They bug-scuttled, buzzed, and bounced off the bed. They flipflopped and flew off the floor. They crawled and crunched like ripe Rice Krispies under our feet.
11:48 P.M.
We reloaded our revolvers. Sammy syphoned a syringe full of Lysol-like lysergic acid. I juked out to the van and juked back with jumper cables.
We clipped the lights off and climbed into a closet. Cockroaches flipped off the floor and flew into our mouths. We gagged and hacked ourselves hoarse. We reflex-retched and bit the bastards into puslike pulp. We spat out roach residue and heard a rumble–right by the bungalow door.
A V-8 voom. Tire treads grinding gravel. Vigorous voices. A key-in-door cacophony. THE Voice: “Some fucking dump. And check those bugs on the dresser.”
A barrel-chesty baritone: “I’ll check the closet. Maybe there’s some spray.”
I scooped up a scad of roaches and got ready to rock. Sammy popped into a pile-driver pose. The closet door swung and swept outward.
I bug-bombed Bob Duhamel. Bugs buzzed into his mouth and dive-bombed down his throat and crawled all over his crew cut. Sammy slammed him in the slats and slipped his gun from his hip holster.
Bad Bob flailed and flapped his hands. He belched bug bile and gurgled goo. He hit the floor hard. Sammy slipped a beavertail sap off his belt and bopped him in the balls. I unhooked his handcuffs and hitched his hands behind his back.
Sinatra watched it all wicked wise. He swirled a martini and swayed sweet to some bedazzled beat. He blew smug smoke rings coooooolly concurrent. Frigidaire Frank–the hip hero and ad for greasy grace under pressure.
He said, “What have we got here, the Lone Ranger and Tonto? What’s shakin’, kemo sabe?”
Bugs bopped out of Bad Bob’s mouth. Sammy slapped slivers of tape across it and muffled him mute. I slipped the syringe out of Sammy’s shirt pocket and watched shimmering shit shoot up the shaft.
Sinatra said, “Are you clowns on the junk? Sambo, I’m shocked, and I may just have to snitch you off to the NAACP.”
I laughed and lunged at him. We collided. I got martinimottled and smoke-smacked. I grabbed a grip of greasy hair and tore off Frank’s toupee. Frank squealed. I squeezed his neck and nailed my needle into a vibrating vein. I pushed the plunger and jacked jungle juice in his jugular.
Sammy said, “You’re in for a wild ride, Paisan.”
I tossed Freon Frank on the frayed bedspread. Bugs sidled on his Sy Devore suit. Frank was fricasseed, french-fried, and fresh out of cool. I froze the moment in my mind.
Sammy juked the jumper cable cords out to Frank’s Lincoln and whipped the hood wide. He leaned on the gas. He bolted the blue hooks to the battery box. Sparks spit out. I slid the cords under the door slit and shut us in torture-tight. Sammy tore the tape off Bad Bob’s mouth. I ran the red hooks right under his eyes.
Sparks spun out and spanked him. They sizzled and singed and browned his brows.
Frank said, “I am personal friends with many well-placed men in La Cosa Nostra.”
Bad Bob said, “You wouldn’t dare.”
I hitched the hooks to his hands and hurled him some horsepower. He vibrated to V-8 volts and flapped on the floor.
I unhitched the hooks and watched him undulate. I said, “All of it. No lies and no omissions.”
Bad Bob shook with the shimmy-shimmy shock-induced shakes–and flew with a flinty, “Fuck you.”
I anchored the hooks to his ankles. Bad Bob buckled and bent back and did a spectacular spine-spin.
I unhooked the hooks. I heard him ululate. His pelvis popped. His legs lashed. He spasm-spun and spit sparks.
Sammy said, “Dig it!” He was hopped up on honky hate. He looked like that jigabooJomo Kenyatta.
Freon Frank was frazzled in fright. The acid was assimilating assiduously.
Bad Bob yipped and yelled, “All right!”
I bent low. Bad Bob blurted and blubbered at me. His tongue and teeth palpitated off his palate and pried out words prestissimo:
“Linda blew everything when she shook down Frank to get her song some play–then Skip Towne got hip to it and tipped you off–and you wrote your piece in Hush-Hush–and Miller Leavy read it and figured that Frank’s name would give him some flicking marquee value–and he could get a probe going–but then he learned what Linda really had on Frank and got fucking scared– and I don’t know what that was, but. . .”