Jack Kilborn & J. A. Konrath (19 page)

“So we’re going to call the cops, right?” I asked.

“I’m thinking no.”

“Then can we at least get out of here? I’m not real comfortable hanging around a dead body.”

“What part of the corpse is bothering you? Is it the ripped-out throat? I bet it’s the ripped-out throat.”

“I take it that ‘respect for the dead’ is not a phrase you use on a regular basis?”

He titled his head. “You know, if I look at the wound on an angle, it reminds me of a stripper I know.”

I amended my “complete asshole” assessment to include the words “from hell.”

“So this is where we part ways, slowly drift apart, and eventually fail to keep in touch altogether, right?” I asked.

“No dice, Andrew Moron. We gotta search the place. I’m looking for a girl, not a naked dead guy.”

I glanced at the corpse and slapped a hand over my mouth. “Oh, God…”

“What?”

“There’s a roach crawling out of his mouth…” I dropped to all fours and dry heaved.

Harry shook his head. “I thought you Florida guys were cool with roaches. You call them palmetto bugs, right? It was probably laying eggs in his—”

I spun around and threw a punch that struck him in the stomach. He let out a loud “
oooomph
!” as he staggered backwards a step, tripped over the dead hand, and then landed butt-first on the corpse. The sound was unbelievably disgusting and does not warrant a phonetic description.

“Aaahhhhh!!!” Harry cried out in a most refreshing sissy-like manner. I punched him in the face, knocking him flat on his back. His butt remained seated on the corpse. The gun remained in his hand.

He sat up a bit and pointed the gun at me. I was pretty sure that Harry McGlade was the kind of guy who would indeed shoot an innocent person such as myself, so I dove at him before he could pull the trigger.

I landed on top of him and we struggled frantically for control of the weapon. Punches were thrown. Head-butts were exchanged. Obscenities were uttered. I’d been in vicious fights before, but this was the first one to take place on top of a mutilated corpse.

I grabbed the corpse’s arm and smacked Harry in the face with it. That seemed to anger him for some reason. I tried to knee him in the groin, but he moved out of the way just in time and I kneed the corpse in the groin instead. I had a flash of the poor dead guy standing in front of the pearly gates, suddenly doubling over in agony.

Harry got in an admittedly good punch to my chest. I got in a much better punch to his jaw. His eyes crossed in a most unattractive manner. I wrenched the gun out of his grip, punched him again, and then pressed the barrel against his forehead.

“You’re a dick,” he said.

“Behave,” I warned him. I eased myself off the dead body, keeping the gun pointed at him.

“These were new pants.”

“I weep for your loss. By the way, there wasn’t really a roach.”

“I guessed that.”

“I bet you didn’t.”

“Look here, Malox—”

“It’s Mayhem. You don’t get to make fun of my name unless you’re holding the gun.”

“Whatever. Give it back to me before you hurt yourself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you gonna do? Shoot me? You don’t have the stones.”

I would have loved to shoot him to prove him wrong. But he would’ve been dead and the irony would have been lost on him.

“Why do people always say that in the movies?” I asked, using my free hand to massage my aching jaw. “It’s sort of like saying ‘I double dare you to kill me.’ I once ate spoiled oyster on a double dare, and let me tell you, the nightmares from that were a hell of a lot worse than any nightmares I’d get from killing you.”

“Put down the gun.”

It wasn’t Harry who said that. I wished it had been. Instead, the voice was to the left of me. A bald, overweight guy in his mid-thirties dressed entirely in black. He held a shotgun.

I lowered the revolver. I really should’ve considered that there was probably somebody else in the house besides the corpse. Of course, Harry should have considered that too, so he gets half the blame.

The kitchen lights came on, revealing two goons behind the bald guy. Younger guys who were also dressed entirely in black. The one on the left had one of those ridiculous curved collectors’ knives, the kind they sell on the Home Shopping Network that looked like they’re used to skin buffalo. Glinting in the overhead florescence, it didn’t look ridiculous at all.

His partner had opted for the maniac implement
de jour
—a sixteen inch chainsaw.

Suddenly Harry didn’t seem so bad.

“I said drop it,” the bald guy said.

I dropped the gun.

The man pointed the shotgun at Harry. “Get off my prey.”

“Thank God you showed up,” said Harry. “This guy was breaking into your house. I’m part of the neighborhood watch and—”

The man bared his teeth, revealing fangs. “I told you to get off my prey.”

Harry scooted off the body and got to his feet.

The man looked back and forth between us, and then smiled. “Which one of you is Harry McGlade?”

“He is,” Harry said, pointing at me.

“No, I don’t think so,” said the man. “I know who you are. We’ve been watching you for a long time.”

“Groupie, huh? You must be Vlad.”

“I am indeed.”

“I’m Andrew,” I said, raising my hand. “I’m uninvolved.”

“Not anymore. But you will be soon.” Vlad grinned. “Harry, you and I are going to have a pleasant little chat. We have a lot to discuss. Andrew, you’re going into the Pit.”

“How come Harry gets to have a chat and I have to go to the Pit?”

The two guys behind Vlad simultaneously came at me. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t seconds away from losing control over one of my bodily functions. Or perhaps even two of them.

Vlad chuckled. “If you resist, my friends here will cut off your feet, and then they’ll drag you to the Pit. I’d advise against making them do so. You’ll survive a few minutes longer if you can run.”

“I was just getting spaghetti sauce.”

Crazy Knife Goon got me in a headlock, and Crazy Chainsaw Goon put his hand on his starter cord.

“You’re at least going to smack Harry around a bit, right?”

“He’ll get what’s coming to him.”

I smirked at Harry. He shrugged. Crazy Chainsaw Goon fondled his cord.

“Okay,” I said. “I like my feet. I’ll come quietly.”

They grabbed me by the shoulders and tugged me into the next room.

T
he stoolies carted away Andrew Maudlin, and Vlad gave me his full attention. His bald head had an unhealthy sheen of sweat on it, which dripped down past his double chin and onto the black leather silver buckle bondage vest he wore. What I thought were leather pants were in fact chaps, and under them he wore a black bikini pouch.

Fabio wouldn’t have looked good in that getup. Considering that Vlad resembled Ernest Borgnine, the overall effect wasn’t pleasant.

“You seem like a reasonable man,” I said, watching him play his tongue over the tips of his fangs. “Why don’t you just give me Tanya and let us go?”

“What about your little boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’ve only gone on a couple of dates. He doesn’t put out until the third.”

He laughed, a high-pitched noise that sounded like a squeaky wheel.

“Ah, the great Harry McGlade. Always quick with the quip. Just like on the TV show.”

There used to be a cable series called
Fatal Autonomy
based on my adventures. Lasted three seasons. Even earned an Emmy nomination for best gaffing. I think. I might have imagined the Emmy nomination during a drinking binge.

“Are you a fan? I could get you Daniel Baldwin’s autograph. We’re tight.”

“I already have what I want, Mr. McGlade.”

“An overbite?”

“You, Mr. McGlade. I have you.”

A scream, from deep inside the house. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

“Was that Tanya?”

“That came from the Pit. I’m guessing your friend isn’t enjoying himself.”

“He’s not my friend. He’s just some idiot who bumped into me when I was breaking into your house. I think he’s also mentally retarded. You should let him go—he’s too stupid to tell the police.”

Another wheel-squeak giggle. This creep needed a squirt of WD-40.

“Let’s walk into the next room, Mr. McGlade. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Vlad didn’t strike me as a quick guy, and I might have made a try for him if he had a regular gun. But shotguns didn’t require much skill. Even if his aim was off, I’d catch some pellets.

Catching pellets sucked.

So I raised my mitts and let him lead me out of the kitchen and into the den. The décor was Goth-chic; black lights, zebra fabric, words like ‘blood’ and ‘death’ spray painted on the walls. We walked past two black-clad Pires stoned on the couch. They didn’t even glace up at us—the lava lamp was far too engrossing.

“Nice place, Vlad. You rent or own?”

“Own. Balloon mortgage. I’m thinking of refinancing.”

“Now’s a good time. Rates are low.”

From the den we went down a short hall, through a doorway festooned with hanging beads, and came upon…

“What is this? A porno movie?”

“It’s an orgy, Mr. McGlade. In your honor.”

I stared at the writhing, squirming pile of naked flesh stretching across the floor, most of it female. The participants ranged in age from teens to mid-forties, but everyone I locked my eyes on was pretty, trim, and athletic. Some were also tremendously flexible.

“In my honor?” I glanced at Vlad. He gave me an ‘aw shucks’ smile, somewhat hampered by his fangs.

“The Pires have followed your exploits, Mr. McGlade. You’re a legend. We’re honored to have you here at the Den.”

One of the undulating naked women glanced in our direction and let out a squeal of delight when her eyes met mine. She disengaged from her partner with an audible
pop
and crawled over to me, locking her hands on my upper thigh.

“Honored, huh?” I said, though in my head I was already composing my letter to Penthouse.

“More than honored. This is indeed a sacred day.”

Two more naked women scuttled over, pawing my masculine parts. Though the lighting was low, I could tell by the facial jewelry that one of them was Tanya, the girl I’d come to rescue.

The other was her mother, Josie.

I’d been set up, and good. But why? And did I really care?

“So, you’re not going to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Vlad laughed. “Mr. McGlade, we’d be honored if you joined us. But let’s not talk of business now. Why don’t you spend some time getting to know the warren.” Vlad nudged me into the room with the shotgun. “They certainly seem eager to get to know you.”

I shrugged. “Well, when in Rome…”

Then I unzipped my pants and waded into the sea of decadence.

If I were a nicer guy, I perhaps might have wondered what was going on with Andrew Mahogany and the Pit.

But I’m not a nicer guy.

“N
obody would have to know if you didn’t really throw me into the Pit,” I explained to the goons as they led me down a gloomy hallway. “Your boss would just say ‘Hey, did you throw that guy into the Pit?’ and you’d say ‘Yep, we sure did,’ and he’d say ‘Great, thanks,’ and you’d say ‘No problem.’ It’s a win-win situation for everybody.”

“Shut up,” said the goon with the chainsaw.

“I’m just trying to save you some labor. You could go take a smoke break.”

We reached the end of the hallway. The goon with the wacky knife pushed past me and opened the door. “Get in there,” he said.

It was too dark to see clearly inside the room, but one element was rather obvious. “That’s not a pit,” I said.

“So what? Get in there.”

“Why do you call it the Pit? It’s got a regular floor.”

“Vlad wanted to call it the Pit, so we call it the Pit.”

“But it’s not a pit. A pit is concave. That’s a room.”

“I know it’s a room. But what’re we gonna call it, the Room? That’s not scary.”

“How about
The Scary Room
?”

“Shut up.”

“Are there, like, peach pits or cherry pits scattered around the floor or something?” I asked. “If you want to come up with an intimidating name that exaggerates the terror, that’s fine, but to call it the Pit when there’s no actual pit involved is kind of asinine.”