Edward Lee - Creekers

Which he did.

And, anyway, it was a good kiss.

Yeah, I really like her, he told himself, walking back to his own room. She’s…cool. It came hard to believe that they were hitting it off this well, considering her original concept of him. She probably still had some doubts, though; who wouldn’t? His Metro record would be a blot on his life forever, despite the fact that the whole thing was a lie. But at least it seemed to him that Susan truly believed him.

Give it some time, he thought.

There was no need to change for work; jeans and T-shirt would do for undercover at Sallee’s. But he still had some time to kill, so he sat down in his busted chair and began to read.

««—»»

Just a little bustin’up, Blackjack thought. That’s all he had time for tonight; he had to make a major pick-up at Rip’s lab out in Tylersville by midnight. But I still got me an hour, he reminded himself, looking at his watch. I’ll make it quick.

It never took Blackjack long to put a good busting on a girl.

He followed the fucked-up kid’s truck up through an old logging road off the Route. The price was right, and Blackjack had heard that you could buy a Creeker girl once you got to be known at Sallee’s. And that chick he’d seen in the backroom?

Yeah, Blackjack thought.

Once he’d gotten a look at her up on that stage, he knew he had to put a busting on her. He’d heard that the kid with the big head was the one you dealt with; Blackjack figured he must be Natter’s pimp; that’s why he watched the door. “Fifty fer a half hour,” the kid quoted. “Sev-tee-five fer a full hour. More fer special.”

Blackjack read the scene right. “Special, huh?” He laid two c-notes on the kid. “How’s about a little bustin’ up?”

“Shore, just don’t’cha cut her none, or kill her. Cody’d be pissed.”

Cody, Blackjack thought. As in Cody Natter. That big ugly fuckin’ Creeker was one dude even Blackjack didn’t want to fuck with. These Creekers gave him the creeps, and everybody knew they looked after their own.

When the kid had taken the green, Blackjack noticed that he had two thumbs on one hand.

“Just foller me,” the kid had said. “‘Tain’t far.”

The rutted road wound through the woods, then sidelined a long grassy field. It was hot tonight, and muggy, but that’s the way Blackjack liked it. And he was getting hot himself just thinking about that Creeker chick he’d seen dancing the first set. A four-titter—He’d heard about them, but tonight was the first time he’d ever gandered one with his own eyes. And the tiniest little mouth, probably not even big enough to stick a cigarette in.

Yeah. Here was a girl he could bust up good.

See, there was no kick if he didn’t bust ’em up first. That was Blackjack’s style—going for the kick. Of course, sometimes he could get a little carried away. One time he’d picked up this little truckstop whore at the Bonfire. He slapped her around a bit first, and then he gagged her when she started to get too noisy, stuffed a big wad of toilet paper in her yap, then tied one of her stockings through her teeth.

Then he got to really punching her up.

He beat her face down to pulp—it looked like a busted open blueberry pie by the time he was through—then he got to giving her a good reaming. Only problem was she all of a sudden got real loose back there, and when Blackjack flipped her over to see what was wrong, he saw that the busting up he gave that pretty face of hers must’ve been a bit much ’cos she was stone-cold dead. Oh, well. In fact, he’d wound up killing several gals in the past—all accidents, kind of. And his part-time partner, Jake Rhodes? Now there was a dude who really went for the busting up, killed plenty of gals, and on purpose, too.

Funny, though, now that Blackjack thought about it, he hadn’t seen old Jake for damn near a month.

Probably out roustin’ more junkies, he figured. Lookin’ for a kick.

That’s all Blackjack wanted: a good kick. And this Creeker gal, all fucked-up like she was, that would make the kick extra special…

Blackjack was fully boned when the bighead kid’s truck pulled up an unpaved incline and stopped. Up ahead, against the woods, Blackjack saw the house, a big whitewashed old place with a long wood porch and sagging roof. The wash took on a kind of gray glow in the moonlight.

Okay, Bighead, what’s the scoop? Blackjack thought when he got out of his own truck.

The kid seemed to be staring up at the house.

“Hey, man? What now?”

“Oh, just go on up, walk right in,” the kid said.

“Where’s the girl?”

“She up there. She’ll be waitin’ fer ya in the front room.”

Blackjack’s rattlesnake boots crackled up the drive. The house looked weird—actually it looked ethereal, but Blackjack himself wasn’t the type to conceive of such a notion—the ghostly white wood glowing, fireflies blinking swarms of tiny lights. Oil lamps seemed to glow in the narrow windows, the haloed moon radiating high up in the crystalline sky.

There she is, he thought when he stepped into the foyer. The four-titter. My oh my, am I gonna put a busting on this bitch but good.

To his right, a long hallway extended into darkness. He heard a distant thumping sound, then what seemed to be a muffled grunt. A tall grandfather clock ticked hypnotically at the rear of the foyer. Tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick-tick.

Oil paintings hung on the walls, but their faces were so dusty and old they looked smeared.

To his left a flight of banistered stairs rose, and halfway up stood the Creeker girl. A plain, very sheer nightgown made her hourglass body appear shrouded in mist. In her seven-fingered hand she held a brass oil lamp.

She didn’t speak—of course not. She probably couldn’t, not with that tiny, dowel-hole mouth of hers. Instead she gestured him to follow with her other hand, which sported eight fingers.

Blackjack took the stairs up, his groin thumping with his heart. He was getting antsy to put a good busting on her, and a good tweaking to those four little tits. On the second-floor landing, another more narrow flight of stairs led upward into pitch dark, from which heat seemed to eddie down.

“What’s up there?” he asked.

The girl, naturally, didn’t answer. She took him down the second-floor hall and turned into the first room.

A big old four-poster bed sat right in the middle. The walls, dark with moldy wallpaper, displayed more blotchy paintings. The girl set the lamp down on an ancient nightstand as Blackjack closed the door.

click

“You’re right pretty for a Creeker,” he said and promptly ripped the nightgown off her body. She trembled only vaguely. The lamp cast indistinct shadows on her paperwhite skin. Blackjack stood back to look at her, and smiled. Yeah, she was a cute little thing, and damn near perfect except for that tiny mouth, them fucked-up hands, and the four tits. But to Blackjack, those traits only increased the kick—they made for a better meal to feast on. Her ink-black hair shined, and those fishblood-red eyes of hers—they just looked at him.

Blackjack cracked her hard across the face with his open palm; he wore fingerless leather mitts that gave an extra snap! to the blow. The girl reeled back, her eyes rolling like little red marbles, and fell on the bed.

“What’sa matter, honey? Bighead outside said it was okay to put a bustin’ on ya,” he guttered. “And damned if I ain’t, what with the green I put in his fucked-up paw.” Blackjack’s eyes focused to pinpoints; his gaze painted her flesh. “Yeah, your bighead pimp, he told me I could do anything I wanted, ’cept cut ya or kill ya. Well, that leaves a lot in between, don’t it?”

He jumped on her.