Cleaning House

If there were any one adage that best served Big Sally Burroughs, it was, “you never shit in your own kitchen.” That ain’t saying some things are just damn impossible to avoid, like Margot’s murder… like the two horndogs from Las Vegas.

But in service of this one saving cliché, Big Gal Sal made damn sure they drove well out of Pahrump to dispose of the two veterans.

For a day that ended, then started, with the client’s vamoosing from the Roman Room, one dead whore and one massive window repair, the following daylight hours were dedicated to that work. She was almost happy that they had a light client day, something she usually detested, blaming the blemishes on the girls’ asses, or the two whores who refused a breast enhancement… “Christ, I’m even payin’ for half of the surgery, you thankless cunt!” How else would any such thing end? But whatever the case may be, the fact you could hear the few rodents running in the attic, she knew it was a good day to clean up. A very fucking necessary day at that.

But the night was for the other work.

They had stowed the bodies, partners to Mr. moneybags, who was now near naked and on the run from the law – a prideful swing of fate for Big Sal, as the plan occurred to her in the time it took a hooker’s panties to fall to the floor, the final set-up of the guy they were working to score. Unfortunate for Margot, but a great plan. The corpses were wrapped in sheets and duct tape in a large utility closet on the back of the main building of suites, only accessible by the hallway through which all the fun stuff took place, the creeping, the assaults, the extortionist moviemaking. If one didn’t know the access panel within each closet in the joint, there would be no snooping. And with the gory finish to Margot, and the “murderer” on the loose, the summary police investigation into the establishment was its perfunctory least once again.

The dirty work went on. They would take only two cars into the desert this time, because there were no examples that needed to be made to any of the girls… not entirely. Leonard drove the Jeep carrying the corpses and his number-one partner in body-disposal, Bloodhound; Big Sal drove her Range Rover. She enjoyed getting out of Pahrump.

Leonard and Bloodhound had identified a web of dirt roads that unapologetically popped up in the vast scrub and scrape of the Mojave as they moved eastward from Pahrump. About halfway to Vegas, they had found them while scouting for anonymous dumping grounds, some of the roads posted in maps, like Cathedral Canyon Road, and further south, Old Spanish Trail Road; some were just unnamed strips of worn hardpack from years of occasional vehicles. They were nothing. Dirt ribbons that wove through some of the low-lying plateaus of what was the early foothills. The area was like a giant had raked its fingers against the earth, leaving only the clutter of biting brush ranging through the arroyos left behind. It was otherwise empty, vacuous. It provided them discretion.

They preferred doing the murder work in the deep foothills of the Spring Mountain Range, where the terrain gets more challenging and unwelcome to casual visitors. So, over these miles-worth of little dirt tributaries that ran conveniently from State Road 160, their work was generally contained over a 10–15-mile range. And they never planted the bodies in the same area twice. It worsened their odds, they thought.

This night they had pulled off 160 just past Tecopa Road that led south towards Charleston View. They waited until all headlights vanished. They then moved up the 4-500 yards to pick up the track heading north into the rocky hills of Spring Mountain. It was like driving in a tunnel dugout by the headlights.

Leonard led the procession, about four-miles up, Big Sal was on her cellphone giving them direction, “Further up, a little. I’ll know it when I see it.” It were as if she were shopping. He just shrugged his shoulders at Bloodhound, knowing they could do this about anywhere up here. No one’s digging for gold and no one’s hosting a rock climbing party.

“There! Up on the right. That little ravine heading up. Those mesquite trees? Put up on the other side, then cut the headlights.”

Susie 2 cents still didn’t understand why she was asked to come along. She was a loyal whore, no plans on anything else, and she was playing the game the way it was supposed to with the veteran. It was Margot who fucked it up. But it didn’t stop Susie from bouncing her knee in anxiousness.

“You didn’t say why you wanted me on this one, Big Sal.”

“The company, Susie Q, the company.” She twisted the Range Rover on the high side of Leonard’s Jeep. The guys were already lifting the tailgate and reaching in for the corpses. Big Sal got out, and when Susie didn’t budge, she looked in on the whore, “You comin’?” It wasn’t a question. Susie held her breath and exited the car; Ginny and Dennis wasn’t that long ago, and one of the worst things she had ever heard about. Silkie vomited most of the night on their return to the girls… they all cried a little… Ginny was one of them, after all. Whatever that meant.

“Gregory, start digging around those mesquite trees. You should have enough soft soil to get some depth.” She refused to call him Bloodhound at times. It was some measure of disapproval. You got to keep them all on their toes. It’s hard work, and she knew how to incentivize them all, each in their way. Mostly with fear. Fear of death or losing a fat, illicit income; and Gregory was not built for anything else.

By the light of a couple mobile phones, each of the workmen lifted a body over their shoulder and walked it to the stand of trees. “No, the backside. We don’t want any turned earth to be seen from the dirt track.” They altered their actions and dropped the bodies beside each other, and Leonard started driving a pick into the earth to loosen it, Gregory started digging.

When they reached a reasonable depth, three to four feet, Sal stopped the work with the anticipated directive.

“Okay, guys. Heads and hands party.” She flipped her hand in the air in the announcement, with a snap of her fingers. It was just the thing Susie was afraid of… being a part of the kill-and-get-paid scheme was one thing when you could imagine it all away. But this time everything was coming on like a frightening, rising tide: she got beat on by Tobias to impress the world with the con of the war vet’s hatred of whores; and the sheriff’s office crawling up their cracks again because it went so poorly… and, oh yea, Margot… And for some fucking reason Big Sal was making Susie feel guilty. Or was she herself really feeling guilty? She was suddenly wishing she had run away a day earlier.

Leonard was unwrapping the machete, and pulled it from its sheath. Bloodhound was pulling the victims from their wrappings.

“Help the boys out, Susie.” It was a curious demand. She never asked the women to do any of the violent stuff. No digging, no killing, no burying. It was the eternal compromise, the honey brought the suckers in, and it was the killers who buried them dead. Susie did as she was told and helped unfurl the two corpses, their heads mishappened from the mallet blasts.

Leonard was leaning over his work when Big Sal shouted out some new directions.

“Let Susie do the heads and hands.” There was silence, Susie jerked her eyes to her boss and bully, not knowing what to say. Sally Burroughs just pointed at the bodies beside Susie, and demanded, “Get to work!” pointing a fattened finger at the morbid heap.

“I can’t Sal! It’s not our job!” She would wheedle some good cause, and just started spouting, “We get them in. You said yourself. They do this work and we do ours… you said it!”

“But I’m saying this now. Get it done.”

Leonard stepped in, “I’ll help you, Suze.”

“No, the fuck you will! This is Susie’s doin’. So she’s gotta finish the cleanup!”

“Me? I didn’t fuck this up, Sal, it was Margot. I tried to keep that guy busy, but Margot started cry…”

“Shut up, Susie! Get to chopping. You know, I almost shot both of you ladies?” She let that hang over the lonely night in the middle of nowhere, there were always options…

Susie swung and swung, taking nearly twenty hacks to decapitate the two. She vomited after the first strike and almost to the last, when foam alone was regurgitating. The hands were easier… smaller radius… less density, more brittle… more foam… Until it was done.

“Okay, get in the car Susie. Leonard, Gregory, bury them and leave it clean. You know what to do with the body parts. Lake Mead. I’m taking Susie home.”

Leonard was nodding, Bloodhound more in wonder, “You really takin’ her home?” It was a foolish question. Because you never question Big Sal.

“Yea, I figure she’s gonna need some food and some rum after all this.” She sprayed a finger at the vomit in the gravel. Then she looked at the lethargic girl still spitting in the sand. “She learned her lesson. C’mon sweetie. Let’s go home.” She delicately reached down, helping the feeble girl to her feet and stabilizing her as she escorted her to the Range Rover and helped her in. Then she turned back to the men.

“Leonard, here’s $500 bucks bonus. You and Greg take the day off tomorrow, stay in Vegas. Have some fun. Deliver the parts to Lake Mead tomorrow sometime. Take your time. Just be sure you’re back early the next day. We’re back to work.” She hugged Leonard, and waved at Gregory, suddenly feeling kind and philanthropic.

She pulled back out and turned back toward State Road 160.

The cleanup was done.

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