Don't Be Cruel

by Mike, Argento,

  "Now you boys play nice," she said.

  Smith burst through the door and grabbed his Glock and the cop's .38. He tossed the .38 to Spew. It bounced off the bridge of his nose.

  "What the fuck did you do that for?" Spew said, rubbing his face.

  "Grab the gun. Someone's coming."

  Nunn emerged from the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet.

  "Someone's coming? That's just perfect."

  "I told you…" Smith began to say.

  "Look," Nunn said, "I don't think this is the time for who said what and I told you so and all of that. Let's just say mistakes were made."

  "You're right. Not time for that. Time to get the fuck out of here."

  Spew grabbed his duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder and left with Smith. They disappeared into the woods, running parallel to the logging road. Nunn and Traci With an I took off in the opposite direction and disappeared into the woods.

  Crouching in the brush, Smith heard the distinctive, low report of a shotgun following by screaming.

  He motioned to Spew to head toward the screaming and they crept farther down the logging road.

  A minute later, another scream ripped through the woods, followed by a muffled proclamation.

  "You hear that?" Spew whispered.

  "Yeah," Smith said.

  "It sounded like someone saying 'Bitch broke my fucking arm.' "

  Smith and Spew emerged from the woods, guns leading the way, and walked slowly down the logging road. They rounded a bend about halfway down the mountain and saw Kathy standing over a writhing hillbilly holding a shotgun. Another hillbilly was rolled up in the fetal position a few feet away.

  Kathy locked eyes with Smith.

  "So," she said, "what'd you do today?"

  Smith approached the hillbilly at Kathy's feet. She had outdone herself. His ulna poked through the skin right below his elbow. The hillbilly was on the verge of going into shock, but he was conscious enough to say, "Bitch broke my fucking arm. I still love her." Smith noticed that his pants were around his ankles. He looked at Kathy. She shrugged.

  Smith sidled over to the other hillbilly. He was alive, curled up, clutching his crotch.

  "You OK?" Smith asked.

  "My fucking balls. Asshole blew my fucking balls off."

  They put the Hatfield boys in the back of the pickup, next to the deer carcass, and drove up the mountain to the cabin. Spew rode in the back, keeping an eye on the Hatfield boys.

  "I told you I could take care of myself," Kathy said.

  "A lawyer and a ninja. Kind of thing doesn't happen every day."

  Kathy told him what happened, the argument that led to Sid blowing his brother's balls off and how she surrendered to him and was going to repay his defense of her honor with some wild monkey sex.

  "And then, when he dropped the shotgun and unzipped his pants, I broke his fucking arm."

  "You seem to do that a lot."

  "What can I say? You find something you like, you stick with it."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Smith and Spew dragged the Hatfield brothers into the cabin while Kathy went into the woods to find Nunn and Traci With an I. By the time she returned, Spew had bound Sid's broken arm with duct tape. That would have explained the screaming Kathy heard as she jogged through the woods.

  Spew had duct taped the Hatfield brothers to a pair of chairs. Traci examined Eddie's crotch, not because she had any specialized healthcare training beyond watching plastic surgery shows on the Discovery Channel, but because she was the only one of them whose curiosity was strong enough to suppress the gag reflex.

  "It doesn't look too bad," Traci said.

  It looked pretty bad. But none of the wounds from the shotgun pellets were life threatening. His penis was peppered with hundreds of little holes. There was surprisingly little blood.

  Eddie cried, "He blew my fucking balls off. Asshole. I'll fucking kill you. I'm gonna cut your balls off and feed them to you."

  "He didn't blow your balls off," Traci said. "Your balls are fine. They just have some holes in them."

  Sid piped in, "Don't be such a pussy. It's just birdshot."

  "Well, then, let me shoot you in the balls with some. See how you like it."

  "Well, if you would'a been able to keep your fucking hands off my woman…"

  "I didn't touch your woman. You're such a dickhead. She ain't your woman. She broke your fucking arm. The bone was poking out."

  "Some people just have different ways of expressing love. You always hurt the one you love."

  "Yeah, but breaking your fuckin' arm to the point where the bone's stickin' out…"

  Smith got between them.

  "Boys, boys, boys, I could listen to your witty repartee all day long, but at this point, I need you to set aside your differences here for just a minute while we discuss our predicament. And by that, I mean, your predicament. We have a problem we need to talk about and we need to forget about Eddie's balls for a minute."

  "That's easy for you to say. Your balls don't have a bunch of holes in them." Smith ignored Eddie and kept talking.

  "Now, the way I see it, we have some options here. We can get you two to a hospital, where they can fix Sid's arm and Eddie's balls. Or we can leave you guys out here to fend for yourselves. Now, I know you guys are pretty handy and all, but I'll remind you, one of you has a badly broken arm and the other has a scrotum that whistles in the wind, and you have no idea where you are. And you're trying to kill each other. I don't like your chances."

  Sid and Eddie stared at Smith. He couldn't tell whether they were paying rapt attention or were staring because they had no idea what he was talking about.

  "You two," Smith continued, "have a decision to make. You can help us. Or you can die out here in the woods. It's pretty simple."

  The Hatfield brothers seemed lost in thought. Or maybe they were just lost. Thoughts tended to lose their way in their craniums. "Can you push the chairs together so we can talk private?" Eddie asked.

  "Sure."

  Once within earshot, Eddie whispered something into Sid's ear. Sid nodded and thought about it and whispered something back to Eddie. Smith could hear Eddie say, "No. I don't think so." Sid whispered some more and Eddie whispered back.

  "All right," Smith interrupted, "enough. What will it be?"

  "We'll help you," Eddie said. "But Sid wants to know whether he still has a shot at the redhead."

  Smith looked over at Kathy, standing in the doorway with the butt of the shotgun on her hip. Damn, he thought.

  "Sid," Smith said, not taking his eyes off Kathy, "strange things have happened. But never anything that strange."

  Papa was feeling pretty good. The plan was starting to pay off. Fat Sam didn't know it, but he was the comptroller of Happy Beaver Enterprises Ltd. and as a key employee of the company, the only one with intimate knowledge of its arcane finances, his life was worth $2 million.

  He was on the phone with the adjuster from Pacific All-Risk Insurance Company even before Fat Sam's body was lowered into the ground.

  "You have our deepest condolences on your loss," the adjuster said. "It sounds like Samuel was a great man and a great asset to your enterprise."

  "Indispensible," Papa said. "We miss him already. Which is why I'm calling. I was wondering what we could do to expedite the payout. We're in a pretty precarious situation here and without Sam's keen insights and advice, we could be in some financial difficulties. We have some situations here that are in dire need of immediate cash flow."

  "I understand and we here at Pacific All-Risk understand the needs of business," the adjuster said. "If you fax me the relevant documents, we can get to work immediately on the claim."

  "You should have them. They were faxed last night."

  "Well, then, we should have no problem working as fast as humanly possible on this. We do like to take care of our best customers. We could have the settlement wired to your bank."

  "That would be fine. Thank you. And
thank you for your consideration during this difficult time."

  Papa hung up the phone and let out a whoop.

  Within hours, the money landed in his bank account. He laundered it through the church and he soon had a large stainless steel briefcase packed with C-notes.

  Two million. Cash money.

  It was a good start.

  Just four more to go and it'd be ten million.

  Then, he could tell everybody "fuck you."

  The feds called Wiley in to brief them on the progress of the investigation. They were pleased so far with the leads he had provided and believed they were close to closing the file on this matter once Hussein disappeared into the world of extraordinary rendition and was never heard from again.

  Yet, some of the more meticulous investigators were a little worried that they didn't have any corroborative evidence tying Hussein to the bombings. In fact, in the bombing that involved the mayor's wife, witnesses told them the bomb was thrown from an RV by a suspect who looked like Bart Simpson's older brother. And when it happened, Hussein was dropping off some very drunk Japanese businessmen at the airport.

  But having evidence was overrated when you had someone named Hussein who could be made to disappear.

  Wiley entered a conference room in the federal building and took a seat. The feds were there, as were some guys in black suits he had never seen before. D'Onofrio was present, seated in the back of the room. This wasn't his meeting.

  The head fed stood at the front of the room and began.

  "As you know, we're pretty close to getting a confession from Hussein. We're still concerned that he wasn't acting alone and are taking steps to determine who his coconspirators are. To that end, Detective Wiley, do you have any actionable intelligence or suggestions on how we may be able to develop actionable intelligence that would lead us…"

  "Nope."

  "Nope?"

  "Nope."

  "Do you care to elaborate, detective?"

  "Nope pretty much covers it."

  "Detective, I'll remind you that this is a serious matter involving national security."

  "I am being serious."

  The fed looked to the back of the room to D'Onofrio for help.

  "He's always been like that," D'Onofrio said. "There's really nothing we can do about it."

  The head fed said, "There may be nothing you can do about it. But we have methods, I believe, that would be effective in altering the detective's behavior and refreshing his memory of events that may prove helpful to us."

  Wiley could feel the heat of the fed's stare on his face.

  He said nothing.

  "We're sure Detective Wiley will be more than willing to assist us in this matter. Can we count on you, detective?"

  Wiley said nothing.

  "Major D'Onofrio," the fed said, "I'm sure you'll be more than glad to temporarily detail Detective Wiley to us for this investigation."

  "He's all yours," the major said.

  The Hatfield brothers received treatment for their wounds at a county hospital about half an hour away from the cabin. When the admitting nurse asked about the nature of the injuries, Eddie said, "Huntin' accident."

  "What about you?" the nurse asked Sid.

  "Hunting accident," he said.

  "Hunting accident," the nurse repeated. "You broke your arm in a hunting accident. How did it happen?"

  "You got some pretty badass deer up in these parts," Sid said.

  The nurse shook her head and walked away. She had heard and seen stranger things. At least they didn't have light bulbs stuck up their asses or something.

  Once they settled into a room, Eddie picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  "Happy Beaver."

  It was that bartender and just the sound of her voice made Eddie pop a couple of sutures on his penis.

  "Hi, how you doin', sweetie?"

  "Do I know who this is?' Soshi said.

  "I was in just in there, talking to your boss."

  "Well, that certainly is special."

  "So what're you wearing'?"

  "Can I help you?"

  "Sure. He in?"

  "Just a sec."

  Papa got on the phone. Usually, he'd be pretty pissed off about getting a phone call about business at the club, but the sight of two million dollars in front of him had elevated his mood.

  "That thing?" Eddie said, trying to come up with something clever, some kind of code word that would convey what he meant without actually having to say it.

  "Yes," Papa said after the pause had grown pregnant, gave birth, sent the kid to college and had him move back into the basement after not being able to find a job.

  "Um," Eddie said. "That thing, those things, let's say, those raccoons, it's been taken care of. And the other raccoons. And the beaver. We took care of them."

  Papa was in such a good mood he let the beaver thing slide. Fucking guy was a moron, he knew that. Just let him have his fun.

  "I think I understand. Very good. Thank you."

  Papa hung up the phone just as Eddie started to say something about a second beaver.

  Papa sat back and pondered his good luck. Things were looking up.

  Then, a thought occurred to him.

  A second beaver?

  Wiley had weaseled his way out of the meeting with the feds, telling them he had some pretty good leads on the terrorists who abducted him and that he was going to follow them to the gates of hell.

  "This is something I have to do myself," he said. "This time, it's personal." The feds were so impressed with Wiley's ability to deliver that line without laughing that they let him go.

  D'Onofrio caught up to Wiley outside the elevator. He congratulated him on getting out of the jam, for now, with the feds. Such an act carried a high degree of difficulty and to get out of it while deploying the lamest bullshit ever uttered by man was quite a feat.

  "That was impressive," D'Onofrio said. "I mean, 'This time, it's personal.' Jesus, that was the crowning touch, that last drop of bullshit that makes the pile so perfect."

  "Thank you, major. I had good mentors."

  D'Onofrio nodded to Wiley to follow him to the elevator. Once inside, he turned to the detective and said, "Wiley, I know this is all bullshit. Total, complete, unadulterated bullshit. USDA Grade A bullshit."

  "I think I get the point, sir."

  "Do you?"

  "Sometimes, I'm a little slow. It might have something to do with eating all that paste when I was a kid."

  "Or sniffing that glue."

  "What's your point, major?"

  "My point is, Wiley, someday soon, your bullshit will unravel on you. Even those brain dead dumb-fucks in the FBI will be able to see through it. I mean, shit, if I figured it out, how long do you think you have before the feds start crawling up your ass? Then, my son, you will be in a world of shit and there won't be much I can do to help you."

  "All due respect, sir, but you really haven't been much help so far."

  D'Onofrio rubbed his chin.

  "Well," he said, "that may be true. All I'm saying is this is your bullshit, understand? I don't want to have to scrape any of it off my wingtips. I don't want to get any on my suit. I don't want to have to explain it to anyone. I don't even want to know anything about it. This is on you. So be careful. You understand?"

  "I'm wearing two condoms as we speak, sir."

  "Just because you got your raincoats on doesn't mean I'm going to be bending over to give you access. What I'm saying is, don't come bitching to me to cover your ass when those assholes connect electrodes to your balls."

  "Sounds more than fair, sir."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Smith pulled into the driveway of Nunn's house in Green Acres and parked on the edge of the crater.

  "Careful getting out on that side," he said.

  "Jesus," Kathy said, looking at the crater.

  "Thanks," Spew said. "Used some C4 and…"

  Smith whacked him on the back of the h
ead.

  They trudged into the house. It had been a long couple of days. Traci With an I went straight to bed and Nunn followed. Smith and Kathy collapsed on the couch. Spew paced, still riding the adrenaline buzz from the compliment on his work in the driveway.

  "I'll take first watch," Spew said as he walked out the front door. "You guys crash."

  Smith leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. Kathy poked him in the ribs.

  "I'm hungry. How about you?"

  Smith was starving. "Let's see what he's got."

  Smith rummaged through the kitchen, finding only a few microwave dinners and half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

  "I hope you're in the mood for Salisbury steak and Jack," Smith said.

  They heated up the dinners and poured out some whiskey. The food was terrible and the whiskey burned. They both ate everything on their plastic plates and had seconds on the Jack.

  "I think I should go to work tonight," Kathy said.

  "Not a good idea," Smith said.

  "Why not? He doesn't know about us. He thinks the Hatfield boys killed you, Spew, Nunn and Traci. He doesn't even know I was there. And now, he's going to get me to get rid of the Hatfields."

  "Did you ever think what he'll do to you after you do that? Or, I should say, once he thinks you've done that?"

  "No."

  She was lying. She knew.

  "You know," Smith said, "for someone who's going to be lawyer, you really suck at lying."

  "I'll have to work on it." They sipped their drinks. "Breaking arms always worked for me in the past."

  "This might take a bit more than that."

  "Break his leg?"

  "You know what I mean."

  They sat at the kitchen table and finished their drinks in silence.

  Smith said, "Well, at least I can relax a little. I'm dead."

  "Speaking of which," Kathy said, "I've never tried necrophilia."

  Wiley thought about how he was going to approach the mayor's wife as he drove to Green Acres. Maybe he could convince her that she saw the guy who threw the bomb from the RV and that he looked vaguely Arabic. Or maybe that she saw something else that would corroborate his weak-assed shit. Maybe, he thought, she saw something on the RV, like a Jesus fish, except Muslim. What do Muslims put on the back of their cars?