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February 8, 2008

Melendez

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 8, 2008 7:17 PM
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Morty Melendez looked different hog-tied. Standing erect, he’s a short but powerful-looking man, with big knotted hands, square shoulders—hell, a square body—and a head that pokes out of a beefy neck like a turtle’s. His eyes, glazed with permanent hate, sneered at you even when his mouth didn’t. In short, he looked like a man you wanted either on your side or as far away from you as possible.

Tied, his body looked as powerful as a female phys. ed. teacher’s. Wimpering, his tear-rimmed, bloodshot eyes evoked no fear but his own. His gnarled hands hung up at awkward angles couldn’t hurt a fly, no matter how hard he tried to get at Margo’s expertly tied knot.

He lay in a heap on the floor of a room we had rented at the Days Inn on Ventura. His longing eyes gazed at the water dish placed on the floor in front of him, just out of reach. Margo’s touch, one that reminded me (not for the first time) that I never want to get on her truly bad side. She had gotten the cats’ water dish out of storage. Like everything else—including the cats—their usual water dish had been stolen.

Now she sat on the bed and watched him, her eyes a dead stare.

“You want some water?” she asked sweetly.

He gasped a parched gasp.

“You’ll need it, sweating the way you are,” Margo chuckled. “You know what I want to know.”

“That I cannot tell you,” he whispered. Despite the quiet and dry voice, he still maintained that rich, accented baritone.

“Sure you can,” Margo said. “Just complete this sentence: Renal Rojas and that bitch friend are…”

“She was a client!” he protested. “That is all. I received payment for services rendered. I’ve not seen her in months.”

“I see.” She turned to me. “Girthy, would you mind running down to the car?”

“Sure, babe. What do you need?”

“A pair of electrodes and a cattle—”

“She’s back in Miami!” Melendez roared.

“Miami?” I asked. “She told me she was from New Mexico.”

“She told you her name was Renal Rojas,” Melendez growled, chuckling acidly.

“It isn’t?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Come on, Melendez. You gotta do better than Miami. It’s a big city, and we had a lot of shit to haul.”

“Your shit is sold,” Melendez said, smirking.

“Girthy…”

I glanced at her.

Refusing to take her eyes off of Melendez, she grabbed her purse off the end table and tossed it into my hands. “Hon, take my credit card Run around the corner to Starbucks and grab me the usual and whatever you want.”

“Can I get a scone?”

“Anything for my big man,” Margo said.

I leaped from the bed and burst out of the hotel room.

When I climbed the stairs to the upper floor 15 minutes later, coffee carrier in hand, I felt numb as soon as I saw our door ajar.

“Margo…” I whispered, dropping the overpriced beverages and scone as I broke into a run to the room.

Melendez was gone. Margo lay on the floor, three half-inch puncture wounds in her gut. She took rapid breaths to avoid losing consciousness, but I could tell she was almost out. I dove to the floor, yelling her name.

“Madera…verde…” she whispered. “Doctor Clement Okon…” Her eyes rolled back and closed.

I dialed 911.