Laugh, you cankerous old bitch. Go ahead. We'll see who's standing at the end. Odds were excellent it would be the Mother but Frank refused to believe that. Couldn't believe that. Even as the Mother gave Lucian the nod.
Grabbing Frank's shirt, he ran the knife along it. He pulled the cloth apart and bared her chest. Deftly running the blade along her arms he stripped the rest of the shirt free.
Frank didn't like that one little bit, but it was buying her time.
For what? she questioned bitterly. For the psychic hotline to kick in? Fuck you, Marguerite, fuck you, Noah. Fuck you all very much. Fuck you Mickey Mouse. Fuck you god, if you're even there. Yeah, Fm choking on my pride, too.
Lucian yanked her jeans down with her underwear, slitting them loose from the chain. For the first time in her life, Frank wished she wore a bra. One more thing to cut away. One more minute to buy.
Frank no longer hoped a miraculous intervention would save her. She just wanted to live a few minutes longer. Life had suddenly become intensely sweet and she wasn't ready to give it up. She wanted to cry, but refused to feed the Mother's triumph.
The Mother returned to her altar, took up the chanting in that unnervingly male voice. Frank was almost senseless with gratitude for the extra moments. The Mother brought a bowl to Frank, rubbing her up and down with an orange oil. Frank avoided those Stygian eyes. She didn't want them to be the last thing she saw.
She thought about Gail and the tin heart still in her pocket. She was pissed she wasn't going to be able to give it to her, more pissed she hadn't said, "I love you" on the phone. Frank cursed her cowardice and her anger refueled her.
It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings and I ain't going down easy. All I got left's pride.
Marguerite had said she was a warrior. Always fighting. Always.
The Mother lifted her hand and Frank's feet were swept from under her. She tried breaking the fall with her shoulder but had no leverage to turn. She arched her neck, but her skull hit the floor.
Frank blinked at colored lights arcing across a gray background. The twins pulled steadily on her ankle chain and her face scraped across the concrete. She felt the warmth and wetness of blood, but she wasn't feeling much pain. The numbness was good news. The bad news was that the dullness signaled some degree of concussion; her body had closed down the ancillary pain receptors to combat this latest crisis. She was drowsy and nauseous.
Just sleep, she told herself. Don't give them the satisfaction of any pain. Frank gagged. Her body's desperate plea for oxygen suddenly sharpened her thoughts. She coughed, gulping in air. If she puked upside down she'd probably suffocate herself.
Not an option, she managed to think. They can slit my flicking throat but I will not choke on my own puke. Pride, yeah. Puke, no. Fuck you, motherfuckers. Ain't goin' down easy. Okay, No. I’m giving you one last chance. Running out of time here. Come on. Come and get me, No. Mickey Mouse. Somebody. Slauson, buddy, La Casa de Love.
With a last heave, Frank's head dangled over the floor, her ankles supporting all one hundred and sixty three pounds. A moan slipped between her clenched teeth. She couldn't stop it and didn't care.
The blood backed up into her brain and squeezed behind her eyes. Black dots hovered like malevolent cherubs. She wondered how long before she passed out?
Motherfuckers, motherfuckers, she droned lazily. Get mad. Stay mad. Running out of mad. Noah. Hear me, buddy?
Frank saw the reverse order of her world through the fog of concussion and rushing blood. The brothers were beside her and the Mother was behind her. She was singing in a high wail like she had just before she slaughtered the lamb. Frank thought if she went as quickly as that it wouldn't be so bad.
Helluva picture to hang over the coffee pot. Lieutenant L.A. Franco,
sold into white slavery. Come on, No, I'm naked. You know you always wanted to see me naked. Now's your chance. Better hurry .
The pain was dulling again and grayness crept at the edge of her vision. She was fading and knew it.
"Gotta stay mad," she mumbled indifferently. "Stay mad."
She was aware enough to see the brothers pivot. Heard their deep voices above the drums. The drumming faltered, the beat breaking down skin by skin. Frank heard another voice. It was familiar but she was too woozy to place it. The Mother was yelling but the drummers jabbering and the boys shouting jumbled all their words up.
Must be the audience participation part of the show, Frank thought dimly. She mustered enough strength for a weak twist against the chains, still curious about what fresh hell waited her.
The pain ratcheted through her confusion, and just before the dimness made its final, rushing assault, Frank had a fraction of a second to think, What the fuck is he doing here?
36
She repeated the question to him from her hospital bed.
Darcy's smile was sheepish.
"Fubar's going to be asking you the same thing."
"He on his way?"
Darcy nodded. "With an entourage of big hats."
"At least I bought some time," Frank said, indicating the curtained wall. "He's probably still busy fucking up the scene."
Frank was exhausted, but nonetheless grateful for her fatigue and dull pain.
"Give me the lowdown before he gets here."
"It's pretty wild," he said, pulling the only chair up to her bed.
"You don't know the half of it," she said. "Or maybe you do."
He nodded.
"Turns out, this whole thing was a setup, and not just on you. Lucian—one of the twins—he and his brother's wife set this scam up on the Mother. Like begets like. According to him, she was starting to believe her own legends, acting like she was invincible. He saw after she killed her own nephew how far she'd go and how far she'd already gone. He didn't want to go down with her.
"The bembe was his idea. He was sure you'd come and she went along with it. The plan was to have you in imminent danger, then have the cops bust in at the last minute. No way the Mother could get off for jacking a cop. He didn't want you to die, but it was a chance he was willing to take."
"Yeah, I saw."
"The point was to set the Mother up. The son—Lucian—he was going to cop to everything so that the old lady would get sent away forever. But the plan slipped. When we came in, the other brother, Marcus, he fired shots and we took him out. Lavinia and the Mother went and hid behind you. The Mother had a knife on you and that pretty much stopped us. She called Lucian over to her and he went. He stood behind her and next thing we know he's got a gun on her. He said, 'I'm sorry, Mama,' and just like that he pulled the trigger. He dropped the gun and just stood there. He said one way or another somebody was going to die and that by killing her he ended the killing."
Through the haze of her concussion and meds, Frank stated, "That's beautiful. 'I'm sorry, Mama'. Sorry my ass. I bet he meant to smoke her."
"Probably, huh?"
"I wouldn't want the Mother alive after I'd ratted her out. If he'd already seen how far she'd go, what would keep her from frying her own son alive? There's no way he'd get out of that except by killing her. Then his army of lawyers get him off on self-defense and the kid's running an empire."
Frank studied the ceiling.
"Lavinia. She the skinny girl in the black dress?"
"Marcus's wife. She and Lucian cooked this up together."
Frank nodded, "She was going in and out. She's the one who called you." Frank had to close her eyes.