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Gut you like a hog, dawg!

Kirk Alex

(Hubba-Hubba Holiday novel excerpt)

    “What’s the problem?” said Delphine. Escorts had the backseat like before, while Doc fought the storm in the front. Traffic was heavy, vicious, water everywhere. Only so fast one could go. They kept pushing him to move it, pick up speed.
    What little he could hear coming from the back amounted to Cybelle telling her pal that the trip was about rescuing one of the girl’s from a tv talk show host, who was having a tough time getting wood, and he was taking it out on the girl, refusing to pay her.

    Doc, having heard this, didn’t care for his part in it: the function was that of a suitcase pimp, basically. Chauffeuring them around in this manner was what a suitcase pimp would be doing, and all he felt was pure self-loathing.
    “I’m dropping you ladies off at the nearest taxi stand,” said Doc.
    “No,” pleaded Delphine. “Please don’t stop, Doc, until we get to the house in Mt. Olympus. We’re needed.”
    “I’m not a pimp. This is what pimps do: take their hoes places: next appointment; next trickγjohn whatever.”
    He shook his head.
    “We can’t pay for a cab,” said Delphine.
    “You heard Cybelle: the trick will pay.”
    “Maybe not. There’s no guarantee that he will.”
    “Who pays for my gas and time? I’m on a case. I’ve got studio honchos waiting for results. Get me? I’m between a rock and a hard place over here. And that ain’t no lie.”

    “Okay then,” said Cybelle. “I’ll tell you the truth: it’s Livonia. She’s beating the doo-doo out of the guy. He insulted her, because he couldn’t get it up. She insulted him back. He tried to hit her, and she punches the crap out of him. The man’s maid was able to get to a phone, and called Freda, just as the line went dead. There is no way to call back to get the cops out there. We need to stop her from killing him. She’s psycho.”
    “Like this even less,” said Doc.
    “We don’t like it either,” said Delphine. “Ain’t all roses and poetry. You got some real sick types out there, especially in that part of town. You ought to know; you’ve been around.”
    “What if he’s dead by the time we get there?” said Doc. “We’re done, is what. Going to jail.”
    “I can’t think about that,” said Delphine.
    “Freda will get us out,” offered Cybelle.
    “What happens if my PI ticket gets yanked?”
    They said nothing.
    “I’ll tell you what happens: I’m screwed. Big time. And it’s back to shoveling brains and intestines with Termite and Ilsa.”

    Dod found himself cursing under his breath and shaking his head. He got on Sunset Blvd and took it out. Drove through East Hollywood, then Hollywood proper. At La Brea, he shot up north to Hollywood Blvd, at which point he headed west. It was like before, a river. Loaded with litter and branches. What could you do, but keep going. When they reached Nichols Canyon, he hung a right, and took them up into the exclusive mansions, high rent district. Cribbies that cost a few pesos.
    Mt. Olympus. High-end. Big bucks. Overrated media types resided in these lofty mansions. Incredible palaces. This particular full-of-himself celeb was a talk show host from the UK. Probably in love with his own turds, or maybe just his farts. He’d even had Tricky Dick on his venue, talking crap in that lofty tone of voice that he had. Doc had never been able to stand the counterfeit cocksucker.
    There was a big gate, and he let the escorts jump out and see if they could do an Open Sesame type number, or else use the phone inside the black metal housing.

    They managed. Climbed back in, and Doc pulled up to the front door. The trio entered the spacious foyer. A distraught maid was waiting, in tears. She led the way. Evidently her employer had locked himself inside one of the bedrooms, and Livonia, attired in those skin-tight spandex tights, with a leather tool belt strapped to her waist and yellow construction helmet on her head this time, was banging away with a barbell. She didn’t care that her audience had increased by three peeps. Kept banging away at it.

    Delphine and Cybelle called her name.
    “You need to stop, Livonia,” said Delphine. “Cops are on the way.”
    “Bull-crap,” said the lovely Ms. Livonia.
    “We didn’t call them, Freda did.”
    “Screw you; the both of you underfed bitches.”
    “Livonia, this is serious,” said Cybelle. “We’re all going to jail if this does not stop.”
    “Shove off!”
    “All someone has to do is let immigration know you’re here illegally, and you’re done.”
    “SCREW YOU TWO! NO, SCREW YOU THREE! ALL THREE OF YOU!”
    Delphine attempted to grab her, and pull her away from the door. Livonia dropped the barbell, then hauled off and punched the escort in the mouth hard enough to send her reeling. The other girl attempted the same, and got it just as bad.
    Livonia glared at Doc: “Want some?’
    Doc looked at her. Did not say a word.
    “I warned you before, faggot! Mess with me and you’re toast! I eat punks like you for breakfast, lunch and dinner! Then excrete you right out the next day!”
    “Take it easy now, Livonia,” said the PI. “Not looking for trouble at all. Rich peeps like this tv talk show host have pull.”
    She moved up. Her face right in his.
    “You wouldn’t hit a man with his arm in a cast?”
    “Screw your cast,” said Livonia. “You came looking for trouble. I’ll give you trouble.”
    “No trouble,” said Doc.
    “You nearly broke my friend Mallory’s arm.”
    “Only held her wrist to stop her from turning my face into hamburger. I had no choice.”
    “You got your choice: Take it, or get your stupid ass flattened into a pancake. Or are you too ignorant to get it?”
    “Only as a last resort would I hit a woman––”
    “That’s a threat!” Then: “I’ll gut you like a hog, dawg!”
    “No.”
    “Clearly a threat, rectum face! Threat! Know what happens when people threaten Livonia from Estonia?”
    “Tell me––”
    “No, I will show you!”
    And she did, hauled off and the hard fist sent him flying for about ten feet. Doc was down, close to being out. Effing Estonian bitch could punch. All those muscle-building steroids. Felt like he’d been struck by a Mack truck or an APC.
    “Stay down, or get more. Up to you,” said Livonia.

    Looked like the girls were minus a tooth each. Bleeding. Near tears. The maid was hysterical.
    “You call the police?” Doc asked.
    “Phone no work,” cried the maid.
    “No work? You sure about that?”
    “Si, señor. Telephone no work now. I try many time. Maybe later, if telephone company make the repair.”

    What were they going to do? Was he going to have to shoot the Livonia freak to keep her from murdering the tv host? Good question. That he did not have an answer to.
    Gut you like a hog, dawg. Where’d he hear it? The gardener punk who’d attempted to coif his pretty locks with a machete: Gonna gut you like a hog, dawg. What it was he’d said.
    What did it mean? That it was this Livonia freak who’d injected Jimmy Armit with the HIV? Was it? She did that to him? Gave him the HIV? But why? What had it been about? There’s Always Tomorrow? The script? To shut him up? Why?

    She had the barbell back in her hands, and was banging away at the bedroom door. Cracked holes in it finally. Doc rose, grabbed her by the shoulder, and she whacked him across the jaw with the bar, that sent him down, rendered him out for a good while.

    She got inside, and was pounding away at the show host. Maid poured ice cold water on Doc to revive him. Then she and the escorts helped him make it to his feet.
    “Where the hell am I?”
    It took a moment. Doc drew his .38. Christ; he didn’t want to have to cap the crazy bitch. But what choice was there? What choice? No choice, that’s what choice. She was determined to decimate the Brit. Why? What had pushed her over the edge? She know him from before? Her European escort days? Must’ve been. Had to be. This was payback for something that had gone on between them in the past. The rage must’ve been simmering, and finally blew up like a percolating volcano.
    “Gonna gut you like a hog, dawg,” he heard her threaten the tv show host.
    “No,” pleaded the UK superstar. “Don’t do it. I meant nothing! I’m sorry! Please.”
    “Shut your hole, bitch!”
    She had him on the carpet, a battered, bloody mess. Pajamas bloodstained, top and pants. Arms up. She had the barbell over her head, and was ready to swing down with it. Doc cocked the hammer on the .38.
    “Hey,” he said to her. Not loud. Just loud enough to let her know she was about to be dropped back into the hell she had been spawned by.
    “You don’t have the brass balls,” said she, turning her head back to glare at him.
    “You seem to have enough to spare.”
    He waited.
    “If you so much as attempt to swing down with that iron bar, you are good as dead. It’s over for you, Mademoiselle Livonia from Estonia.”
    She waited. Doc waited. Delphine and Cybelle and the maid waited. Doc held the gun, aimed.
    “Going to be a skull entry. Steroids won’t help you this time. All those muscles and weight lifting; hours on the treadmill. Won’t help.”
    She did not move.
    “And after the first shot, just to be on the safe side, I’ll give your skull another. To end your suffering, in case the first one don’t do it and you’re in pain, shaking like a dog crapping razor blades.”
    She remained still. Frozen. Unmoving.

    “No.” It was Mallory Donavan. From somewhere in back of him. Doc turned his head, only enough to make sure. Yep.
    “Livonia honey,” said Mallory. “Drop the barbell. Please, baby.”
    She wouldn’t.
    “If you consider me a friend, let it go. Mr. Frick might be a prick, but he’s hurt enough. You probably had every reason to do what you did to the pig, but enough. It’s enough, sweetheart. Let’s get out of here. Before other pigs show. It would simply break my heart if you should be deported.”
    Livonia’s eyes appeared to well. She lowered the barbell. Doc stepped aside, and let her pass through, whereby she was embraced by her friend. Livonia appeared to be weeping.
    God Almighty, thought Doc. God Almighty.
    He re-holstered the .38. Mallory took her friend by the hand, and they walked out toward the front door. Doc made it over to the tv show host. Held his hand out to help him up. The man was sobbing. Sat on the edge of the bed and could not stop sobbing. His maid ran in with a towel, and wiped the blood, snot and sweat from his face.

    Doc stepped out of the room. He needed water to drink, beer, something, and he needed to wash his face; he needed to wash his own blood off from the assault, as did the escorts. Heard the owner instruct the maid to show them where the bathrooms where, help them out.
    They did what needed to be done. Escorts went in the first bathroom, then the maid lead the PI to another john in the back. Doc took a leak, then washed up. Stared in the mirror. Looked a mess. Man oh man; the punishment he was being subjected to on this case. He needed to charge the studio sons-of-bitches a tremendous amount to make up for it. Make them pay. Show them results. Not positive results necessarily. They would be results, though. What he had. Whatever that was.

    In the kitchen. Later. All three drank beers: Delphine, Cybelle, Doc. No one said much. Both girls had their mirrors out and were checking over the chipped teeth and contemplating the loss in revenue it was sure to result in. Didn’t look good. The maid, having calmed down considerably, stood there leaning against the sink, staring at the floor.
    Doc could not stop Livonia’s threat from spinning on an endless loop inside his head: Gut you like a hog, dawg.

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