Part XLI: Honey's And Edna's Attempts At Seduction

Harry Guakomoli had just been handed a briefcase with a shitload of cash. The case also contained government-issued identification for both himself and a fabricated individual, Elijah Tenenbaum. Our hero walked away from Dinah and her busted Monte Carlo gripping the case's handle with his right hand while the pine box that contained his life's mementos was awkwardly pressed between the left arm and side of his torso. The Guak needed a better container for his shit. And a new place to live. And some clothes. But the loud rumbling in his gut told him that getting some sustenance is his system needed to be his top priority. Our hero was fucking starving!

As if on cue a black woman in her late forties ran out of Honey's Sweet Eatin's. She headed toward him, her plain powder blue linen dress clung to her body which skirted the line between curvy and fat. A stained greasy apron that was once white was tied loosely tied around her waist and flapped as she ran. Her thick curly hair was held in place with a hair net.

"White boy! White boy, hold up!" the woman called out to our hero as he walked away.

"Huh?" muttered The Guak as he spun around.

"I don't know what your beef was with the bald one," she answered. "But you just made Honey's fuckin' day. Year even."

"Oh, yeah?" asked The Guak. "Is that sarcasm? 'Cause I'm sorry about your restaurant."

"Oh, hell no!" Honey exclaimed. "This shit hole's been a curse! Nothin' but misery! But now the insurance company's gonna cut me a fat check. Maybe your ICE friends will too. Hallelujah!"

"Anything to help the working folks," The Guak responded.

"I owe you so much, baby," Honey purred as she stepped closer to our hero. "Maybe Honey can take you back to the pantry and properly show you her appreciation?"

Instead The Guak accepted a bunch of soul food on the house: ham hocks with black-eyed peas, hush puppies, chitlins, and cornbread. And a bottle of cherry Coke to wash it all down. Our hero sat down on a sidewalk bench and scarfed down his meal. While he ate a kit of pigeons surrounded him attempting to grab scraps of food that hit the pavement or, better yet, steal the grub from his hands. The Guak growled as they landed. Pigeons are stupid things, but even they trembled at the low menacing rumble that emanated from our hero's throat. The winged rats knew The Guak was not to be fucked with.

After our hero was fully sated he embarked on a journey to find lodging. Sure he had only been awake for twelve hours after a months-long slumber, but fucking shit up was tiring work. He wanted somewhere close.
During the mission to find a residence The Guak came across a military surplus store and beside that a thrift shop operated by nuns. Our hero purchased a drab green duffel bag and tossed the pine box. He then procured some clothes: mostly t-shirts, socks, underpants, jeans, and pullover hooded sweatshirts. Old habits die hard. Even for thousandaires.

The Guak was getting sleepy. Ass-kicking and a tummy full of soul food will do that. He saw a hotel advertising daily and weekly rates. It was named The Resplendent Auberge, though there was nothing resplendent about it, and the establishment was more of a glorified flophouse. This was proven by the half dozen or so scantily clad women selling their flesh in front of the building in the early afternoon. One of the ladies directed a sales pitch toward The Guak as he approached but stopped herself; the combination of bandages affixed to his face and neck and the menacing glower upon his countenance forced her to wisely reconsider.

The Guak entered The Resplendent Auberge and one look at the lobby one could determine that the hotel had seen better days and probably had not seen a good one in quite some time. The wallpaper was stained from constant exposure to tobacco smoke; the shag carpeting was frayed and stained from God-knows-what. Hanging from the walls were framed autographed photos of some of the hotel's more "famous" guests: star of the stage Uta Hagen; Family Ties' Marc Price; Nightranger singer/bassist Jack Blades; gay masseur-turned-porn star Bobby "Bobby Cummings" Dunning; James Watt (United States Secretary of the Interior 1981-83); the guy who played Oliver in The Brady Bunch; the second yellow Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger; and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Seated behind a counter protected by a bullet-proof was a frail white woman in her late sixties. She inhaled deeply from a long slim cigarette, her fingertips orange from the nicotine.

"I want a room," our hero stated to the desk clerk.

"For the week, night, or hour?" she asked in a bored tone.

"Fuck it. Let's make it a week"

The woman opened a manila folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. She grabbed a cheap plastic pen that was nestled behind her ear.

"Name?" she asked.

"Umm..." our hero thought aloud, not wishing to use neither his real name or new alias.  "John Smith?"

"Ain't that somethin'?" the clerk replied. "There's twenty other residents here with that exact same name. You assholes should start a club."

"I could go with John Doe," said The Guak with a shrug.

"Don't do me any fuckin' favors."

The woman filled in some blanks on the form.

"Rent is $150 a week," she began with a robotic regularity that comes from the saying the same thing a thousand times. "Plus $150 security deposit. The room comes with a double-sized bed, two pillows, sheets, a blanket, towels, an easy chair, a small table with a plastic chair, a small fridge, and a microwave. The TV is color and comes with a remote. You get seven channels and an option for pay-per-view skin flicks, but for you to order those a credit card must be provided. If you're expectin' the internets you can forget it. None of that fancy shit here. Cash or charge, honey?"

"Cash."

"I need $300 and your signature."

The clerk placed the form and pen in a small metal drawer that was also accessible to The Guak. Our hero signed the form "John Smith" and returned the paper and pen to the drawer along with $300 in cash.

"Welcome to The Resplendent Auberge," said the clerk as she slid our hero a key into the drawer. "Room 214. If you're gonna stay with us after the first week rent is due every Sunday by noon. No exceptions. Save your fuckin' sob stories for your priest and bartender. I'm not interested in bullshit excuses. Though if you ever find yourself short some week I think we can work somethin' out."

The woman smiled a toothless grin. She slowly, seductively, drew her tongue along her gums and cracked lips.

"I just threw up in my mouth. A lot."

"The offer's always on the table, big boy. You take care of Edna, and Edna will take care of you."

The Guak decided it was best to consider the conversation over and walked away duffel bag and briefcase in tow. He made his way to the second floor. The hallway was heavy with a bouquet of tobacco, narcotics, and cheap perfume. The sound of hip hop was damn near deafening, and our felt its bass pulsate through his feet and legs. He found 214 and let himself in. Not surprisingly the room was in shambles. The carpeting and walls were of similar condition as those in the lobby.

The sheets were stained with various bodily fluids, and The Guak attempted to mentally rank what fluid he would rather sleep in, but they all sounded horrible. Our hero could not decide. He did his best to put it out of mind as he stripped down to his underpants and crawled into bed. The siren call of slumber grew louder and louder in his head until The Guak fell into a deep sleep.

Part XL: Phoenix And Mockingbird

Harry Guakomoli saw yet another search for answers abruptly end. Again due to the recipient of his questioning spontaneously convulsing and frothing at the mouth. This had happened twice in the last hour, and that was seriously pissing off this story's protagonist.

Dinah stopped the Monte Carlo, the car the worse for wear, about a dozen feet from where The Guak stood over the bald follower of The Death Matriarch. She got out of the car, a pistol in one hand and a phone identical to The Guak's in the other.

"HQ, this is Mockingbird 90210," the raven-haired lass stated into the phone. "Assault on Phoenix. Multiple casualties. I need containment and forensic teams at 101st and Frederick Douglass Avenue. Right, Dilly Heights. No, he seems okay...relatively speaking. Oh, and I need a change of clothes for Phoenix."

Dinah stood quietly with the phone to her ear for about half a minute.

"Aye, aye, el capitan," she said before ending the call.

Dinah slipped the phone into a pocket of her rubber jacket. She engaged the safety of the Walther PPK before slipping it into the other pocket. Dinah opened the trunk of the Monte Carlo and removed her jacket, revealing the black t-shirt she wore underneath. The Guak gazed at the strip of milky white flesh that separated the tee and the lady's crimson pants and then the gun as it was tucked into the back of the crushed velvet trousers.

"'Mockingbird' are you?" asked The Guak with a smirk.

"You know," replied Dinah. "Because I mock...and stuff. You look horrible. Are you okay?"

"Chicks dig scars, right?"

"Sure," answered Dinah. "But gaping neck wounds? Not so much."

Dinah reached into a pocket of the nylon jacket and pulled out a plastic ID card and a badge, both attached to cords. She placed both around her neck. The card had a photo of her face and identified her as Mitzi Schwartz, special agent for United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Dinah liberated her hair from the ponytails they were confined to, allowing her long straight ebony locks to fall far past her shoulders and nearly to her waist. She took off her sunglasses and stashed them and the hair ties into a pocket. Our hero observed she was once again wearing too much eyeliner.

"What are you doing?" The Guak asked.

"The popos will take me more seriously now," Dinah replied.

"That is some serious lipstick," commented our hero, referring to the gun metal black shade the lady had opted to paint her lips.

Dinah put out a fist and extended her middle finger.

"Don't forget the nail polish," she said.

"How can I with a reminder like that?"

"Did he tell you anything?" the lady asked before looking down at the smooth-headed corpse, its head in a pool of blood and slobber. "Ew. That's fucking gross."

The Guak said nothing as a half dozen police cars surrounded the pair.

"We'll talk about this later...I hope," said Dinah. "Just don't say anything to them."

"I'm not telling them shit."

"Good boy."

Six police officers exited the six police cruisers and, positioning themselves behind the open doors, drew their firearms and pointed them at The Guak and Dinah. After a brief, but tense, showdown, the officers knew they answered to Dinah in the guise of Mitzi Schwartz. The five policemen did not appreciate the verbal emasculation they received from the much smaller federal agent, but Dinah wasn't interested in their appreciation. Officer Joan Post, on the other hand, rather enjoyed the figurative castration her knuckle-dragging cohorts had been dealt. It took all of her willpower to hold down the snickering that yearned to be vocalized.

Local law enforcement taped off the four blocks that comprised the site of the chase and subsequent confrontation that had occurred. The City's boys (and girls) in blue were none too happy to be relegated to crowd control, but the displeasure was not audible lest they incur another tongue-lashing from Dinah. Three large black vans, unmarked yet still totally conspicuous, arrived transporting a slew of folks with ICE credentials. Over a dozen men and women in dark suits and sunglasses exited the vehicles and took to the crime scene.

The Guak acquiesced to Dinah's wishes of allowing an EMT to patch him up, particularly the deep bites on his neck. Our hero knew his injuries would heal on their own significantly faster than those of an average human, but he was unsure of his body's ability to stave off infection. Plus The Guak was rarely one to pass up a chance to please a pretty lady.

The EMT was just finishing sewing and bandaging up our hero, now dressed in a gray hoodless sweatshirt and another pair of outdated blue jeans, when an officer approached Dinah. She was smoking a vanilla-scented cigarette and standing beside The Guak to ward off investigators, both the cops and her own agents.

"Agent Schwartz", the officer said. "My guys are just standing around with their dicks in their hands. Maybe we could interview the restaurant owner and her patrons? It would at least give us something to do."

"God," Dinah replied with an exaggerated sigh of disgust." All I need from your guys' dicks is to keep you and everyone else out of my fucking crime scene. Can you do that, Officer Doughnut?"

"Now see here, princess --"

"I'm sorry," interjected Dinah. "I forgot it's Sergeant Doughnut. Look, I really don't care if you're too old for this shit, or if you're more like Riggs, and you're an unhinged maverick whose unorthodox methodology prevents you from obeying authority figures. Though I bet you're more of a Murtaugh. All I want is for you to keep quiet and stay out of my way. Can you do that and hold your dick?'

The sergeant mumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath before storming off. The EMT finished up tending to The Guak and climbed back into the ambulance.

"Now that we're alone..." said our hero.

"Yes, The Guak?" Dinah asked as she looked into his green eyes and batted her lashes.

"Now can you tell me what the fuck makes me so special? And who do you work for? I know it's not ICE."

Dinah looked around.

"It's not safe to talk out in the open," she answered.

"Why?" asked The Guak. "You think someone's bugged the outside?"

"Have you ever seen The Conversation?" Dinah replied. "We can never be too sure, The Guak. Let's go talk in Troy's car. It's got some doohickey that produces some low high frequency sonic thingamajig that prevents audio surveillance."

The pair walked back to the Monte Carlo and returned to the seats they were in before the van full of The Death Matriarch's followers so rudely interrupted them.

"To answer your second question," Dinah began. "Who I work for is classified and you don't have the clearance. But you're right; it's not ICE, nor is it it the FBI, ATF, DEA, FEMA, NASA, or any other government agency I have identification for in the trunk. Only a handful of people outside the organization even exist, including you. The only way you'll ever know who we are is by joining us."

"You're telling me the only way I get to know the answer," replied The Guak."Is by becoming the answer?"
"Well put. And you're right."

"That's fucking lame."
 
"I know," said Dinah. "And I'm willing to bet you'll find my answer to your first question just as fucking lame, The Guak."
"You can't tell me that either," our hero predicted.

"Yeah," Dinah confirmed The Guak's theory. "But only because Dr. Triangle ordered it. I've been assigned the task of convincing you to at least come in and listen to what he has to say. This gal's been given a lot of wiggle room in how to make that happen, but I'm not to tell you what, and who, we think you are."

"You're right," The Guak said. "That is fucking lame."

"Sorry," she replied. Her apology sounded genuine. "But I'll throw you a bone. We originally believed what makes you you was strictly your patrilineal heritage, but we now suspect your mother's lineage may play a part as well."

"Jesus. Could you be any more cryptic?"

"I certainly could, but I won't," responded Dinah. "And I know this going to come across as bullshit, but did that bald fuck give you dirt?"

"Wow," said our hero. "That is some bullshit."

"I know, I know," said Dinah. "But I have resources that you don't. I promise to share anything I dig up."

The Guak was torn. The lady probably did have a better chance of discovering something. But should he give her and that twat, Triangle, the only information he had that they didn't?

Dinah leaned toward him and stared up into his eyes.

"Please, The Guak. Let me help you."

Our hero lost himself in her big brown eyes and knew resistance was futile. He told her everything: the rescue attempt, the infernal spawn, The Prophecy, The Death Matriarch, and The Death Matriarch's teats.

"I've never heard of her," said Dinah about The Death Matriarch. "But I will look into it."

"Thanks."

"Thanks for trusting me," replied Dinah. "I have something for you. There's a briefcase under your seat. Take it."

The Guak felt under the passenger seat of Troy's car and pulled out an old battered brown leather briefcase.

"Open it," Dinah said excitedly.

Our hero did just that and clicked the case unlocked and opened it up. Inside was a large manila envelope and under that were several stacks of fifty and twenty dollar bills.

"What's this?" our hero asked, confused.

"Let's call it an enticement," the lady answered. "I know you lost a lot after Neuneuschwanstein and not just your life. You have nothing except for a box of knickknacks. And knowing what you did to your old apartment last night something tells me you won't be returning."

"Not any time soon," stated The Guak flatly.

"So consider it a gift," said Dinah. "And hopefully a signing bonus. It's a reminder that you're not alone. We'll take care of you. I'll take care of you."

"What's in the envelope?" our hero asked.
 
"A driver's license, a social security card, and a birth certificate for Harry Guakomoli," Dinah replied. "And documents establishing a cover identity should you wish to remain incognito, though you've been conscious for less than twelve hours and you've already killed nearly a dozen people, stolen a cab, staged a home invasion, and robbed your own grave. Laying low might be tricky."

The Guak opened the envelope and examined the legal documents inside.

"'Elijah Tenenbaum'?" he asked as he read his cover identity's birth certificate.

"Son of Hershel Tenenbaum and Patricia Wilson," said Dinah."' A dashing Jewish performer and his blushing Gentile bride. He was a clown in a traveling circus. The show made a stop in Beckley, West Virginia. That was where Hershel first laid upon the fetching Patti, a coal miner's daughter. Her father was an anti-Semite of the highest order, but after falling for Hershel the fair maiden was Daddy's little girl no longer. They eloped the next day and Hershel took her on the road, saving Patti from small town depression and black lung. Patti soon after became an entertainer herself as a renowned trapeze artist."

Dinah cut herself off when she looked over at The Guak and noticed his face's expression was a mix of amusement and bewilderment.

"But you should figure out the back story for yourself," the lady remarked with embarrassment.

"Thanks, Dinah."

"You're welcome, The Guak."

"I'll call you about the whole Death Matriarch thing," said our hero.

"I'll let you know if I find anything," replied Dinah.

"Could you wait for me to get a hold of you?" The Guak requested. "I need some time to myself and to think about some things."

"Okay," replied Dinah. "But you don't strike me as much of a thinker. No offense."

"I'm not so none taken. But there's some serious shit going down. Shit I should probably think about."

Our hero stepped out of Troy's car. He reached in and grabbed the briefcase and his pine box of worldly possessions.

"What's next on your agenda, The Guak?" Dinah asked.

"Probably buy some clothes and find a place to live. But first I'm going to get some food; I'm fucking starving."

"I hope to hear from you soon," said Dinah.

"Thanks for the ride."