The Minotauress (28 page)

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Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: The Minotauress
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"Cool," Dicky tried to sound excited.
Balls caught the downcast tone of voice. "‘S'matter with you?"
"Aw, nothin'. Just kind'a weird outside."
"The premise is surrounded by an occult barrier," the Writer baldly stated. "Crafter obviously has some overtly ritualistic beliefs."
"Don't know what'cher talkin' 'bout, don't care," Balls ignored him. "Now git yer writer-ass in gear ‘fore I start kickin' it. Find a box and start loadin' it up with ‘spensive-lookin' loot."
"Where's Cora?" Dicky asked.
Balls pointed to the other side of the room where, in the candlelight, Cora could be seen lying unconscious. "Punched her a tad too hard last time she started runnin' her yap again. Leave the ‘ho be. She'll just get in the way."
They made several trips to the U-Haul, depositing a few of the valuables from the dining room, but back inside, the Writer suggested, "Shouldn't we check the rest of the house first? Since you gentlemen
are
 thieves, it might be more efficient to identify the most valuable booty initially, and that's just one reason."
Balls paused, carrying in a silver service tray. "One reason? Gimme another?"
"Well... to discern beyond all doubt that the house is, indeed, unoccupied."
Balls and Dicky traded uneasy glances but then Balls scoffed. "There ain't no one else here, Writer. My buddy Bud Tooler tolt me so."
"So this Mr. Tooler—his knowledge of the house is unimpeachable?"
Balls shot the Writer a funky look, which would be the first of many such looks. "What? Peaches?"
"What if this Mr. Tooler happens to be incorrect?" the Writer posed, "and there's someone upstairs right this very moment, calling the police?"
Balls and Dicky traded another uneasy glance. "He's gotta point there, Balls," Dicky said.
But Balls shook his head. "Look, Crafter ain't married and he ain't got no kids or reller-tives. I'se know for a
fact
 there ain't no one else in this house."
Just then, quite loudly, a television clicked on upstairs.
"This is CNN Headline News," a woman was saying, "and this is Lynn Russell reporting on all of the nation's up to the minute headlines. In Milwaukee, Wisconsin, today alleged serial-killer Jeffery Dahmer was arraigned on six counts of capital murder... "
Balls pulled the other two aside, into a dim hall beside another door with, of all things, a cross on it.
Now here's a cross INSIDE,
the Writer reflected.
Crafter's obviously no Christian, so why would he mount a cross on THIS door?
Balls and Dicky weren't the least bit interested. All of their faces glowed eerily in the candlelight.
"Keep yer voices down," Balls whispered. "There's someone upstairs watchin' fuckin' television. Whoever it is... we gots ta get rid of 'em so's we can finish the haul."
"But who
is
 upstairs?" Dicky whispered after huddling closer.
No answers were forthcoming.
All the while, the Writer considered:
How can a TELEVISION be on when the power's cut off?
But he did not give voice to this curiosity.
"Yer buddy Tooler fucked up," Dicky sniped. "Crafter didn't go to fuckin' Spain. It's probably Crafter hisself sittin' upstairs, waitin' fer the police."
Against the wall, a mahogany stand inlaid with crisp amethysts stood with a phone on top. The Writer picked up the phone and listened. "No dial-tone. Crafter probably did go on this trip of his and had his phone turned off. So whoever
is
 upstairs couldn't have called anyone."
"Good thinkin'," Balls said. He tiptoed across the expansive sitting room and straddled Cora. He slapped her face several times till she roused, then pressed a palm across her lips. ""Shhh. Not a word. Someone else is in the house, upstairs... "
He helped her up and led her back to the hall.
Cora's objection was a whining whisper. "Someone else in the fuckin'
house?
You're fuckin'
shittin'
me! We gotta get
out
'a here!"
"Only person goin' anywhere is you," Balls informed her. "Upstairs."
"My fuckin' ass," Cora illustriously stated.
Balls' face set. "Listen, Cora. I'll'se make a deal with ya. We needs ta know what we're up against, so you go upstairs and take a peek, see who's up there, then come right back down. You do that, and I'll untie yer wrists and let'cha go." Then Balls cocked a brow. "And if'n you
don't
 do that, I'll cut'cher head off and piss out'cher mouth, then I'll scalp yer dirty pussy'n wipe my ass with it next time I take a corn-shit."
The Writer had to chuckle. "Not exactly an affable alternative, hmm?"
"Shut up." Balls whipped out his Buck knife and flicked it open, eyeing Cora.
Cora sighed. "I should'a never offered that old man a blow job back at the bar." She blinked, took a deep breath, then began to walk very slow up the plushly carpeted steps.
From upstairs, they could hear the TV channels being changed. CNN switched off, replaced by some man with a German accent saying, "But... this room has other qualities—in 1436 it was here that Prince and Princess Von Hart had their throats cut while they were sleeping." A woman's voice: "Their throats cut?" The German man: "Yes, madam, but that was in 1436. Will you excuse me?" and then the channel switched to a baseball game, "David Cone has just won his next shut-out for the Yankees! What another tremendous acquisition by George Steinbrenner, folks!" and next, a commercial, "Not available in stores! Call now while supplies last! Get the patented Therm-O-Fresh Food Saving System for just four easy payments of $49.95. That's right, just $49.95!"
The Writer rolled his eyes.
Then the TV switched off.
Had Cora been discovered by the unknown sentinel? Balls pulled out his pistol, and Dicky very courageously suggested, "Fuck it, let's just leave her, Balls. We'se can git out'a here while Cora's still upstairs."
"No way, Dicky. You seen the loot in this joint. We ain't splittin' till our kick is full up."
The three of them waited, pinned by shadows against the wall. A clock ticked somewhere. The Writer noticed again the other door behind him, with the cross on it, and without thinking he opened it. Cinderblock steps descended into darkness, and an awful smell assailed his nostrils.
"Shee-it, what's that stink?" Balls complained.
"It's coming from down there, presumably a basement."
Dicky saw the cross. "Just like the ones outside goin' ‘round the whole yard."
"It's interesting," the Writer reflected. "An occult afficionado... using crosses as some kind of transitive emblem."
Balls shot the Writer a funky look. "Close that fuckin' door. The stink's pissin' me off."
The Writer quietly reclosed the door, then went back to listening for any noises from upstairs. Then—
Tiny footfalls were heard padding fast down the stairs carpet.
Cora ducked around the hall. She looked more perplexed than anything.
"Well?" Balls asked. "You see who's up there?"
"It's a gal, weird-lookin'," the addict-prostitute enlightened them.
"A gal? Old, you mean?"
"Naw, don't thank so." Cora's eyes thinned. "And she looked weird 'cos she was all, like,
black.
"
"A colored gal, you mean," Dicky presumed.
"Guess Crafter's got a maid," Balls supposed.
The Writer frowned.
"Naw, naw," Cora insisted. "I mean she was all
black
and
wet
. Like she been painted with black paint. And she was buck nekit."
Balls sighed. "A nekit woman painted black, huh? Shee-it. What else could I expect from a meth-head? You're seein' things, ya asshole."
"I am not!" Cora objected, almost too loud. "She was painted
black,
she was all wet'n shiny. And I don't mean black like a nigruh. I mean black like...
black.
Like road tar or somethin'. And she were layin' on a big fluffy bed, friggin' herself."
"
What?
" Balls asked for reiteration.
"She was playin' with herself. Feelin' herself up'n rubbin' her cooter. That's what I seed when I looked in. The first bedroom. She were workin' herself up inta a swivet, too, and just 'fore I come back down it looked like she was tryin' ta stick her whole fist in herself. That's what I saw."
Balls sputtered through a frown. "A gal painted black fistin' her own cooze. You're high, Cora. You've sucked so much dick ya got jizz fer brains."
"If'n ya don't believe me, go look fer yourself!" she countered. "But first ya best keep your end'a the bargain. Untie me'n lemme git out'a here, like ya promised."
"Shore, baby—"
WHAP!
Balls bopped her in the back of the head with his homemade blackjack, and once again Cora collapsed.
Balls jerked his head toward the stairs. "Dicky, git upstairs'n take care of this. Don't know
what
 the fuck Cora's talkin' 'bout but I'se guess there really is a chick up there. So's you go punch her lights out'n tie her up."
Dicky's jaw dropped. "Why me, Balls?"
"'Cos I said so. What, you's afraid of a splittail?"
"Naw, but... It's dark up there, and—"
"Just git on up there like I tolt ya."
Dicky's hooded eyes shot to the Writer. "Send him!"
"Shee-it, Dicky. He's a
writer.
 Writer's are pussies."
The Writer interjected, "I'll admit, I am—to use your colloquialism—a pussy, but please know that not
all
 writers are. Ernest Hemingway, for instance, was a boxer, a combatant in the Spanish Civil War, and a certified bull fighter. More recently, I'll mention the indisputable machismo of popular literary novelist John Irving. He would read Shakespeare and Percy Shelley in redneck bars, and when the patrons laughed at him? He'd give them all quite a pranging."
Balls stared. "Shut up. And Dicky? Git'cher ass upstairs and take care'a that splittail
now.
"
"Aw, but, Balls... "
"Be a man, goddamn it!" then—
FWUMP!
Balls gave Dicky a hard kick to the pants.
"Awright, awright!" Dicky hurried for the stairs.
"And be quick about it. I'se don't wanna be here all night—"
Dicky, however reluctantly, disappeared up the stairs.
Balls gave the Writer a shove. "Come on, Writer. Let's git more loot loaded up."
(V)
Ain't fair,
Dicky thought.
It should'a been the Writer...
His flashlight played over the wall, but then he quickly turned it off when he noticed the wedge of light in the gap of an opened door.
That must be it...

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