Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) (12 page)

All four bedrooms were well-furnished and tastefully adorned. It was as if the owner wanted to contain the grandness of the foyer so that the rest of the house could go on with the business of providing comfortable habitation. It angered me when I found a body stuffed in the closet of one of the guest bedrooms. Another old man—the one from the third wallet. This was totally senseless. If I used a lot of imagination, I could see the resemblance to the younger man in some of the pictures in the living room. There had also been pictures of a woman in many of the shots, sometimes posing with him in the cockpit of a large, complicated-looking sailboat.

I retraced through the other bedrooms and found her stuffed amidst the clutter of a different closet. The air-conditioning was cranked low, which explained why the stench hadn’t peaked to the intolerable range. I wondered if Kevin had popped it down or if the owners liked it that way. I was willing to bet the latter. Everything I’d seen from the little worm suggested a callous disregard for decency, as well as a lack of concern for personal welfare. How no one had caught him yet mystified me. With the right jury, he might get the death penalty. Well, maybe. But only after years of milking the state of food, shelter and legal assistance.

With a twinge of guilt, I left the woman’s body there and returned to the kitchen to scavenge.

The fridge was stocked deep with eggs and juice and fruit and leftovers and condiments and everything you’d expect in a house occupied by the owners—not vacationers. Vacationers liked to eat out.

I washed my hands, made a sandwich and poured a glass of milk. Even with the smell, I had no trouble keeping it down.

Standing in the dead couple’s kitchen chewing my sandwich, I realized I couldn’t cart all their food back to the bungalow. It’d take multiple trips. Too many opportunities to get caught, especially lit-up against the backdrop of the white house. Food was nice, but I really needed money if I wanted to have any fun on this trip. I also needed a fleet of freezers, apparently, or a backhoe for a mass grave.

Kevin was a real twist. A monster like him could get caught tomorrow, sure. Or he could go on for years, house by house, destroying whole families at a time until one of his mistakes finally undid him. Or maybe he’d never get caught. Plenty of serial killers never did. I’d seen variations on this theme before, but nothing so systematic. Break-ins were normal. Murders too. The break-in/murder/occupation scenarios never spilled beyond the one house.

I recalled the parting words of his obnoxious friend: “Least you fixed the bodies this time.” If I saw him again, maybe I’d ask him about it.

Rooting through the house looking for cash, I found a wallet and a purse with the paper money and credit cards missing. I also stumbled across a cider jug filled with change right out in the open, big and heavy with a healthy mix of silver in it. Easily over a hundred dollars’ worth. In recent years, more and more grocery stores had coin counters that could add it all up and spit out a redeemable receipt. I didn’t remember seeing one on my trip to the store, but I hadn’t really been looking.

Happy for the positive turn, I put the jug in a cooler I found and loaded it the rest of the way with milk, cold cuts, bread, condiments and an unopened package of cookies. Then I carried it downstairs and set it on the floor by the back door.

I debated on what to do with the bodies. Yesterday, digging the grave, there hadn’t been security lights illuminating me while I worked. Even without them, I just didn’t have the energy to dig any more graves. I ended up dragging the bodies to two of the house’s full bathrooms, where I laid them out in the bathtubs. Afterward, dizzy and panting from too much physical labor, I grabbed the cooler and slipped back to the bungalow. Nobody called out and I didn’t see anyone, but then that’s not how it’d go down if I were spotted. No, in about ten minutes the fuzz would show up to drag me off to the pokey. Maybe a bit longer if they were anything like the police in Memphis.

After a half hour spent peeking out various windows, I decided I was safe. I considered pushing my luck and going back to the white house for fishing rods and tackle but decided I’d rather lie on the couch and watch TV.

Somewhere in the middle of a science show on how the universe was made, I fell asleep. If they said why it was made it must have been somewhere near the end.

Chapter 15

The next morning, my third day as Kevin, the dipshit with the Oedipus complex woke me up by ringing the doorbell repeatedly for five minutes straight.

“What’s up motherfucker?” he said, stepping past me and jerking open my now modestly stocked fridge. “Finally got some damn food.”

“Hey, that’s mine,” I said, grabbing a package of roast beef from him.

“Oh, I see how it is—you want me to bring you stuff but you don’t wanna share.”

“Did you bring me something?”

“No.”

I put the food back and shut the door, then leaned with my back against it.

“But,” he said, “Mr. York said he found something sweet. Says it could pay our way to Mexico or Canada or some shit. Wants to see you later about it. Also told me to ask why you ain’t call him every day like he said to. So …”

“So …?”

He shrugged and looked at me sideways.

“Why you ain’t call him every day like he said?”

This Mr. York expected certain things from Kevin. He also had sway over Dipshit, making him his errand boy. I wondered what kind of person could hold the respect of animals like that. From a distance, no less.

“Do you call him every day?” I said, throwing it back at him.

He snorted.

“Mr. York trusts me cuz I keep it tight. I don’t mess up, cuttin’ on college kids near a house—oh, he know about that one by the way. Saw it in the paper, and when I told him about those shoes he about flipped. You best call him or he just gonna get madder.”

“I lost his number.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Man, your memory all messed up.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cheap phone. The kind you buy at 24-hour drugstores, pre-paid. He dialed it for me and handed it over.

Someone picked up after two rings.

“Yeah?” a man said, sounding annoyed.

“Sup, Mr. York,” I said.

Dipshit crowded close, watching my face and trying to listen in.

“Just shut up right there,” Mr. York said. “I don’t wanna hear it. I want you over here now—both of you.”

He hung up.

“Man,” I said. “He sure sounded mad at you.”

“What? What the fuck I do? What he say?”

I shrugged, letting him worry. I thought I had an idea what was going on, or close enough that whatever details I missed didn’t matter. But this time around, on this ride, I had a problem. Kevin was wiry and young, but he’d been weakened from regular drug use and the effects of withdrawal. I still had the knife from the first night if I needed to even things, but I wanted to avoid a knife fight if I could. Especially if it turned into a gun fight. Ultimately it didn’t matter how prepared I was: I wanted to meet this Mr. York.

Dipshit was shaking his head, getting more and more agitated.

“He going on again about me holding back? Man I never hold back—what, he think I got a bank account? Fuck York, all I done for him.”

“Hey, calm down,” I said. “He wants us to go see him—you mind driving? I got a headache.”

He snorted.

“It’s the AIDS ain’t it?” he said. “Living in a fag house. Bet Mr. York like it here, could walk around in a dress.” He started to laugh, then stopped, eyes widening like he’d bit his tongue chewing gum. “Shit, man, don’t tell him I said that.”

He looked scared. I let the moment stretch, pretending to think it over. When Dipshit’s sheen of sweat had achieved its maximum albedo, I nodded as if reaching a decision.

“I won’t tell him if you drive,” I said. “Deal?”

“Deal man, I’ll drive. Thank you—
thank you
man. You know Mr. York, man. Haha. He don’t play around about gay jokes.” Then he reached over and shook my hand—only this time he did it solemnly, without doing the little flicky hood thing at the end. I figured either Mr. York was gay or he was a violent homophobe.

“Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing,” I said.

“That’s not old school,” he said, laughing. “That’s just old.”

Dipshit had parked up the street beneath a shade tree. It was another big car—a beige Cadillac Deville. I looked at him and then back at the car. The one driving the other made about as much sense as Kevin driving a Grand Marquis. I got in and buckled up. Dipshit didn’t bother with his seatbelt because he was too busy fiddling with the CD player.

He cranked the volume way past what the speakers in the Deville could keep up with. There just wasn’t enough amperage to render the ridiculous amount of bass he’d set it to, so it tended to break up at the bottom of every beat. He didn’t seem to mind, judging from all the grooving going on as we pulled out onto the road. Even with the windows up, heads turned our way as we passed the touristy circle with all the shops and restaurants, each angling for a look at the gangsters cruising in grandpa’s dope ride. Moms with strollers, joggers, families waiting at crosswalks clutching beach gear—I stared them all down, daring any of them to disrespect me or my posse of one.

Biggy D took us off the island and then past the grocery store where I’d bought the spaghetti, then on for a few miles before pulling into a drive with a sign reading,
Super Haven RV Resort
. As RV parks went, this one seemed like a nice one, with paved roads and barbecue grills attached to every lot. It even had a swimming pool.

“I’ma go in that pool sometime,” he said.

Moments later, he parked in a secluded lot behind an enormous, modern-looking Winnebago. The RV had big square bumpouts on either side to make it roomier when parked.

“Don’t say nothing about the fag joke,” he reminded me before getting out.

“Not a peep,” I said.

Dipshit knocked a specific pattern, loudly, and then waited. About ten seconds later I heard a click and saw the parking lights flash twice, after which he opened the door and stepped inside.

Climbing in behind him, I almost tripped when he immediately sat down on the floor of the vehicle. The RV was spacious and high-end, with a big long couch along the wall and a recliner chair not a foot away, but he’d sat on the floor instead. There was even a dining table at the far end with two facing booths, but there he sat, legs folded, mystifying me. I stepped around him and sat on the perfectly good couch and relaxed. Nice couch—a genuine butt-hugger. I wondered where Mr. York was.

As if sensing my thoughts, the door opened from where the bedroom would be and in walked an older man, late fifties, slight of build and maybe 5’5”, dressed casually in shorts and a plain red t-shirt. He didn’t say anything. He walked over and slapped me viciously across the face and kept slapping until I crumpled off the couch and onto the floor beside Dipshit. He may have been a little guy, but he packed a wallop. My cheek went numb and my left ear started ringing from where he’d clipped me.

“Who are you, the Queen of Sheba?” he yelled. It was the voice from the phone.

I figured Kevin would have taken the slaps and stayed cowed, so that’s what I did, though it galled me.

“Sorry Mr. York, I… uh… I forgot.”

“You forgot,” he said, voice scathing. “I paid good money for this vehicle. Nobody depreciates it but me and who I say. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Jerry,” he said, still looking at me, “you may sit down now. Not the recliner—the couch will be fine.”

“Thanks Mr. York.”

Dipshit—
Jerry—
stood up and removed himself to the spot I’d been swatted from. I wanted to laugh.

“Oh you think something’s funny? Jerry’s a good earner. I have him to thank for most of our retirement fund. When we go to Mexico in a few days, I’m going to let
him
sit up front with me.”

“Can I pick the music?” Jerry said.

“No,” Mr. York said, automatically. Then he seemed to reconsider. “Well, maybe—if we drive late. That jungle noise will help keep me awake. You see that Kevin? I’m not a bad guy, I respect disciplined, intelligent behavior. You know what I don’t respect?”

“Depreciation?”

He looked at me suspiciously.

“I’m talking about you, you nitwit. Jerry gets me pin numbers. I put on a wig and fake beard and I can go to the ATM every day until they’re cleaned out. He does
not
kill them first. Do you Jerry?”

“No sir, Mr. York.”

“How about mugging tourists on the beach outside a house? You do that, Jerry?”

“No Mr. York,” Jerry said. “Not once.”

“See that? Jerry’s a quality professional. What are you, squeamish? Afraid to cut off a few fingers? Can’t handle a little begging and screaming?”

“I love begging and screaming,” I said.

Mr. York sneered at me.

“I think you’re soft. But I’m not a bad guy, am I Jerry?”

“No, Mr. York.”

“So I’m gonna give you another chance. There’s a new house I found, with a rich old lady living alone. Jerry’s kindly agreed to take you with him and show you his methodology. We both want you to succeed in this business, Kevin. You understand?”

Not to be outdone by Jerry, I nodded vigorously.

“Oh, Jerry?”

“Yes Mr. York?”

“Would you mind getting my bag from the bedroom? I’m feeling generous.”

Jerry went to the bedroom and returned with a medium-sized black satchel. Mr. York opened it and extracted two medicine vials and a syringe. He handed one to Jerry and put the other one back.

Mr. York held it up like a doggy treat, smiling encouragingly.

“This is the good stuff, made by a real drug manufacturer. Not some inbred hillbilly with a chemistry set. Jerry says you’ve been feeling sick lately. Is that true?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I feel like shit.”

Mr. York’s lips tightened suddenly, and his eyes grew hard like he wanted to slap me again. Then he shook his head, smiled and said, “Language, boy,
language
. Now, what did I tell you about moderation? When I give you something, you don’t have to use it all up in a day.”