The Vile Village (12 page)

“Breakfast for two.” The madam smiled without batting one of her four-inch-long eyelashes. “And will the two of you be needing
any female companionship?” she asked, looking first at Stone and then at his dog.

“We’re into steak and eggs, sugar.” Stone grinned as he suddenly saw himself in the gold-edged mirror and realized what a
pig he looked like. Back upstairs, he found that the plush room had a real bathroom with—amazement of amazements—a bath with
running warm water. Stone had no idea how they did it, but he didn’t ask. He took off his things while the pitbull sniffed
around the perfumed chairs and couches of the main room, his nose going wild with the thick, overlapping smells.

Stone washed all the slime and the last coating of medicine off him, not to mention the blood he had splattered on his hands
the night before when he had taken out Pins. Afterward, dried off, his hair combed back, he looked at least like he belonged
to the human race, if not one of its outstanding members. The food came just as he had slipped his boots on, and Stone and
the dog gobbled up the steaming chow like there was no tomorrow. The animal took half its plate down in one immense bite,
turned its brown-and-white head to the right, where it drank its glass of foaming, homebottled beer with one big slurp, spilling
half of it over onto the floor. Then it swung back to the dinner plate, a china-blue pattern around the edges, and lopped
up what remained in a single wet snap of its tongue.

Stone was hardly through his third forkful when the canine whined from across the floor, where its plate sat empty, and looked
at Stone with an Is-this-it? kind of expression.

“Forget it, dog, you can’t have a fucking single bite of mine. That’s right, not one bite. I know, you wished now you’d eaten
that finger instead of spitting it out last night. But that’s how it is. Now, please, go meditate or something, I don’t need
dog drool over my eggs.” The pitbull retreated, sulking to another smaller bed across the room where it jumped up onto the
powder-blue satin covering and found itself a nice spot in one of the feather pillows, stomping it down here and there until
it was just right for the shape of its body. It let out a deep sigh, then its head fell back and the big tongue lolled out
of the right side of the furred face. It had been up all night guarding the bike, hadn’t slept a single moment. And it hadn’t
been just one offending hand that it had had to snap at.

Stone finished his breakfast, and his stomach actually began to settle down. He vowed never again to drink anything brown
or green. Then he checked his weapons, making sure they were both loaded and in full working order. He had a feeling that
his nine-to-five job as a hired killer was about to begin. Sure enough, there was a knock on the door, and Stone opened it
to see one of the bearded underlings of the Strathers gang.

“The brothers want to see you now. Pronto!” the man said, clicking his teeth in an obscene little sound. “Over at the Paradise
Girls. You know where it is?”

“Yeah,” Stone replied frostily. The man shut the door and was gone. He chained Excaliber’s chain leash to the railing of the
brass bed that the dog was lying in like the King of Siam. Then he headed out, trying to close the door softly so as not to
awaken the animal. He didn’t need any more accusing stares of desertion. On the way out, Stone stopped by the front desk and
threw the madam a few silver dollars.

“That’s for me and my dog for the next few days. Have another plate of steak and eggs—no beer—sent up in an hour or two. Oh,
and this is very important, tell whoever brings it not to go inside but to just leave the food inside the door and then close
it fast.”

“Will do,” the madam said with a curt smile as she turned back to the ancient, yellowing romance magazine she had read over
and over a hundred times so that its pages were covered with her fingerprints from makeup and lipstick. Stone kept expecting
her to at least question some of his requests. But apparently a lot stranger things went on around here than a dog having
breakfast.

He made his way back to the main stretch of the town and to the headquarters of the Strathers clan. Stone could instantly
see which was the place, as about a dozen of the lower echelon were set up outside a four-story building with a sandbagged
machine-gun emplacement. It was all very official-looking, until Stone noticed that the guys had the ammunition belt inside
the weapon upside down. He didn’t have the heart to tell them. Besides, someday soon they might just be firing the thing at
him.

When he gave his name at the barricade, he was quickly ushered in by a low-level slime whose low-sloped brow and hairy face
and arms wouldn’t have been out of place about two million years ago when
Zinjanthropus
had roamed the world.

“De brudders will see youse now,” the man said, trying to sound official, which was just about the most ridiculous sight Stone
had ever seen, since the filthy fellow had dried snot and bones from last night’s alley-cat dinner all over his rabbit-fur
vest. This particular group of rabbits looked somewhat the worse for wear what with bullet holes and bloodstains all over
their pelts. Not that they were complaining.

“Thank you so kindly,” Stone said politely, figuring it couldn’t hurt to make a few “friends” around here.

“Ah, Mr. Preacher,” a voice said from inside a room. Stone walked in and saw three men seated side by side in large, plush
armchairs—the Strathers brothers. And off to one side of them, chained to a wall, was a full-grown lion—mane, claws, teeth,
and all.

“Uh, hello,” Stone said, feeling like a whole swamp of frogs was stuck in his throat. “Nice lion you’ve got there.” He grinned
and walked into the room, keeping a nice distance from the creature, which was eyeing him either hungrily or suspiciously.

The Strathers brother nearest the beast, a smile on his thin face, reached down and stroked the animal along its golden mane.
The predator closed its eyes and let out a roaring purr that sent goose bumps up Stone’s backbone. He headed quickly for the
one seat they had left available, a similarly ornately carved armchair facing the three of them. Stone sat down in it, and
once he saw that the lion was not about to leap at his face and rip it into sausage patties, he let his stomach loosen about
a millionth of an inch. He turned toward the three brothers, who were staring at him, six sets of eyes burning through the
brightly lit room with its row of windows, letting in golden streams of the morning sunlight.

“So, Mr. Preacher Boy—what’s the fucking story?” the brother fondling the lion asked him. Stone made a quick take on the three
to see just who the hell he was dealing with. Vorstel was on the right and he was smiling, at least it looked like he was.
In the light of day his twisted, acid-burned face looked even more horrible than it had when he had drunk with the bastard
the night before. The one in the middle was about a foot shorter than Vorstel—from the description Undertaker had given Stone
of the three, this one was Rudolf—but the man was no less formidable, being about as wide as a table, with no neck and hardly
a chin to speak of, either. Stone always tried to find his enemy’s most vulnerable spot so that when and if he had to, he’d
know where to go. But he couldn’t find an Achilles’ heel on this one. The man looked like he had armor built over him—nothing
had been left exposed, nothing open. Just rock-hard muscle and belts of ammunition that crisscrossed back and forth over his
broad shoulders.

The third brother, Jayson, was the smallest of the three, smaller than Stone himself, who at six-foot-one, was no slouch.
But the man was thin, like a rail. Stone was sure he was a junkie, judging by the emaciated cheeks, the white lips, the thin
smirk that junkies always had right after they’d just shot up. The brothers would sure as hell have access to it all. Stone
saw something else, too, in the fraction of a second that he let his eyes sweep across them—that Jayson was looking back at
him with something more than a killer’s curiosity.

“My story is, as I’m sure Vorstel here told you,” Stone began, “that I’ve come here to make a name and some goddamn money
for myself. And I’ve chosen your organization to do it. I could have picked those other bastards, you know. I mean, ultimately
it don’t matter to me. But I heard good things about you guys. That you run a tight ship, that as long as things are kept
in place, the money flows like water out a spring.” The three looked flattered as Stone again used the oldest trick in the
book. Men will believe the most obvious lies about themselves if they are made to look good.

They seemed to digest Stone’s words for a few moments, no one in the room saying a word. Stone had no way of knowing if they
believed everything he was saying, or if they were about to launch Simba, Son of Tarzan, over there, right into his kidneys.

“And just what makes you think you’re the man what can keep things in order here in our sweet little town of Cotopaxi,” Jayson
asked him, taking out a dab of some powder in a perfumed silk handkerchief and sniffing it greedily into his inflamed nostrils.
It was a bizarre mixture of men—the two huge Cro-Magnons on one side, the effete dandy dressed in a monogrammed red morning
robe on the other, his legs up on the edge of his chair as if he were riding sidesaddle.

Stone smiled grimly. “I just know. That’s all.” He let his eyes fall on each one of them for a few moments, to let them feel
his will and to let them know that he wasn’t bullshitting, that he
had
killed men and could do it again.

Suddenly he saw a flutter of motion from Jayson’s handkerchief and then felt a sudden rush of energy from behind him like
something attacking. Stone instinctively leaned forward, crouching fast, and the assailant behind him, already striking with
a baseball bat, fell forward so that he tumbled over Stone’s head, and the bat cracked down on the floor in front of the chair.
Stone was up in a flash, grabbing the hand with the bat and at the same time placing his right foot down on the slime’s neck,
locking the man so that he was completely immobilized. Stone pulled up hard on the arm, and the man let out a howl of pain.
Stone raised up the bat with his free hand, ready to let the sucker’s head feel what a home run felt like, when a voice yelled
out.

“That’s enough, Preacher, you don’t have to kill him.” It was Jayson, retrieving his handkerchief from the floor. “It was
just a test, man. Just a test. All done in a spirit of friendly paranoia.”

“Just a test, my ass.” Stone snarled angrily. “My brains would have been all over the fucking carpet if Junior hadn’t struck
out there.”

“If he’d hit you, Mr. Preacher Boy, then you wouldn’t be the one we want, now would you?” Jayson asked with a mocking, effeminate
tone in his voice as he tilted his head and looked coyly at Stone. Stone let the attacker up, and the gang member ran from
the room, a look of confusion on his face at the speed with which Stone had moved.

The three men conferred with one another, leaning in so that their heads were almost touching. They whispered for about thirty
seconds, then sat back and faced forward again.

“All right,” the neckless one said with a deep, grinding voice that sounded like he ate gravel for breakfast. “Youse is hired.
But watch your fucking ass—or youse won’t have one.”

“T
here’s just one other thing,” Jayson said with a look of quite disturbed pleasure on his made-up, concave face.

“Yeah?” Stone asked, sensing something nasty in the offing.

“The initiation ceremony into our gang.” Jayson laughed a hideous little squeaking effeminate laugh that contained no humor.
Then his eyes rested on Stone again, like a rat’s on a baby’s face. “It’s really quite simple,” he said. “You just donate
some of your blood to our—godfather.”

“What is he, from Transylvania?” Stone asked with a smirk, not feeling like giving to the blood bank today.

“No, no.” Vorstel laughed, his three teeth—one above, two below—grinding together as a wet sound emerged from within.

“See, everybody needs an angel, you know something to watch over dem so’s dey don’t get rubbed out. You know super-superintendent-type
stuff.”

“Supernatural, supernatural, you asshole,” Jayson screeched out, wincing. His brother’s constant misuse of words seemed more
than anything else to be the main source of friction between him and the two illiterates. “He means
supernatural
protection, Mr. Preacher Boy. Protection from a divine source. You should know about that. After all, you’re a preacher.”

“What I preach, men don’t want to hear,” Stone said with an icy look.

“Well, we all have our own gods,” Jayson replied cheerfully, sniffing more powder up his nose from a straw hidden behind the
red silk scarf that he dangled across the lower part of his face. “But if you want to join our organization, you must give
to
our
god.” He rose, and the lion lifted its huge head, looking around to see what was going on and if there was trouble. Seeing
that absolutely nothing of interest to its sensibilities was in fact occurring, the great, golden-maned head sank back down
again like a rock onto its folded paws where it fell within seconds back into a semi-dream state where it was mounting a female
of its species and giving it to her real good.

“Yes, over here, Preacher Boy. Over here.” Stone rose and joined Jayson, who had walked toward a separate smaller room off
to the side. The two other brothers rose, as well, and followed. Their presence right behind Stone set him on edge. He kept
thinking about the distance from his hands to his guns.

“Yes, we keep our shrine in here, right here in our head-quarters, so we can have constant access to him.” Stone followed
the emaciated leader apparent of the brothers into a bizarre chamber filled with candles. It was like a religious shrine;
a thousand burning candles set on numerous shelves sent out flickering golden flames, making the room appear almost as if
it were on fire. It was almost like walking through the very tongues of flame. On the floor was a red carpet, thick and plush,
and ahead, up on a pedestal, was a bust of a man. Stone walked into the room, as if he were walking into a bad dream, and
followed Jayson over to the huge plaster head.