“You’re light, Bobby.”
He lowers his eyes to the tile.
“This won’t even cover the vig.”13
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why even offer it up?”
“I don’t know.” Bobby looks up at me. Plastic blue eyes pleading. “You seem like a reasonable guy.”
“I am a reasonable guy, Bobby.”
He looks relieved for a moment. Doesn’t realize there’s a “but” coming.
“But I’m also an honest guy, Bobby.”
Now he looks puzzled.
“What did I tell you last week?”
He hunches his shoulders and spreads his hands.
“You know,” I say.
He looks at the tile again. I begin to think he finds it more interesting than our conversation.
“Tell me, Bobby.”
Silence.
I reach down and lift his chin, turning his face toward mine. I wonder if this is what mothers of uncooperative children feel. “Tell me what I said would happen if you came up light again this week.” More silence.
I grab him by the lapels and stand, raising him to his feet. Letting go of his collar, I palm his face like a basketball and give him a shove. His body slams against the wall, his head bouncing slightly off the ecru-painted drywall.14 I close the distance between us and look down into his face. I rest my hand gently on his shoulder and whisper. “What did I say, Bobby?”
He mumbles toward my chest. “You told me you’d break my thumbs.”
“That’s right.” I step back a bit, but not enough to let him move away from the wall. “Now what am I supposed to do, Bobby? What should I do?”
“Cut me some slack, man. Please.”
I consider the possibility for a moment. “You know I can’t do that. You’re not the only one accountable here.” Making a special effort to soften my voice, as if talking to a child, I say, “But I’ll tell you what...” I am sorry as soon as I speak. Looking into his eyes, I see I’ve given him too much hope. “Sit down at the table, hold still, and don’t scream. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
I can’t read his expression. His brows are arched high above his rounded eyes and his teeth are still clenched together, making the cords on his neck stand out.
“Sit at the table,” I say.
He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language, so I put my hand on his shoulder and tug him toward the table. I sit him down. He lowers his head again.
“Are you crying?” I ask.
He shakes his head, lying.
“Give me a hand.”
He holds both hands a few inches above the table and considers them.
“Come on, Bobby. I’m going to break them both anyway. It’s not Sophie’s Choice.”15 He looks even more confused. So I reach down, grab his left hand, and quickly snap the thumb.16
He yelps like a kicked Chihuahua.
Before he can pull the right hand away, I grab it and repeat the process.
Another yelp, more crying. He holds both hands in front of and away from himself as if they are on fire. He looks confused, tears on his cheeks.17
I walk around the island to the freezer. Going well above and beyond the call of duty, I pull out a tray of ice and dump it into a Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. I fold the ice into the green-checkered fabric and carry it back to Bobby.
“Hold this between your palms.” I hand it to him. “Not too tight. I’ll see you next time, Bobby.”
He mutters something incomprehensible.
“You know what happens next time, right, Bobby?”
Bobby nods.
“Look at me, Bobby.”
He looks at me.
“You know?”18
He nods.
“You should go to the emergency room to have those set.”
Another nod.
“Have a nice day, Bobby.”
I lock the door behind myself as I walk out into the street. The cool blue of the sky is just beginning to warm where the sun is nearing the horizon. I feel an itch on the back of my head. Reaching up, I gently rub my finger across the spot, hoping to feel a point or two of new hair growth. I don’t.
Sitting behind the wheel of my car, again I wonder — verb or noun?
~ * ~
Notes
1. I use the first person plural here to refer to not only the personal “we,” but also to the culture at large.
2. An effort at which, I’ll readily concede, I have failed on several past occasions.
3. I know they simply must be considered “events” because in at least three of the ads they were identified variously as events of the “special,” “important,” and “not-to-be-missed” variety.
4. Charlie Rose is, of course, simply the finest interviewer currently working in television; next to him, Barbara Walters’s true gossipmonger colors can be seen in all their vivid brightness. Some might argue that Ted Koppel matches Rose’s skill, and while this may certainly be true insofar as simple technique is concerned, the broader scope of Rose’s interviewees and his encyclopedic knowledge in so many diverse areas clearly give him the edge. I won’t even deign to mention Larry King and his all-consuming celebrity nasal/anal interface.
5. I realize, of course, the oxymoronic possibilities of the phrases “ethical ramifications” and “media coverage” being used in the same sentence; that is, in fact, the irony I was looking forward to seeing examined on the program.
6. Surprisingly, for a man of my considerable size and bulk — I stand six-foot-five and weigh 282 pounds — I slink surprisingly well. The skill is something of a requirement for any kind of long-ranging success in the thugging field.
7. See note 6, above.
8. For more information on alopecia areata, visit the National Alopecia Areata Foundation’s Web site at www.alopeciaeareata.com.
9. As a closely related corollary to my previously mentioned interest in the manner in which our actions function as determinants in our conception of selfhood, I am also actively seeking some personal understanding of the manner in which our appearances affect our actions and how these dual factors, acting both separately and in concert with one another, influence our conception of self.
10. The reference to my alopecia is the single insult that, from the time I first lost my hair in the eighth grade, I have been completely unable to tolerate. I do, however, consider myself somewhat fortunate in one regard — I have, almost exclusively through both implicit and explicit threats of physical violence, been able to silence the vast majority of those who sought to injure me in this fashion. Those who were not intimidated enough to think better of their actions were moderately to severely injured. I think often of people who suffer from alopecia and other similar disorders which render them, to varying degrees, different in appearance from those in the majority, and wonder how they make it through the day. I like to think I am doing some small service in educating those who would mock and belittle others simply on the basis of their physical appearance.
11. At an alopecia support group meeting recently, one of the members proposed we coin the phrase “follicle-challenged” to describe ourselves. That suggestion was almost comic in its political correctness. The only factor that mitigated my impulse to laugh audibly was the fact that I so clearly understood the pain from which the suggestion arose.
12. Had he risen, it would have signified either a conscious or unconscious desire on his part to challenge my superior position.
13. Vig or vigorish: the exorbitant interest charged by a loan shark (aka shylock; despite the pejorative connotations of this particular term to those of Jewish ancestry, it is still by far the more commonly used). This interest is, in fact, specifically designed to be impossible for the mark to pay. This in turn forces the forfeiture by said mark of any real properties s/he might possess.
14. I cannot state unequivocally that the color of the wall is ecru; it might very well
be eggshell, or possibly even Navajo white.
15. I regret at once the literary reference. I think perhaps the relatively wide exposure of the film version of Styron’s novel will suffice to effectively convey my intended meaning; it does not.
16. The proper technique for a clean thumbbreak is as follows: grasp the thumb at its base, as close as is possible to the hand itself, wrapping your own thumb and forefinger around the joint. Repeat the process at the upper joint. The idea is to support each of the joints to the greatest extent possible. Once this has been accomplished, snap the thumb sharply sideways, perpendicular to the direction of the thumb’s own movement. You should, in most cases, feel the bone snap in your hands. Imagine breaking a pencil wrapped in several slices of bologna for some idea of the sensation.
17. While this reaction veers clearly toward the maudlin, I certainly prefer it to the violent or indignant. At least he stops short of wetting his pants.
18. Next time, just as Bobby’s thumbs are about to be severed from his hands, he’ll be given the option of releasing his interest in the $38,000 worth of equity he has built up in his home by signing over the deed. We can be fairly sure which option Bobby will choose.
<
~ * ~
MIKE DOOGAN
War Can Be Murder
from The Mysterious North
Two men got out of the Jeep and walked toward the building. Their fleece-lined leather boots squeaked on the snow. One of the men was young, stocky, and black. The other was old, thin, and white. Both men wore olive-drab wool pants, duffel coats, and knit wool caps. The black man rolled forward onto his toes with each step, like he was about to leap into space. The white man’s gait was something between a saunter and a stagger. Their breath escaped in white puffs. Their heads were burrowed down into their collars, and their hands were jammed into the pockets of their coats.
“Kee-rist, it’s cold,” the black man said.
Their Jeep ticked loudly as it cooled. The building they approached was part log cabin and part Quonset hut with a shacky plywood porch tacked onto the front. Yellow light leaked from three small windows. Smoke plumed from a metal pipe punched through its tin roof. A sign beside the door showed a black cat sitting on a white crescent, the words Carolina moon lettered beneath.
“You sure we want to go in here?” the black man asked.
“Have to,” the white man said. “I’ve got an investment to protect.”
They hurried through the door and shut it quickly behind them. They were standing in a fair-sized room that held a half-dozen tables and a big bar. They were the only ones in the room. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and desperation. The white man led the way past the bar and through a door, turned left, and walked down a dark hallway toward the light spilling from another open door.
The light came from a small room that held a big bed and four people not looking at the corpse on the floor. One, a big, red-haired guy, was dressed in olive drab with a black band around one biceps that read mp in white letters. The other man was short, plump, and fair-haired, dressed in brown. Both wore guns on their hips. One of the women was small and temporarily blond, wearing a red robe that didn’t hide much. The other woman was tall, black, and regal as Cleopatra meeting Caesar.
“I tole you, he give me a couple of bucks and said I should go get some supper at Leroy’s,” the temporary blonde was saying.
“‘Lo, Zulu,” the thin man said, nodding to the black woman.
“Mister Sam,” she replied.
“What the hell are you doing here, soldier?” the MP barked.
“That’s Sergeant,” the thin man said cheerfully. He nodded to the plump man. “Marshal Olson,” he said. “Damn cold night to be dragged out into, isn’t it?”
“So it is, Sergeant Hammett,” the plump man said. “So it is.” He shrugged toward the corpse on the floor. “Even colder where he is, you betcha.”
“Look you,” the MP said, “I’m ordering you to leave. And take that dinge with you. This here’s a military investigation, and if you upstuck it, I’ll throw you in the stockade.”
“If I what it?” Hammett asked.
“Upstuck,” the MP grated.
“Upstuck?” Hammett asked. “Anybody got any idea what he’s talking about?”
“I think he means ‘obstruct,’” the black man said.
“Why, thank you, Clarence,” Hammett said. He pointed to the black man. “My companion is Clarence Jefferson Delight. You might know him better as Little Sugar Delight. Fought Tony Zale to a draw just before the war. Had twenty-seven — that’s right, isn’t it, Clarence? — twenty-seven professional fights without a loss. Not bad for a dinge, eh?” To the plump man, he said, “It’s been a while since I was involved in this sort of thing, Oscar, but I believe that as the U.S. Marshal you’re the one with jurisdiction here.” To the MP, he said, “Which means you can take your order and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
The MP started forward. Hammett waited for him with arms hanging loosely at his sides. The marshal stepped forward and put a hand on the MP’s chest.
“Maybe you’d better go cool off, fella,” he said. “Maybe go radio headquarters for instructions while I talk to these folks here.”
The MP hesitated, relaxed, said, “Right you are, Marshal,” and left the room.
“Maybe we should all go into the other room,” the marshal said. The others began to file out. Hammett crouched next to the corpse, which lay on its back, arms outflung, completely naked. He was a young, slim, sandy-haired fellow with blue eyes and full lips. His head lay over on his shoulder, the neck bent much farther than it should have been. Hammett laid a hand on the corpse’s chest.
“Give me a hand, Oscar, and we’ll roll him over,” he said.
The two men rolled the corpse onto its stomach. Hammett looked it up and down, grunted, and they rolled it back over.
“You might want to make sure a doctor examines that corpse,” he said as the two men walked toward the barroom. “I think you’ll find he was here to receive rather than give.”
The temporary blonde told a simple story. A soldier had come into her room, given her $2, and told her to get something to eat.
“He said don’t come back for an hour,” she said.
She’d gone out the back door, she said, shooting a nervous look at the black woman, so she wouldn’t have to answer any questions. When she returned, she’d found the soldier naked and dead.
“She told me,” the black woman said to the marshal, “and I sent someone for you.”
“What did you have to eat?” Hammett asked the temporary blonde.
“Leroy said it was beefsteak, but I think it was part of one of them moose,” she said. “And some mushy canned peas and a piece of chocolate cake. I think it give me the heartburn. That or the body.”
“That’s a story that should be easy enough to check out,” Hammett said.
“And what about you, Zulu?” the marshal asked.
“I was in the office or behind the bar all night, Mister Olson,” the black woman said. “That gentleman came in, had a drink, paid the usual fee, and asked for a girl. When I asked him which one, he said it didn’t matter. So I sent him back to Daphne.”
“Seen him before?” the marshal asked.
“Lots of men come through here,” Zulu said. “But I think he’d been here before.”
“He done the same thing with me maybe three, four times before,” the temporary blonde said. “With some a the other girls, too.” She shot another nervous look at the black woman. “We talk sometimes, ya know.”
“Notice anybody in particular in here tonight?” the marshal said.
“Quite a few people in here tonight,” Zulu said. “Some for the music, some for other things. Maybe thirty people in here when the body was found. I think maybe one of them is on the city council. And there was that banker ...”
“That’s enough of that,” the marshal said.
�
�And he could have let anybody in through the back door,” Zulu said.
The red-haired MP came back into the barroom, chased by a blast of cold air.
“The major wants me to bring the whore in to the base,” he said to the marshal.
“I don’t think Daphne wants to go anywhere with you, young man,” Zulu said.
“I don’t care what a whore thinks,” the MP said.
Zulu leaned across the bar and very deliberately slapped the MP across the face. He lunged for her. Hammett stuck a shoulder into his chest, and the marshal grabbed his arm.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2003 Page 13