A horn blasted directly behind
the Mercedes and I flinched like a whipped dog, my scrotum retracting as my sphincter
muscles tensed.
An 18-wheeler traveling too fast for the road conditions was barrelling down on me like a sledgehammer. Without thinking, I jabbed hard on the accelerator. Then the suicide jockey pulled out into the passing lane, kicking up a tsunami of spray as he sped by.
"Sonofabitch!!!" I screamed over the music as the asshole roared the metal monster down the highway ahead of me.
Fighting the panic-driven desire to jam my foot on the break, I eased it down, sensing rather than feeling the anti-lock system work its magic on the water-logged tarmac underneath the hermetically sealed body of the Mercedes.
Crazy bastard had to be doing over 70. The rain was now pounding down in torrential sheets in the manner only Florida rain could fall. Clouds lowered on the horizon, pregnant with menace. Was it my imagination or was that a rumble of thunder in the distance?
"God, no," I whispered under my breath, speaking to a deity I didn't believe existed.
Shit, I hated Florida. The humidity, the insects. The sudden storms that could soak you to the skin in an instant. The weird purple color the clouds turned before lightning only Wagner could dream of rent the sky asunder. No wonder I'd chosen to live in Arizona, with its minuscule precipitation, and burning dry heat which eased the pain in my ankle.
No, I was right. Lightning twitched in front of me and thunder followed, rolling like my stomach. The day was rapidly going to hell in a hand basket.
Fuck the weather. Screw the gig. Yeah, right...if only I could. The balance would help grease wheels, buy me a new identity down on Grand Cayman, where I planned to retire. Sun, sand, scuba diving, with a library of books I'd collected over the years to read. I intended to live out the rest of my life with minimal concerns and all the great works of literature I could consume.
Right. Dream on. It was raining like Noah was in the vicinity and the Mercedes was no ark. My ankle flared dully and I slowly accelerated. No turning back. Had to get this over with.
I should have pulled over there and then, but those 40,000 reasons nagged at the back of my mind like a gaggle of Jewish mothers.
Through the torrent of water hitting the windshield, a flash of green registered: Orlando 80. Okay. Two hours. Praeger could meet me somewhere outside the city. There was no way I was driving all the way to West Palm Beach.
The dash board clock showed 11:05 AM. Good. If I maintained 50 mph I'd hit Orlando around one. I'd stop at the next rest area and call in my ultimatum: delivery there or no dice. Instinct told me he'd play ball even though he'd be major league pissed. And if he didn't show? Fuck, I knew when to cut my losses and take a hike. Whichever way you cut the cards, I held a winning hand. Smug asshole...
Correct on both counts: I reached the city limits just after one, and Praeger'd responded like a starlet partying with Fatty Arbuckle -- so panic- stricken you'd think he was about to get an icy vaginal probe and die of heart failure. Nevertheless, he agreed to my demands, all Scorsese-De Niro bluster and threats of fisting me with a .357 Magnum primed with hollow points. Right. Blow me, fuck wad. I had what he wanted, and judging by his underlying tone, Molly's head meant more to him than the inconvenience of a two-hour drive to Orlando.
Sue me, motherfucker. Let's get this turkey shoot over, I thought as I spied the Hong Kong Bar-B-Q, its broken neon sign flashing garish against the gray backdrop of water-logged sky with the charm of a toothless wino. I was as hungry as a 'gator who'd gone vegetarian for a year. As a rule, I never eat for several hours prior to a job. If the work gets too wet, even the most hardened stomach can spill its secrets, and with state-of-the-art forensics, the police can tie you to the scene of a crime based on a stale fart in an elevator. My guts rumbled again with the subtlety of a Universal Studios earthquake, and I hung a left. This place would be as good as any for a rendezvous. And besides, a bowl of Hot and Sour, a plate of Egg Fried Rice and Cashew Chicken with Broccoli would be just what the doctor ordered.
The interior of the eaterie delivered as much as the exterior promised: the charm of a homeless shelter as designed by some shmuck who'd watched too much bad TV. Chipped formica tables. Drunken chairs leaning to the left. A layer of grease coated the counter like someone had tried to wax the place to cover up the rot lurking beneath the surface. And neon. Fucking neon signs on every wall flickering over those mass-produced Chinese art mats you see hanging in restaurants across the country.
The illegal immigrant behind the counter, a girl who looked all of 13 years- old, took my order in pigeon English. Once the communication barrier was straddled, I hit the pay phone and called Praeger on his cellular.
"I'm very disappointed in you, Mr. Raschke," he said calmly, struggling to sound like he was in control. "This is very inconvenient."
"Yeah, I know. I'm not thrilled about this either, so let's just get it done."
"Being out in the open is a big risk. It's unprofessional, and I --"
"Look," I snapped, "just pull into the parking lot right next to my car. The area's secluded, everything'll be fine. Get here within the hour."
I hung up before he could say more. The time for talking was over.
I chose a table facing the doorway, sat down and waited for my food.
There were three other customers. A pair of old retirees, and a young
guy who looked like he could be a traveling salesman. The old couple
were typical Florida transplants, overweight and displaying no dress
sense whatsoever. He was wearing bright red plaid pants and a pink Hawaiian
shirt; she was encased in a lime green polyester pantsuit which did
nothing to complement her pear shape and large, sagging breasts. Probably
from Dayton, Ohio.
The girl behind the counter came over to my table and laid a place mat and chopsticks in front of me.
"You want water?"
"Sure."
She walked daintily back to the kitchen and disappeared through the door.
Then two things happened at once:
The old woman suddenly choked on a mouthful of food and the girl let loose a scream so loud you could hear it all the way to Miami.
Mr. Hawaiian shirt dropped his chopsticks. The salesman jumped out of his seat like someone had grabbed his nads. My right hand went instinctively to the Beretta nestled under my left arm pit.
The old woman clawed at her throat as she wheezed.
The girl ran from the kitchen, still screaming so loud I thought my eardrums would bleed. Behind her, one of the chefs stumbled out, his face a bloody, goopy mess as he tore at the living noodles burrowing into his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth.
Oh, shit. Just my luck.
Possessed food.
Before I could react, the old guy startled me by leaping up from the table with the energy of a man half his age, rushed around to his wife and performed a perfect Heimlich manoeuver in one fluid motion.
It worked, and his wife projectile-vomited a severed finger and a mouthful of egg fried rice, which hit the salesman slap in the face.
He gagged.
The chef shouted in Cantonese.
The girl screamed again.
I pulled my guns and shot the chef right between the eyes to end his suffering.
There was a moment of silence and I felt like I'd walked into someone's movie. Everything went slo-mo for an instant.
The girl stopped screaming, shaking in the center of the room.
Salesman wiped the regurgitated food from his face and looked at me dumbstruck.
The old guy held onto his wife who threatened to keel over.
Then the chef flopped to the floor and all hell broke loose.
The noodles quivered and leapt at the girl, landing on her head like a bad fright wig.
She screamed.
The old woman's guts expanded beneath the polyester as her eyes rolled up into her sockets.
"Harriette?" her husband mumbled as she stiffened in his arms.
"Urrgggghh!" she exhaled in basso profundo. Then reached behind her, bones snapping as limbs performed a move the human body was not designed to execute. And ripped his ears off.
I aimed at her, squeezing off three rounds rapid fire. Bone, blood, and brains sprayed the walls and ceiling like a roman candle.
Her stomach erupted, tentacles of bloated intestine shooting out to grab the salesman around the waist as her husband wobbled backwards, clutching at the sides of his head.
The girl's screaming ceased as the noodles snaked into her open mouth.
I pulled my second gun as I fired again with the one in my right hand.
Three shots: one to her head, one to the chest, and one to her stomach.
On the other side of the room, Salesman's spine snapped as the intestinal ropes broke him like a match, yanking him towards the huge mouth of teeth which had appeared laterally across Polyester's gaping mid-section.
Holy fucking cow. Thank God I'd watched hundreds of hours of Cantonese action and horror movies; otherwise I wouldn't have known what to do.
Someone had inadvertently let loose a food demon. Damn thing had probably been sleeping in a Fortune Cookie, and one of the chefs took a bite. Great. All this on top of the Praeger situation. If someone or something was telling me now was the time to get out of the killing game, I was listening like a priest taking confessions.
Joe Bob Briggs and a bustier of bimbos, I was getting too old for this shit.
Where was Chow Yun-Fat when you needed him?
More to the point, where was I going to find a Buddhist prayer scroll?
Life's full of lessons, and you can learn a lot from the movies. All those hours spent swilling brewskis while watching bootleg Asian videos had led to this: I was in the middle of an out-take from Seeding of a Ghost and the editor had left the Steenbeck running. And when faced with this kind of situation, there're only two things you can do: shoot 'em in the head, and utilize a prayer scroll.
I had two guns and enough bullets to start a small-scale war in some unpronounceably named African country. But no Buddhist prayer parchment.
Shit on toasted whole wheat.
Had to think fast. Had to move at light speed.
Now, if only Drake Elvis Winter were beside me.
Drake's an old friend. Hot-shot Washington D.C. lawyer by day, award-winning writer by night. And sometime back-up on those tough jobs that no amount of 409 can clean.
If I couldn't have Chow Fat beside me, that Winter boy was the best you could wish for. Still, even he probably couldn't come up with holy paper when you needed it.
What remained of the young girl's blasted body caved in on itself with the gravity of a black hole as the insatiable noodles shot out between her rent rib-cage, frantically adhering to the wall, so close to my head flakes of lung tissue strafed my hair.
Left hand bucked as I shot the salesman, cutting off his cries as the polyester thing chomped on his torso.
Right hand controlled the recoil as I placed two rounds in the old man's head and heart, giving him merciful release.
The noodles emitted an impossible squeal as they rebounded off the calendar they'd landed on, lunging for the back of my neck like I was Saint Christopher, ready to carry them across a river.
I ducked, diving into a forward roll, both guns blazing in true John Woo style. Chow had taught me well.
The noodles jumped around with the comedic grace of some schmuck who'd stepped on a hot plate.
Burning from the touch of something holy...
At last. Divine intervention. And all for a worthless unbeliever like yours truly.
If I got out of this, I promised I'd become a Buddhist monk.
Noodles shrieking as they flip-flopped across the room, I fired both barrels as my back hit the linoleum, hot lead herding the noodles towards the calendar.
It worked. There was a flash as the squiggly mess connected with the paper, a bullet blasting straight through It, the calendar and plaster.
Then the kitchen exploded as I stood up, wiping the smile off my face big time.
Stunt men have it easy; they get to go through sugared glass. The fireball threw me against a neon sign, through the window, and into the parking lot.
No slo-mo, no MTV flash, none of that Joel Silver whammy factor Hollywood magic.
My leather coat was on fire. My ears were bleeding. My face was sliced up like Pepperoni on a deluxe to go. Ankle was fucked again. Tried to stand up. Stumbled. Fell.
Praeger stood in front of me with a small silver plated .22 in his fat fist. Probably the size of his prick.
"r. Ra ke," he said. Or something like that.
"Shit."
"You probably will," I heard him say as my ears cleared.
The Mercedes trunk blew wide as Molly Mancini shot up into the sky like a jack in the box on Crystal Meth.
What had once been Molly was now -- I saw with preternatural clarity as she landed in front of Praeger on shaky legs -- a possession case that made Linda Blair look like a Disney character.
"Hello, Elias," she said in Jack Palance's voice. "Miss me, honey-pie?"
"Oh, God..."
"I don't think so," I muttered as I crawled towards the open door of Praeger's limo. The chauffeur shuffled from foot to foot, mouth agape at the reunion, not taking any notice of me. I pulled off my burning coat and shot him in the chest.
I heard the fat man scream as I slid into the car, slammed the door and threw the shift into drive.
There was no way I was going to look back. Not with a briefcase containing $40,000 dollars, a busted ankle, and blood in my eyes. Besides, I have a problem with romantic scenes. Especially reunions.
All I wanted was something to eat...
I could taste Mom's apple pie on my tongue. Even a Mac-something or other would do.
The rain had stopped, I realized, as I wiped blood from my eyes.
Maybe things were looking up.
Copyright © 1995/2004 by Philip Nutman