The Man Who Wouldn't Die

by A. B. Jewell

  “Dad, I don’t think it’s a very sincere apology if you’ve got him tied up. That’s coercion.”

  Deuce considered this. “What do you think, doc?”

  “I think he has a point.”

  With the panache of a gunslinger, Deuce turned around, yanked a gun from a shoulder holster, and shot the doctor in the middle of the forehead. The guy fell straight backward to the floor. Blood gurgled from the tiny volcano beneath his hairline. Jesus, this coldhearted madman Deuce was everything I’d heard.

  “Where were we?” he said.

  “Looks like the doc got a talking-to,” Daryn said.

  “I feel better,” Deuce said, sounding like he was talking to himself. “That’s how I feel. I’d really like to get back to the matter at hand. Fitch, can you please apologize to Dutch Abraham? Without the doc here, I’m going to quickly run out of ways to moderate this. It’s just not my core strength and I understand that.”

  Yep, I needed to get this over with—whatever this was.

  I raised my head, sending acute spasms through my brain. Wincing, I managed: “Hey, kid, sorry about the thing.”

  “Fantastic! Absolutely fantastic. Dutch, what do you say?”

  “I honestly have no idea, Dad.” Earnest.

  “Neither do I, son. Frankly, it would be great to have Doc Simons with us.”

  “I think he preferred to go by ‘Bob,’ Dad.”

  “Point taken. Well, I think you’re supposed to say something, Dutch Abraham. Just go with it. How do you feel?”

  The kid seemed to weigh this. He was pretty self-possessed.

  “I feel better, Fitch. Thank you. That really bummed me out, what happened at the ConfirMitzvah, ’cause my dad was stressed and he put a lot of time and effort into it. The plus side is my school counselor says it could be great college essay material and all that, and I just need to figure out if I can write it in a way that’s authentic and not . . .” He looked to his dad. “What’s the word?”

  “Manipulative.”

  “Right. Anyhow, can I go?”

  “Yes. Well done, son. What do we say to a guest?”

  “Nice seeing you alive one last time.”

  “C’mon, Scruffy.” Deuce patted his son on the head.

  “Nice meeting you.”

  “Nice meeting you what?” Deuce said.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Fitch,” Deuce says. “C’mon, Scruffy.”

  “Mr. Fitch.”

  “Fitch,” I said.

  The kid turned around and left.

  “Terrific EQ on that one. We’ve really worked on that. My son’s got great empathy and I really value that. Okay, Daryn, get the electrodes.”

  “What?” Daryn said.

  “Daryn, get your damn face out of the phone. What am I paying you for?”

  “To torture people.”

  Deuce put his head down. “It’s a rhetorical question. Get the electrodes.”

  The flunky walked to his left and started rummaging through a bin of various sickening implements. Clips and hammers, a rusty saw. Deuce walked dead center in front of me.

  “Thanks for working with me there. That was a real teaching moment for Dutch Abraham. Conflict resolution, that’s the thing these days. Doc Simon was a real badass in that area, a leader in his field. He’ll be missed.”

  “Cut the bullshit.” I spit it out, tasting blood. “You shot him in the head.”

  “Touchy.”

  “Get it over with, Deuce.”

  “What’s the rush? You got somewhere to be? Maybe home with the mister?”

  For the first time, my alarm bells went off. Big-time. I didn’t mind taking a few body shots, but now he was talking about Terry. I swallowed my impulse to let my fury show. Tried to save my energy, keep my cards close, all that.

  “Here ya go, boss.” The flunky approached holding a gadget that looked like an iPod connected to the pincers of a battery charger for a car. A voice came from the gadget: “Deuce, who may I help you torture today?” It was—who else—Shirli.

  “That broad is the only thing I hate about this new technology. Other than that, it packs incredible voltage and you can carry it in your pocket.” He leaned down, eyeballed me, made sure I was focused. “Fitch, I assume you know how this thing works?”

  I gritted my teeth, managed a fake courageous smile.

  “Reduces a fellow to jelly, a blubbering pile of ‘please-kill-me-now.’”

  I was racking my brain: Any way out of this? I couldn’t get my hands free. Could I stand somehow and flip the chair? Could I make a break for it through that distant door? I’d have been shot down before I got three feet.

  “It’s easier than ever, with the new UI, and the sensors. They not only send electricity through the clips but pick up heartbeat and other stress measures. Really helps one calibrate. Hell, I used this once during a workout when I couldn’t find my Fitbit. But the main stuff is old-school. Put these on the nipples or the nuts, send electricity, watch the poor sucker wriggle and writhe to death’s doorstep.” He looked lost in space, a sadistic grin on this madman’s face. Almost like I was no longer there.

  “Quit the foreplay, Deuce. Get on with it. Get your pound of flesh.”

  He smirked.

  “I wish. That would be nice. Just two days ago, if I’d had you here, I would actually have taken time out of my busy schedule to watch you electrocuted on our new live-chat torture platform.” He pursed his lips, relishing the thought. “But things have changed. So I’ll ask you again if you know how these electrodes work.”

  Now I was just lost. So he wasn’t going to torture me? He could clearly see the confusion in my eyes.

  “Listen closely when I explain how you use it. Because you’re going to need to know how to use it.”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “I’m going to untie you, and hand this thing to you, let you walk out of here, and you’re going to go out and put it to some decent use.”

  “Make some sense, you sadistic shithead.”

  “You’re going to get me the Spirit Box.”

  “The what?”

  “That immortality gadget. The one that tech pioneer was innovating.”

  “Captain Don,” his flunky said.

  “Captain Don. Word on the street is he was really close to nailing immortality,” Deuce continued. “And word on the street is you were close to nailing access to the code.”

  “I don’t know what you’re hearing, Deuce, but you got it wrong.”

  “Yeah, set me straight, Fitch.” He turned to his flunky. “Daryn, can you hand me a chair?”

  The Tarantula scrub bounced over to the wall, where there was a wooden chair, and brought it back to Deuce, who, in turn, sat a few inches away and brought his face close to mine. My brain was doing somersaults of figuring: Can I head-butt Deuce, break his nose . . . and then what? No good options.

  But then I realized I was overthinking it.

  “Yeah, Deuce, you’re right. What’s the point in bullshitting you at this point. Hell, you got me tied up like a pig at a luau.”

  “Easy, bud, we run a half-kosher kitchen.”

  “I’m close, Deuce. Get me out of here and I’ll get you the immortality gizmo, hand it over to you, and we’ll call it all even.”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  I made like I was thinking it over. “I’ve got two questions for you.”

  “You’re not in much of a position to be asking questions.” He laughed. “Daryn, get a load of this guy, thinking he’s in a position to be asking questions.” He looked over with a can-I-get-an-amen from his henchman, but the guy was buried in his phone. “Daryn, get your face out of your phone!”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I think I just got a text from Bono.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. He’s just letting me know I’m still getting texts.”

  “Hey, Daryn, if you won’t back me up on my maniacal laughs, I will. Find. Someone. Else.
”

  Daryn swallowed hard. Deuce turned back to me. He flipped something into my lap—a book of some kind. I blinked hard and, through still-concussed faculties, made out the title: e-Electrodz, V2.6, User Manual.

  “Two questions,” I muttered.

  “Free country.”

  “How do you know about the Spirit Box?”

  Deuce smiled, then laughed, then his laugh turned haughty. He looked at Daryn, who laughed along haughtily.

  “Lemme tell you something, Fitch, I know everything that happens in the Valley. It’s my business to know. Nothing goes down from Fresno to the Oregon border without me knowing it.”

  Daryn laughed haughtily.

  “You’re overcompensating,” Deuce said in his direction.

  “Deuce, I didn’t even know about the Spirit Box until yesterday and you’ve been gunning for me long before that. So something’s changed. You’re working with someone, or for someone, right?”

  “Is that your second question or a follow-up?”

  I exhaled; this guy was totally exhausting. Same as every person who got to the top of a corporate structure; he could outlast you, plain and simple. Same as the managers who got to the top of the police chain, no different there, or at Chevron, the White House, Starbacks, or the Tarantulas. The rest of us needed a nap now and then.

  “My second question is: When did you start hiring guys who can’t shoot straight?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “One of your douchebags had me in his sights with a blow dart at the Froom party and he missed by five feet. I might have to start telling the world the Tarantulas have lost their edge.”

  “That’s bullshit, Fitch, and you know it.”

  “I’ll get myself one of those Instacharm or Faceburg accounts and that kind of mistake will go viral. Can’t wait to see how many re-tweeps that gets from the Black Widows.”

  I could talk the talk when I had to.

  “Watch yourself, Fitch. We don’t miss. Our guys are one hundred percent certified to hit what they aim . . .” He paused. It was dawning on him, crossing his face like the moon in a full solar eclipse. I’d been playing him with this question, eking something out. “Yeah, we sometimes get a few bad eggs. We use a hiring algorithm and sometimes it messes up.” It was a paltry recovery.

  “If you say so.”

  “Enough chitchat. Here’s the net-net: we let you go, you take the electrodes or whatever other means you deem necessary and get us the Spirit Box. We want the code. Capiche?”

  “Now you’re the Godfather?”

  “Racist.”

  “What do you want the Spirit Box for?”

  “None of your goddamn business. We took your gun. It’s too risky for you to be able to hurt one of us at a distance and there will be plenty of us around. Look closely, you’ll see a Tarantula in the woodwork. Oh, and you have twenty-four hours.”

  This guy made me sick, the thick lips, fancy haircut with a touch of bangs combed to the side, just enough depth in his brown eyes to be mistaken for empathy; a banker you could trust in another life, CEO material, the puppet master who could motivate the workforce at any organization. Except for his maniacal killer streak.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You’re a smart one, Fitch. Daryn, bring me the phone.”

  Daryn, now at full attention, made his way to a table where I’d seen the bin of torture implements. He picked up a handsome navy-blue case, smaller than a shoe box. He stood in front of Deuce like a joker making a presentation to the king. Deuce opened the top of the box, revealing a phone nestled in a soft cradle of maroon fabric.

  “The double iPhone 19s. Not even in production yet. Two of them in the world. This thing can tell you two days ahead of time that you’re going to take a shit and predict the nearest bathroom stall.” He eyeballed me. “I’m kidding. Turn of phrase. It’s awesome, is my point. And look at the picture quality.”

  He turned the phone to me. There was a picture on it.

  I felt my body come to a complete stop, every molecule freeze.

  “Don’t worry,” Deuce said. “We’re keeping him comfy. He’s eating gluten-free.”

  Terry. Tied up, a lot like me.

  “Here’s the video.” The Tarantula flipped to another image and pressed the play icon.

  “Take these assholes out,” Terry said. “I’m fine.”

  A fist came in from the right side of the screen and leveled Terry across the jaw.

  Terry winced, then smiled wryly, like: That’s all you got? Tough stud, my husband. I felt my eyes go wet, and held it back.

  “Twenty-four hours, Fitch,” said Deuce.

  “That’s some ugly business, Deuce.”

  “Is this the part where you tell me that I don’t want to see you mad? Give me a break, Fitch. You’re not in our league. You don’t know from ugly. You break a few rules now and again. But in the end, you break the little ones, not the big ones, like the cops. Those are the guys who scare me. You’re small-time with a heart of gold. And it belongs to this guy”—he held up the photo of Terry—“and the clock’s ticking on his last day on earth if you don’t get me the Spirit Box. Me, mine, alone. Got it?”

  “Yeah, Deuce, capiche.”

  “Racist. Untie him, Daryn.”

  A minute later, I was free and blindfolded, but didn’t need eyes to surmise I had two guns trained on me. Not a damn way around it. They took me on a drive. Next thing I knew, I was dropped in a wooded area. “One for the road,” Deuce said, and he popped me in the jaw.

  I shook it off and yanked away the blindfold and saw their MINI drive off through the overhanging trees. The motorcycle was there beside me, and so was my truck. At my feet, my phone and the other phone—the one from the Tarantula—and the electrodes.

  The bastards had Terry tied up somewhere. Where? Anywhere. Who the hell knew.

  I don’t break the rules, Deuce had said, or at least not the little ones. These guys had no idea who they were dealing with.

  Sixteen

  FOR OUR HONEYMOON, we rolled north to Washington, parked our bikes at a friend’s house, and then flew to Anchorage. Hop, skip, jump, and we were in a kayak, paddling and floating peacefully through the Kenai Fjords. The Serengeti on ice, wild and untamed, the zoo bars sprung open, orcas and humpbacks, black and brown bears, some bird Terry dug called a tufted puffin and one called a black oystercatcher, and then a porpoise leaped about three feet from the kayak and nearly overturned us, and damn if that wasn’t one of the best moments I ever lived.

  We camped on the banks. At one point, a bald eagle landed at our site, at it, not near it, and sat. And watched. Or, as I tended to think about it in my honeymoon-addled brain, joined us. I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about how human beings got to this shitbag marble in space, but that made me wonder right there about a higher being and whether he or she or it might be blessing me and Terry and us tying the knot and calling it settled once and for all.

  Peaceful as it gets.

  Now I stood in another forest, electrodes at my feet, and I vowed to smash some heads. I pictured myself taking their phones and GPS-equipped Tasers, their electrodes and Spirit Boxes, and saw myself unleashing on them one asshole at a time. I was tired to the bone, and even if they hadn’t nabbed Terry, I was up to here with the nonsense of this place and all the greed and avarice couched as politically correct doublespeak. A few years earlier, when the weather started changing, Terry had said to me that we were just a few degrees away from being Hollywood, and not in a good way. Mellow exterior, progressive banter, free play for the kids and woot for the meritocracy, but it was all façade, like the cover on a chocolate candy that hides something foul at the center.

  Our favorite diner in the Mission had turned into a trendy flower shop and we didn’t realize it until we walked in one morning for a huge breakfast and the lady behind the counter asked us if we were looking for a bouquet to celebrate an acquisition or an IPO. When she saw our f
allen faces, she said, “Oh, I see,” then smiled. “In the back, I’ve got something for right-sizing.”

  “Right-sizing,” Terry repeated, arms crossed, and I could see he was playing along. “We just fired half our staff. You call it right-sizing!”

  “You’re right, sir. Forgive me. Half the staff. I didn’t realize. You must be automating! Wonderful, congratulations. I meant no offense. Let me call to see if our downtown store has something for the occasion.”

  They were just killers here, no different from stockbrokers and plaintiffs’ lawyers, but in Teslas and black turtlenecks tucked into their jeans, separating their recycling from their compost as if that made them any less the robber barons.

  I sat down on a rock, eyes glazed over, and, yeah, sure, I’ll admit it, a fury so powerful it threatened to eat me. But not before it devoured whoever took Terry and turned a perfectly okay nine-to-five PI job into a nightmare.

  Trouble was, I wasn’t sure where to start. It was absolutely not helping that my capacities were dulled from taking various shots to the skull. I felt the puffy skin from attack in at least two spots, one above my right cheek where Deuce gave me a roadie and one on the top of my head over my left ear, where some coward nailed me when I’d walked in on Mrs. Donogue and Lester Wollop tied up. I wondered if they were still among the living.

  And, quite to the contrary, I also wondered if they’d set me up. Not that hard to make it look like they’d been tied up by Tarantulas when they’d actually tipped them off to my whereabouts and then tied themselves up to make it look like they were just two more victims.

  But why would they have done that? They’d already hired me and had me doing their dirty business.

  There was one thing that seemed clearer than most. That Tarantula at Froom had shot Da Raj but not me. Tarantulas didn’t miss, not like that. Deuce admitted as much when I got his feet tangled up with my question. Yeah, sure, maybe the shooter had gotten thrown off by the overpowering smell of organic kiwi and Shirli’s annoying banter, but I doubted it. I was starting to think that I wasn’t the target after all; besides, the Tarantulas wanted a capture, not a kill—at least when it came to me.

  So why kill Da Raj?

  In his parting breaths, Da Raj had seemed to point a finger at Danny. Tossed an accusation at him, or seemed to, nothing precise.