Curds and Whey Box Set

by G M Eppers

  She was right about that. I have to admit, if I hadn’t known about it ahead of time, it might not have registered with me, either. “Come back in about six weeks,” I said, watching Papa’s reaction. “It’s still fermenting.”

  “Come back?” Roxy asked. “You expect me to come back after this? This has got to be the worst vacation I’ve ever had.” She winked at me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye because I was watching Papa AKA Emilio Gacha.

  Papa was, in turn, watching me. “In six weeks, it won’t even be here. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You won’t be able to get rid of it,” I taunted him. “The rest of my team knows the score, and they are getting the word out right now. Probably hours ago. Your air, land, and sea routes are being closed off as we speak. You won’t be able to export a toothpick.” This is what is technically called lying out of your ass. Also known as bravado and pure stupidity. The rest of my team didn’t know about General Gacha, only Papa, a Mafia kingpin who controlled most of Europe. Sir Haughty knew about the Limburger and might be able to discern the plot. With enough luck, they might be able to close off one of the routes, but not all three, and not without the law enforcement infrastructure to back them up.

  Papa snapped his fingers. Thug Three ran up to him holding something in his hand. It was a cell phone, but I couldn’t tell whose. All our phones were government issue and looked alike. “Earlier, you asked Dante what we wanted from you. I’m here to tell you. You will retract your CURDS findings on the matter of the Meatball Bomber. The meatballs are just meatballs. You made a mistake and the fires were caused by gas leaks.”

  “I won’t do that,” I said.

  “You will watch your son die first. He’s almost there already. Look at him.” Naturally, I defied his order and kept my eyes on Gacha. “Look at him!” Gacha repeated, emphasizing every word. Thug Three walked up to me and punched me hard in the stomach. He hit me in the diaphragm, and I sucked in air and held it for a moment. For a small guy, he packed quite a punch. It didn’t help that I didn’t have the ability to double over, but had to stay upright and bear it as a sharp pain exploded in my abdomen. I was pretty sure he’d hit one of my lower ribs and probably cracked it. There was a glimmer of a hope that Gacha would chastise Thug Three for acting without orders, but it seemed he had read Gacha’s mind and had his tacit blessing.

  When I could breathe again, I obediently turned my head and looked at Billings. Not only was he growing weaker by the minute, but now Thug One had his knife at Billings’ throat. The growth of beard would be very little protection if Thug One’s hand slipped. Billings was trying to look stronger. He held his head up straight, but he could barely keep his eyes open. He took deep, slow breaths. “Don’t do it, Mom. We can bring these guys down for good.” He had to stop for breath between sentences, almost between words.

  Nitro wiggled in his chains to get Gacha’s attention. “Over here, Gacha. Come closer.”

  Curious, Gacha held up a finger to Dante to stay his knife hand and stepped closer to Nitro. Gacha nodded to Thug Two, who produced a gun. It looked like a Magnum .44 to me, with a metal barrel that was very short, a metal cartridge and trigger and a black handle. Gacha pointed at me. Thug Two came over and pointed the gun at my face. Yep. Magnum .44. I could see the bullet nestled at the bottom of the barrel. In theory, there could be 5 more, but I would be guaranteed to only see the one. Gacha was smart enough to know that threatening me would be more controlling than pointing the gun at Nitro. Anyone on the team would sacrifice themselves for the others, but sacrificing someone else was another thing entirely. According to their training they would. But practice was different. I know I couldn’t. I’m ashamed to admit how close I was to doing what Gacha wanted. Only the certain knowledge that complying would not result in our freedom stopped me.

  Nitro leaned forward as far as his chains would allow to get a close look at Gacha. “You look pale, Gacha. When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

  “Last week,” Gacha said, backing away with a laugh. “Nice try, but don’t try to tell me you’re worried about my health. That trick is so old it should be in a wheelchair.” He started to turn his back on Nitro dismissively.

  “Was it a doctor doctor, or a Mafia doctor?”

  Gacha stopped moving, but didn’t turn back to Nitro, considering the implication that his doctor might be lying to him. For a brief moment, I thought perhaps Nitro’s ploy might work. “I’m not doing this.” Gacha snapped his fingers and Thug Three, who was the only thug unoccupied, did his thing to Nitro, hitting him lower in the gut than he had me. Apparently his aim had improved. Nitro oofed and brought his legs up the little bit that the chains allowed. But he had at least planted a seed of self-doubt and there was always the chance it would grow into an opportunity.

  Nitro wasn’t giving up that easily. One punch was one punch. “You have any chest pains lately? Heart palpitations? Night sweats? Shortness of breath?” I almost laughed, but my view of the muzzle of Thug Two’s gun wasn’t funny. Almost everyone Gacha’s age and weight would have at least one of those symptoms. I was afraid Gacha would snap his fingers again, but he didn’t. He walked away, ignoring Nitro’s warnings.

  “Will you retract your statement?” Gacha asked me.

  It took a lot of willpower, but I said, “No.” I decided to point out the obvious, even if it made Gacha angry. “Besides, I doubt people would believe me, if my disappearance coincides with the retraction. That would be a clear indication of guilt not only of the bombings, but of kidnapping and murder. And all of this will have been for nothing. At this point, Gacha, no matter what you do, all of this will be for nothing. The word is out and you can’t put the cat back in the bag.” I eyed the gun muzzle, looking for the spark that would be the last thing I ever saw. “Whether you kill us or let us go, it won’t change a thing.”

  “You forget one thing, Ms. Montana,” he replied. “I own the bag. I can broadcast your retraction over every network, every bandwidth, and every social media. In minutes, it will be on every billboard and public television screen. Your retraction will be seen on the Kiss Cam at Yankee Stadium five minutes after you record it.”

  “You mean video?”

  “That would be preferable, yes. But a news scroll across the bottom of the screens can be very convincing also.”

  “Won’t the chains get in the way?”

  “Are you ready for your close-up?” He held out the phone, ready to record my face. I had a phone on one side of my face and the snub nose of a Magnum on the other. Neither the chains nor my upraised arms would be visible, but the gun would be. Thug Two moved the gun back a few inches to exit the frame, but his aim never wavered. And Gacha waited for my reply.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I must look a fright.” Delay. Delay. Delay.

  This time, Thug Three provided the answer to my objection. “Mild interference in the video feed should take care of that. People will listen to what you’re saying and mostly ignore your appearance.” He seemed quite proud of himself as he pulled out another CURDS issue phone. “Easily done. We could even mess you up some more, if you like.”

  “You put me on air, Gacha, I’ll tell the world the truth.”

  This time Gacha punched me himself. He moved the phone to his left hand and got me in the left kidney with his right in an upward swing that traveled into my ribs. I gasped and swung. That had hurt more than the first punch. “It’s Papa,” he growled at me. “You were warned.”

  “And you were told,” I said. “I’m not retracting our statement.”

  “Dante,” Gacha said.

  Through all this, Dante had maintained his position with his curved dagger at Billings’ throat. I held my breath. Billings seemed to be unconscious now, or perhaps he was resting. His head was leaning away from Dante’s knife, leaving his neck open and vulnerable. But instead of cutting, Dante stepped away. How on earth did these Thugs know what Gacha was commanding? What was it about the way his name was spoken that told Da
nte to back off? The important thing to me, though, was that he did, in fact, move away from Billings and lower his knife.

  “Perhaps a few more hours of thinking about it,” said Gacha, pocketing the cell phone. The phone in Thug Three’s hand also vanished. Gacha surveyed his five captives, smiling as he assessed Billings. “It’s much more persuasive watching your son die slowly than it would be seeing him killed outright, I should think, knowing the whole time you could save him. Retract, and you will all be fed a good, solid meal and released, I promise you.” None of us really believed that. “Or I can continue collecting CURDS drones. Plenty of room at the inn.” He laughed, or, more accurately, cackled. He spoke to Dante and the other thugs. “I could leave them here until they are so hungry the smell of the Limburger will make them salivate. Dante, you could get so much practice on your cutting you will be able to carve a person into a doily. Would you like that?”

  “You’re going down,” I heard Billings say before Dante could answer. His eyes were still closed and his head was down, but the words were clear.

  “Huh?”

  He gulped, and continued, “Your goose is cooked.” He was speaking, not singing, but I recognized the lyrics to The Long Arm of the Law. “Sorry, guys,” he explained, still keeping his head down and his eyes closed. “It’s been in my head for days. If I don’t sing it it’ll be there forever and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t want to be crazy when I die.” He moved to the next line, segueing from spoken word to almost carrying a tune. “This time tomorrow you will be booked.” His uncertain baritone rang out. Topo Alto my ass, I thought.

  Gacha and his thugs had no idea what to make of it. “American song,” explained Thug Two. “About cops.”

  “He delirious?” asked Gacha.

  “Probably,” responded Thug Two.

  He got to the first chorus, however, and sang “’Cause we’re the long arm of the law, we set you up, you took the bait, yeah, we’re the long arm of the law, let me introduce you to your cellmate.” His eyes opened, watching our captors, though his head still rested on his upper arm. Roxy joined in, then Nitro and Badger, the familiar lyrics rolling easily through their lips as they joined in the chorus.

  I joined in with the second verse. “Now we’ll be nice and read your rights, you’ll spend your days and all your nights, in a tiny little cell. Oh well.” I sang. My voice was closer to an alto than Billings’. Capo Piccolo my ass, too, I thought. The song became kind of an anthem and pep rally as we sang about a victory that hadn’t happened yet, and our dumbfounded hosts stood there listening to their demise in song, punctuated by some “na nas” and some “yeah yeahs.”

  “Stop it!” shouted Gacha, but we were singing quite loudly, mostly out of tune. “Stop the singing!”

  Rule Nine of the CCP is if you have an opportunity to throw your captors off balance, do it. The song was throwing them so far off balance I thought they would all fall to the floor. We reached the end of the song and started right back at the beginning again. I was afraid they would gag us, but apparently the idea didn’t occur to them and I certainly wasn’t going to suggest it.

  Then a new voice joined us. It was loud and strong and crystal clear, and a tenor. “I hope your soap is on a rope, and the shower’s not too cold,” I stopped singing, recognizing the voice at the same instant that we were all blinded by bright sunlight streaming in from above. My eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight, which was unfiltered by any windows caked with decades of grime and smoke, but poured through an unplanned skylight that had suddenly appeared in the ceiling. The song stumbled, then picked itself up again, led mostly by Butte somewhere above us. “By the time you get out you’ll be about a hundred fifty years old. ” Before my eyes could adjust, I found myself convulsing reflexively once again as something touched my arm, but this time I paid a bigger price. Pain shot through my torso, sending red lightning bolts through my field of vision. Suddenly, even if the hole in the ceiling had sent down a rain of spiders on my head I didn’t care. I tried desperately to breathe, but that, too, caused bursts of pain. My eyes watered as I took shallow breaths that I knew would lead into hyperventilationville. But then I heard in my ear, underneath the resounding chorus of The Long Arm of the Law, “Hang in there, Helena. We’ll get you out of here.” It was Avis.

  Hang in there? She must have said that on purpose. Rather than saying I had no choice, I went with “Get Billings down, now!” and I winced, hoping Avis couldn’t see it.

  “Butte’s working on it. We have cleaning up to do.” The song ended, dribbling away in “Na Nas” as people descended from the rafters like a swarm of locusts on corn stalks. Arms and legs were suddenly all over me as the twins vaulted off of my chains with a forward flip to the floor below, ready to rumble. I swung back and forth, now pretty certain that the blow to my kidney had cracked one of my floating ribs. This Hell was almost over. Gacha and his thugs were still blinking against the light, as was I, but all our eyes had begun adjusting and the advantages of surprise and good vision were gone. I went from squeezed tight to squinting to blinking a lot in less than a minute as my body finally settled and I held as still as I could to allow the waves of pain to subside. I watched the activity going on around me, refusing to pass out. I watched my team at work with secret pride.

  As usual, the twins didn’t bother drawing their guns. They landed in front of Thug Two, who had his Magnum, but couldn’t see well enough to aim. I was still blinking a lot as I watched, giving the whole thing a strobe effect, which reminded me of the epilepsy test Nitro had done at the physical. See, you just never know what kind of test will be useful at those things. Thug Two had the .44 drawn and pointed, but was afraid to shoot until he could see his target. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally shoot Gacha or one of the other thugs. He was well aware that he wasn’t carrying a pea shooter and whatever he shot was going to be obliterated. A roundhouse kick from Agnes disarmed him and drove him backwards. The gun went flying behind us where the saltines and bottled water had come from.

  Glancing up, I could see Butte trying to dismantle the framework to which Billings was attached. Thug One swung at him with the knife, narrowly missing Billings’ neck. Had Thug One had any critical thought he would have cut Billings, without regard to depth or length, but instead he kept trying to attack the new intruder. Thank goodness for single-minded focus and blind vengeance. He was so intent on Butte that he didn’t see Sylvia climbing down over Butte until she was there in front of him. She hung head downward, hanging from the framework by her knees. Great, I thought, as I watched. If Butte succeeds in freeing the frame, she’ll break her neck in the fall. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you want to look at it, Butte was having trouble with his part of the process. The framework had been expertly soldered and wouldn’t come apart. He began tracing the tubes upward into the rafters.

  Hanging upside down, Sylvia swung away from each jab Dante made with his knife. This infuriated him further, considering she only had the one good eye. She kept dodging, waiting for the right moment. When his face was close to hers, she raised her left hand and lifted her eye patch, revealing her mangled eye. “Peek-a-Boo!” she said, stressing the last word as she swung herself toward his head, connecting with his face, which was filled with revulsion at her injury. As a thug, he had no doubt seen worse, but seeing it so sudden and so close had the desired effect. The impact made a loud thud like two bighorn sheep fighting each other in the mountains and caused Dante to drop his knife, but he quickly went after it and Sylvia dismounted in a backward flip to go after him.

  What was most surprising was the person climbing down Roxy’s framework. I was shocked to see Ms. Vertucci coming down feet first, her weapon, a late model Beretta machine pistol, drawn. “Sorry,” she told Roxy as she landed on Roxy’s shoulders and proceeded to slide quickly down her back and to the floor, swinging her gun at Thug Three. The Beretta is only 9mm, but can fire its entire mag in under five seconds. Thug Three, who had no weapon but a
really good fist and a firm grasp of reality, raised his hands in surrender. Ms. Vertucci had cuffs that were long zip ties and spun the thug around to secure his hands behind him. She grabbed him by the upper arm and started to escort him out of the room. As she passed me, she said, “You want to kick him in the head? I can start you swinging and close my eyes.”

  The thought of movement horrified me and I shook my head gently. Even breathing sent sharp pain through my abdomen and chest, but I kept my discomfort to myself. “So what brings you here?” I asked her.

  “I thought about what you said.”

  “About the importance of law enforcement actually enforcing laws?”

  “That too, but I meant the part about not being able to get a job at a water park. I’d love to do that.” She shoved Thug Three ahead of her without letting go. “When I retire.” She took Thug Three out of the room.

  Meanwhile, Sir Haughty had climbed down above Badger. He examined the framework as he came down, seeing no way to get it apart, knowing he didn’t really have time. He gave Badger an encouraging pat on the shoulder when he saw Gacha trying to make a break for it, and, while still upside down, looped each foot behind a crossbeam and pulled the CURDS issue subcompact Glock 33 from his HEP belt, plugging Gacha in the fleshy part of his lower leg. Gacha fell heavily with a quick scream of pain and grabbed the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers as he tried with his free hand to pull himself closer to the door. Like the others, Sir Haughty dismounted, removing his appropriately red cravat and shaking it out as he approached Gacha to bind his wound. Gacha, probably believing that Sir Haughty intended to strangle him with it, would have nothing of it, however, and kicked at Sir Haughty with his good leg. Sir Haughty stood patiently, waiting for Gacha to tire himself out, confident that he couldn’t run away. Gacha did manage to crawl out of my field of vision, however.