by Ralph Dennis
“He ruined you,” the driver said.
“You see it?”
“No,” the driver admitted.
“Of course you didn’t. You were flat on your ass out the whole time, that’s why.”
“I got told about it.”
“That’s the only way you’d know,” Bad Throat said. There was a shifting of weight in the front seat. “How’s our boy doing?”
“Bleeding on the upholstery,” the pickup man said.
About twenty minutes after they’d picked me up on Spring Street, the Buick braked and the pickup man lifted the shoe from the back of my neck. “Sit up, Hardman.”
I got my hands under me and pushed myself up. I sat on the seat next to the pickup man. I was too close to him, so he wagged the .38 at me and I moved away another foot or so.
“Nothing fancy,” the pickup man said.
The nose of the Buick was pulled up at the back of a weathered old building, almost touching a concrete ramp. I used the hand away from the pickup man and tugged at the collar of my shirt. It was stuck to my neck hair with dried blood. “Where are we?”
“Out near the graveyard,” Bad Throat said.
“That’s your best rip today,” the driver said. “Out near the graveyard.”
The pickup man opened the door on his side. “You going to come in nice and easy, or do you want it the hard way?”
“I’ll walk it,” I said.
“That’s a good boy,” the pickup man said.
“Good? He’s a fucking sweetheart,” Bad Throat said. “The next best thing to pussy.”
The pickup man eased out of the car and stood waiting, while I inched my way over to the door and stepped out. As soon as I was clear of the car, I blinked up at the sky. It was clouding over, like we might be getting a good spring rain. Good for my garden, with the tomato plants in and the seeds waiting. But, as Hump had said, maybe I should have planted a tree.
“Up there.”
The direction was wasted. Bad Throat and the driver each took an arm, and they ran me up the steps and onto the concrete ramp. When we reached the door, they rammed me against the wall and held me there while the pickup man unlocked a big Yale and pushed the door open. Now he was carrying the attaché case he’d picked up at the bus station. “I’ll get the light.”
They held me in the open door while the pickup man crossed the dark room. It was an odd odor, a room full of conflicting smells. The scent of dust and something else. I grabbed at it and picked the bones, and I got it just before the light went on. It was the smell of flour.
I understood the smells then. It was an old bakery that hadn’t been used for years. To the left, I could see the floor marks where the ovens had been, and the capped-off gas lines near the wall. Along the right wall were four large stainless steel mixing units with the dough hooks still attached. A couple of long, wood-topped tables were in the center of the room. And here and there, high cooling racks on wheels. Beyond the tables, I could see the only additions this crew had made to the room: a canvas folding cot and a couple of straight-backed chairs.
The pickup man placed the attaché case on one of the tables. “I’m going to call Ed from down the street. He might want to talk to our boy here.”
“How long’ll you be gone? I could use a beer.” Bad Throat walked me across the room, around the tables, and stopped near the cot.
The pickup man shook his head. “Not sure. I might have to pick Ed up and bring him here.”
“No sweat,” Bad throat said. “We got the sweetheart here to keep us company.”
“Watch the case for me.” The pickup man tapped the attaché case with his knuckles and went out, closing the door after him. He didn’t even look at me, and that sent a shiver down me. The driver reached back under the tail of his coat and brought out a short-barreled .38. He sat down in one of the chairs and rested the pistol on his knee.
Bad Throat seemed to be waiting for something. When it came, the Buick’s engine starting up, he turned and smiled at me. “Sweetheart, you made me look bad the other night.”
“Reamed your hole, the way I heard it,” the driver said.
I didn’t say anything. Nothing I could say would make any difference.
“Cops and ex-cops make me sick. Puking sick.” Bad Throat held out a hand to the driver. “You got the tape?”
The driver reached into his coat pocket and brought out a thick, one-inch-wide roll of white adhesive tape.
“Turn around, sweetheart. Wrists together flat, no space between them.”
I did as he said. I tried to keep some space between the wrists, but after he looped the first layer of tape around my hands he pressed the wrists together. Another dozen or so loops, and it was done. He caught me by the shoulder and turned me. He placed the roll of tape on the table, next to the attaché case.
“Remember, Ed might want to talk to him,” the driver said.
“I ain’t going to hurt him,” Bad Throat said. “I’m just going to dust him off.” He held up his left fist so I could see the depressed, busted knuckles. “You made me look bad, and I didn’t like that at all.”
While I was looking at his left, he ducked his shoulder and swung the right at me. I guess I’d been expecting it, and I tried to turn and take part of it on my hip. I didn’t get turned far enough, and I took the force of it in my left side. I fell back across the cot and against the wall. After the first shock, it felt like somebody had reached a hand into a hole in my side and torn a section of my guts out.
“That’s enough,” the driver said.
“Shut up!” Bad Throat leaned over me. “Sweetheart here likes it. He likes to show how tough he is.” He grabbed me under the arms and was pulling me to my feet. His face was close to mine, and I thought, why the shit not? I was going to get my ass kicked, and being passive wasn’t going to make it hurt any less. “Tell him how tough you are.”
I jerked my head forward and butted Bad Throat across the nose. He threw me against the wall and straightened up. As he stepped back, I took a kick at his groin and missed, hitting the inside of his right knee instead. “Sonofabitch!” Spit peppered my face, and he leaned toward me and clubbed me on the side of my head.
“Not in the head,” the driver said. “Ed might want to talk to him.”
“You see what he just did to me?”
“Not in the face,” the driver said.
I turned my head back and looked at Bad Throat. His eyes were watering, and he ran a hand across his face. A thin smear of blood covered the lower part of his face. He looked at the blood in his hand. “Now you’ve done it. Now you’ve goddam tore it.”
It was good as over then. I knew I was done. He worked me over from my knees to my shoulders. When the pain was bad enough, I told myself to go ahead and black out, but it wasn’t that easy. I remained in a kind of twilight, and the blows seemed to run together until I thought he had about ten hands. It went on and on, and I didn’t believe it when the grunting stopped.
“Enough,” the driver said. “That’s enough.”
“He’s all yours,” Bad Throat said.
I think it was the driver who lifted me and stretched me out on the cot. I felt my legs being pulled together and, from the tightness down there, I knew that the driver had taped my ankles together.
“I worked up a thirst,” Bad Throat said. He seemed to be about a mile away. “I’m going down the street to get a six-pack.”
“Virg might be back in a second,” the driver said. “If he didn’t have to pick up Ed.”
“Fuck him.”
The light went out. I could hear the footsteps. “The dust is getting to my sinus,” the driver said. “I’ll wait for you outside. He ain’t going anywhere.”
“Whose hole got reamed this time?”
“His,” the driver said.
“Fucking-aye,” Bad Throat said.
The door closed after them.
It was dark in the room and I was choking on blood or vomit and I couldn’t
sit up. I didn’t know if an hour had passed or a day.
I tried to turn my head. I wasn’t fast enough. It came out sour and lumpy. It spilled across the cot and ran down across me, soaked up by my shirt and my hair. I couldn’t stand that, and the energy came from somewhere. I rocked the cot and it tipped over, and I fell on the concrete floor. I took most of the fall on my shoulder and just stayed there, waiting to see if the pain would go away. It didn’t. I didn’t think it ever would, and I let myself moan once, to see if that would help. It came out louder than I meant it to, and I clenched my teeth to shut it off.
Foxy. Got to be foxy. But how? Hands in back. Not much I can do with them that way. Try to work them around in front? Maybe. Had Bad Throat made a mistake? Maybe. So eager to beat the crap out of me. Otherwise he should have taped the hands together higher up. Maybe even pulled the elbows together and taped them. Screw you, Bad Throat, you’re not that smart.
Still on my side, I drew my knees up, trying to get them against my stomach. Too much stomach. Worry about that later. First things first. Got to work my hands down and get them past my rump. The first part is easy, half way there, but I can feel the arms pulling out of the sockets. Just one more pain. Think about the other ones. There. Hands past my rump. Now slide them up the thighs. One more push. Over the shoes. The edge of the leather heels tearing at my wrists. But it is done. My hands are in front of me. Screw you, Bad Throat.
The next thing next. Got to sit up and try to work on the tape the driver wrapped around my ankles, over my socks. Easier than I thought, just turn on my back, put the hands over my knees and pull myself up. There. Hands feeling for the end of the tape. I can’t find it. The desperation is coming on, the scream of frustration in the back of my throat. Can’t do that. Take a deep breath. Then another. Try again, the fingernail tracing the tape. Looking for the rough line of the end. Maybe. Here. The slow, precious time to work the fingernail under the tape. Enough to lift it. Enough to unwrap it. The socks coming apart as I peel the tape away. Then the end, and the legs sprawl apart.
And now the next thing next. I crawled across the floor to the nearest table. I put my hands on the edge of the table and try to pull myself up. The arms don’t like it, and the rest of my body doesn’t either. The second try I make it, but as soon as I am upright the knees give out on me and I fall across the table. The attaché case hits me in the chest. Another pain. But something else. A rattle. Something in the table rattled.
I wait until the legs stop shaking. Thinking about the rattling I heard. Not the table falling apart. Sounds more like the rattling of silverware in a drawer. The time, the time is running away. Can’t get this close and let them catch me again. I use a shoulder to brace myself on the table and my hands to move below the table top. I go almost all the way around the table before I find it. A wide, metal-fronted drawer. It opens easily, like it is on rollers. Careful now, warning myself. My hands working a puzzle in the dark. Parts and pieces I don’t recognize. Feeling the rust come off on my hands. About to give up when I feel the wooden handle. I lift it carefully and place it on the table top. I trace the length of it, the blade and the edge with the roughness of pits and rust.
At first, I try to hold the handle in my fingertips and saw against the tape. Not much progress at first, and I push harder. The blade slips out of line and cuts my wrist. My god, no, not a vein. I put the knife on the table and lift the cut wrist to my mouth. I taste the cut. Not a vein, after all. A shallow out, bleeding but not gushing.
Got to try something else. Might not be lucky the next time. Maybe the drawer. I push it until it’s almost closed. I hold the knife by the blade and place it on the top edge of the drawer. Then, slowly, I close the drawer. The knife holds in place. I jam the drawer as hard as I can. The knife is locked in tight. I bend over and saw against the blade, the tape tearing as much as cutting, sweating and grunting with the effort, until the tape parts.
I tear away hair and all, maybe some skin, and then my hands are free. Too much time has passed. I don’t like the way time has passed. It looks like they would check on me. Unless they think I am half dead. Unless they are sitting back on that ramp, drinking cool beer and watching the spring coming. Maybe the coolness of the spring rain, if the rain came.
Free now, and I have a weapon. I do not like the knife. I don’t understand how people can use them. But a knife is better than nothing, and I pull the drawer open and take the knife with me. Still not satisfied. I’d like some other weapon. I walk around the room, looking for something that I can use for a club.
The stainless steel mixing machines, the bowls, and the huge dough hooks. I miss them the first circuit of the room. On the second, I reach down and shake the dough hook on the first machine. It is locked in. It would take a spanner wrench to free it. I try the second machine. The same. But the third dough hook wobbles, and I kneel on the floor and pull at it. It comes free and falls into the bowl with a loud clang. I get to my feet and lift the dough hook out of the bowl. It is a wicked piece of equipment. About a yard long, with a heavy slotted handle. It thins as it moves away from the handle, curving and becoming a half-moon. It is stainless steel and weighs nine or ten pounds.
Swinging it, getting used to it, I carry it to the doorway. I lean against the doorway. The door opens outward, I remember that. I move away until I’m flat against the wall. Now I will see if I can muster some strength. My legs feel better now. Now I wait. Now.
The door swung open, the light a narrow sliver in the darkness, and I can hear them, a bit of the beer loudness in their voices.
Bad Throat said, “… how sleeping beauty is now, after his workout?”
“Wore out,” the driver said, “plenty wore out.”
They came through the doorway together. After a couple of steps, the driver stopped. “Get the light, smart-ass,” he said. I flicked my eyes at him. He was standing just inside the door, relaxed, a tall can of beer in one hand and a full 6-pack under his arm. Ahead of him, Bad Throat was walking carefully, not yet accustomed to the darkness.
“Yooohooo,” Bad Throat called, “how is Hardman now?”
I couldn’t wait. It had to happen now, if it was going to happen. I stepped away from the wall and swung the dough hook at the driver in a kind of two-handed tennis backhand. The hook caught the driver across the chest and almost tore him in half, throwing him back against the doorframe. The open can of beer kicked up and splattered against the wall. I didn’t wait to see him fall. There wasn’t time. Bad Throat was slow, but he was beginning his turn. I was on him before he got around. The first swing of the dough hook didn’t land where it-was supposed to. The strength in my arms failed me, and the hook dipped low and hit Bad Throat across the hips. There was enough steam left to hurt him, and he doubled over, screaming with the pain. I lifted the dough hook and brought it down, aiming for his head and missing it, and knew that I’d broken his collarbone. He was falling then, and I hit him and hit him and hit him, until he was face down on the floor. The edges of his rubber shoe soles squeaked on the concrete for a time, and that was all.
I turned on the light. I looked at the bloody work I’d done and threw the dough hook across the room. It clanged against one of the stainless steel mixing bowls. I put my head down on one of the wooden tables and counted up to sixty twice. That was all the rest I could allow myself if the pickup man was still expected. I pushed myself up from the table and spent the next ten minutes cleaning up the mess I’d made.
I sat in a chair beside the door. I had the 6-pack of tall Bud at my feet, the .38 I’d taken from the driver, and a .45 automatic that Bad Throat had been carrying. Ready and waiting. I picked up the 6-pack and pulled a can out of the plastic webbing. It blew when I popped the tab. The beer felt cool in my face, so I lifted the beer and poured the rest of it over the top of my head. It was better to smell like beer than vomit.
I drank part of the second beer. When I threw that can away I started dozing, and I had to get to my feet and walk around the roo
m. Maybe they weren’t coming, and I was a fool to wait for them. I might make it to a phone if I tried. If anyone would let me use their phone after they got a look at me, and a smell.
No, I’d wait.
It seemed like hours. Hours and hours.
I heard the sound of the car engine, and stood up. This was followed by the flat clap of car doors slamming shut. More than one door. That meant the pickup man wasn’t alone. Ed Buddy … maybe he came along for that talk with me. Rasp of grit under shoes on the ramp. Coming close. They didn’t have to unlock the Yale this time. The door swung open. The first man through the doorway I thought I didn’t know. The second man was the pickup man, the seersucker jacket wrinkled and baggy now.
The pickup man said, “What the hell, Ed?”
I aimed past the pickup man’s shoulder and put a round from the .45 into the doorframe. Both of them whirled to face me before they turned to stone.
After I got their iron and threw it out the door, I stood in the doorway and looked out at the nose of the black Buick. I couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t, so I lifted the .45 and sighted in. I put three rounds through the windshield.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Sure you know him,” Art said. He was leaning over me, trying to get the .45 out of my hand, and doing it carefully so he wouldn’t get a round in the leg or the foot. I’d given up the .38 without any trouble, but now, for some reason, I didn’t want to release the big Army issue automatic. “Think back, a few nights ago.”
I blinked. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. And my brains felt scrambled and fried hard. “I can’t.”
“I need this.” He tugged at the .45.
“Huh?”
“Ballistics test,” he said.
That must have touched an old button, from years back. I turned the hand palm up, and he lifted the gun out with the tips of his fingers. Behind me, standing behind my chair, Hump let out a long breath and dropped his hand from my shoulder.