Veronica didn’t answer, for two reasons. One, she didn’t know, and two, her vocal abilities were currently preoccupied.
In only moments, Mike’s face twisted up like Shemp’s (for those who even remember Shemp) and then he experienced—at the expense of Veronica’s mouth…
The best orgasm of his life.
“Holy motherfuckin’ shit, Veronica,” he wheezed after the fact. He stared at her. He took her hand. Then he said, “Marry me!”
And this Veronica consented to do quite expeditiously, and to make the conclusion of a long subplot short, she and Mike would get married, Veronica would indeed inherit all that money from her uncle, she would have children and become the great mother she knew she was destined to be, and, due to a mental affliction known as “temporal-lobe retrograde amnesia,” she would never remember anything that had happened during the days of her disappearance.
Indubitably, she and Mike would live…happily ever after…
— | — | —
Epilogue
Chief Malone awoke in his dilapidated bed at precisely six in the morning, via his radio alarm which blared, “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to…”
Fuck, he thought and snapped the alarm off. He rose, groaning, and into his mouth he immediately packed a good-sized wad of Red Man. He scratched his burgeoning belly through the holey t-shirt, scratched his buttocks through the just as holey boxer shorts, and lumbered muttering to the unkempt kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
No messages blinked on his answering machine.
The most fucked up Christmas of my whole dang life…
A pounding at the door caused him to scowl quite Scrooge-like. “Who the fuck’s poundin’ on my dang door on Christmas!” he grated. “It better not be no folks singing Christmas carols ’cos I just ain’t in the fuckin’ mood fer no Christmas carols.” He considered something. “Why the hail they call ’em carols anyway? Some gal named Carol invent ’em?” He hobbled toward the front door, one-hundred-percent bereft of Christmas spirit.
His plan had failed. The puppy killer was obviously still at large. Otherwise, someone from the station most assuredly would’ve called.
Grimacing, Malone opened the front door.
“Howdy, Chief. Merry Christmas,” Boover said, standing in his crisp uniform.
But under his arm…was a cardboard box.
“Ain’t nothin’ merry about it, Boover. Ain’t no one calt me ’bout the puppy-killer. You hear anything?”
“Naw,” Boover said and came in. He walked immediately to the kitchen and released a plume of tobacco juice into the Chief’s sink.
“That dang video-clip’s been playin’ on all the local news shows all night,” Malone railed, “and their ain’t one single yokel in this dang town seen him. That’s fucked up, Boover.”
“Ferget it, Chief.” Boover set the box down on the ratty kitchen table. “But come git’cher Christmas present. Someone left if fer ya at the station door.”
“I don’t want no fuckin’ present. I want the puppy killer—fuck,” and then the Chief appraised the roughly 10-inch-by-10-inch box. Haphazard writing graced one side: CHEEF MULONE, MARY CHRISSMISS!
“What the fuck is this? Probably some fuckin’ fruitcake.”
“Aw, come on, have some Christmas spirit why don’t’cha?” Boover grinned ever so slyly. “I think you’ll like what’s in that there box…”
Malone opened the box, gaped, and lifted out by the ear the severed head of a short-haired late-‘20s Hispanic male.
The Chief trembled. He turned the cool head in his hands so to look right at the dead face. “It’s him!”
“Dang straight, Chief. Looks like the good folks’a this here town done took care’a everything after seein’ that surveillance video of yers.” Boover winked. “Good job.”
Malone danced around the kitchen, the head in his hands. “It’s him, it’s him! The puppy killer’s dead!”
“Cain’t get no deader,” Boover laughed. He spat more juice in the sink. “See, Chief, that little dog died fer a good cause. Ain’t no more puppies be dyin’ in this town, and likely as not…you got a good chance ta become the county director’a public safety fer this.”
Malone set the head down on the kitchen table and gave Boover a hard high-five.
But Boover continued, “Cain’t figure out what them holes are, though.”
Malone stooped, grinning, to make closer inspection. Yes, four perfect 3 1/4-inch holes had been cut into the perpetrator’s skull, one at the center of the forehead, one in the back, and one over each ear.
“I love it! They put this piece’a shit through the wringer, they did!” He took the head back up and held it like a prize. At one point, however, he took the faintest sniff at one of the holes and…
Well, he really didn’t like what he smelled, but that was neither here nor there…
“Got ta run, Chief,” Boover said and walked back to the front door. “I’se on duty, you ain’t.”
“See ya, Boover! And thanks!” Malone said, still grinning at the severed head.
Boover headed out the front door toward his patrol car in the Chief’s cracked driveway. “Oh, Chief. One more thing…”
“What’s that, Boover?”
Malone watched his subordinate open the car’s rear door. “Lookit what I found runnin’ the streets,” and then from the open door came a small dark blur. Yipping and yapping was immediately heard. A puppy, part German Shepherd and part Jack Russell, jumped out, took one look at Malone, and shot squealing right for him.
“Buster!”
Overcome with joy, Malone stooped and caught the excited animal in one arm. Buster immediately began to lick Malone’s face, tail-stump wagging, giant ears sticking up. In fact, so excited was the dog to be in Malone’s embrace, it peed unrestrained and in surprising volume on the Chief’s holey t-shirt.
“So’s Buster didn’t get kilt after all!” Malone shouted out.
No, Buster hadn’t, because the author neglected to mention that upon the feisty animal’s abduction and subsequent removal to the warehouse, Menduez had become detained with some drug-related task and had therefore not had the chance to do what he otherwise would have at that precise time. During that detainment, Buster had escaped by jumping out an implausibly open window…
“Merry Christmas, Chief,” Boover said with a cheek-stuffed grin and got in the car.
Malone loped to the middle of the front yard. Tears of exuberance flowed freely now, and with Buster in one arm and Menduez’s head hanging high from the hand of the other, the Chief cried at the top of his lungs, “This here is the best Christmas I ever had!”
««—»»
It was about three in the afternoon when Paulie arrived at the famed Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. Straightaway, he took a stool at the lavishly Christmas-decorated bar. “Chest nuts roasting on an open fire,” someone sang. Lights blinked around the bar extensive bar mirror which was accentuated with holly branches.
“Mr. Vinchetti,” the barkeep spoke up. “Merry Christmas, sir. It’s always a pleasure to have you at the Bellagio.” The keep’s name was Jack, an amiable yet intense-eyed man in a black vest, white cuffed shirt, and bow tie. He looked remarkably like a meld between Rob Lowe and Peter O’Toole.