Vengeance is Mine

"No, it's worse for me. I did what I did for a reason. You did what you did to get your rocks off. You're selfish and self-centered ... not one moment of thought about what this will do to your daughter, to me. Mike, you're a prick," she told him. "If you're going to cheat, Michael, take it to your grave. I would have if you hadn't told me about her."

"So, do you want to fuck or what?" she asked him, quickly switching direction.

"I have questions ... and I want answers."

"Ask." Elizabeth sat beside him.

"What did this Saunders do for you?" Mike asked, then changing the question, "What service did he perform to right wrongs? And tell me about this Mad Dog. Did you have an affair with him as well?"

Elizabeth laughed aloud and shook her head.

"Mad Dog is more into men than women and likes to use force. So, when a rapist goes free, Mad Dog administers the retribution." Elizabeth enjoyed Mike's pain. He had hurt her, and she returned the favor.

"He kills them?"

"They're rapists, not killers. He's a rapist, not a killer. He rapes them, and if they beat the girl, he beats them. Men rarely report being raped," Elizabeth said, adding, "I make sure there is a reckoning. Old Testament style retributions, an eye for an eye."

"And Saunders?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes,."

"Let's say, a life for a life."

Standing, she moved back to the door of the cabin.

"You have people murdered," Mike said, halfway as a question, hallway an allegation, "You're a murderer, dear."

"I don't see it that way," she replied. "Do you want to fuck or what, Mike?"

****

Wednesday, March 6 ^th , 1991

"Gil, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? I don't see the chief deputy district attorney nearly often enough," she said.

Gill Garcetti stood at her door, smiling.

"Yeah, well, I wanted to tell you not to get depressed over the verdict. We don't win them all. The cops fucked you on this one," he said, then sat in a chair.

She moved behind her desk, sat down, and folded her hands before her.

"Well, we can hope some mad dog bites him, and he gets rabies."

"Yes," he laughed. "Also, did you see the videotape?"

"The King deal, yes, I saw it," she said. "I thought I might..."

"No, stay the fuck away from it, Liz. I mean it. I don't want my probable replacement to have her stellar reputation tarnished. Win or lose, half the city will be mad at the verdict. There will be no winner in this thing. The bigots wanted King beaten to death. Others want the cops murdered in their sleep. So, Shortcake, stay at arm's length."

"You're going to make a run for it, for DA, aren't you?"

"Keep it under your hat, but yeah, next year. I'll tell you this, the shit from King will hit the fan big time just before I do, so it'll be time for a change," he said, showing his strategy. "I mean it. Stay away from it."

He sat there, obviously debating about what he had to ask next.

"Okay, this may be a sore spot, but I must ask. Do you know where Mike is?"

"Florida, I think." Elizabeth shrugged. "That's all I know."

"Yeah, feds have a warrant for him. I don't think he will make Florida. Gabriela Santorini wrapped her car around a light pole last night. The car exploded on impact, and they had to identify her by dental records."

"Can I be honest, Gill?"

"Always, Shortcake," Garcetti answered.

"I'm glad about her, sad for Mike, but man, that wreck couldn't have happened to a better bitch," she said.

Gill nodded. Rising to leave, he paused at the door and turned back to her.

"I'd keep that sentiment between us, Liz," he said.

"Gill, if he isn't in Florida, his associates have him in a shallow grave some where."

"I know, Liz. I'm sorry if that's the case." Gill Garcetti stepped out of the room, leaving her alone. A short time later, she went downstairs to a payphone, inserted a quarter, and dialed a number.

"Hello."

"Got a job for you."

"Yeah, I saw the papers. How bad you want him fucked?" Mad Dog asked.

"Put him in the hospital. Scare him enough that he will keep his mouth shut," Elizabeth told him, her voice cold and hard.

"He won't say shit. They will know he's been raped, but the bastard won't cop to it."

"Thanks, Mad Dog. You'll receive the usual compensation." Hanging up the phone, she felt better. Much better.

****

Present Day

It's a long way from there to now.

The young lady always enjoyed seeing her grandmother and always looked forward to their time together. She sat in the car, wishing the miles would pass quicker or the highway would grow shorter. Her mother prattled on about not fretting 'Granny' too much to be happy but quiet around her.

She did not know how close the two were. It bothered her that her mother didn't understand their special bond.

She wondered what magical story she would tell her this time. She had described her days as a treasure hunter diving in the Caribbean. Another story about her going on an archeological dig in Egypt. All those fantastic stories about being a lawyer. The cases she had tried as an assistant district attorney.

And finally, she settled down and raised her family.

What would it be this time? She could hardly contain herself. She wished only for her mother to drop her off, kiss Nana on the head, and leave them alone.

At last, they were there. Nana had baked a cake and invited her daughter to join them, but fortunately for Sandra, her mother said she had errands to run before her plane departed. So, she kissed everyone goodbye and left.

Nana fixed their cake and drinks, milk for Sandra and coffee for herself. Sitting down, the old woman looked at her grandchild, and the thought entered her mind. "It is time you knew about the monsters in the world, child," Elizabeth said.

"Monsters? What, like, you know, vampires or something?"

"No, more human monsters like bastard men without souls. You will, unfortunately, encounter a few of them. I spent years putting them behind bars, but some are worse than others. I told you I grew up near the beach, didn't I?" she asked her.

Raising her cup, she sipped the last of the coffee in it.

Sandra studied her grandmother's face. She had been beautiful when she was young. Sandra had seen the pictures. Still lovely, at least to Sandra, Nana's green eyes twinkled with the dazzling light of her soul.

"Fetch the coffee pot, fill my cup, dear, and I'll tell you a story of long ago, the summer of my eighteenth year. The same age you are now," Nana told her.

The girl grabbed the pot and filled the cup. While looking at her grandmother's face, she noted the lines that ran over it, not unlike streams meandering over the countryside. After filling the cup, she returned it to his place and returned to the table. She couldn't resist reaching out and touching her grandmother's face.

"Do they hurt, Nana?" she asked.

"What, child?"

"The wrinkles. Do they hurt?" Sandra added, "I have always imagined that wrinkles hurt, do they?"

"No, Sandra, they don't hurt. Some memories they represent hurt. Sit down and listen to me, and I'll tell you the story," Nana told her.

"Is it a fun and exciting story?" Sandra asked.

"Well, not too much fun, but yes, it has its moments of excitement," she said, taking the last bite of her cake and a cautious sip of coffee.

****

June 1968

I turned 18 in June 1968.

A few days after my birthday, my brother and I went down to surf on a hot day on the California coast. We made our way to the little beach at the base of an enormous cliff next to the Pacific Coast Highway.

As I said, it was a hot day.

Firecracker hot, blistering the pavement, and any bare feet on the sand. But the ocean's cool waters provided a welcome relief from the dry heat of that California sun. We were both good at surfing and swimming and kept keen eyes peeled for sharks.

Little did we know the sharks were on land that day, not in the water.

As I remember, we heard cycles above on the highway about three o'clock in the afternoon. Loud, barking motors, and a lot of them. They didn't fade in the distance but lumbered above us. I glanced up and saw men looking out at the sea. There were many motorcycle clubs during that period, but most were harmless businessmen who rode on weekends.

A few were gangs that did many ruthless things.

Looking north, I saw three men on the path from the cliff down to the little beach. I looked at my brother, James, a big, strapping twenty-year-old. He looked worried. Even so, it took me off guard when he grabbed the surfboards and headed to the path on the south side of the beach.

"Come on, Shortcake, we have to go."

It was rather frightening when my brother said we had to leave. For I heard something in his voice, I never heard from him—never ever—fear.

I jumped and followed behind him, but he froze a few feet from the path. There were three men there. One man was much bigger than the others, at least six-four or six-five. They all wore leather clothing, clad in leather pants, with bare chests or t-shirts under their leather vests.

A short man stood in front of the others. I could hear or sense the other three coming up behind us. The short man had a hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth. He sucked in the smoke deep and handed it to another man, who followed suit and passed it on. I learned later it was a reefer. Coughing and sputtering at first, the short man talked.

"Jonesy ... the boys yours," he hacked the words out, then talked normally again. "I go first on the cunt." The dreadful word sounded all spittle and venom when he said it, as nasty as it could sound. I had never heard of it before. Despite that, I knew he meant me.

"I don't do no sloppy seconds." He emphasized his meaning to the others by repeating himself. "You guys understand, I don't do sloppy seconds."

The big man grabbed my brother and dragged him behind a rock. That was the last time I saw my brother alive. The worst of it, James begged and cried while the man beat him, and while he did worse than that to him.

The men glared at me, their cocks hanging out of their pants. I really didn't know what he wanted. As an immature, inexperienced eighteen-year-old in the 1960s, there was no way for me to know.

"I don't know what you want me to do."

You see, blowjobs weren't a topic of discussion in the group I ran with.

They taught me what they wanted me to know. They got far more from me than my mouth. For hours, they used me. When they finished with me, they left me alive, if only just, and roared off into the night.

I didn't move—for hours until, at last, my father found us. He discovered me alive, hurt, sobbing, and James dead. And while they reported it to the police, nothing ever came of it.

I didn't go to James's funeral. I spent over a month in the hospital. My family moved to Florida to give me a new start that fall. I entered the University of Florida. Eventually, I put it behind me.

But I never got over it. Not even now am I over it.

****

The old woman stopped talking and cleared the dishes as Sandra helped her. She stayed quiet, not wishing to upset her grandmother more than she already was. Sandra determined she'd never ask questions about this... misadventure. She didn't have any desire to hear about this story. She didn't want to know about it.

But how do you unlearn something?

Later that night, the grandmother opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a large glass. She filled a small glass and gave it to Sandra. The girl gazed at the wine, not sure what to do.

"Never had a drink before?"

Sandra shook her head, still eyeing the dark maroon liquid.

"Go ahead, it won't make you drunk to have that thimble full."

The girl took it and smelled it, not an unpleasant odor, sort of like grape juice. Taking a sip, she didn't mind the taste, then gobbled down the liquid.

Her Nana laughed.

"Slow down, child. You can get drunk on it, and if you want more, make it last."

She poured the girl another glass.

"Our story didn't end where I left off. I need to tell you the rest," Nana told her.

"This isn't a cheerful adventure, Nana. I don't like it."

"Neither do I. And no, it isn't happy. Life isn't always happy, but I need to tell you this. Besides my mother, father, and the cops, you are the only person who knows it. I need to unburden myself, especially because no one on earth or in heaven above save God, and I know," she said.

Elizabeth wiped tears from her eyes.

"Five years later, I graduated from college with a pre-law degree. I took off a few years before I went to law school, much to my father and mother's dismay. At the end of summer, I returned to Miami wiser and wealthier than I had been when I went to the Caribbean. You know that story already."

****

I returned from treasure hunting in the summer of 1973.

At twenty-two years old, I had the world by the ears. In South Beach, I partied with the best of them and made plans to go to Egypt for a dig after the election in the fall. I wanted to vote. Nixon had ended the draft, and I wanted to vote for him. I thought it signaled an end to the war.

One night, I noticed a collection of men gathered around one tall, muscular man in a rather seedy bar. The big man related some incident of supposed daring-do, followed by a howl like a wolf.

He shouldn't've done that. Not that noteworthy baying. Good lord, it was the big man from my rape, 'Jonesy.'

The one that first assaulted my brother, killing him before he joined in the party with me. He hadn't diminished in size over the five years, but time had taken a harsh toll on the man. A large scar ran down one side of his face. When he moved, you could see the pain in his eyes.

I watched him like a hawk.

I watched him for a while, then left to find a drugstore where I made a purchase. I bought a special surprise for him. Driving back by the bar down to the beach, I parked several blocks away right on the beach. I had changed into the shortest pair of cutoff jeans and a dirty, torn T-shirt in my suitcase.

To be honest, I looked like a two-dollar whore.

I sauntered back to the parking lot. A lone motorcycle sat in the parking lot. A big Harley chopper with extra tall handlebars. It had to be his. Sitting on his bike, I waited for him, chewing gum.

Soon, he limped out of the bar toward me. Seeing me, he eyed me up and down, licked his lips.

"Hey, little one."

There was no recognition in his eyes. I was a total stranger to him.

"Call me, Shortcake. It's my nickname."

"Shortcake, sweet and dirty," he said. He sauntered right up to me, trying to hide the limp. "And what do you want, baby?"

"I want you on the beach. I want to suck your big, hard, man cock till you spill your seed in my mouth. You are a real man, unlike the twerps you entertained in there. I want to suck you and then have you fuck me in the ass with that big ole pecker. You look like an ass man to me."

The big bicker nodded his approval. He fired up the bike, and I climbed behind him. We moved near my parked car. He stopped the engine and jumped from the bike. Pulling his pants down, his enormous balls hung under his fat cock. It bobbed and weaved in anticipation. He leaned back on the bike, closing his eyes.

As I headed toward him, I dug the single-edged razor blade from my bag and pushed the cardboard cover off. In one swift movement, I slashed the razorblade from his ball sack to his prick and down the inside of his leg.

Blood gushed out and sprayed over the sand and his bike.

In a few bounds, I backed away from him and watched, fascinated, as blood spurted over the sand.

His eyes flung open, and he stared at me. He didn't move, not at first. It didn't register what had happened. He frowned at me, confusion on his face before shock set in, and the full realization exploded in his defective brain.

He hopped off the bike to his feet, landing in the blood-soaked sand. He tried hard to run, but his feet tangled in his jeans hanging around his ankles, and he fell face forward to the ground. He clutched at the wounds as the blood boiled out of the deep gashes spreading over the sand, turning it a deep, dark shade of red.

Standing over him, I looked down at the sack of human shit below me.

"Remember me?"

"No." His voice was frail, quivering, with a strange high pitch. His body trembled, his fingers twitched, and his eyes glazed.

"California, five years ago, the beach. My brother under you, your cock poking him while he screamed and begged you to stop. Now, do you remember me, Jonesy?"

"Shit," he said, "you're the little girl."

His face dropped into the sand, blowing wisps of sand up as he gasped out his last words.

"That fucking little girl that Boss spotted on the beach. The girl and her brother. I told him we should kill..."

The biker never finished his last thought. His face sank into the sand as it continued to run redder, and rattle came from somewhere deep inside him. After that, he lay motionless in the blood-soaked sand

And I still have the razor blade. Even after all those years, I have my souvenir.

The revenge wasn't as sweet as I expected. Even so, the bastard finally paid for killing my brother. Seeing a powerful man lose his strength in a few fleeting beats of his heart, watching him bleed out in the sands of South Beach, what a sickening experience. I went to my motel room and puked my guts out, cried my eyes out, and felt angry at him for making me kill him.

I reasoned it was done, that this was the only justice there would be for me. Again, I got on with my life and tried my best to forget. God forgives and forgets our sins, but not me. I never forgive any wrong, and I never forget.

After law school, I went to work in California and became a prosecutor in the Los Angeles District Attorney's Office. Eventually, I was Gil Garcetti's chief deputy district attorney.

I specialized in murder and rape prosecutions by trying them or supervising those who did. In the summer of 1992, a particularly nasty case came across my desk. A pair of men raped three women. Well, two suffered rape and murder, but one survived.

Only DNA from one rapist was ever found. The second man of interest claimed he didn't know the man. A fact the surviving victim challenged. I met with the man in June 1992, about twenty-four years to the day after my rape.

I listened to the audiotape repeatedly, and one phrase caught my attention.

"I don't rape women. I have never done that. Rape isn't a thing a real man does. I never raped no woman ever. I have fucked women plenty, and they all loved it. I have never even done a whore. Hey, I don't do sloppy seconds." Oh, lord, I knew right then. I knew it was him before I even saw him.

"I don't do sloppy seconds." The words echoed through time, from the past to my then present. They still echo in my ears. I arranged to a meeting with him. I was on one side of the mirror, he was on the other. He sat there, confident he would pull the wool over everyone's eyes.

Viewing him through the glass that day, I immediately recognized him. I had Boss Man. I'd make the bastard pay. Not that day, though. I wanted vengeance, not justice for him.

The man was old, worn out, a potbellied pig who should've been slaughtered years before. Well, now I had him. The Boss Man had fallen so low I barely recognized him. But I recognized him, despite age and fat, I saw him for the man he had been.

Without physical evidence, the equation was reduced to 'he said, she said.' You don't get rape convictions on old polite, well-liked men with 'he said, she said.' The crafty ex-biker developed an affable demeanor.