NOTE: This story is part of the Dark Crossings Collection. Click here to buy the Dark Crossings Collection on Amazon.
Boricio sat in the middle stall of Roscoe’s bathroom, backing out the brown Buick and taking a well-deserved break. Roscoe’s bathroom was nice, and never smelled like shit and ass water — like the bathrooms in most of the restaurants Boricio had cooked in during the last decade or so, spent hop-scotching across the country.
This bathroom had three Tahitian vanilla candles burning, two on each side of the sink, and another in the goddamn middle, filling the room with a sweet, sugary, artificial scent, instead of the true blue of trouser-chili brown.
Boricio turned toward the off- white tiled wall and flushed, lifting his ass from the seat so he could pull up his pants, but also because he wanted to admire the size of his pile. He grinned at the mountain of Mr. Hankey, quietly congratulated himself, then sat back on the pot to kick it for a few more minutes before heading back into the kitchen.
No reason to end his break any earlier than needed. Work had been a bitch-and-three-quarters for three months straight, and Boricio had been out late as fuck the night before, having to unexpectedly bury two goddamned bodies after his double date got a bit out of hand.
Boricio didn’t mind working 12-hour shifts, and Len, the dicktip fucktard who ran Roscoe’s, didn’t mind him working them, so long as it was cool with Mr. Jules, the dude who owned the restaurant, which it was. Since Boricio worked the longer shift, he got longer breaks, though he was smart enough to cash them in when no one would’ve given two squirts of piss about it.
Like every other job Boricio had ever had, this one paid him under the table. And though he didn’t collect a check, he had to keep Mr. Jules’ books surgeon-scalpel-squeaky clean. That meant clocking in for two different shifts under two different names — Bruce Dapples and Percy Shute.
Boricio had gone from job to job since he was old enough to flip the finger and not get a slap for the slander. Aliases had helped him stay invisible, which was a porn star’s cock’s worth of hard to do since Boricio had a tendency to draw all sorts of unwanted attention from Johnny Law.
Being a cook made getting a gig in just about any city in America enchilada easy. But about two years back, Boricio landed in Napa for three months, where he’d worked in a place called Capozzoli’s, and cooked with ingredients he’d never used, tasted, or even heard of before. Something inside Boricio was born. He had a parasite inside him, and the fucker was starving for quality cuisine.
Before Capozzoli’s, it was Mayo in barrels for Boricio, but Napa changed him enough to make him see the term “wine country” for the insult it was. For every faux chateau and gift shop shilling grape refrigerator magnets, it was a paradise of piccata and pickling, waiting to be polished off.
Capozzoli’s mined Asia, the Mediterranean, and maybe even Shangri-Fucking-La with dishes like glazed pork belly with apple purée and soy caramel, and Petrale sole with coconut rice, clams, and chorizo.
That changed Boricio’s shit forever.
Boricio didn’t stay in Napa long, having to hit the other side of Dodge ahead of fucking schedule, and against his goddamned wishes after some 10-foot-tall Dwayne Johnson-looking cocksucker and his loud mouthed bitch pissed him off enough to give him a long night and a sudden change of plans.
Boricio would’ve been happy to stay in California forever, but figured he may as well try New Orleans, which might be almost as good. He hit Houston along the way, after stopping for two months in Santa Fe, and another three in Austin.
Boricio was only in Houston a week before he found himself working for one of the city’s most successful restaurateurs, Mr. Branson Jules. At least it was a week before Boricio realized it. Prior to Capozzoli’s, he never applied for work in places where they wore the fancy pants, not because he didn’t want to, but because getting paid under the table was harder. Ninety percent of his working life had been spent as a short order, where he could see the fuckers sucking grease from his side of the heat lamps.
Boricio got a job at Roscoe’s about an hour and a half after ambling into town, then worked there for about a week before realizing the fucker who owned it had several other restaurants around the city, and that Boricio was working at the runt of the litter.
Mr. Jules made a spot check to each of his nine restaurants once a month, at least. Boricio made sure to make himself memorable at every one.
Mr. Jules always made it back into the kitchen, wanting to speak to the men, and occasional woman, handling his food. But the first time he met Jules, they weren’t in the kitchen. Boricio was on his way back from the bathroom, but stopped when he heard a woman, who probably weighed twice as much as the menu she was waving away, saying her body couldn’t afford the dessert. Boricio murdered his stride, then leaned to her table and said, “It’s a shame to ignore the desserts here, especially since I just finished a fresh batch of the peach crostata.” He shook his head and winked. “Just think of all the people on 9/10 who waved away their dessert.”
Mr. Jules was standing a few feet from Boricio when he said it, then beside him in the kitchen two minutes later, making small talk and complimenting his new chef on his unique perspective on food. “Well,” Boricio said, “I like to say, ask not what you can do for your country, when you can ask what’s the best thing on the menu instead.”
The next time Mr. Jules came in, Boricio got a tip from Len the day before, and had a sample of his fruit focaccia ready to taste, along with a suggestion to add it to the menu. When Mr. Jules said he thought the menu was good as is, and that six desserts at any given time was one less than one too many, Boricio said, “I see what you’re saying, Mr. Jules, but desserts are like mistresses. Sure, they’re bad for you, but if you’ve already got six in the sack, I figure you have room for one more.”
Mr. Jules said nothing; he just slapped Boricio on the shoulder, and smiled, almost as wide as he had when he was holding the taste of the fruit focaccia in his mouth.
The third and final time Boricio made Mr. Jules’ acquaintance, he’d been caught red-handed doing the one thing Len told him from Day One he was never to do — straying from the restaurant’s recipe. Apparently, Mr. Jules knew his menus well enough to call Boricio on the crime, but Boricio didn’t even bat an eye, saying what he’d been preparing to say since deciding to turn his cheek from the recipe.
“Cookery isn’t chemistry, Mr. Jules. It’s art. That means for a true artist, such as myself, we go by instinct and taste, neither of which you can get from a recipe.”
He stood back, daring Mr. Jules to taste and prove him wrong, but the twinkle in Jules’ eye said he knew Boricio was right, so he said what Boricio had been waiting three visits for him to say instead.
“Do you think you’d ever like to work at another restaurant, like maybe the Spotted Cow?”
“It’s the only reason I’m still in Houston, Sir,” Boricio said. Mr. Jules laughed out loud, smiled ear to ear, then left the kitchen, and Boricio alone with his dream.
Boricio knew he was on his way to the diamond in Mr. Jules’ crown. The Spotted Cow was the only restaurant Boricio had ever wanted to work at, before he started working there. And he was determined to stay in Houston long enough to make it happen.
Which was what made his previous night before such a goddamned disaster.
Boricio had been on a double date with two dumb bitches he met online, both stupid enough to believe that he and his friend “Ronnie” wanted to take them out to dinner and a movie. He’d been working on the first girl, Brenda, for about a month. If she was half as tasty as her Facebook photo, then Boricio hoped she’d sit on his face all fucking night.
Boricio had the entire evening planned, and knew exactly how to get both girls to gobble his goop in unison. There were few things Boricio enjoyed outside the kitchen more than seeing four titties swinging at once, while worshipping at the Altar of Boricio for the six or seven minutes he took to go number three.
Boricio didn’t have friends, let alone a fucker named Ronnie, so poor, ole “Ronnie” was gonna come down with a monster case of the old Nestlé splatter, and while he was sitting in his imaginary home percolating his make-believe-ass coffee, Boricio would be hooking up with a couple of bitches. It was a solid plan, but unfortunately, it wasn’t more than a minute before Brenda’s dumb cunt-fuck-all-of-a-ruiner best friend said, “Hey, didn’t I see you at Roscoe’s?” Then, “Don’t you work there?”
Boricio was using a fake name on top of a fake name, with a fake job as an air traffic controller to go with it. Bruce Dapples, Percy Shute, two dozen other names (along with Boricio himself) all shared the same philosophy: Being smart was key and careful and critical, but nothing was more important than knowing when to hold ‘em, when to fold ‘em, and when to bury the goddamned bodies.
So the “date” ended a bit sooner, and bloodier, than planned. And took a helluva lot longer than he’d wanted.
Somewhere between 90 minutes and two hours of sleep had made the porcelain beneath Boricio’s ass feel like a posture-fucking-pedic. It was time to get back into the kitchen, but some dipshit on the other side of the stall was waiting for Seinfeld to come back for a 10th season. Boricio liked to wait until the bathroom was empty before leaving the stall since he preferred invisibility after taking a shit. While Boricio didn’t give a fuck what people thought of him, he was mindful of the impression a customer would have seeing the cooking staff exiting a stall after dropping a deuce. And Boricio actually did care what people thought of his food.
The fucker finally finished his business and left the restroom. Boricio stood from the shitter, ready to leave the stall, when he heard the door swing back open, with some asshole’s loud voice bouncing against the sand-colored walls.
Fuck, we having a parade today?!
“Come on, I don’t have all fucking day,” the voice said, followed by the sound of a slap to the back of the head that Boricio remembered all too well, even if had been two decades since he routinely received them from his stepdad. Boricio didn’t need to go to Harvard, or fucking Montessori, to recognize the sound of some dumb fuck slapping the back of his boy’s head. Sure enough, when Boricio nudged his nose against the thin slit of the stall, and peeked through to the other side, he saw a man pushing a young boy forward and into the bathroom.
The kid yelped a bit, the sort you could tell he was trying to keep inside, even though a fat nugget of it fell on out anyway. Father of the Year recited the fucker mantra: “Stop your damned whining or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
The kid opened the door to the farthest stall as Boricio climbed up onto his toilet seat to listen, curious, not scared, and sorta hoping the dicktip of a dad didn’t do anything to jeopardize his job at Roscoe’s. Boricio had about as much tolerance for asshole dads as he did for the daily special at Applebee’s.
The kid hadn’t been sitting on the porcelain throne for a half minute, but Father of the Year was already finished draining his lizard at the urinals, so he yelled at the boy, “You done taking a crap yet? I don’t like leaving our table unattended.”
Boricio chewed his bottom lip, trying to ignore how much the asshole on the other side of the stall sounded like his own French fried fuck of a stepfather. Probably the only difference between the two was a whole lot of zeroes in the bank. But assholes were assholes, and all of them full of shit.
The kid finished up, then left his stall and washed his hands to the music of his dickhead daddy’s unrelenting verbal abuse. The water stopped, and the bathroom door swung open and shut.
Boricio opened his stall door, ready to lather and rinse. He was halfway to the sink when the door swung back open and the kid came running inside. He seemed somehow taller on the other side of the stall, with a mop of shaggy, red hair and a small scatter of freckles across his nose. He looked a little like the fucker who played Opie on Andy Griffith, then Richie Cunningham on Happy Days, except with eyes that were sad enough to reach right inside Boricio and twist something hard enough to make him wince.
The kid went to the sink, pulled three tissues from the box beside the candle, then loudly blew his nose while pretending to ignore Boricio. The door opened an inch, and the asshole’s voice drifted inside. “I’m going to the table. Hurry up.”
The kid looked over at Boricio, with the horrible something still in his eyes. Boricio held Opie Cunningham’s stare, eyeing him with a different sort of horrible back.
Opie looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t dare. Just threw his handful of tissues into the trashcan, then ran from the bathroom without a word.
Boricio waited another few seconds to see if the dad would come back into the bathroom, knowing from too much experience that if the father saw he had a witness to his fuckery, the kid would pay for the wrong place and time with whatever Special of the Day the asshole had to serve.
As Boricio headed back to the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of the asshole with his son — a short, somewhat overweight man wearing expensive clothes and way too much jewelry for a guy. In his ear, he had one of those douche bag Bluetooth phone things that guys used to make themselves look like they were far too important to actually hold a fucking phone.
If there weren’t a crowd of folks in the place, Boricio might have killed him right there.
**
As much as the episode had unnerved Boricio, it was forgotten by day’s end. And he might not have remembered it ever again if he hadn’t seen the Father of the Year on the following Saturday.
The fucker was stupid enough to make shit personal the second time.
Boricio was winding down from the early afternoon rush when Candice, the cutest waitress at Roscoe’s, came tearing into the kitchen with her face a new shade of red and each eye big as a fist, trying to keep herself from falling into a ball of heaving tears.
Boricio kept flipping his fry pan as Candace said, “Where’s Len?”
Len was on a smoke break. “Sucking on a coffin nail like always,” Boricio said. “Why?”
Curiosity was killed and anger ignited when Candice said, “The guy at #14 said his chicken is raw.”
Boricio’s nose started twitching, and his skin started to itch. The chicken wasn’t raw; it was fucking perfect.
Boricio shrugged it off, thinking of the Spotted Cow and all the nothing he was willing to let stand in the way. “Tell ‘em we’ll have a new plate in just a few minutes.” Boricio turned down the burner, asked Adrien, the cook beside him, to watch his pan, then went to grab another breast. He turned to Candice. “That it?” he said, not liking the upset still on her face.
“He was so mean about it,” she said. “But no big deal,” she shrugged. “I’m used to it.” Her smile was cracker thin, though.
Boricio said, “Okay,” then finished his replacement plate a few minutes later, handing it to Candice without saying a single one of the 14 things he was thinking to say, including the one that was all funny without any mean.
Two minutes later, Candice was back in the kitchen, carrying the replacement plate with a single bite missing from the chicken. Her cheeks were still empty of tears, but her eyes were bigger and her face was redder.
“What now?” Boricio growled.
“He says that he comes here a lot, and that he’s not sure why since it’s hard to tell where the food stops and the Styrofoam starts. And then he asked me if he needed to do my job for me or could I relay some simple instructions back to the ‘retards’ in the kitchen to cook the dish correctly? ”
Boricio didn’t say a word, just took the plate from Candice, then dropped it onto the counter and went to the swinging kitchen door, nudging it enough to peek out into the dining room and get a good look at Table #14.
Well, isn’t THAT some beer-battered bullshit?
Sure as a hooker with a stretchy stuffbox, it was Father of the Year, with Opie Cunningham trembling beside him. The fucker was tapping on his iPad, while his kid sat across the table, staring into space.
Boricio wanted to march from the kitchen, pound his fist on the fucker’s ear hard enough to send him flying from his chair, then slam a boot heel into his stomach until the guy’s mouth flew open wide enough to let Boricio pour every packing chip he could find into the cum stain’s gullet.
But he thought of the Spotted Cow and turned to Candice instead.
“Don’t let that fucker get to you, Candy Cane, okay?”
Candice looked up into Boricio’s eyes and nodded.
“I’ll fix it right up, okay?”
Candice nodded again, then waited for Boricio to cook a third chicken breast. He thought about fucking with the asshole’s food, but figured he wasn’t gonna blow his chance to work at the Cow for the likes of just another asshole with a Napoleon complex. So, Boricio made the best damned dish he could make and sent it out.
And that was that. The last thing Boricio heard or saw from Father of the Year that day was when Candice bitched that he’d nearly made her cry twice, and still only managed to leave her a $2 tip, $1 for each diner, and less than even 10 percent of the $32 total.
**
Two weeks later, Father of the Year started playing his odds by coming into Roscoe’s again.
Boricio was taking an early break, this time in the dining room. He’d made himself a small plate of rigatoni à la vodka, and was taking his time chewing while reading the real estate and business sections of The Chronicle. Making money with real estate, or stocks, both seemed relatively simple to Boricio. All you needed was some seed money and you could be one of the rich getting richer. He played imaginary stocks like other assholes played fantasy football. Boricio may not have had the roots or seed money required to lay his chips at the table, but he tracked his numbers obsessively enough to know that if he’d had the imaginary 100K he’d given himself to start four years before, he’d be well into seven figures already.
He wondered if maybe he ought to target a rich prick and get some seed money the way ancestors of lots of the Old Money generally got their wealth — by stealing it.
Boricio tucked the final bite of lunch into his mouth, savoring it for several seconds before swallowing, then pushed the empty plate to the edge of the table, winked at Candice, folded his paper, tossed it on the table, then leaned back and widened his arms into an everlasting stretch. He was about to stand when he heard Father of the Year dinging the bell as he stepped inside Roscoe’s and added his name to the top of the list.
No one else was waiting, so the hostess, Rebecca, said, “Johnson, party of two,” six seconds later, turning her eyes to the fuckhole.
Figures, only a complete tool would have a last name like Johnson.
Boricio settled back into his seat, watching as Rebecca crossed the restaurant floor and sat the boy and his asshole dad at the table beside his. The boy’s red ragtop looked like it had grown a half inch longer since Boricio had last seen him, but Boricio could still see the bruises beneath his hairline, along with the swollen shiner, like a bulb waiting to bloom on the springtime of his forehead.
Father of the Year had clearly beat on his kid like a snare drum.
Opie opened his menu while their waitress, April, was still asking them what they wanted to drink. At first, Father of the Year was all smiles, and Boricio thought maybe he might be in a good mood. His own stepdad had often confused him — being super nice one moment and then batshit crazy mean the next, like he was constantly rolling dice to determine his next action.
The moment the waitress left, however, the asshole grabbed the menu from the kid’s hands, then leaned in and whispered. “The fuck you need that for? You order the same bullshit every goddamned week.”
It was so quiet, Boricio would likely have never heard him if he wasn’t fluent in Fuckers Who Needed to Die.
The asshole spent the next five minutes detailing every molecule of wrong the kid had done while clearing lines from a chore list that sounded longer than the Emancipation Fucking Proclamation, and telling poor Opie that since he was too stupid to get things done right the first time, he could enjoy spending the rest of his Saturday, and all of his goddamned Sunday, getting it right — starting the second they got back home.
The kid was ballsy enough to protest, saying how he was supposed to go out with Johnny later that day. They were planning on seeing a movie at the mall since the place was getting torn to nothing by the end of summer, the arcade included. His dad glanced around the restaurant to make sure no one was looking — too stupid or arrogant to realize Boricio was well-rehearsed in looking the other way — then clocked the kid on the side of the ear.
Opie started inspecting stains in the tablecloth that weren’t even there, rubbing his ear and looking around the restaurant to make sure no one saw him, while tweaking his breathing to keep himself from crying.
Boricio bristled in his seat, pretending to read his newspaper, wondering what would happen if he walked over and fucked the asshole’s ear with a butter knife. The call to find out was loud, but the call of the Spotted Cow was louder.
The kid grew balls and looked up from the table. “Mom already said I could go.”
Fuck, kid!
Didn’t Opie know you weren’t supposed to poke the bear?
Father of the Year said, “Johnny’s a troublemaker. I’ve heard enough about the kid to know I don’t like him, and that I don’t like him hanging out with you. So the answer’s no. He’s a bad seed, and I’ll not have you making any messes that I’m gonna have to clean.”
“He’s not a troublemaker,” the kid said, daring to hold his daddy’s eyes, even though his words fell out in barely a squeak. Still, Boricio had to appreciate the stew in his sack. “Mom’s met him a bunch of times,” he said. “She said he’s nice.”
Boricio bristled again, waiting for Father of the Year to start walloping the kid. When he didn’t, Boricio had to wonder if it was just because the two of them were in public, and figured that yeah, the next act in the show was coming up after a brief intermission.
Boricio had no doubt anyway, but it was a neon sign of certainty once he saw lightning striking in the fucker’s eyes. He said, “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time your mom was wrong. She’s wrong about major shit about as often as I take one.” He paused, then added, “She’s still dating that half fag, Shane, isn’t she?”
Opie didn’t say a word, but after about 30 seconds of his daddy’s staring, he finally surrendered his head to a slight nod. Father of the Fucking Year barked out a laugh and said, “Ha, that’s what I thought.” Then, “He touch you yet?”
Opie said, “Shane is nice. He takes me to eat at Lucille’s on Tuesday nights since kids eat free. Mom gets an hour or so to herself, and we get a good dinner that she doesn’t have to cook. He always lets me order off the menu, including dessert.” The kid had already said more than enough to earn his ass a nice-sized beating, but he added to his tab anyway. “Lucille’s has the best peach cobbler.”
Fuck.
Father of the Year must have been figuring out a few ways to save it for later. Rather than going blitzkrieg on his boy in the middle of the restaurant; he pushed his chair from the table and said, “I’ll be right back,” then dropped his napkin next to his knife and headed toward the bathroom.
Boricio looked around the restaurant, making sure Father of the Year had already rounded the corner before trading his table for the kid’s.
He stood over Opie for a few seconds, waiting for the boy to look up, mostly wanting to see if he showed any spark of recognition before Boricio sat. When the kid finally looked up, the light in his eyes was enough for an invite, so Boricio pulled Father of the Year’s chair from the table, plopped down on the seat, then went straight to business.
“You remember me?” Boricio asked.
The kid’s eyes were still down, but he lifted his head a few inches and lightly nodded.
“Good,” Boricio said, then, “You okay?”
The kid shrugged, still silent.
Boricio didn’t have all goddamned day. His break had maybe two minutes left, and he doubted he had that long before Father of the Year drained his lizard and made it back to the table. “Who gave you the shiner?” he said, pointing to any one of the spots on the kid’s face.
The kid glanced toward the bathroom, like Boricio expected, then said, “Nobody,” and fell into a Lawrence-of-Arabia-length silence.
Boricio wouldn’t get far before Father of the Year was back, so he stood from the table, eyes toward the bathroom and said, “Nobody lives on Somebody Street. You might want to think about scribbling Pop’s address and giving it to someone who gives a shit.” He fell a small step back, just as Father of the Year surfaced into view, quickly coming toward them, increasing his stride when he saw Boricio talking to his kid.
Boricio smiled, looking forward to a little one on one with the fucktard who thought it was okay to abuse a boy who probably wasn’t even old enough to shoot glue from his tube. Father of the Year was about 10 feet away when he started talking.
“He bothering you?” He eyed Boricio from the square of his jaw to the tip of his work boot. “He likes to pester folks for no reason sometimes,” the asshole laughed. “You know how kids are.”
Boricio flipped the flame, heating his charm. “Nah,” he laughed, waving his hand. “I was just on my way to the restroom, and was asking your boy what his favorite thing on the menu was. I like to know since this isn’t always the most kid-friendly place, and I like all my diners to be happy. I take a lot of pride in what I cook,” he nodded toward the kitchen. “I’m the head chef here, and I like nothing but smiles when folks leave.”
Boricio turned his smile wide and held the fire in Father of the Year’s eyes. “I figured maybe he’d like to try something that wasn’t on the menu. We’re trying out some new things to try and get more kids in the door.”
“No,” the asshole shook his head. “We’re fine. Kid fills up on Cinnamon Toast Crunch before we leave the house, so he barely has an appetite by the time we get here.”
“You like Cinnamon Toast Crunch?!” Boricio turned to Opie, like he’d just found out he was the last of the Mohicans. “Well, you should try the cinnamon French toast casserole,” Boricio looked around like he wished he had a menu. “It’s in the breakfast section, but no reason you couldn’t order it any time of day. It’s so good, it should be illegal. You can get it plain, like you probably like it, but we could also throw in some fruit, maybe blueberries or apples. The dish is delicious, perfect for heads of state, kings and queens, regular grownups, and smart kids just like you.” Boricio winked at Opie, just to piss the asshole off.
Father of the Year was getting pissed, but not at Boricio, since the fool probably believed the head chef really did want to make a casserole for his kid. “Thanks,” he said. “But that’s really not necessary.”
Boricio said, “Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” and waved his hand. “That’s too expensive, and little Johnny should be ordering off the kid’s menu, and yeah, you’re right and righter. The casserole is a bit pricy at $9.95, and I admit it’s not even that big, but I wouldn’t mind making it half size for the half pint here,” he nodded toward Opie, “so long as you both promise to leave as happy as you came in.”
Father of the Year wanted to sit, but Boricio was enjoying standing in his way, as he milked the minute a moment longer, staring. Father of the Year finally broke the silence and said, “Well, I think we’re about ready to order, but I appreciate your attention. That’s the sort of service that makes Roscoe’s one of our favorite places to eat.”
Boricio smiled, stole a glance at the million and one things the kid was keeping between his lips, then said, “Sure thing. If you don’t have pride in what you do, well then, you don’t really have nothing at all, do you?” He fell another step back, finally giving the asshole room to sit, then turned from the table and started walking away before turning back to pick at the fucker’s scab.
“Hey,” Boricio said to Opie, then waited for the kid to turn. “I hope you gave the other guy a matching shiner,” Boricio pointed at his own head, then at Opie’s. “At least one as big as yours.”
Father of the Year shifted in his seat, exactly like Boricio knew he would, then said, “Ha, the kid’s as clumsy now as the day he was born. Fell out of bed in the middle of the night. First he was wetting the bed until he was 11, and now he can’t even stay in it. Isn’t that right, Ricky?”
The kid laughed along with his old man, still keeping all those million and one things he wasn’t saying sealed tight. “Yeah,” he said.
The asshole had done a quality job of keeping his true self hidden. Up until the moment Boricio was saying adios, he’d made the mistake of thinking that Father of the Year was just another bona fide, kid-beating dickface. It wasn’t until he caught the look in the asshole’s eye when he saw that the man was a certified predator.
Boricio smiled, one wolf to another, then bid them both a good day and went to the restroom, seriously considering jeopardizing his job at Roscoe’s, and his future at the Spotted Cow for the first time since hitting Houston.
Later on in the kitchen, Boricio checked the guy’s credit card receipt the second he could get to it, just in case. The man’s name was Greg Johnson, fucking tool. GTool’s name, along with his address if the kid decided to write it down for Boricio next time they were in there, would give Boricio everything he needed to find the guy. Hell, he might not even need the guy’s address. You had to love the Internet, from Google to Facebook, there was enough of a digital footprint for Boricio to know the asshole better than he would’ve after a full half hour of torture. Maybe.
**
Boricio spent the next few days doing a bit of research.
GTool was a dickface for a living, and good enough at it to pull in some decent scratch. He was an actuary. In non-asshole speak that meant someone who worked in the insurance industry, whose job it was to calculate rates based on probability, statistical records, and other shit that helped the companies decide how high the premiums could climb. GTool had gone to a special actuary school, so he made more than most actuaries, on account of graduating and becoming an accredited analyst. He was an executive in his firm, which gave him more money and free time than he’d had when he was overstressed and rising through the company, which was apparently about the time he’d been a big enough dick to make his ex-wife want to leave him for good.
The guy wasn’t the quiet type of predator; he was a loud mouth asshole. But that loud mouth made following the stink of his shit ABC easy. The best story Boricio found came from The Houston Chronicle from two years prior.
Even though GTool was a regular at Aqua, he had been booted from the nightclub by the general manager when he got drunk as hell; belligerent enough to start hassling waitresses, which was a big no-no at Aqua, no matter who you were or how often you came in. Greg Johnson refused to go, so the police were called. GTool ended up getting charged with misdemeanor resisting arrest, and had to post a $1,000 bond.
Fucker also had a Twitter account under a different name, though Boricio had to admit he thought most of the asshole’s tweets were sorta funny, including these three gems:
“Watching The Dog Whisperer so I can learn how to treat bitches.”
“Only idiots admit their mistakes. Lie if necessary, but stay infallible always.”
“If you’re not using Facebook to see how fat your exes got, you’re using it wrong.”
Since life outside Roscoe’s was largely about feeding Boricio’s need for entertainment, from Tivo to titties, he decided he’d follow GTool around for a while in the middle of the week and see if that led to any excitement.
**
Boricio spent several hours tailing the guy the following Wednesday.
Sure enough, the guy was a cliché, from the roar of his shiny Mustang to stopping at a strip club on his way home from work.
For the most part, Boricio thought strip clubs were for idiots only. You almost always paid a cover to get in, so shit was never free, and there wasn’t much inside except for a stage, maybe two, depending on the size of the club. There wasn’t really dick to do except flush dollars down the drain at the edge of the stage, or sit at a table waiting for any one of the girls roaming the floor to ask you if you’d like a lap dance, or a drink that cost the same as a swallow job in the alley. Sure, there were titties like tinsel at Christmas, but Boricio got bored after five minutes, especially seeing as how he could see ‘em for free with the right string of words and a wide smile behind them.
It wasn’t until an hour or so after the asshole left Stilettos on Stage when shit finally got interesting. Shit would’ve been interesting sooner if the asshole hadn’t pulled into an alley to apply the handbrake with Mrs. Palmer and her five daughters, making Boricio hate the fucker that much more, seeing as how he’d never been inside a strip club where the ladies weren’t willing to help the one-eyed snake spit a little milk for a nominal fee. Either the fucker was too shy, or too cheap. And Boricio already knew the fucker wasn’t the bashful sort.
He hadn’t seen GTool’s bank statements, but Boricio knew the dick did okay. And while he could have a little sympathy since strip clubs could molest a wallet like sores on a herpes-ridden cock, there were plenty of ways to be smart with your money in a strip club. Minus the cover, Boricio figured any fucker could get plenty of nipples for the cost of one Abraham Lincoln. All you had to do was pick a spot in the center of the club, where you could scope the shit around you, maybe sip on your drink for a song or two, stretching your leisure as long as you could, while trying to figure out which bitches were worth your fiver. Once your target stripper was announced by the DJ — who probably had enough coke in his system to powder a donut — you waited until she’d taken off her top. Then you could go to the stage to tip her, but instead of laying your bill on the bar like a dumbass, you put it in your mouth for a guaranteed face full of titties. Return to your seat, then rinse and repeat that shit four more times until you’ve had five faces full of sweaty stripper titties in exchange for five one dollar bills.
After GTool was finished frosting his maple bar, he drove like a man determined, making four or five hard rights, and nearly running two red lights along the way. Boricio thought for a minute that GTool was onto his tail, but he didn’t seem concerned about anything but speed.
It was a game of hurry up and wait, because once GTool stopped, he stayed parked outside of a house with a pair of binoculars, hunched low in his seat, pointing the pair of magna-peepers up the street and over at a house with bright-white paint and dark-green trim. It was 10 minutes or so before Boricio realized where in the hell they were, and who they were watching. And he didn’t need to pull his own pair of binoculars out of the glove box to figure it out.
The kid, Opie, walked by an open window in the house. It was only a flash, but more than enough for Boricio to know the fucker up the street was stalking his ex. Boricio was surprised the guy had anything left in him after rubbing one out in the parking lot of the strip club. Why not head home, smoke a fatty, and chill out in front of the TV?
Ten minutes later, the asshole climbed from his car, wobbling so unsteady up the walkway, Boricio had to wonder where and when in the fuck he got so drunk, since the fucker who was too damned cheap to pay for a cream catcher with a heartbeat, sure as hell wasn’t gonna lay down for the ass rape of a rum and Coke.
Whatever GTool saw through the binoculars, set him off something fierce, and he wobbled double time up to the front porch where he started pounding on the door with the flat of his fist. Boricio reached into his glove box, and magnified the show with his own pair of binoculars.
After another minute of pounding, the front door swung open, revealing some accountant-looking fucker, with a head of neat hair, with most of it swept to the side. The dude was wearing thick glasses that made him look like Clark Kent, but nerdier.
Must be Shane.
Shane was just stupid enough to step up and into GTool’s fuckered face, probably telling him to get lost before he called the cops.
A second later, GTool’s rounded fist slammed into the dude’s face. A shot of blood squirted through the air, probably from Shane’s nose, though Boricio couldn’t see for certain before Shane fell hard on his ass. Boricio wasn’t sure if GTool was meaner than he’d thought, or just drunker, but the shit was a helluva lot more entertaining than he’d anticipated. Boricio had already seen a lot more than he expected, and what he’d seen was nothing compared to what came next.
GTool pulled a gun from the back of his pants — it looked like a .45 — then waved it through the open door at a petite blonde standing on the other side.
I hope the kid’s upstairs, hiding under the fucking covers.
GTool screamed for a minute or two, stepping into the doorway so he could wave his gun without the neighbors calling the cops, then turned around and stomped back toward his Mustang — slamming the door, tearing into the street, and pushing Boricio into something he rarely, if ever, liked to do.
Boricio lost his temper reasonably easily, and when he did, he couldn’t find it with a full pack of bloodhounds, but he never let it control him, especially when liquidating his victims.
Boricio liked to wait before a kill; the longer the delay, the greater the joy. But GTool was a loose, goddamned cannon, and his time to go was yesterday.
Tonight would be the night.
After all, this kill wasn’t about pleasure; it was about doing right by Opie. Boricio wished someone had taken out his stepdad before shit got real. Before Boricio learned what he needed to learn to take care of his own shit from his mentor, Tom.
Boricio had a machete in the trunk, plus several blunt objects and a cleanup duffel. Getting the deed all did wouldn’t be a problem, so long as Boricio could manage to get the fucker alone. He was cycling through the six or seven ways he could easily end shit when Boricio looked up to see the only thing he’d rather see less than a bitch with a dick: a cop in his rearview. The lights weren’t on — yet.
Boricio had found himself in front of Johnny Law several times before. Fortunately, luck had been on his side every time so far. Most times, the Barney Fife motherfuckers passed him by; twice he’d been pulled over and managed to sweet talk his way out of the situation. Once, Boricio had to liquidate the officer, then leave town, three months earlier than planned, and without the pleasure of the pussy he’d been looking to pound into a coffin for the two months prior to that.
The car was right behind Boricio, pulling closer.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Boricio was trying not to slam the steering wheel, and wondering what in the fuck he was doing straying so far from his normal routine, enough to get so distracted, he was going at least 15 over the speed limit, when red lights started to flash above a braying siren.
FUCK!
Boricio was ready for whatever in the fuck was about to happen, but then the officer flew by, pulling over the asshole in front of him. GTool, instead.
Boricio smiled, then switched lanes and kept on driving, wondering if Officer Friendly was looking for GTool specifically on account of his tirade back at his ex wife’s ponderosa, or if it was because he was driving like a drunk on fire. Boricio figured it was the latter, but made a long circle around several blocks, driving back to find out.
Sure enough, the fucker was in the middle of a sobriety test he had zero chance of passing, and changing Boricio’s plans as the officer slipped the cuffs on GTool.
Fuck.
**
It was another long week before Boricio saw the asshole again.
Boricio would’ve chased down GTool’s shit sooner, since he didn’t like to leave unwashed dishes in the sink, but work at Roscoe’s was busier than fuck. Mr. Jules was hopping from restaurant to restaurant, and word from Candice, whose sister worked at the Cow, was that Jamie Bryant, head chef for the last four years, was opening his own joint, and Mr. Jules was blinking his peepers for a new chef. Boricio knew he’d be in the running, and had his mind fixed mostly on getting the job that was surely his to get.
It was driving him crazy how much he wanted the job.
When Boricio wanted something, he usually took it. But no way could he just take this job. He had to earn it from Mr. Jules, then thank the big boss for the pleasure. Until the job at the Spotted Cow was settled, Boricio would barely think about anything else, including GTool. If the asshole hadn’t walked in with Opie the following Saturday, who knew how long it would’ve been before Boricio would’ve thought of him again.
Opie had a cast on his right arm, and Boricio started boiling the second he saw it. Whether or not the asshole was the one responsible, he would pay. Even if Opie broke his arm jacking too fast to PornTube, GTool was taking the blame.
Boricio wouldn’t have even seen them come in, but apparently his schedule for having to shit was in alignment with the prick’s schedule to not cook for his kid.
Boricio welcomed the sudden distraction from thinking about the Cow, 24/7.
He went into the back, made sure no one was looking, broke into Eddie’s locker — since that fucker smoked more weed than Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson recording a double live album — then took his bottle of Visine and went back to the kitchen and waited patiently for Table #21’s order so he could make the asshole’s special order that much more special.
You had to be careful when fucking with Visine. Done right, you could get an asshole spraying chocolate for hours. Done wrong, it could lower body temperatures to dangerous levels, make breathing difficult, blur vision, and send a fucker into seizures, tremors and maybe even a coma. And while Boricio aimed to eventually kill the fucker deader than Raid killed roaches, he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure.
The ingredient that turned a fucker into a shit factory was called tetrahydrozoline, and a drop was enough to shrink the blood vessels. It “got the red out” like you wouldn’t fucking believe, but if you did it wrong — like the dumb bitch Monica who worked with Boricio at a burger joint down in Daytona Beach a couple summers back — you could fuck your shit up big time. Dumb bitch squirted a cum shot’s worth of drops into some asshole’s drink when he tried to grab her titties from the tube of her top — her fault for wrapping ‘em like a Christmas present. Dumb bitch Monica ended her summer with felony charges.
One drop was perfect in liquid, maybe two or three if cooking. Boricio planned to send GTool running into the bathroom, and keep him occupied so he could have a chat with little Opie Cunningham.
GTool took Boricio’s advice and ordered the cinnamon toast casserole, though it was for him, not Opie. Opie ordered silver dollar pancakes, from the kid’s menu, of course. Fine by Boricio. He mixed the Visine in with the egg yolk, then soaked the bread, fried it, and waited until nine minutes after GTool started chewing, clearing his queue, calling his break, and headed out into the dining area as soon as the asshole stepped from his seat.
Boricio sat like he owned the table, if not the all of Roscoe’s, smiling at Opie as he sat. But Opie kept his eyes on the table, just like he had the time before, and probably did every time he was out with his old man.
“What happened to your arm?” Boricio asked, pointing to the cast with one name written in black marker: Johnny.
“Nothing,” Opie muttered, eyes still on the table.
“You know,” Boricio said, “you really should tell someone about what’s happening. Shit won’t never get better until you do.”
Opie said, “My mom says you shouldn’t use double negatives.”
“What?” Boricio raised his eyebrows.
“You said ‘won’t never,’ but I think you meant ‘won’t ever.’”
Boricio cackled. “Well, ain’t them some tears from heaven, Son. I’ll make sure I don’t never make that mistake again.” He winked. “Sounds like your momma’s a smart lady, and not just because she don’t appreciate double jointed grammar, but because she was smart enough to leave that ripe, pungent fucker of a dad who’s done run off and into the bathroom.”
Opie didn’t say a word while Boricio waited for him to agree. Like most victims, he was used to the mute button. Boricio said, “So, what’s Daddy saying about the arm? Fell on your bike? Tripped down the stairs? Got in a fight with one of them giant eighth-graders who has been eating his Wheaties since he was half out his momma’s cooch?”
Opie was still silent as monk, though he did grin when Boricio said cooch, so Boricio decided to enlighten him with a little Once Upon a Time.
“You’re actually pretty goddamned lucky,” Boricio said. “Even though it might not seem like it at the moment. Now, I don’t know your innies from your outies, and maybe shit at your mom’s is just as bad as shit at your daddy’s, but something tells me it ain’t. Something tells me your momma’s just as scared of your daddy as she should be. Me,” Boricio threw a thumb at his chest, “well, both of my parents were eight days a week worth of crazy. And that was when I had ‘em. After I didn’t, shit got worse, believe it or fucking not.”
Boricio swallowed every drop of GTool’s full glass of ice water, then wiped his mouth and went on. “One of my foster fathers, Jace, was a real pungent son of a cock weasel, just like your old man.”
Boricio caught the flash of a smile on little Opie’s face, sparking him to continue, even though Opie kept looking past him to check if his daddy was coming back.
“Don’t worry about your old man. I’ve got people to warn me if he’s on his way. Cool?”
Opie took a few seconds to nod, then Boricio continued. “Anyway, Jace hated my ass, even though he did dig the money from the state. And as big as a cock hole as he was, he was a short and curly better than his best friend, Bob, who was the biggest asshole I think I ever met back then, and still makes the Top 10, even today. Well, one night Bob was over, and Jace wanted to show off what kinda Fear of God fucker he was, so he found a reason — I wish to Jesus and all 12 of the goddamned disciples I could remember what it was — and beat the breath right outta me. Of course, Jace did that shit all the time. Difference between then and usual was that he and my foster mom started double-teaming me for the first time ever.”
Boricio looked at Opie, whose eyes and mouth were wide open, then nodded slightly before going on. “Usually, Jace was in charge of the beating while Lydia watched and screamed shit in my face, but this time some sorta rage was racing through her, though it might’ve been the meth. Jace kept punching me all over — it was summer so I wasn’t wearing no shirt — while Lydia slapped at my face and pinched my body. I kept myself from crying, through the whole beating, start to finish, though I sure as shit lost it in my room right after. Jace had this watch he always wore, big and ugly and metal. Part of his watch caught on my chest that night, gave me a gash. Pretty deep, too.” Boricio lifted his shirt to show Opie the scar, a small neat line running across the side of his stomach.
“Guess what?” Boricio said, staring into Opie’s eyes.
“What?” he whispered, looking like he was one wrong word from crying, or maybe running out the door.
“You’re the first person to ever hear that story, and that’s my dumb-as-fuck mistake. Life would’ve been a lot different for me, and maybe some others, if I’d started using my mouth a little earlier than I did. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
Opie was still honoring his vow of silence.
“I promise it’ll feel better once you get it out of your belly and onto the table. You sure you don’t want to play two minutes of show and tell?”
Opie craned his neck and narrowed his eyes to slits, staring past Boricio and toward the bathroom. “I promise, Ricky,” Boricio said, making an effort not to call the kid Opie, “your old man can’t hurt you. At least not for the next few minutes. And not while I’m around.”
That was all Opie needed.
He said, “It happened last Sunday. It was in the afternoon, after he came back.”
“Back from where?”
“I don’t know,” Opie shook his head. “He left me alone, like he sometimes does on Sundays. When he was gone, I ate a spoonful of the Town Pride Coconut Chip Ice Cream he likes so much. It’s my favorite ice cream in the world, but I’m never allowed to have it. And Mom won’t buy it because it’s too expensive. He usually has four of five containers in the freezer, and when he leaves me alone, I look for the one that’s already been eaten from, then I take one bite. Just a taste, not enough to notice, then I put the carton back in the fridge. But last Sunday I forgot because the phone rang right after I put the spoon in my mouth. I threw the spoon into the sink and ran to the phone, but then I forgot all about it after I hung up. It’s all my fault,” Opie said, voice cracking as the first tear slid from his chin.
It was about a half minute of heavy breathing before he continued. “When my dad came home, the rest of the ice cream was melted in the carton, sitting on the counter. He took one look at it, poured it down the sink, then smacked my head and yelled at me for wasting it. I fell to the floor, and he kicked me, then grabbed me by the arm so hard that it broke. I was screaming and screaming, but he didn’t stop. He just dragged me by the wrist, then threw me out the back door and left me there in the yard for two hours. We have a really big back yard, and our neighborhood’s filled with old people who can’t hear.”
Opie shuddered and cried, and Boricio let him, until every instinct told him it was time to get the fuck away from the table. “Look, kid,” he said. “I’ve gotta go, but I want you to know you did the right thing by telling me. And I want you to know that shit does get better.”
“Really?” Opie said, his eyes hopeful as he looked up at Boricio, almost like Roscoe’s head chef was promising early Christmas.
“Well, no, not necessarily,” Boricio shook his head. “Sometimes shit actually gets worse. But pretty soon you’ll be old enough to start calling your own shots, and your daddy ain’t gonna be able to lay a hand on you. Eat your fruits and vegetables, do your push-ups and sit-ups, and one day that Father of the Year fucker of yours is gonna regret plenty of shit. Boricio added an, “I’ll be seeing ya around,” then went back into the kitchen before Opie could even answer, thinking up new ways to fuck the boy’s daddy up with every step.
**
Sure enough, Boricio was waiting in GTool’s house nearly three hours before the fucker came home two days later, probably after squirting mayo on his knuckle sandwich in the parking lot of Stilettos on Stage.
When GTool stepped into the house, he was too busy screaming into his iPhone to notice anyone inside, despite the dozen cartons of Town Pride Coconut Chip Ice Cream, bought from six different stores, set in a wide circle in the living room where Boricio planned for GTool to draw his final breath. Boricio had another two waiting in the freezer for later. Boricio loved coconut, and took Opie’s word that Town Pride was extra special.
“I told you I didn’t do shit to him; he tripped,” he screamed. “How many times are you gonna make me say I’m sorry? But I swear to Christ if you try and keep me from my son, or even think of calling the cops again, I will fucking kill you both. You got that, you fucking cunt? I will fucking kill you both and there ain’t shit that Shane or any cop can fucking do. You know that, right?”
Either she said yes or he didn’t wait for an answer, as he tossed his phone onto a ledge in the hallway, then turned his eyes to the living room. “What in the fuck?”
Boricio waited for his what in the fuck, or whatever version he was gonna get, before clocking the guy to unconscious, slapping him on the back of the head and tying him to a chair so the asshole could slowly open his eyes a half hour or so later while trying to put two and two together.
GTool woke about an hour behind schedule, which was fine with Boricio since Donnie Brasco was on Showtime, and he’d only seen the second half.
Being a fellow predator, the fucker probably had a decent idea what Boricio wanted before he said, “You’re the guy from the restaurant. What in the hell are you doing here, and what do you want from me?”
Boricio would’ve ignored him, but Donnie Brasco was just a few minutes from the end, meaning he’d already seen the best scene in the movie twice — the one where Lefty is summoned by his bosses, then opens the drawer with his jewelry so his girlfriend will see it later.
Boricio picked up the remote, pointed at the fucker’s widescreen, murdered Showtime, dropped the remote on the glass coffee table, then turned to GTool and said, “Well, I guess I’m here to make things right. Wanna help?”
The fucker made some sorta sorry-sounding whimper, then yanked at his wrists as the rope cut mean, red lines into his skin.
He screamed at the top of his lungs.
Boricio said, “I appreciate that this is a quiet neighborhood, and that no one’s likely to hear you scream, but if you don’t show me your best impression of shutting the fuck up, I’m gonna have to cut the tongue from your mouth before we get started.”
Boricio didn’t have to finish his sentence. GTool started showing Boricio his impression the second Boricio showed his machete, slapping the blade against the black leather of his gloved palm.
Without another word, Boricio picked up the first container of melted coconut ice cream, crossed the living room, grabbed GTool by the nose, squeezed, then poured the entire container down his wide open gullet until the fucker’d swallowed every drop like a good little whore, though unlike a good little whore, some of the load spilled from the side of his lips. Boricio was nice enough to let it go.
The asshole took a few minutes to recover. The second he did, he was sobbing like a little bitch. “Please,” he begged. “I’ll give you whatever you want!”
“What I want,” Boricio yelled, “Is for you to be a good father and stop beatin’ your kid, but fuck if that ship didn’t already hit the iceberg!”
GTool seemed confused that someone would be here about his kid. His eyes widened as he groveled, “I promise I’ll never lay a hand on Ricky again.” He shook his head violently back and forth. “I swear.”
Boricio laughed. “No one believes a liar,” he said. “Even when they’re telling the truth.” He finished his sentence with a trip back to the circle of cartons, picked up another one, then poured it into the fucker like it was gas from a nozzle.
Over the next 90 minutes, and nine cartons of melted cream — Boricio never did get through them all, stopping once the vomit got to be too much, since it was like water flowing from a busted faucet — GTool begged for his life no less than 21 times. Boricio lost count of the fucker’s confessions, though he’d never forget the funniest ones.
When his predator’s guess was telling him it was time to get going, Boricio took his machete and gave the asshole an ear to ear smile, but the kind that leaks and runs under the chin.
He was halfway finished cleaning the scene, with the corpse of Father of the Year on the floor, as he debated whether to chop the body and get the fuck out of Dodge. He was relaxed from the kill but agitated that he might have to surrender the promise of the only job he’d ever wanted, when he heard a loud knock on the door that sent a cold chill through his body.
FUCK!
Boricio did NOT like the unexpected.
He crouched low, crept across the living room, then peeled the corner of a curtain to see the beer-battered bullshit outside.
The blonde woman — Opie’s mom.
“Open up, you fucker! We’re gonna talk right now!”
Maybe GTool’s neighbors were deaf, but hell if the ball and chain he’d left behind wasn’t gonna test the batteries in their hearing aids. Boricio had to shut her up quick or he’d have an unexpected party, with fuckers in blue bringing silver bracelets and guns.
Boricio reluctantly opened the door.
Blondie was shocked to see someone who wasn’t her asshole of an ex in the doorway, but as surprised as she was, Boricio was practically dumbstruck to find himself staring down the mean side of a gun muzzle.
Oh fuck, Momma came to play!
Boricio stepped into the confusion, then grabbed the gun, twisted her arm, and yanked her inside, throwing her to the ground and spinning the gun pistol toward her.
“Don’t you fucking move!” Boricio said, closing and locking the door behind him, never moving his eyes, or aim, from Blondie.
She trembled, staring up at Boricio, putting an inconvenient twitch in his cock.
For a half second or so, Boricio thought about ending his recent adventure by covering the petite little dish in some homemade gravy, but then thought of little Opie Cunningham to turn the pipe back into a limp snake.
Blondie looked around the living room, staring at the cartons of melted ice cream, blood, and the remains of the asshole she’d come to kill. Her eyes were wide, splashing tears onto the wooden floor.
“I know I left a bit of a mess, but Jesus, you can’t even say thanks?” Boricio said, annoyed.
“You killed him?”
“No, I answered a Craig’s List ad for an ice cream party and he was like that when I got here . . . Yes, of course I fucking killed him. And . . . you’re welcome, by the way.”
“You’re welcome?!” she said, both whiney and angry.
“Keep it down or you’ll join him,” Boricio said.
She shut up, as her years of training had taught her to do.
“Good,” Boricio said. “Yes, I fucking ended the asshole. A group of us got together and pooled some money to have the fucker killed. Seems he won some Father of the Year Award in hell, decided on by Satan himself. So I came to award him his blue ribbon for fuckery.”
She stared as if she thought Boricio was actually being serious.
“I killed him because he was a shitty fucking father,” Boricio said.
“But how. . . did you know? Who are you?”
“How don’t matter. And as for who I am, let’s just say I’m an exterminator, and I kill blights on the fucking Earth. Everything was going great until you showed up all waving your gun like Thelma and Louise and shit. So now someone knows you were here, and that makes you a suspect. And, worse for me, a witness.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, I swear — I won’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, I know you won’t,” Boricio said, scaring her with a step forward.
Boricio raised his pistol and took aim, “Get in the kitchen. Now!”
“Why?” she asked, terrified.
“I want you to make me a sammich!” he said. “Just walk!”
She moved, slowly, as if contemplating her next move.
“Don’t do anything stupid, or you’ll be joining the ice cream party on the floor.”
That seemed to do the job.
Boricio grabbed a second chair and told Blondie to sit. His black duffel bag was on the table behind her, fresh rope ready for tying. He instructed her to keep still and she wouldn’t be hurt, as he began tying her up.
“You’re gonna thank me for this later,” he said. “Tell ‘em the truth, minus the whole ‘you coming over here with a gun’ part. Just try, if you can, to maybe describe me a bit differently. Or say you didn’t see me, as I’m also gonna put a blindfold on you. You don’t know what happened, but you suspect your husband was selling drugs and you walked in on a deal gone bad. Big dude jumped you and tied you up but took pity when you begged or some shit, I dunno. The simpler you keep your story, the easier it is to maintain it. But do NOT mention what you were gonna do with this pea shooter, got it?”
She nodded yes, then asked, “Wait! You’re gonna leave me here? What if nobody comes?”
“Someone will come,” Boricio said. “I’ll make sure of that.”
He slipped masking tape over her mouth, followed by the blindfold.
“Good,” Boricio said. “I hid some meth beneath your old man’s kitchen sink. The cops should find it, unless they take it for themselves and pretend not to, so if you do your job, you should be good.”
Boricio wasn’t sure if he was giving Blondie good advice or not, but he didn’t think the cops could possibly pin the murder on her. And if they did, then he’d taunt their asses, embarrassing them on the front pages of The Chronicle until they had no choice but to let Blondie go. Hell, he might even relish the game.
Boricio took the gun with him and decided to leave GTool’s body where it was and get the fuck outta the apartment before the cops came.
He looked back one last time at the mess, shaking his