R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘When what?’

‘When d’you want him done?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Today?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Today’s as good as any other. What’s the address?’

Michael gave me the address, a house on Miramar and Third near the Harbor Freeway.

I rose from my chair.

‘Now?’ he said, seeming surprised.

‘Any reason not to?’

Michael shook his head. ‘S’pose not. Why the hurry?’

‘I gotta pregnant wife back home… said I wouldn’t be out late.’

Michael laughed suddenly, coarsely. He looked at me like he expected me to start laughing as well. I didn’t.

‘You’re serious,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Okay. Fair’s fair. You gotta do what you gotta do.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said, ‘You want me to call you and let you know when I’m finished?’

‘Sure, Ernesto, you call me.’

‘You gonna be here?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I’ll be home more than likely.’

‘Gimme your number.’

He gave me his number and I wrote it down alongside the address he gave me. I looked at the address and the number until I was certain I would remember them, and then I lit the piece of paper and let it burn in the ashtray.

‘And the guy’s name?’

‘Clarence Hill,’ he said. ‘Buttfuck’s name is Clarence Hill.’

I took a route avoiding the main freeways – Spring down to Fourth, along Fourth and beneath the Harbor Freeway to Beaudry, and there on the corner of Miramar and Third I found the place.

I backed up and parked the car two blocks south, got out and walked back on foot. By that time it was early evening, the sun was down and the lights inside told me where the girls were working.

I went up the front steps and knocked on the door, knocked three times before it was opened, and when I stepped inside, the smell of the place assaulted my nostrils violently.

‘You want?’ some ugly rash-faced Hispanic asked.

‘Need to see Clarence,’ I said.

The Hispanic frowned. ‘Whassup wit’ you? You gotta cold or somethin’? Don’t be comin’ down here infectin’ everyone wit’ no goddamned influenza.’

‘I ain’t got influenza,’ I said. ‘I ain’t gonna breathe through my nose… this place stinks like no place I ever been before,’ which was not true, because as soon as I had walked inside the door I was reminded of some late night, staggering through the doorway of the house where I had lived with Ruben Cienfuegos so many years before.

The Hispanic made a sneering noise, and said, ‘What you want wit’ Clarence?’

‘I got to see him,’ I said, ‘I gotta deliver something from Michael.’

The Hispanic smiled broadly. ‘Shee-it, why in the fuckin’ hell you not say you was here from Michael? I know Michael, me an’ Michael we go ways back and then some more. Me an’ Michael sometimes just sit down and have a beer, make some face-time, you know?’

I nodded. I smiled, I could imagine that Michael Cova sitting down and having beer with the Hispanic was as likely as me shooting the breeze with Capone.

‘So where is he?’

The Hispanic nodded towards the stairs. ‘Up on the first, third door on the left, but for fuck’s sake knock on the door ’fore you go in ’cause he’s more than likely getting his hardware polished if you know what I mean.’

I shook my head, but I smiled for the Hispanic. Clarence wasn’t only beating the crap out of the trade, he was stealing from the cookie jar as well.

I went up quickly and quietly, along the upper hallway until I reached the door. I knocked once, heard a voice inside, and I went in.

Clarence Hill was a fat fuck useless sack of nothing worthwhile. He sat back in a deep armchair dressed in nothing but shorts and a filthy tee-shirt. In his right hand he held a TV remote, in his left a can of beer. On the floor ahead of him were three more empty cans.

‘Yo!’ he said. ‘Think maybe you’re in the wrong room, mister.’

I shook my head. ‘Michael sent me.’

Clarence tilted his head to the right and squinted at me. ‘Ain’t never seen you before. How the fuck d’you know Michael?’

‘We’re family.’

Clarence smiled wide and cheerful. ‘Well hell, if you’re family with Michael then you’re family with me… come on in, take a load off.’

‘I will,’ I said. I took a.38 from the waistband of my pants and pointed it directly at his head.

Clarence dropped the remote and the beer can simultaneously. He opened his mouth to say something, something loud and worthless no doubt, and I raised my left hand and pressed my finger to my lips. ‘Ssshhh,’ I whispered, and Clarence fell silent before a single word had escaped his trembling lips.

‘The guy downstairs… what’s his name?’

‘L-L-Lourdes.’

I frowned. ‘Lourdes? What the fuck kinda name is that?’

‘Tha-that’s hi-his n-name,’ Clarence mumbled. ‘That’s his name… Lourdes.’

I leaned back towards the door and shouted the Hispanic’s name.

‘What?’ he hollered up from below.

‘Up here,’ I shouted.

‘Up here what?’

I looked at Clarence. Clarence nodded.

‘L-Lourdes, get the fuck up here right now!’ Clarence shouted, like he believed that co-operating with me would make the damndest bit of difference.

Lourdes came up the stairs. I stepped behind the door, and when he walked in I shoved him hard and he went sprawling across the floor.

‘What the fu-’ he started, and then he turned and saw me standing there with a.38 and he shut up real quick.

From my inside pocket I took a knife, small and sharp. ‘Take this,’ I said, ‘and cut Clarence’s tee-shirt off.’

‘Wha-’

‘Do it.’ My voice was direct and firm. ‘Do what I say real quick and real quiet and maybe someone’s gonna walk out of here alive.’

Lourdes took the knife. He cut Clarence’s tee-shirt off at the shoulders, and within a few moments stood there with the filthy rag in his hand.

‘Now cut it in strips and tie Clarence to the chair over there.’ I indicated to the left where a plain deal chair stood against the wall.

They didn’t need prompting; the pair of them co-operated and said nothing.

Three or four minutes and Clarence Hill, shaking and sweating profusely, sat tied to the chair in the middle of the room.

‘Take the cover off the cushion and jam it in his mouth,’ I said.

Clarence’s eyes were wide and white; looked like two ping-pong balls balancing on his great fat face.

Lourdes did as he was told, and then he stood there with the small, sharp knife in his hand and waited for me to say something.

‘Now cut his pecker off.’

Lourdes dropped the knife.

Clarence started screaming, but with the material in his mouth he made barely a sound. He was thrashing wildly in the chair, every ounce of his strength fighting against the restraints that held him.

‘Lourdes… pick up the goddamned knife and cut that fat fuck’s pecker off or I’m coming over there and do you first.’

Lourdes, his whole body rigid with terror, leaned down to pick up the knife. He held it gingerly in his hand. He looked at me. I nodded in the affirmative.

Clarence passed out before the blade reached him. That was a good thing for him. Lourdes did what I told him to do, but it took a good five or ten minutes because he stopped to retch and heave about once every thirty seconds. The blood was unreal. It flooded out and soaked the chair, ran in rivulets onto the floor beneath, and soon Lourdes was nothing more than a gibbering wreck of a man, kneeling there on the floor in Clarence’s blood, in his right hand the knife, in his left Clarence’s pecker.

At one point Clarence seemed to come round, his eyes opened for a split-second, and when he looked down at his own lap he passed out once more. Ten minutes, maybe less, Clarence would be dead from blood loss if he hadn’t had a coronary seizure already.