by G M Eppers
Capo Piccolo? I wondered, putting the words phonetically into my memory. I needed Badger. I wanted to know what they were calling me. Were they making fun of my voice? I didn’t think my voice was particularly high, but it could sound different to thug ears. I traded glances with Roxy and Nitro, mouthing the words with a questioning look, but they did their best to shrug.
“Topo Alto, he has no spice left,” Thug One continued with a nod toward Billings. “Papa will be disappointed in that one.” Billings was a baritone. I suppose he hadn’t had a chance to sing for them and maybe they were guessing? Were they obsessed with voices? They were using those nicknames for a reason, and knowing what it was might be helpful, but Badger wasn’t available.
“You mean, Al? He’s tired. Your father has to understand—“
“Papa is NOT my father!” Thug One was suddenly enraged. He produced a rather impressive knife and held it millimeters from my left eye. I held my breath. “I call him Papa, that’s all. Everyone calls him Papa. The Pope calls him Papa. You will call him Papa. Capisci?”
What little saliva I’d been able to work up in my mouth dried up. I was trying desperately not to let myself swing in the chains at all. If the spider from last night made a reappearance now, I’d easily be blinded in the left eye just like Sylvia. She probably knew where I could get an eye patch. The knife’s blade was wider than my eye, but came to a needle sharp point, like a miniature Arabian sword. “I don’t expect I’ll need to call him anything,” I said.
The knife backed off a bit, but not far. “Oh, you will. You will. He’s on his way here to see you, Capo Piccolo. I suggest you treat him with more respect than you have shown us. He will not be so lenient with you. Papa is, how shall I put it? Sensitive.”
Roxy tried to distract Thug One and get him to move away from me. “I don’t want to see Papa.” The idea seemed wise to me, but I wasn’t sure about the, for lack of a better term, execution. I didn’t want to see Papa either. Odds were good that if you saw Papa, he was probably the last thing you were ever going to see. A person like him only sees you to say goodbye. And I’m not talking hugs and kisses. I started to wonder what an appendix actually tastes like and decided I’d probably prefer the beheading.
Thug One twirled his knife and I half expected him to drop it on my cheek. “Tell your people to behave. Papa wants to see you,” he said, moving the knife in close again. “He didn’t say anything about you seeing him.” The smell from his breath both disgusted me and woke my appetite. Even the Limburger smelled enticing.
“What do you mean, ‘my people?’ I don’t have any people. I don’t think I am who you think I am. I’m not anyone important. This is a mistake.” I knew this was a pointless approach. We’d seen their faces. It probably didn’t matter whether I was important or not.
But Thug One backed off, taking the knife and hiding it under the waist of his jeans. I didn’t know how he could do that without cutting himself, but he did. “If you insult Papa’s intelligence like that, you will not see the sunset, Capo Piccolo.” Would it have insulted their intelligence if I asked what that meant? It’s hard to tell what insults a thug’s intelligence. Thug One, anyway, seemed to be taking offense to everything.
“What do you want?” I asked him.
Thug One fingered the knife in his waistband and smiled.
My patience was growing thin. I felt like a Civil War surgeon right after a battle, trying in vain to control the carnage, rushing from patient to patient with the bone saw. “Ask a goddamned question!”
“Are you going to answer it?” asked Thug One calmly.
I didn’t know what question he wanted to ask. Billings answered for me. “No.”
Thug One’s head turned and I was afraid he would punish Billings for talking out of turn. “You tell me when it’s time for questions then, Topo Alto, eh?” He stepped over and gave Billings’ jaw a gentle slap. “You tell me.”
“Please,” I said, trying to be demur and respectful, biting back my impatience to get this over with. “Might we have some food and water? It’s hunger and thirst making us disrespectful.” He hesitated, so I added, “It would please Papa, I’m sure, to have his guests fed, no? ”
Thug One’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You know nothing about Papa. Guests. Pah.” He spat on the floor. He shared a laugh with Thug Two. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air and for the first time he seemed to notice the stains on our clothing. He gave a look of disgust, then an evil smile. “Food waits. First, it’s bathtime.” The knife came out again. “And I need a little more practice.” He looked at each of us in turn, trying to decide who to pick for this practice of his. He walked toward Badger, who was still unconscious, lifting Badger’s head by grabbing his hair. Badger’s eyes fluttered, but didn’t open. Thug One let go, Badger’s head dropped until his chin hit his chest, and Thug One moved over to Nitro.
Nitro glanced at Thug One’s face, but then lowered his eyes, afraid that eye contact would be offensive. He was probably right. The blade of the knife glinted in the early sunlight as it twirled at the side of Nitro’s neck. That was no place for cuts of any kind, I thought. Jugular and carotid. A lot of potential for serious damage there. Thug One moved the knife up and down as if it was a divining rod looking for the right spot on Nitro’s body to drill for blood. Nitro eyed the knife, not Thug One, and tried not to breathe.
Then Thug One smiled and moved on to Roxy, while Thug Two giggled maniacally in anticipation, sucking on his cigarette like it was a straw in an extra thick shake. “Bring it on, Big Boy,” said Roxy. “You’ve already taken my shoes. And this dress is ruined. Nothing you can do will be worse than that.” Oh, don’t taunt him, I thought. Then I knew what she was doing. She was baiting him. With herself as bait. To stop him from hurting any of the rest of us. I was proud of her and angry at her at the same time.
Billings saw that Roxy had been chosen. “For God’s sake, don’t move,” he said quickly. I can only imagine what energy that cost him. His head sagged again, but I wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or if he simply wasn’t able to watch.
A trickle of blood slid down Roxy’s cheek as Thug One made his first cut, using only the very tip of the blade. Roxy sucked in air through her teeth.
That was when the door slammed open and Thug Three burst in. “He’s here! Merda, what are you doing?” Thug One hid his knife in his pants again and stepped back. Thug Three surveyed all of us and cringed at Billings. He whirled on Thug One in fury. “Do you know what Papa will do if he sees this? Get his shirt on. Now!” Thug Three, who was thinner but still highly Italian, more Rudolph Valentino and less Corleonish than the others, produced a sort of white handkerchief and dabbed at Roxy’s cheek with it, continuing to fold the red smears inside it after every couple of dabs. Unlike the other two, he had to stand on tiptoe. “What part of ‘undamaged’ do you not understand? And they are soiled! Have they been fed? I suppose not, you incompetent oaf. You have maybe five minutes to fix this. I will try to stall him.”
Thug Two, who had ceased laughing, at least had the decency to look guilty as he said, “Stall Papa?” He tossed the unfinished cigarette on the floor and rubbed it out with his foot.
“I know. I know,” responded Thug Three, who really didn’t deserve the title of Thug. He dashed out and closed the door behind him.
Thug One was thoroughly disappointed, but directed Thug Two to lower Billings. As his feet touched ground, I saw intense relief flash over Billings’ face. Slowly, his arms, still attached to the framework, lowered to a more comfortable level. I love my son, but I was jealous. I hoped that the process of getting his shirt on would give him the opportunity to fight back, but he was too weak and his muscles too stiff. He could barely sit up straight. He clearly wanted to go full horizontal. Thug One kept his knife in one hand, nevertheless, while holding Billings upright so that Thug Two could retrieve Billings’ shirt from somewhere out of my frame of vision. It was a long sleeve, pale blue dress shirt. Thug Two uncuffed Billin
gs’ left hand and slipped the appropriate sleeve over it, then put the cuff back on. He wrapped the shirt around Billings and did the same with his right hand, and buttoned up the front clumsily with his big sausage fingers. During it all, Billings’ eyes looked up at me sadly. He did manage to extend a middle finger at them, but I don’t think either of the thugs noticed. It all took maybe two minutes and Billings was back up in the air. “Food,” said Thug One.
“What about--?” Thug Two pointed toward the nearest crotch, which happened to be mine.
“Never mind. There’s no time for that. What kind of food do we have?”
Both Thugs disappeared from view for a while, but we could hear them foraging. They came back quickly, each with a sleeve of saltines, peeled it open and started shoving them into our mouths. They skipped Badger, who hadn’t come to yet, but Roxy and Nitro both chewed and swallowed gratefully. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow and I started to choke. Dry cracker spray flew out of my mouth. My stomach wanted those crackers, but there was no way my throat was going to let it through.
“She needs something to drink!” exclaimed Thug Two, now fully involved in the mission of last minute kindness. “Water….” He started to move toward the coiled hose on the floor.
“No, not the hose. That’s saltwater. There’s bottled stuff over there.” The two of them were running themselves ragged trying to cover the damage they’d done. I thought maybe this Papa guy wasn’t so bad after all if he really meant to take care of us. A moment later, sweet, gorgeous, fabulous water was running down my throat, and down my chin, and down the front of my shirt. I kept my mouth open to catch as much of it as possible, feeling like one of those sponges that starts out paper thin and then expands to about an inch and a half when you put it in water. Thug Two followed that with another cracker, which this time I was able to swallow, then gave me more water before running over to Roxy to repeat the whole thing. I took a glance at Billings. His head seemed to be held on loosely, but when he saw me looking at him he straightened up, opening his mouth like a baby bird to accept a cracker from Thug One.
Papa was due any minute. The Thugs took a step back to look us over. “Sloppy drinkers, eh? They even spilled on their pants!” said Thug One with confidence. Thug Two laughed in agreement and the two patted each other on the back in camaraderie. Just to add credence to the story, Thug One shook the water bottle he was using so that a splash landed on Billing’s crotch. They then did the same to the rest of us, forgetting to skip Badger.
The splash of water soaked into his pants quickly and he began to stir. “What the--? Did I--? Hey!” He noticed his situation and rattled his chains, then saw us.
Before he could say anything else, I said, “Hello. I’m Rose. This is Al over here,” and I used my head to point as best I could, “that’s Nate and Minerva.” I saw understanding in his face.
“I’m Bob,” he said.
“They accidentally splashed water on you. But I’m glad you’re awake.” I saw him take in the cut on Roxy’s face and Billings’ condition. “Papa is coming,” I warned.
“You will call him Papa,” said Nitro. “Everyone calls him Papa. Isn’t that right?”
Thug One narrowed his eyes at Nitro.
The door opened again, letting in the elongated rectangle of light, and I held my breath. Thug Three entered first, in a tizzy. “Papa is here. Are they ready? Ack!” He had seen that the cut on Roxy’s cheek was bleeding again, and the activity of getting Billings’ shirt on had reopened some of his cuts, which had already bled through his pale blue shirt. “It wasn’t me, Papa! I swear!” He stood near Thug One and under his breath I heard him mutter, “Stupido!” at him.
Papa stepped into view. He was wearing the uniform of a United States Army General.
Chapter Four
“Calm down, Carlo. They are breathing, aren’t they?” Papa was of average height, but far above average weight, with the stereotypical general’s gut overhanging his belt. His black-brimmed hat and epaulets sported four gold stars each. He had a short black moustache with a distinct split in the middle, a five o’clock shadow, and skin the color of walnut. Even aside from the uniform, he didn’t look Italian to me. He looked Hispanic.
“But you said undamaged, Papa!” Thug Three was far too eager to please. I found it quite pathetic. I bet he even pissed off Papa from time to time with his obsequiousness. No matter how much someone wanted a yes man, they simply couldn’t put up with someone who clearly couldn’t think for themselves. Not even a criminal mastermind could tolerate that much yes, I would think.
“Because I know Dante.”
I really didn’t like that they were using names. It was a bad sign. We’d seen faces and now we knew names. It couldn’t get any worse.
Papa continued, now speaking to us rather than Thug Three. “I have to tell Dante undamaged, you see, unless I want a corpse before I’m ready for one. He’s impulsive.” Obviously, Dante was Thug One, the crazy guy with the knife. “Dante, he likes to cut, you see. He likes to—sever things. Do you like his knife? I gave him that knife for Christmas last year. You remember, Dante, don’t you?” he added, directing the comment to Thug One. “That was a nice Christmas, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Papa,” agreed Thug One.
“Do you know what his own father gave him for Christmas?” Papa asked no one in particular and waited for an answer. When he didn’t get one, he continued, “His father gave him the same thing for Christmas every year: a broken nose. Until I took him in.” Papa motioned for Dante to come closer and Thug One obediently went to his side. Papa gave him a one-armed hug around the waist. Between Dante’s muscular shoulders and Papa’s own girth, that was the best it was going to get. “Dante’s a good boy. He really is.” He let go of Dante, but Thug One continued to stand there, as if he wouldn’t even breathe without a direct order from Papa, at least not while Papa was watching. “I’m sure you’ve noticed his handiwork on the one you call Al. Dante believes that small cuts, when done properly, can be much more persuasive, and considerably less messy, than his usual slicing method. It’s only when the interrogation is over that broader strokes are required. He wants a bone saw this year, and I’m really very inclined to give him one. It will make that part of his job so much easier.”
Papa paced back and forth in front of us now, and paused at Billings. “I’m sure your boy is good, too, Ms. Montana.”
Gulp. He did know who we were. I tried not to let my surprise show on my face, but I don’t think I succeeded. Stuff like that happens too fast. Not even Tom Hanks could mask his shock in this situation. After a moment or two, sure, but not right away.
“Yes, I know you, Helena Montana. Do you think I don’t have resources? I know you, and I know your son, Billings, your paper pusher, Roxy Dubois, your doctor, Nitro, and your translator whom you call Badger.” As he said each name, he shoved each of us in the chest, making us sway in the chains. I could feel the cuffs on my wrists and ankles pulling at my skin. “Seriously, a translator?” He said, giving Badger an extra shove. “How is this still a thing? Americans.” He said the word like it was offensive, as if he wasn’t an American himself. He wasn’t Papa Pappardelle, that much I knew. He was wearing an American uniform, but other than that his identity was unknown to me. I tried to deduce it, but came up dry. The best I could do was who he wasn’t and the top of that list was Papa Pappardelle. “I know your entire team, even the ones I haven’t managed to capture yet. I will get them. I will get all of them. I like my collections to be complete.” He grinned, thinking himself very clever. “I have all the United States state quarters. I have Sharpies in every color ever made, mint in the package. Never been opened. You should see my spoon collection. I even have a spoon from Burkina Faso. I’ve never met anyone who had a spoon from Burkina Faso.” My mother had a spoon from Burkina Faso. It was made in Taiwan, just like all the other collectible spoons.
“You have us at a disadvantage, then,” I said. Boy, was that an understatement. �
�I mean, in that I don’t know your name.”
“I do,” said Badger. “They may call him Papa, but his name is General Emilio Gacha. He’s no Pappardelle.”
Papa spread his arms wide and bowed slightly, which was all he could manage around his protruding stomach. “By marriage, sir. My esposa, my wife, she is the daughter of Rico Pappardelle, who passed away several months ago. I simply took his place.”
Badger added with a glare, “He’s the military advisor to the United States CDC.”
That was the key ingredient. I was glad I finally had all the pieces before they finished the job of executing us. It was a shame we couldn’t share it. This was the man to whom Miss Chiff reported. Her boss. It was, with almost no doubt, he who had plotted to separate me and Butte from our respective teams. It was he who had orchestrated my adventure in the warehouse in Kutna Hora, and he who had taken a lesson from General Sherman and performed a Scorched Earth campaign through Europe. I rejoiced that I could stop distrusting Miss Chiff, though it seemed it would be a moot conclusion. At least there was a good chance she would never know that we’d ever suspected her. Assuming our bodies were recovered, we’d be buried with full honors, our loyalty unquestioned. It was a hollow victory at best, but I took it.
Well, we’d seen faces and we’d heard names. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Was Rico smuggling Limburger or is that all your idea?”
He seemed surprised that I knew about it. It was nice to turn the tables on him, even if I was suspended in chains. They were all probably so used to the smell it no longer registered with them, though even here in the middle of the building it was still very subtle. So subtle that the others hadn’t noticed it. “I don’t smell anything,” said Roxy. “Just mildew and, um, us.”.