by Paula Cox
“What’s the plan?”
Palmer chews his cheek and thinks it over real quickly, bowing his head over his weapon. As soon as he does that, I catch something bearing down on us from his right.
“Down!” I scream, shotgun already pivoting over his head. How that big bastard got so close without us noticing anything I don’t know, but suddenly there he is, like he appeared from thin air, shotgun at the ready. He’s already firing.
First shot explodes the side mirror, and there’s a rainstorm of glass. Then in comes the second shot. Palmer goes down screaming.
My first shot gets the big guy in the knees, and he collapses down with a weltering crunch of bones and snow that puts a bad taste in my mouth. No second shots for him. I whirl to the left and prepare to catch the second Russian who’s already booking his way in to clinch the kill. My shot is a spray of fire, and I don’t even know where the bullet goes, but it does the job. The would-be executioner falls on his face, rolls, and pops off both rounds into the windows. It’s a sloppy counter-attack and just what I need. Two shells loaded and pumped. Then he springs away like a deer who has just missed the arrow and disappears through the curtain of snow.
The first Russian is no more than three yards away and trying to reload the gun from the shells spilled out on the snow. I scramble up to my knees, take aim, and pop him in the arm or chest. Blood and shirt and pieces of the gun all get ripped to shreds with the impact, painting an ink print on the new snow. The Russian roars and falls down clutching his side, forgetting the shotgun. I swoop in and scoop it up and toss it back to our miniature shelter.
I haven’t had a second for Palmer. He’s alive, at least judging by his moans. At least there’s that. I’d have killed myself if I got my best friend killed over a couple good for nothing street scumbags. Christ. This whole thing was a mistake. A bloody, painful mistake and the second Russian is nowhere in sight. After seeing his buddy go down and with the weapon lost, there’s no way he’s keeping himself in the fight. I don’t even think about chasing after him. Trying to track in snow like this would be a death trap.
“Palmer.” I lean down and take a look. His right leg is crumpled up around the stomach and peppered with holes like a bloody colander. “Easy, man. Easy.”
His leg is protecting whatever the real fractured area is, and now it’s my job to pull the limb down and take a look. He’s wheezing and gasping through his teeth, spitting out something I don’t understand.
“Go easy on yourself,” I say. “I’m gonna need you to tell me where it hurts.”
Judging from the big black spot like the pit of a huge cherry carved right into his waist, I know exactly where it should hurt. The whole waist is probably fractured, and the bone is the crutch holding the bullet. Shit. I’ve got to get him to the hospital, first thing. Second thing: my eyes peel through snow and find the Russian. He’s passed out in a pile of snow dyed the color of his insides. Time to find out who these bastards are working with and make sure that by the time the next fight comes, the Stitches and I are ready to blast them all away with whatever we’ve got.
A big shadow climbs through the wall of snow. I shield the Item against me and prepare myself to shoot at whatever comes out, but then I see two familiar faces.
“Godammit. Could you have come any later?” It’s Kirill’s car, with Bolt at the helm.
Kirill ignores me. He points to Palmer: “Is it serious?”
“He’s got a goddamn twelve-gauge shell hanging out of his hip.”
“We got to get him to a hospital.”
“You think?”
Bolt and Kirill both take an arm. Gently as we can, trying every step to keep Palmer from swinging, we load him into the backseat. He’ll bleed all over the place, but no one gives a shit.
“He didn’t think the gun was loaded,” I tell Kirill. “That’s your story: everything you say is right there. That clear?”
“How the hell do you accidentally shoot yourself in the hip with a shotgun?”
“Kirill’t know. If they ask, make up something good.”
“Well, where the hell are you going, Q?’
I don’t look at him. I’ve got the Russian by the arms and with a bit of pulling, I stash him onto the backseat of Palmer’s Chevy.
“Q? Christ you gonna answer or not? What the fuck happened here?”
“The hell do you think happened? This guy was on the street with his partner, big Items beneath the sweaters. We did what we were supposed to do, alright?”
“Okay, man,” Kirill says. “Okay. Things are all okay. Take a deep breath. We’re gonna get Palmer to the hospital and—”
“They’re what?” I slam the door shut. My hands—they’re doing what they’re doing again. God—even my lips are twisting on me. I’ve got to get away before I hurt somebody. “They’re what, Kirill? You’re trying to tell me this is all okay? Palmer gets shot by some lame bozo at the Docks who shouldn’t have been here in the first fucking place and you’re saying everything’s alright?”
Kirill’s got his hands up in the air like he’s lifting a weight. “Just—relax, Q.”
“Cause everything’s okay? That what else you want to say? Huh?” If I get close enough, I know I’m going to hit him no matter what he tells me. The worst part is I already know that none of this is his fault. No one could have known these guys would be on the streets when they were. No one could have helped Palmer. But it doesn’t matter—the fact that it’s not his fault but that he’s the one I want to hit doesn’t matter. He’s a target. The closest one.
Luckily at that moment Bolt puts the horn down. Kirill gets back in the car and closes the door. I’m left there, a little confused and not quite sure what I was about to do with my fists, but knowing that whatever it was wouldn’t have turned out well for anyone. Kirill sure as hell isn’t the one I need to revenge myself on for what’s happened to Palmer.
***
Everybody’s got a cap. A certain level of stress or anger that they can take before the top comes soaring off. That’s pretty high for the majority of people I’ve met. Some guys you can fill up with all the lousiest shit in the world, snap the cap back on, shake them around, and when you take the lid back off, all the bad stuff is just gone.
Palmer’s like that. And it’s not like he’s storing all the bad stuff down inside like some kind of future nutcase or serial killer. His deal is that he just forgets it. All the bad that’s happened; all the guys who’ve betrayed him or made his life hell. Like his son-of-a-bitch father or the guys he’s had to fight just to keep himself on his feet. A thousand bucks says that if he’s still around a year from now, he won’t even remember who shot him. I’m not making this up. He’ll swallow whatever crap life gives him without ever remembering swallowing it.
I’m not like that, but sometimes I really wish I could be. But that’s just sometimes. The rest of the time, I like knowing. I collect all the bad stuff because, unlike for Palmer or any of the other guys, I like getting even. You can’t get even if you don’t remember. You’ve got to remember every one of those shitty times but also assume that you’ll never have the chance to get your revenge because, usually, that’s the way it goes. Shit happens and the people who do it get away with it.
But every now and then, when the blue moon is at its fullest, and it’s just one of those days the universe decides to throw you a bone, you catch the guy who does it, and then there’s nothing sweeter. It’s like you’ve gotten permission from nature herself to take justice into your own hands. When that happens, there’s no way you can fail.
The Clubhouse is deserted when I get back. Crash called the guys and told them to meet at the hospital. It’s just me, and the Russian.
I leave him unconscious in the back of the car while I get what I need:
Duct tape.
Wooden chair.
Rope.
Pliers.
Rubber gloves.
Gasoline.
Lighter.
Rag of paper to
wels.
I lug the stash out to the rear of the Clubhouse, next to the covered parking lot, and back against the brick walls of some old tenement houses. The way this place has been abandoned recently, I could probably do it in the front of the Clubhouse, but there’s more room in the back. I wouldn’t care if anyone saw us anyway. They’re not going to do anything.
I keep the sawed-off on my person at all times just in case there are more tricks to this Russian than I thought. Dragging him out of the Chevy, any ideas that I should expect a fight fly out the window. The guy’s a moaning sack of potatoes.
So I sit him down in the chair and half hitch his feet to the legs and wrap his arms to the rests. He’s got a knife in his belt, which I missed so I’m glad I discover it now. From the way he sat slumped there, I was going to need something to draw his attention.
Gently, firmly, and gently again. When you’re trying to get information out of a guy, you’ve got to do it like you’re unwinding a screw. You can’t force it out, and you can’t just wiggle it out—it has to be a combination of both. So I start gently and run the blade of the knife on the sensitive skin between the thumb and forefinger. The cut barely draws blood. The Russian grunts. I do it harder, and the grunt gets louder. Results. His fingers clench and unclench. His upper body moves. His head twists up to me. The face is wide and fleshy, smeared with a swamp camouflage of his own blood and messy hair.
“Stop moving.”
Either because of the smile or because he’s lost too much blood to think straight, the guy doesn’t obey. I bring the knife down again. He sure as hell feels it this time. I stuff the wad of towels in his mouth so that I don’t have to hear his screams. That’s the only reason for it. I’m not even worried about other people finding us. I just don’t like the sound of a man’s screams.
“The other guys are tracking your partner,” I say, calmly and slowly. “Shouldn’t be long now. They’re not going to keep him alive like I did you. That means it’s just you who can tell me what I want to know.”
The Russian stares at me with super-black eyes, and says nothing.
“Do you understand me? You understand what I’m saying to you?”
I remove the rag. He makes no sound. Just keeps looking at me with those black eyes.
“You speak English, don’t you? Kirill’t know any Russian. Sorry.”
“You no find my friend,” the guy says. Finally, words. “He gone. He away. You no find.”
“So you can speak?” I get in closer so that he’s got no choice but to stare with his beady dark eyes straight into my smile. “I just thought you could scream.”
It doesn’t matter how confident this guy is feeling. I’m a big guy and when I’m angry, a big fucking scary guy.
“Tell me where your partner’s going, and you’ll live,” I say, very quietly and carefully.
The Russian doesn’t say anything.
“You’ve got three seconds.”
Not a change. He doesn’t even bat an eye. Stubborn bastard.
“Three.”
I nudge the pliers in and with one clip take off the pinky and forefinger. Blood spurts out in little fountains. The guy screams just once before clamping his mouth shut and limiting himself too hard, fast breaths coming through his nose.
“Do you think you can fuck with me? Do you really wanna try and find out what happens? Well, you’ve seen what I’m planning on doing when you waste my time. You wanna try that again? Huh?”
“You no find. You no find.” His head’s going furiously side-to-side like the possessed girl in The Exorcist.
“I told you not to move. Kirill’t you remember me saying that?”
I snap the pliers over the bottom two fingers of his left hand and wrench up and in the same motion, toss the digits away.
“You wanna start a war, you son of a bitch? You like killing our guys? Is that it? Maybe you think this is a game, huh? Some fun game to you? You gonna tell me now? You didn’t have any problems talking before.”
I recognize the state I’m in right now, and I know I’m dangerously wound-up. Scared—I know well enough I’m scared. Because I don’t know who these guys are or what they’re planning on doing or why they’ve done what they’ve already done. If they wanted to take us down, that’d be one thing. If they were set on killing us to rob us, that’d be one thing. But they’re not—I know they’re not. I’ve dealt with enough of this guy’s type to know it. There’s something else behind all this.
“Look.” When he doesn’t look, I take a fistful of his hair and twist his head for him. “You see that? What I’ve got for you? Tell me what that is.”
His lips are tight and quivering. His hair, even in the snow and the cold, is layered in sweat and grease. No words.
“That’s gasoline. You know what that’ll do to you when I pour it on you? Do you really wanna find out?”
Still no words, but his breaths coming out in those seismic heaves tell me more than his words could.
“No one here is going to save you from me.” My voice is quiet and still. It does that by itself, gets down almost to a whisper like I’m sharing secrets. “Just you and me. You still think I’m bluffing? After I’ve cut off four of your fingers do you still think I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t do exactly what he says?”
The pliers go back over his right hand, middle finger this time. He’ll regret that one big time, but I’m done playing easy on him. I’m gonna get results as fast as I know how.
Then—something sputters from his lips. A few clipped consonants. I put my ear in closer.
“Please,” the guy whispers. “Please don’t. I no tell. No can. They kill me.”
They. That’s the gold. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
“Who’s they?” I relax the pliers softly but make sure he can still feel the bottom blade on his finger.
The Russian shakes his head.
“Theo?”
He shakes his head again. “No Theo, no. But I no can tell. Please.” His eyes start to go watery on me. Maybe if the guy had tried that with Bolt or Crash, it would have gone over better, but for me, wet eyes just make the job easier. It shows how much I have to work with. How much the guy is in my power. I bring the top blade down, squeezing his finger from both sides.
“Please!” he cries.
“You’ve already said that. Try something I want to hear instead.”
“But I no tell! I tell—they kill!”
The pliers bite in a little and the Russian roars.
“Look at me.” I don’t know how I can still be so fucking steady while facing off with a guy I’m planning on burning alive, but there it is. The anger makes me a different person. It’s like I don’t even have a choice.
“I said look at me… good. I don’t know anything about who hires you. I don’t know why they’ve got it out for us or what they want to do to us. I don’t know anything. That’s why I’ve got you. But if you don’t know anything, or if you don’t talk which is the same as not knowing anything, then I’ve got no trouble killing you. That just puts me back to where I was. I’ve got nothing to lose by killing you. Nothing at all.”
I stand there real still, just to give him the opportunity for all this to sink in. It must be a whole minute: I don’t move one goddam inch. The guy doesn’t break. Either he doesn’t believe me, or I haven’t been clear. Which leaves one option.
I chuck the pliers away.
“No,” the guy says. “No. No. No.”
I don’t hear any of it. Whatever he can tell me I’m already past it. Nothing’s changing my mind now, not after I’ve got the gasoline. I swish it around a bit just to give the Russian a few extra seconds to see what I’m doing. Then I dump a stream of it on his head. He sputters and shakes.
Already got the Zippo flipped open—already showing him the fire.
“You’ve got twenty more seconds,” I say. “That’s twenty seconds to tell me everything I want. If I like what I hear, that’ll be the end of it, and I won�
�t burn you alive. You got all that? Nod if you understand.”
“But I no talk!” the man screams. “I no, no talk! I no can!”
“Fifteen seconds.” The fire’s like a little, pale yellow tissue.
“Please! Please!” He’s thrashing so hard in his chair I’m worried he might break through the bindings.
“Ten seconds.”
Then I hear it. A weak voice carrying over the snow and the wind, saying my name. When I turn, I see Maya, who is both Maya and not Maya. She’s got Maya’s blonde hair, fashion sense, and innocent schoolgirl façade but with a look in her eyes I can’t even describe. Maybe it’s horror, and maybe it’s shock, or revulsion, or disbelief.