Crooked Little Vein: A Novel

  “No,” Junior intoned, unsmiling. “You have to press his stomach.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to. You can’t leave until you’ve pressed his stomach.”

  On reflection, I decided that this would be easier than, say, having warm salty water shot into my dadpaste factory. I could handle this. Junior was obviously a coke fiend and a congenital shitbrain. Why not humor him? It seemed to me to be the simplest path.

  “I’d be happy to. But on the understanding that we start dealing like men after this, yes?”

  Junior held the skinny mutilated horror out at arm’s length toward me. “Press his fucking stomach!”

  I moved forward and pushed two fingers into the thing’s gut. A voicebox ground into life with a hideous low rasp. Like an eighty-year-old chainsmoking hooker who hadn’t yet slipped in her teeth.

  “Women are best when they can’t talk any more,” it said.

  I flinched back, but Junior grabbed my wrist. Tendons stood out in his arm, and his knuckles whitened. He was using all his strength. And it wasn’t all that.

  “Morrrrre,” he growled.

  I pressed the stomach again.

  “Where’s my dinner, bitch?”

  And:

  “God says queers are special firewood.”

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  “I said fucking more,” Junior said.

  I twisted my arm around and he squealed as his wrist bent, but he refused to let go. I put the base of my left hand into his nose and turned it into a bathmat.

  He reeled backward, clutching the toy, his fingers twisted into it. It kept rasping: “Americans are born, not made.” “Stupid people just like stuff simple.” “If they can’t see you drinking, you’re not an alcoholic.”

  Junior dragged himself into the seat behind the desk. “You’re doomed now, you stupid fuck. I’m gonna be the president one day. Daddy says. He says presidents are people like us.”

  Ringo said: “Fuck America and get rich like astronauts.”

  “Oh, God,” Junior groaned. “Where’s my Womb Thing?”

  He scrabbled in the desk for a moment and produced a glass screw-top jar filled with a thick, clotted yellow fluid. Junior unzipped a badly discolored little penis and began to jerk off into the jar with the maniacal fury of an ugly ape in humping season.

  I snatched up one of the big Tiffany lamps, flipped it around in my hand, and brought the edge of its heavy base down in his lap.

  He screamed and jerked forward, inadvertently head-butting his desk.

  I gave him a few minutes. In the course of my work, I’ve had occasion to hit people before. I can tell when I’ve hit them too hard, because they always puke. I can tell when they wake up, and I can tell when they’re faking it. Junior woke up after a couple of minutes, but was playing dead.

  I stepped over to his bar, unstopped a bottle of vodka, and poured it over his head. He was good, I’ll give him that. Barely fluttered an eyelash.

  Flicking my lighter, however, miraculously brought him back to life.

  “Mr. Roanoke. I left my sense of humor in Columbus, Ohio. You and your father are shitbags of quite epic proportions. But I have no wish to see you dead. Unless I get that book now, the people whom you failed to remove from office will destroy this place, with you in it. I need the book now. Or else you will discover not only that you can live through having your head set on fire, but that death by bombing actually hurts more.”

  His eyes were very wide, and he wasn’t blinking. “I don’t have it.”

  I slapped him. “Why are you fucking with me?”

  “I don’t have it. I had to give it to someone. Daddy doesn’t know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I made her sign a receipt. So she wouldn’t…she knew things about me. I had to make her not talk. She said she had the video locked somewhere safe, and that someone would go and get it if she disappeared. And I didn’t have any money.”

  “You? Didn’t have any money?”

  He looked sad. “Some things are very expensive.”

  “Show me the receipt.”

  “It’s in the desk.”

  “If I think you’re pulling anything but a piece of paper out of there, I’m going to ignite your head.”

  With my lighter held within his halo of vodka fumes, he slowly withdrew an envelope. It looked like he’d been doodling on the back of it at some point. On closer inspection, it appeared that he’d been practicing his alphabet.

  I popped the envelope. The sheet of paper inside had been typed, thank God.

  “You gave the book to a prostitute, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you’ll be glad to know that there’s apparently precedent for that. Last known address?”

  “Right there. It checks out. My family has friends there who keep tabs on her for me.”

  I folded the paper, put it into my jacket, tossed the envelope at him. “I have to talk someone out of turning your house into Baghdad, now.”

  I got up and walked to the door. Behind me, a rasping voice said, “Break America’s heart before it breaks yours.” I didn’t look back.

  Chapter 32

  True to her word, Trix was out in the car, and the engine was running. Since I was clearly not carrying a book, Trix was freaking out a little bit.

  “Quit strolling and get in the fucking car!”

  Two seconds after I got in, the car took off like a fighter plane. She’d obviously been talking to the driver, who was perspiring heavily.

  “Mike, what happened? Are they going to do it?”

  I took out my cell phone and dialed all those fives. Counted off two rings. And let it ring.

  On the fifteenth ring, the chief of staff answered the phone. “I said two rings, McGill.”

  “They don’t have the book.” I was forcing myself to speak slowly. “I have in my possession a receipt for the book, which I believe to be genuine.”

  “Oh, you believe it, do you?”

  “You hired me for my skills. Try listening.”

  “…I think I liked you better before you started acting like you grew a pair, McGill.”

  “Jeff Roanoke Jr. gave the book to a prostitute in exchange for her continued silence regarding services rendered for what I presume was an extended period of time. He’s also maintained enough sporadic surveillance on her to give a credible assurance that she remains in the location given on the receipt document. He was not in a position to lie convincingly to me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because he was seriously confused by controlled substances. And because I was going to light his head on fire.”

  The chief of staff laughed over the phone. Wind passing through bones.

  “Okay, Mike. Okay. What was your opinion of the Roanokes?”

  “In my considered opinion, it would be far more cruel to let them live.”

  More laughter, and then he abruptly hung up.

  I smiled at Trix. “Everyone’s going to live.”

  She sagged in her seat. “Christ.”

  “It’s not all good news,” I said. “We have to go to Las Vegas now.”

  “Vegas? Vegas is cool. We could get married by Elvis.” She leaned over to tap the sweaty driver on the shoulder. “Hey. Everything’s okay. You can slow down now.”

  He threw up over the steering wheel.

  Chapter 33

  We got a late flight out to Vegas. Trix watched the night outrace us from her window seat and eventually fell asleep.

  The business-class section was empty but for us and an older man sitting across the aisle from me. We nodded and smiled at each other a couple of times and, as the cabin crew left us for dead and Trix began a soft purring snore, he spoke to me.

  “Long day, huh?” He smiled, indicating Trix.

  “You could say that.”

  “Texas can hit you like that. But Vegas, my friend. You never want to sleep. Going for pleasure?”

  “Bu
siness.”

  “Me, too, kinda. Business and pleasure all in one, you might say.”

  “You a gambler?”

  His face was oddly stiff in places, heavily lined in others. His eyes looked a little stretched, at the sides. I figured him for about seventy, and a serious plastic surgery freak in earlier days. Your face doesn’t just grow into that shape. He smiled, knowing I was checking him over, but the smile lines didn’t travel up into his forehead. Botox.

  “Cop?” he asked, mildly.

  “Private detective.” I sketched a grin for him. “Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  “I hope so.” He smiled. “I kill people, you know.”

  We laughed quietly. But after a while, I stopped laughing. And he was still laughing.

  “God, I hate that term ‘serial killer,’ don’t you? Something about it just makes me think of Flash Gordon or something. Old matinees.”

  “I never really thought about it,” I said, checking to make sure I still had whiskey in my glass.

  “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t help but worry about the way you’re represented. I’m thinking about suing someone.”

  “I imagine that’d be difficult.” I had no doubt he was what he was telling me he was. This is my life, after all. But I couldn’t help but be impressed with the way I was handling it. Small things bring joy, some days.

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “But, you know, when an actor or pop star has untruths published about them, they sue, and I kind of feel like I should have the same recourse. And justice for all, right?”

  “But you kill people. Where’s the justice there?”

  “Oh, they had it coming. If people will dress like librarians and schoolgirls they should expect these things to happen. I don’t see why they should be afforded extra protection for that kind of behavior. And in any case, two wrongs don’t make a right. Slander is bad no matter who you’re doing it to, surely?”

  “Slander?”

  “Let’s get another drink,” he said, pushing the service call button above his head. “You don’t watch much TV, am I right?”

  “Not really.”

  “I’ll have a whiskey, and I believe so will my friend here. Doubles. Thank you. What was I saying? Yes. TV. Yet another documentary about me on TV the other week. One of these science channels. You’d expect intelligent coverage from a TV channel like that, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. They got a good actor to do the voiceover narration, too. My age. Alan something. Used to be in that very black comedy show about the Korean War.”

  “Alan Alda?”

  “Alan Alda! How he made me laugh in that show. And the women dressed well, too. Never enough blood, though. Which always made me a little sad. But I guess it was supposed to make you a little sad, wasn’t it? That rueful smile? Very clever show. He narrated the documentary about me. I’m not blaming him, obviously. He didn’t write it. One day I will meet the mediocrity that wrote that. I mean, do I look like the kind of man who has difficulty socializing?”

  I had to be honest. “Actually, no.”

  “No. Of course not. I don’t want to sound egotistical, but, really, do I look like someone who had problems meeting women? I’ve been married three times. And”—he leaned over the aisle and looked me right in the eye—“I only killed two of them.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah. How about that? They can stick that in their pipe and smoke it. So much for America’s Terror: The Mad Virgin. I have four children. Had four children. Funny thing. I always thought it was a joke, about liking children but not being able to eat a whole one. But it’s quite true.”

  I started stabbing my own call button.

  “The Mad Virgin. My God. I could sue them, you know. Some of the others have been better, mind you. I collect them. Twelve documentaries about me. Three Hollywood movies using aspects of my work. I sometimes hoped to be played one day by Sean Connery. But you just know he’ll use his own accent. I think that’d spoil it for me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You have a very understanding way about you. I appreciate that. Cheers.” He polished off a finger of whiskey. I tossed down about a hand’s worth and resumed stabbing the service button.

  “Yeah, thanks. Leave the bottle. My friend and I are very thirsty.”

  “Good man,” he said, holding out his glass. “So. You and your lovely companion. What business do you have in Sin City?”

  “Trawling through America’s sick underbelly in search of people who are holding a book the White House wants back.”

  “Now, that sounds interesting. What kinds of things have you seen? This is such a wonderful, rich country. When you look under the covers it holds to its trembling little chin in the night.”

  So I told him.

  He considered, and then said, “Is that all?”

  “That’s not enough?”

  “Young man, I have to tell you: if you think that constitutes a trawl of America’s true cultural underground, you may have a nasty shock in your future. Let me ask you a question. Our meeting, here, tonight: do you consider this perhaps a waypoint in your perceived descent into the muck of modern life?”

  “Sure. You kill people for wearing crap clothes, from what I can make out. The only reason why you’re not trying to fuck my girlfriend in the gall bladder with a screwdriver as she sleeps is because you can see her boobs and she’s wearing makeup.”

  Yeah, I was pretty drunk. He took it pretty equably.

  “Not as accurate a summation as you think, but, yes, I’ll allow it. My point is that I’m not the underground. You think that drinking with a serial killer takes you into the midnight currents of the culture? I say bullshit. There’s been twelve TV documentaries, three movies, and eight books about me. I’m more popular than any of these designed-by-pedophile pop moppets littering the music television and the gossip columns. I’ve killed more people than Paris Hilton has desemenated, I was famous before she was here and I’ll be famous after she’s gone. I am the mainstream. I am, in fact, the only true rock star of the modern age. Every newspaper in America never fails to report on my comeback tours, and I get excellent reviews.”

  “And what about…all the rest of it?”

  “I think I’ve seen a lot of it on the Internet.”

  “I can’t use the Internet. My ex sends me things. Photos.”

  “Perhaps I should send you some photos sometime. Consider this, though. If I’ve seen it on the Internet, is it still underground? ‘Underground’ always connoted something hidden, something difficult to see and find. Something underneath the surface of things, yes? But if it’s on the Internet—and I do praise the Lord that I lived long enough to see such a wondrous thing—it cannot possibly be underground.”

  “People show pictures of their asses on the inner-web.”

  “Yes. And it’s a wonderfully useful tool for stalking people. What’s more, my personal fetish—and it is a fetish, I fully appreciate and understand that—requires trophies of a sort, and I find that storing them as images on private Web space does very nicely. I don’t have to carry them with me, you see? Wherever there is an Internet connection, I can reach my collection. I mean, that’s just marvelous. My point, however, is that the Internet is more than a system for holding pictures, whether it be of people’s backsides or my hands all slick and yellow with human subcutaneous fat. It is the greatest mass-communication tool ever invented, and utterly democratic beyond the entry-level requirement of having a computer.”

  “Now holllld on. A seventy-year-old serial killer is gonna lecture me on the intynets.”

  “Seventy-one. And I think it’s important you learn this, for the future of your enterprise. We agree that if something is available on television and in bookstores and the papers and all, it’s mainstream, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, then, how can something on the world’s electronic mass-communication net not also be mainstrea
m? It’s easily found. You told me your friend there saw acquaintances of the gentlemen from Ohio on the Web.”

  “Did I? Okay. I’m a little drunk.”

  “There you are, you see? It’s not that strange a world, when you can see images of men with testes full of saline just as easily as you can visit the wonderful world of Disney online. That’s not underground. It’s mainstream. Just like me.”

  I lifted my glass. “Y’know? S been a assolute pleasure speaking with you. A lot v things r mushmush clearer now.”

  He brought his glass to mine and we bumped plastic. “And you, young man, are on a great adventure, and I salute you.”

  We drank, and poured, and drank, and really it was very nice. Me and the serial killer.

  Chapter 34

  From a distance, the Strip looked like it was covered in a dozen different colors of blossom on a wet spring morning.

  Up close, the blanket of petals turned out to be a thick coating of discarded handbills from pimps and porn operations, stuck to the road by rainfall.

  Reduced to a pulpy sludge by dirty rain, they dulled the footfalls. We squelched our way through ANAL HOOK-ERS and PHONE DOMINATION under the ugly gray dawn light, walking from the street up to the hotel I’d found us.

  Down from the pyramid of the Luxor, the European castles, and some wetbrain’s idea of Paris, this was Vegas’s newest development. Trix got a look at it and punched me in the arm.

  The Freedom was a hotel within an outsize copy of the statue of Jesus that stands outside Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. Only in this version Jesus was dressed in an Uncle Sam suit.

  “We’re staying in the hat,” I said, rubbing my arm.

  “You’re a pervert,” she hissed.

  “Oh, that’s good coming from you.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself and stalked ahead of me.

  “There will be no sex for you until we leave this place,” she said.

  I stood there alone in the eerily silent streets of Las Vegas and listened to my penis cry.

  The ground floor was vast. You could have fit my entire street into the place. Bellhops with name badges bearing the title FREE MAN scuttled up to us and attempted to steal our luggage. The place looked still half-built, the massive American flags covering scaffolding and holes in dividing walls. We were checked in smoothly, but my attention was drawn to a collection of tents some three hundred yards across the floor.