by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 32: ADAM
My right cheek had been throbbing in time with my heartbeat. When my lower back, tight and sore from the hard wooden chair, began to scream for my attention, my cheek refused to give up my attention. They began a determined game of tug-of-war with my nerve ends. Meanwhile, I breathed and tasted the toxic chemicals from the duct tape covering my mouth.
Bobby sat on the couch slurping a bowl of soup. He faced the shattered television screen and pretended I wasn’t there, that I wasn’t in agony.
He had me face the window. A honk from a passing car reminded me of the calm, peaceful world outside, busy with its business, blind to the insanity in this apartment. I was supposed to be at the construction site today, mucking up and earning nasty looks. Heaven. Or who knows? Maybe today, with a calm head and steady hands, I could’ve worked diligently and finally earned their respect.
I tried to think my way out of physical pain. Nothing serene to ponder. No cucumber calm thought to be had. Just: what the hell’s going on? How long has this been planned? Was he really Darryl Cooper’s brother or was that a fake out? Was Bobby even my captor’s real name? Was someone putting him up this? Who? Why? Why involve Brenda? What did she ever do? What was going through her tortured mind? Was she considering doing it? Why Zeke? I concentrated on my pain to stop the thinking.
A knock on the door startled me. Bobby more, I think. He spilled his bowl of soup on the carpet. I thought it was the rescue squad coming for me. I yelled through the tape. Bobby made a fist but his face was all worry. I scraped the chair against the floor.
“Hey. I can hear you in there.” The doorknob rattled. “Open the fucking door Bobby.”
I decided it probably wasn’t the police.
Everything went quiet. Then keys jingled. A key crunched as it entered the lock. The door opened.
“Fuck you lady,” the man said. A woman in the distance gasped.
Okay. Not the landlord either.
The door slammed shut.
“Bobby. You got--?” A pause. “The fuck is this?”
“Lemme explain.”
“What the fuck?”
“It’s how I’m getting the money.”
“Shit.”
“I’ll have it. Lemme do this thing.”
“What thing?”
“This.”
“This is your plan?”
“Yeah.”
“What the fuck?”
“It’s cool.”
“Doesn’t look cool.”
“It is.”
There was a long pause as, I guess, the man looked me over from the back and tried to decide if what he saw was a good thing or bad.
“I gotta tell Marcus,” the man finally said.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll mess things up. Then Marcus won’t get his money.”
“If Marcus finds out, he’ll eat us both alive. What do I tell him?”
“Nothing. Just come back at six.”
“Six? It’s due today.”
“Six is today.”
“Marcus ain’t fucking around.”
“I know. I get it.”
They paused. The man breathed heavily.
“You swear you’ll have the money?”
“I swear.”
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Who is this?”
“He’s money in the bank.”
“Jesus.”
“No. Even better.”
“Ha. You can handle it?”
One of them smacked the back of my head. I didn’t expect it. I broke wind.
“What a mess.”
“I’ll clean it up. Marcus’ll have his money and tomorrow’ll be a new day for all of us.”
“Man. If I had my piece on me, I’d smoke this guy right now.”
“Then Marcus won’t get his money. Please. I’m fine. You didn’t see anything. He wasn’t here. I wasn’t here. At six. I swear. At six.”
Just like Zeke’s interview. Only bits made sense at the time. When more made sense, it was too late to matter.
“If anything, any fucking thing, goes the tiniest bit wrong, you never heard of me and you sure as shit never heard of Marcus. Got it?”
“See you at six, my man.”
I wiggled my tongue through my sealed lips to taste the duct tape.