Shetani's Sister (3 page)

She opened the door, and they stepped inside the gold-and-white lair. They stood at bedside, looking down at the cream-colored sexpot. She was nude and supine in the junkie limbo between heavy intoxication and sleep. Green fire flared from her slitted eyes.

Shetani, a fanatical reincarnation buff, barely suppressed a gasp. He trembled and sat down on the bed beside his new slave. He leaned to scan every plane of the girl's face. His whole body vibrated with excitement and joy. He was certain the girl was his dead baby sister, returned to life. She was Tuta Spires!

Anxiety jolted him. He had to find a way to get her off the street without blowing his career and rep as king of pimps. Awful rage twisted his face for an instant. He vowed to himself that he would find the man or woman who had turned her out in her second life and kill the guilty one.

He felt the girl's pulse. Petra said softly, “Master, she's all right. The Harlem jive ass that turned her out in the street and on stuff was copping three-percent garbage. I gave her a very light hit of stuff when we got home.”

Shetani scowled. “What his name?”

The tone of his voice caused Petra to give him a look. “Ronald somebody. He's just a piece-of-shit horn blower from Pittsburgh. We saw him on our way home, looking for her in the Square.”

He flashed his black-leopard grin. “I'll find him to hip him that his girl has chosen me…and maybe he's got a few of her things she wants to cop. Introduce us.”

Petra covered the girl with a robe. She said, “She has eyes like yours.” She gently shook the girl's shoulder. Her radiant green eyes fully opened to gaze into the hypnotic eyes of Shetani.

Petra said, “Master Shetani, meet Maxine.”

The girl smiled and extended her hand. “It's really neat to meet you, Master Shetani. You're famous!” she said in a sweet voice, coarsened by the China white.

Maxine's hand hung in air for a long moment in the tense silence, before she lowered it.

Shetani crooned, “Girl, we can't touch yet. But I'm happy to meet a fine and lucky ho like yourself—lucky 'cause you've joined a family of love and success.”

Petra said, “Give Master your lines.”

Maxine took the money from beneath a pillow and put it into Shetani's palm. He shoved it into his shirt pocket. He said, “Touch me,” as he leaned the side of his face close to hers.

She kissed his cheek. He held her head against his for a moment. He stood. “Everybody will call you Tuta, my sweet pet name for you…We'll have a heart-to-heart rap before you get down in the street tomorrow night.”

He turned and left the room, followed by Petra.

“Say, Master, that was a cute touch, laying your baby sister's name on the package. She looks like a Tuta. Does she resemble your sis?”

They paused at his bedroom door. “Not at all, except for her eyes,” he lied as he opened his door.

She tiptoed to kiss his lips. “Goodbye, sweet Master. I'll call you tomorrow from L.A.” She turned and walked away.

He stepped into his mirrored ho-trap. He sat down on the side of his emperor-sized bed, still shaken and thrilled by Tuta's return from death. She was the first and only female he had ever loved. He said, “Come in,” to a light knock on the door.

Brute-faced Eli and Cazo Brooks, street guards for the stable, entered the room. Shetani nodded toward a couch. The blue-black twins dropped down their fearsome six hundred pounds of muscle. They chorused in pipsqueak voices, “Cap, we got the cocksucker!”

“You mean the one that mugged Petra last week?” Shetani said as he gave them a vial of coke and a snorting spoon.

“Yeah, a dude named Joe Springer. His nephew, Judas Jimmy, got sick and fingered him for a shot of our China white,” Eli said as he dipped the spoon into the vial.

Cazo giggled. “Cap, he fainted after we lugged him up a alley. We busted his elbows and both kneecaps with a hammer. He ain't never gonna mug nobody again, 'less he do it from a fuckin' wheelchair.”

Shetani peeled off two hundred dollars from the Maxine money. “Here's a bill apiece, bonus,” he said as he leaned to put it into Eli's hand.

“Thanks, Cap,” Eli said as he passed the coke spoon to Cazo.

Shetani said, “Pet is flying to L.A. tonight to scout it. If her report is good, we'll all move out there. You two will go in the next ten days.”

Eli frowned. “But, Cap, we can't split before the girls. Who's gonna look out for 'em in these mean streets?”

Shetani said, “Railhead and his cousin Cool Walker. Remember them from our grammar-school days in Harlem?”

Cazo nodded. “Sure do, Cap. They sho' can look out for the stable.”

Eli chimed in, “Shit, they was and is the baddest niggers in Harlem 'cept for me and Eli.”

Shetani stood. “There's no reason to worry about moving until I hear Pet's report.”

The twins stood. Cazo handed Shetani the coke vial and spoon. The twins turned and moved toward the door. Eli wheeled around. “Hey, Cap, I know you seen the new girl Petra stole in the Square. It sho' was spooky when we first seen her. She's the spittin' image of Tuta. Ain't she?”

Shetani nodded and moved close to them. He half whispered, “I'm counting on both of you to keep it a stone secret between us that she looks like Tuta. In the meantime, we and everybody else will call her Tuta.”

The twins waggled their bull heads in puzzlement as they grinned and left the room.

Shetani went to stand at a picture window. He stared out north, toward Harlem, where he had picked up his heavy baggage of inner pain and hatred of women. He grimaced, remembering Tuta when she was four and he was eight. His drunken mother, Inez, had been a cruel, foulmouthed monster who abused and beat him and Tuta daily. He glanced at the cigarette-burn scars on his hands and wrists. He remembered how Inez would violently shove him and Tuta away with curses whenever they tried to climb into her lap or even touch her. The final brutal scene with the three of them, the last day of Inez's life, rolled like videotape inside his head.

He and Tuta were playing tag in their fourth-floor slum apartment. Inez was drinking whiskey and playing solitaire on a card table. Tuta bumped the table and overturned a water glass of whiskey. Inez knocked Tuta down with her fist and straddled her. “You stupid motherfucking bitch! I'll kill you for that!” she shouted, as her hands were choking Tuta.

He snatched up an empty whiskey bottle and struck her on the top of her head. While Inez lay stunned, he took Tuta to a hiding place in the basement of a tenement down the street. At twilight, he went back to the fourth floor of his building to find a chance to steal some food from his apartment. He waited in the shadows at the far end of the hallway until the last of Inez's drunken girlfriends and five-dollar johns departed.

He sneaked into the apartment, expecting to find Inez snoring in a drunken stupor as usual. Instead, she was leaning through an open front window, watching a street fight down the block.

Festering hatred ruled him. He eased up behind her and pushed. She landed skull-first on a spike of a dilapidated wrought-iron fence. Her split head burst forth brain matter.

Her death would be officially determined as an accidental fall by a notorious drunk and mental patient. He remembered that his loving and sensitive father, Oscar, had been driven to blow out his brains nearly a year to the day before Inez's death by her craziness and relentless bitchery.

Shetani thought about the succession of loveless, even hateful foster homes he suffered in. For six years, every day, he missed Tuta and ached to be reunited with her. At fourteen, he joined an army of Harlem street kids. He teamed up with the teenage mugger Big Cat to get a bankroll. He haunted every grammar school in several boroughs until he found Tuta, right in Harlem. She was in her recess period. She immediately left the school grounds with him and never returned to her foster home.

Shetani remembered how joyfully they lived together in a Harlem kitchenette until she died the next year of leukemia. He'd gone totally berserk with grief and rage against all the doctors and nurses in the county hospital for failing to save Tuta. He grinned, remembering the bloody chaos of broken jaws, noses and lacerated faces before seven cops finally subdued him. He thought about his seemingly endless confinement in a state mental hospital, until he was released at the age of eighteen.

Now Shetani felt suddenly very tired. He turned away from the window and went to the bathroom for a shower. After that, multiple images of himself animated on the walls and ceiling of the mirrored white-and-gold room as he put on gold satin pajamas. He got into bed. The only light was from an amber lamp on the carpet behind the bed.

He took a dope kit from beneath a satin pillow. He prepared and injected a shot of China white into an arm. He lay back, admiring the gorgeous image of himself in the ceiling mirror. The horse kicked him into dreamy ecstasy.

Several days after Big Cat's death, Rucker pulled his Lincoln into his space on the parking lot of the two-story brick police building. He entered and greeted a half-dozen police and civilian employee acquaintances. He was told at the sign-in desk that the lieutenant wanted to see him.

He went to Lieutenant Bleeson's office, at the rear of the building. Rucker's massive, hard-faced boss smiled and greeted him with his booming voice. “Hello, Russell. Sit down for good news.”

Rucker said, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” as he seated himself in front of Bleeson's cluttered desk.

Bleeson, in shirtsleeves, leaned back in his chair and studied Rucker for a moment. “Russell, I've cleared your vacation, and I'm glad for you, because you look frayed.”

Rucker grinned. “Six weeks of twelve-to-sixteen-hour shifts on that fast track out there would drag the ass of an iron man. I will be happy to take a vacation.”

Bleeson stood with his hand extended. “Russell, you and your guys won the war and set an example of grit and accomplishment for every vice cop in the department. Take three weeks, whenever you wish.”

Rucker shook hands. “I appreciate that, and thanks so much, Lieutenant.”

Rucker turned away and walked to the door. He stopped and faced Bleeson, seated behind the desk. “Lieutenant, someone in our squad will have to fill my spot while I'm away. I'd like to recommend Leo Crane.”

Bleeson smiled and nodded his head. “That's a very good choice, Russell.”

Rucker opened the door. “Thanks again, Lieutenant,” he said as he pulled the door shut behind him. He walked toward the front of the building. He paused beside lanky, fortyish Leo Crane at the sign-in desk. Crane's sleepy gray eyes widened for an instant when Rucker banged a palm against his shoulder as he turned away from the desk.

“Hey, Russ, what the hell are you so happy about?” Crane said as he studied Rucker's grinning face.

“I'm taking three weeks off from the fucking sewer, and guess who is covering my spot?” Rucker said as they walked toward a briefing room a few yards away.

“Shit, that's easy. It's gonna be me, the cop that makes the pimps and whores piss on themselves before they flee into the wind.”

They laughed as they entered the medium-sized room where Rucker would brief the first shift. The four members of the special team were seated at a rectangular table, joking and shooting the breeze. The squad worked two five-man shifts, from 3:00 to 11 p.m. and 11 p.m. to 7 a.m.

The room became silent as Crane seated himself, followed by Rucker, who took his seat at the head of the table. The group's ages were between twenty-eight and forty-three, with Rucker, at fifty-two, the oldest member.

Rucker glanced at his wristwatch. “Men, it's late, so I'll be brief with my remarks. I've got myself a three-week vacation, and Leo will be in charge in my absence. You guys are gonna be all right so long as you don't rest on your laurels and let the bad guys and broads get another foothold. True, there are a lot of Hollywood hookers doing bits at Sybil Brand. But there is an army of them working sections of L.A. and Vegas and Albuquerque. That army is waiting to get the message that the heat is off in Hollywood, hooker heaven. You guys are the best cops there are, and I'm confident they will never get that message from you. I know you're gonna keep the streets of Hollywood clean for decent people. They deserve it.”

Rucker got to his feet as the group applauded. He turned and moved into the hallway, followed by the others.

Two days after Rucker's meeting with his squad, he arrived at New York's Kennedy Airport. Opal Lenski and her mother, Rebecca, met Rucker. He was surprised to see how closely they resembled each other. Like Opal, Rebecca was a statuesque, shapely woman with magnetic dark eyes and a mane of blue-black hair slightly streaked with gray.

They rushed him with hugs and kisses before he claimed his luggage. They went to the Lenskis' vintage Packard. Rucker insisted that he would do the driving to their home in distant Brooklyn. He opened doors for them and got under the wheel, beside Opal.

“Russell, when you leave the airport, I'll give you directions for the shortest way home,” Rebecca said from the back seat.

Rucker said thanks as he half turned toward her. He froze for an instant before he keyed on the engine and moved the Packard. Rebecca was holding a
Christian Science Monitor
publication! His prejudice against and opposition to the cult were white-hot and soul-deep. He thought of Ray, his lovable and late older brother. He had been a Christian Scientist when he got pneumonia. Rucker had begged him, even tried to force him to get medical attention. Ray refused it and died. Now Rucker was tense with the possibility that his life was in danger of being touched again by the unrealistic cult.

Fifteen minutes after getting directions from Rebecca, he glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She was intently reading the
Monitor
. Was that a whispered “amen” he heard from the back seat? He dared not think the unthinkable, that Opal was a member of the cult. No, that couldn't be. She would have mentioned it long ago on the telephone.

Rucker's palms were damp when he pulled the Packard in front of the Lenskis' well-kept two-story brownstone. Jesus Christ! He needed a drink.

Shortly, he was settled into a guest bedroom on the second floor of the grand old Lenski house. He took a belt of 100-proof vodka from a fifth before he unpacked his luggage. He couldn't risk the odor of his favorite Cutty Sark with Opal around.

He felt better, but his peace of mind was threatened by the possibility that Opal was a Christian Scientist.

He went into a bathroom adjoining the bright blue-and-white bedroom to gargle a mouthwash and take a shower. He heard Opal purr sweetly, “May I join you, Ruck?”

He boomed out, “Yes, you may! Yes, you may!” with a fair Gordon MacRae imitation. She stepped in and pressed herself against him. They kissed passionately beneath the jet stream. She stooped and lifted his glistening sex works in her palm. “Gorgeous, I've missed you so,” she cooed as she smooched his penis.

After their shower, Rucker carried her to his bed. He felt the giddy excitement of his amorous youth as she straddled him with her fragrant heat. She volleyed his face with suckling kisses. He embraced her and wondered again if she was a Christian Scientist. He loved her, but he couldn't ask her to marry him if she was. What if she got sick after they married? He couldn't face losing her for lack of medical attention.

“Oh, Ruck, I'm so totally hot!” she whispered. She rubbed his crotch with her bulging bush. He decided to postpone the big question and make love. They did, passionately. Afterward, he lay caressing her back. Finally, he said tenderly, “Dear, let's talk for a moment about something very important to us. Okay?”

“Sure, Ruck,” she whispered. She lay within the circle of his left arm.

“Well, I'm going to be direct. Are you a Christian Science member?” he asked softly.

“Yes. I've been a member for about a month. Why?” she said as she scooted free of his arm to lie on her side, facing him.

Their eyes locked together. He dry-swallowed. Christ! Her dark-brown eyes were so beautiful. “I am aware that everyone has the right of religious choice,” he said raggedly. He sighed deeply. “Opal, your answer disturbs me more than you can imagine.”

She frowned. “Disturbs you? Ruck, I can't understand that.”

He reached to stroke her hair. She moved her head away. He said stoutly, “I know firsthand about your religion's rejection of medical help for sick members, for even the sick babies of members.” His jaw set in a hard line as she studied him in a long silence. He continued in an edgy voice. “Opal, I will never understand your religion's reliance on a so-called lay practitioner for sick people who require professional medical attention. It's unreasonable. It's almost crim—”

In the manner of a mother stifling the protest of a child, she pressed a palm against his mouth. “Darling, please, let's don't quarrel. We are having dinner downstairs this evening with Brother Jenkins, a practitioner. Perhaps through him you will become more informed, and then you might have a change of attitude. Fair enough?” She stood beside the side of the bed, studying him with radiant eyes. He shrugged and smiled. “We will see.” She leaned and kissed him before she went to her bedroom, on the other side of the bathroom.

Rucker immediately started to hit the vodka to relieve his tension. At eight-fifteen, he went to the dinner table, loaded and fifteen minutes late. Opal frowned and introduced him to Ralph Jenkins, the practitioner, and his tiny wife. Rucker grunted and sat down next to the burly healer-through-divine-power.

Rucker picked at his roast duck while the Lenskis and the Jenkinses carried on a spirited conversation about documented miracles experienced through faith. Rucker instantly disliked Jenkins's naked skull, blunt ugly face, piggish eyes, and sanctimonious voice.

“Well, Sergeant Rucker, what do you think about our discussion of God's miracles?” Jenkins softly inquired.

Rucker stared at him through slitted eyes for a long moment. “Mr. Jenkins, since I'm not on duty with the LAPD, call me Mr. Rucker…Miracles are great, but how many sick people have died that medical doctors might have saved, Mr. Jenkins?”

The women were visibly shocked. Jenkins replied, “Oh, you poor man. Doctors! You mention earthly doctors? God is the quintessential doctor on whom we rely. We know—”

Rucker cut him off. “Come on, now, Jenkins. I lost a Christian Scientist brother who wouldn't seek medical attention. What about the sick people you lose?”

Jenkins smiled, “Mr. Rucker, I can't ‘lose' anybody. I am just a humble conduit of God's healing power. God, in his divine and perfect wisdom, saw fit to take your brother and others who believe in him to everlasting bliss. It's impossible to be lost with faith in him.”

Jenkins's wife and Opal's mother snickered. Opal just glared at Rucker, who was enraged at the trap he had set for himself.

Rucker pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He exploded, “I think it's criminal for you and your religion to let people die for lack of medical care.”

Jenkins sprang to his feet and seized Rucker's coat sleeve. “You retarded son of Satan! I demand an apology for that remark,” Jenkins commanded as he jerked the coat sleeve.

Rucker spun and punched Jenkins hard on the jaw. He fell heavily and lay moaning on the carpet. Rucker turned and went up the stairway to his bedroom. Opal joined him several minutes later.

“Ruck, are you insane? How dare you strike a guest in this house!” she said angrily.

He looked up at her from the side of the bed. “I'm not insane or sorry.”

Opal's eyes softened. She sat down beside him and stroked his back. “You're drinking again…”

He jerked himself to his feet and paced the floor. He stopped in front of her and looked into her eyes. “Yeah, my drinking is as much a part of my life as your lousy religion is to yours. So what?”

She got to her feet. “So I'm sorry about us, Ruck,” she said softly as she turned to leave.

“Tell Rebecca I'm going to check into a hotel in the morning,” he said to her back. She nodded and went through the bathroom to her bedroom. He got a bottle from his bag and sat in a leather chair near a picture window. He stared out at the lights of Brooklyn's streets and blotted out his pain and unhappiness with vodka.

Leo Crane, Rucker's longtime friend and protégé, awakened in North Hollywood after a fitful night of Seconal sleep. He winced and closed his eyes against a spear of late-morning sunlight coming through an opening in heavy blue drapes. He heard the drone of a vacuum cleaner issuing from the living room. He bolted upright on the bed. What if Millie, his wife, got to the mail first and found a notice from the bank, warning that their house note was two months overdue? He looked at ten-thirty on his wristwatch. He sighed relief. The mailman wasn't due for an hour or so.