Blood and Ashes

Chapter 6

From seats in the window of Benson’s Drugstore Vince Everett and Sonya Madden watched the two men drive away in the dark-coloured Audi.

Sonya was slurping on a milkshake. She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes at the young man next to her.

‘We gonna follow them, Vince?’

With a fingertip stained by nicotine he teased a drip of milkshake that trembled on her lip. ‘No, we just stay cool.’

Sonya looked over her shoulder. The motion appeared languid but was practised. At the counter, the old man — a third-generation Benson — paid them no more attention than he did any other kid in the place. Sonya leaned towards Vince. ‘We were told to keep an eye on them.’

‘They’ll spot a tail too easy.’

‘What if we lose them?’

‘They’ll come back. Now drink your shake and shut up, will ya? I’m trying to think.’

Sonya caught links of her nose chain with the tip of her tongue and pulled it into the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re thinking about the woman.’

Vince tilted his chin her way. His hair flopped on his forehead and he rolled his head to flick it back in place. ‘Only one woman I’m interested in, baby.’

Sonya let the chain pop loose as she concentrated on pouting. ‘So you say, but I know what’s on your mind. You’re looking forward to paying her a visit, ain’t ya?’

‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Doesn’t mean I have to take any pleasure from it.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No. You have to wait outside and keep watch.’

‘I want to watch you.’ Her eyes flared at the suggestion.

Vince touched her on the tip of her upturned nose. ‘Don’t worry, baby. When I do it, I’ll be thinking about you.’ He stood up, kicking back the chair with a heel of his silver-tipped boots. ‘Wait until I’m outta here, then go on over to the well. You see those guys come back, you ring me right away.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ She slurped her milkshake again, managing her pout around the straw this time. ‘Knock yourself out, Vince.’

He stared down at her. Then he curled his lip and held her under his smouldering gaze. She smiled, but then she hunched her shoulders, ducking her head coyly like she couldn’t bear his sexy look any longer.

All an act. But he liked it.

He hitched up his jeans and then pimp-walked out of the store looking back over his shoulder.

Sonya watched him go. He saw her head come up and the innocence vanish from her features. They loved playing their little game, but now Sonya was all business. And so was he.

Vince Everett was a fake name, but that was all he’d allow. Everything else about him was the real deal. In the movie Jailhouse Rock Elvis Presley played the character of Vince Everett, the ex-con who became a big singing star. It didn’t matter that Vince couldn’t sing a note, or that his hip-swinging was more akin to someone taking a fit, there was something this Louisiana Cat possessed that the man whose name he’d assumed couldn’t claim. Elvis was famous for shooting at TV screens, but had he ever shot and killed a man?

Vince Everett had.

More than once.

He was also suspected of murdering a cop by beating him with the PR24 baton he’d taken off the cop’s belt. Vince had reputedly laughed for joy as the cop’s face went from stunned surprise to ground beef under the repeated whacks of the baton.

Unlike the Presley character, Everett had never been caught. He was no ex-con, and all being well things shouldn’t change.

School kids were clambering to get the best seats on a yellow bus as he walked across the green. From the misted windows a couple of older girls watched his progress. He swaggered for their benefit; but their laughter was too harsh to be appreciated. What did they know about sex on legs, anyway?

The bus puttered away, sending clouds of smoke out of its tailpipe. Vince kept walking. At the gate on to Don Griffiths’ property he paused. Back across the way he saw Sonya come out of the drugstore and walk towards the green. She was already clutching her cell phone, ready to warn him of the men’s return.

She was a good catch, that one.

He’d met her out East at one of them burlesque clubs in Greenwich Village. Not a dancer but a punter just like he was; someone who liked the archaic fashion and musical styles of bygone eras. It only took a glance and they both knew it: there was something else they shared. That night they’d danced and drunk and fucked, and things had been pretty much like that in the three months since. And twice already they’d shared their lust for violence. Sonya liked to watch him. Afterwards they’d screwed their brains out; high on the agony of the ones they had hurt.

She was probably pissed that she was going to miss out on what he was about to do to Millie Griffiths, but he’d tell her all the gory details afterwards. Right now she had to watch from a distance, keep an eye out for Don and his visitor returning. There’d be nothing to tell if Vince was disturbed on the job, nothing to spice things up when he ripped off her clothes.

Vince wondered who the newcomer was.

Looked nothing special to him, but who knew?

The guy was older than him, heavier built, and he looked a little tense when he walked. Old and slow. Vince was pretty sure that the man was no threat.

But then he thought of the way that the man had returned his stare out of the window earlier. Something about the guy made Vince wonder if maybe he should reconsider. The man had a similar look to the one he’d recognised in Sonya’s eyes that first time in Greenwich Village. It was the same look he knew that he carried. They all had what Vince’s grandpa called ‘Cain’s eyes’ — the eyes of a killer.

Yeah, but what did Grandpa Everett know? Vince’s grandfather hadn’t recognised the killer eyes of the kid who shot him through the throat with a. 22 revolver when he’d discovered him trying to boost the cash from the till in his store.

Or maybe he had, but the shock of seeing them in his own grandson’s face had thrown him off.

Vince shrugged. Who gives a fuck anyway? If the guy comes back, Sonya will warn me. If he wants to get it on, then so be it. He’d kill the guy and see how hot for it that made Sonya.

Feeling the stirrings of an erection, Vince smiled to himself. Then he dipped a hand into the hip pocket of his jeans. He couldn’t play guitar like the King, but he always carried a spare string.

The ‘G’ string — Sonya always laughed at that, usually lifting the hem of her skirt to show him hers — had never been on a guitar and likely never would be. He’d taken the two ends and fastened them to large steel washers. The weighted ends made it easy for snaring round a throat, then gave him good handles while he throttled his victim. The string was a medium gauge, with a nylon filament and sheathed in a wound brass coil: tough enough not to break and not too slim that it cut deeply. Vince wanted his victims aware while he strangled them to death.