growth of a beard, board shorts, flannel shirt. He was barefoot, as always. His permanent companion, a whiskey glass half-full of amber liquid, caught the mellow lamplight and spun it into gold. He looked more like a drug-addled ex-surfer than a drug lord or pornography king, but the Santa Colima County sheriff's department, and the FBI, said otherwise.

"Sugar. This is a surprise." He sipped from his drink, looking her up and down.

"Dennis."

"You look good. Healthy, I mean." He made a vague hand-gesture. "You know."

"Sure. How have you been?" She ignored the itching, which had started up again. It felt like insects crawling over her skin. She breathed in the smell of his cigars and the warm, boozy aura that always surrounded him. Long buried feelings climbed out of the soil of her psyche, itching like the Skunge. She crammed the sensation down with ruthless efficiency. She needed a place to stay, that was all. That was
all
.

He ignored her question, as she knew he would. A Dennis Maas special, that. But God forbid you should ignore something he said. "So." He turned abruptly and plopped into an overstuffed leather chair, crossing his legs. "To what do I owe an appearance?" He selected a cigar and tapped it ruminatively on the humidor. "Let me guess: you'd like some money, and then nothing more to do with me for another five years."

A flush rose on her face, and the itching heightened until it was almost unbearable. "No. No money. I'm doing pretty well for myself, now." She crushed a sudden urge to turn and leave, just run back the way she had come and take her chances on the road. But the past called to her, and the cold comfort of familiarity.

"OK. So, what, then?

Sugar hated this feeling, the awkward dance around the rotting framework of a shared past. She crossed her arms. "There's was some shit going on in LA and I needed to leave town for a bit. That's all, OK? I just need a place to stay."

"Oh, so just a little vacation in the wild and woolly Northern California mountains? Just like your mother, when she showed up with you, ten years ago, begging for a crash pad."

"And look how well that turned out."

He pursed his lips, then exhaled and turned to face his computer. The back of the chair cast a long shadow. "Fine." The barest hint of the Dutch accent he had worked so hard to be rid of crept into his words, as it did when he was angry or tired. "Stay as long as you like. Maybe I can find something for you to do to earn your keep."

"Maybe," she said, and left the room. She was glad her voice didn't shake.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Arneson clubbed the fat man across the jaw with a pair of brass knuckles. A tooth, remarkably unblemished, flew out of Rubalcava's mouth and skittered across the floor like a thrown die. His lip burst, spraying blood across the yellowed linoleum. A single compact fluorescent bulb burned overheard, stapling the men's shadows to the floor. A smart phone sat on a portable stand, camera light glowing serenely as it captured the scene.

"Holy shit!" Sonch cried. "Knocked his fuckin' tooth out. That's good." Sonch looked like Confucius; if Confucius were white, blond, perpetually stoned, and had a penchant for tight jeans, heavy metal t-shirts, and jail-house tattoos. He bent to pick up the tooth. The front of his jeans looked like he might have popped a boner. "How'd that feel, Rubalcava? Are you sure you don't want to tell us anything?"

Mouth, nose, and two fingers broken, s
ans
tooth, Rubalcava smiled like a contented Buddha.

Arneson crouched to bring his eyes level with Rubalcava's, grimacing as his knees popped. "You look pretty jolly for a guy about to have his face smashed in. Tell you what—in about two minutes, I'm going to have my friend here," he nodded at Sonch, "go into the back and get his equipment. If he does, you're not walking out of here. Understand?"

"I understand you're an asshole." The man spit pieces of broken lip as he spoke. One eye had turned blood red from ruptured blood vessels and his lips looked like strips of raw chicken. His nose had been broken so convincingly it looked like Picasso had designed it after a particularly bad acid trip. "Tell Maas to suck eggs."

"Suck eggs?" Sonch grinned at Arneson. "Am I crazy, or is that is some peckerwood, corn-bread, white-trash motherfuckin' bullshit? You think he's trying to, what's it called, co-opt our culture, Arneson?"

"Could be," Arneson said. He slapped Rubalcava across the face, leaving a glaring red handprint. "Come on now. Make this easy. Give us what we need, and you blow town and leave this shit behind." Arneson ignored Sonch's frantic throat-slitting motions. Maas would have a kitten if they let this fat fuck just walk away. Arneson leaned in closer to Rubalcava, and the bound man's eye started to tic. "Last chance, man. Sonch is going to kill you if you don't tell us."

"I'm already dead, man. The minute they find out I rolled over, the boys I work for put the word out on the streets. After that, it's just a matter of time. These guys, they don't leave open connections—they get closed ASAP, no questions asked, no excuses."

Sonch stubbed out his smoke, grinning, and rose to his feet. He took a long swallow off his beer and belched resoundingly. Giving Rubalcava a sardonic little salute, he walked out of the room. Clanking sounds and the occasional muffled curse floated back.

Arneson grabbed Rubalcava by the hair, ignoring the tacky dried blood, and pulled his face around to his. "Go to the cops. The FBI. Whoever. Whatever. Just give us what we need, and I will let you get the fuck out of here. I'm telling you,
do it
."

Sonch returned wheeling a bright orange machine. The face of it was covered in a complicated array of knobs, switches and lights. At the other end of the machine was a large grated hopper. On top of the grate, a paper bag marked KWIK-DRY PORTLAND CEMENT.

Rubalcava barked laughter. "You guys are going to bury me in cement? What is this, 1965?" Sonch grinned and cut into the bag. Cement puffed out like the breath of a desiccated corpse. "You really are some corny motherfuckers. What, did you guys see this in a Scorsese picture?" He shook his head, still laughing. "You know what, you're going to need a few more bags."

Sonch unreeled a length of rubber tubing and attached it to a nozzle on the outside of the hopper. He flipped switches and cranked dials, and the thing lit up. Arneson smoked hungrily. Rubalcava began to fidget.

"Hey, fuck you guys. You know you're dead, right? They're going to torture you so long you'll be able to retire."

Arneson blew smoke in his face. "It's not too late to take me up on my offer."

Rubalcava snorted and turned his face away. Arneson flicked his eyes up at Sonch, who grinned and hit a switch on the mortar-sprayer. The thing rumbled to life like an American V8 engine. Rubalcava's eyes darted toward the noise, then away.

Sonch pulled on leather work-gloves and picked up the nozzle, examining it under the stark light of the hanging bulb. "You know, I never done this before." He twisted the tip, and gave the trigger an experimental pull. Cement squirted form the tip, spraying a rooster-comb of thick gray liquid. "Ought to be interesting."

Arneson stared at Rubalcava, willing him to stop fucking around and give them what they wanted. Chances were this was still going to come to a bad end for the guy, but better not now, not here, and not by Arneson's hand. Rubalcava, jaw clenched, turned away to face the wall.

"OK. If that's how you want it to be, then that's how its gonna be. Open your mouth." Rubalcava shook his head and squinted his eyes closed. Maybe he hoped that blocking the sight of Arneson would banish him like an evil genie. Arneson sighed. "We're going to plug this sprayer into your mouth, and Sonch is going to pull the trigger. After he does that, he's going to jam it right down your throat. We're going to spray twenty pounds of cement into your stomach, and your lungs, and wherever else it will go. Your organs are gonna rupture and fill your fat body up with this shit. You're going to drown in cement. And remember, you did this to yourself." He pulled on gloves and picked up a steel bottle opener. He forced it into Rubalcava's mouth, the tip clanking against his teeth, and wedged it between his jaws. Muscles straining, he levered downward. Rubalcava screamed through the widening gap between his teeth.

Sonch rammed the steel nozzle into Rubalcava's mouth. The machine thrummed and pounded. Sonch edged a dial up, and the noise ratcheted up to a roar. Tools jangled on a nearby workbench, and Rubalcava's Dingo boots rattled out a jazz beat on the oil-stained floor. Arneson, arms ugly with muscle, held Rubalcava as Sonch began to push the nozzle in deep.

Rubalcava's eyes were wide and panicked, blood threading over his teeth. He began shouting, muffled by the nozzle.
I give! I give! I give!
Arneson pulled the hose, gripping Rubalcava's head by the hair.

Sonch scowled and looked to Arneson. The muscles his forearm jumped and fluttered. Arneson could see how bad he wanted to do this. He knew Sonch's past, or at least enough to know what kind of things he had done, and this would be no more than a bump in the road to hell.

"Start talking," Arneson rasped. "So help me God, you leave anything out, I'm going to let Sonch have his wish." Rubalcava's eyes strayed to Sonch, who grinned like a demon. Rubalcava looked back to Arneson, eyes rolling like a calf's in the moonlight.

"Shit. OK, man, I'll talk. I'll talk. Don't do nothing else to me, OK? I'll tell you everything you need to know. Just get rid of that crazy bastard, please?"

Arneson gestured with his head, and Sonch stalked away. Rubalcava started talking.

The eye of the camera recorded it all.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Sugar watched the news online, reeling at the wash of information pouring across the networks. Los Angeles had declared a State of Emergency. The governor had flown to Washington on a pretext of approaching congress for more funding, and he showed no signs of returning. The police held the line while bus after bus of reservists arrived in khaki-colored ranks.