Don't Be Cruel

by Mike, Argento,

  "Hussein," Kathy said, trying to make small talk. "You must get some grief over that."

  Kathy could see Hussein's eyes darting around in the rearview mirror. He was sweating.

  "I didn't mean anything by it," Kathy said. "I was just wondering…"

  Hussein slammed on the brakes.

  "Get out."

  "But…"

  "I said, get out."

  She got out. She hoofed it the couple of blocks to her apartment complex. When she got there, she went around back to the utility shed behind her apartment. She put the briefcase in a box of books, burying it under a pile of paperbacks.

  She went around front and slid her key in the front door. She thought she'd pick up some clothes to take on the lam.

  "Hello, Cat."

  The voice startled her.

  "Come on in. Have a seat."

  She sat in a chair opposite Papa. Her living room had been ransacked. Books were strewn on the floor. Couch cushions were upended. Her teddy bear had undergone a radical stuffingectomy and lay bleeding polyester filler onto the carpet.

  Kathy was thinking a lot of things, mostly that she was an idiot for coming back to her apartment. A huge idiot. Queen of the cretins. The moron princess.

  Her train of thought derailed when Papa leveled a .38 at her and asked, "Where's my money?"

  "Money? What are you talking about?"

  Retarded royalty, she thought.

  "You know what I'm talking about."

  "Really. I don't."

  Papa chuckled. It was little more than a chortle, nearly a giggle.

  "If you're going to be a lawyer, you're going to have to start working on that lying thing. You're not very good at it."

  "I try."

  The microencephalic monarch.

  "Really," she said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Give it up."

  They entered a staring contest. Kathy lost. She glanced down at her teddy bear.

  Why the fuck would he think she'd try to hide two million dollars in a teddy bear? How could she possibly hide that much currency in a stuffed animal? It wasn't nearly big enough to hold that much money. And now its stuffing was all over her carpet.

  "Let's try to concentrate, OK?" Papa said.

  "Look, I might possibly know something about some supposed money, hypothetically speaking, that may, again hypothetically, belong to you. Just possibly. Maybe."

  The developmentally disabled duchess.

  She thought she better come up with some way out of this quick, before she ran out of alliterative phrases to describe the mental defect that led her to this trap.

  "Here's what's going to happen," Papa began. "We're going to go for a ride and you're going to take me to my money."

  "Or what?" Kathy asked, regretting it immediately.

  "Or I shoot you in the head."

  The moronic marchioness.

  D'Onofrio peeked through the small window in the door to the interrogation room and asked, "How long's he been in there?"

  "Long enough," one of the detectives answered. "Couple hours."

  It was an old cop trick. Lock the suspect up in the interrogation room and leave him there, alone, for hours. Sometimes, the guilty ones put their heads down on the table and fall asleep. Sometimes, they stayed awake. Sometimes, they paced. Sometimes, they just sat there and stared at the cinderblock wall.

  This suspect was fidgeting. D'Onofrio watched as he did a St. Vitus dance in the chair. Sometimes, they did that too.

  "He looks nervous," D'Onofrio said.

  He had been ordered to take charge of the investigation of the shooting at the mayor's house. The chief explained that it came straight from the top. The mayor didn't want any more screw-ups like with the feds and that Hussein guy. The message was clear: This cluster-fuck belonged to D'Onofrio and D'Onofrio alone. Failure to untangle it would be fatal to his career.

  "I think he's primed," D'Onofrio said, entering the room.

  He sat at the table across from the suspect.

  "I have to pee," the suspect said.

  D'Onofrio looked at him and said, "Let's get some of this stuff out of the way and we'll see about getting you to the bathroom."

  "No, you don't understand. I really have to go."

  "It'll be just a minute. Now, did the detective inform you of your rights?"

  The suspect shook his head.

  "Well, let's just get that out of the way."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "No. Do you want to be?"

  "Not really. I have no idea what this is all about."

  "OK, we'll get to that. But first, I have to read you your rights. It's a formality. We just want to make sure you understand. It really helps both of us."

  "OK."

  "All right, here we go. You have the right to remain silent, which, if you ask me, isn't a very good idea. I mean, if you remain silent, I can't help you and I'd like to help you. I really would. But if you clam up, it puts me in a bad position. Understand?"

  "Yeah," the suspect said, squirming in his chair.

  "Good," D'Onofrio said, glancing at the form in front of him. "OK, let's see. You also have a right to a lawyer. If you want a lawyer, all you got to do is say the word and we'll call one down here. But really, why bother? You get a lawyer and then we have to call the D.A.'s office and next thing you know, you're caught in a pissing match between two lawyers. Know what happens then?"

  The suspect shook his head. He jammed his fists into his crotch and bounced in the chair.

  "You get piss all over you," D'Onofrio said.

  "I'll tell you what I know. I don't know anything. OK? Now, can I go pee?"

  The major opened the file and slid a photo across the table.

  "You know this guy?"

  It was a photo of a FedEx guy, sitting on a chaise lounge. His eyes were open, but his gaze appeared unfocused, like he was drifting off into the stage of intoxication once described as "invisible."

  "I don't know him."

  "Look again."

  "I said I don't know him. I might have passed him in the truck, but I can't say I know him."

  "See? There, you said you didn't know him, but then you might have passed him in the truck."

  "And your point is what?"

  "You do know him."

  "I never said I know him."

  "OK, here's another picture."

  It was a close up of the bullet wound behind the FedEx driver's ear. His hair was singed, his ear pocked with gunshot residue.

  "Jesus Christ!" the suspect yelled, standing up and then falling backwards over the chair. "That guy's fucking dead!"

  "Of course, he's dead. What the fuck did you think we brought you here for?"

  The UPS guy calmed down, picked up the chair and sat down.

  Then, he pissed his pants.

  Papa directed Kathy to his Cadillac and guided her to the driver's side. "You're driving."

  Papa figured he could keep the gun trained on her while she drove. Anyway, she knew where they were going.

  Papa slid in first, climbing over the console while trying to keep the gun aimed at Kathy. He awkwardly fell into the passenger seat, maintaining aim.

  Kathy briefly pondered running. She was pretty sure she'd be able to get away before Papa drew a bead on her. But then, all he needed was one lucky shot and the way her luck was running, she didn't exactly trust her brain to make the right decision in this instance. It pretty much fucked her over the last time she called on it to make a decision. She climbed behind the wheel.

  "Where to?" she asked.

  "You know where to go."

  "I do. Where would that be?"

  "Drive. You're taking me to that asshole Smith and my money. Right?"

  "Who's Smith? I have no idea who you're talking about."

  "That lying thing?" Papa said. "You really have to work on it."

  She jammed the Caddy into gear and bolted from the curb, fastening her seatbelt as she pulled
away. She adjusted the mirror as she left the apartment complex and barked the tires pulling onto the main drag, heading in the general direction of Grandma Spew's house.

  She looked over at Papa out of the corner of her eye.

  He noticed and held the gun up, a reminder who was boss.

  She drove fast, pushing the Caddy to about 60 in the 40 zone.

  "Watch your speed. I wouldn't want you to get a ticket."

  Kathy said, "OK."

  And jammed on the brakes with both feet.

  The Caddy slammed to a stop, sending Papa head first into the passenger side dash. The gun bounced from his hand.

  Kathy floored the accelerator and Papa whipped back in the seat. As soon as his back hit the seat, she hit the brakes again. This time, his head cracked the windshield and Papa fell back into the seat, unconscious.

  Kathy reached over and grabbed the gun, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans.

  She thought for a moment. What would Smith do?

  She reached over and opened the passenger side door and then, turning her back to her door, pushed Papa out with both feet. Papa bounced from the car onto the pavement, his head making a sickening crack as it hit the asphalt.

  "All right, brain," she said to herself, "thanks for that one. All is forgiven."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Smith was starting to have bad thoughts about Kathy. He should have expected it. She was going to be a lawyer and leaving a lawyer alone with a briefcase full of cash was never a very good idea.

  Part of him couldn't believe she'd make off with the money. He thought she was different, that she thought he was different, that they had a future together.

  Then again, she was so desperate for money she did go to work shaking her tits so drunk perverts could tuck dollar bills into her G-string. So it would follow that given the opportunity to make off with two million dollars, she would take it. That was a shitload of lap dances.

  Just how well did he know her? He felt he knew her. He hadn't had this feeling since his ex-wife, that feeling that they belonged together, that she was the one, the only person on this planet for you. In the case of his ex, the feeling, and the ex, betrayed him. Was it betraying him again? Was Kathy betraying him?

  He sat on the front steps of Grandma's house thinking about it. He had told Spew he would take watch, but in reality, he just wanted some quiet to think. It was hard to concentrate while Elvis and Polamalu watched "Wheel of Fortune" with Grandma, Elvis yelling "Buy a vowel" every nine seconds.

  He was pondering his tortured luck with women when a silver Cadillac pulled to the curb. He reached for his Glock, sitting in the planter by the side of the steps. Kathy got out of the car and waved.

  "Honey, I'm home!" she yelled.

  She practically bounced through the gate and up the steps to Smith. Smith eyed her suspiciously as she plopped down beside him and went to kiss him. She wanted his lips, but he gave her his cheek.

  Smith gave her a look as hard as concrete.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Nothing."

  Christ, Kathy thought, all the men in the world and she had to pick the only one who suffers from PMS. Maybe it came with all the reading and the cooking. Made him moody.

  "There's something wrong."

  "It's nothing."

  "It's not nothing."

  Smith stewed. Finally, the pot boiled over and he blurted, "Where the fuck were you?"

  Kathy recoiled. So that's it, she thought. He thought I was going to take off with the money.

  "I went to stash the money someplace safe. An insurance policy. If he comes after us for the money and we don't have it, but we know where it is, it will keep us alive."

  Smith looked at her, disbelieving.

  "Look," Kathy said, "if I were going to take the money for myself, would I have come back?"

  Smith thought about it.

  "I guess you have a point. But if only you know where the money is, it's only good enough to keep you alive."

  "You aren't thinking…"

  "I guess I am."

  "I was thinking for all of us," Kathy said. "I figured stashing the money for now would buy us some safety. I don't know what would have given you the idea that I would run off with it."

  "Well, you are going to be a lawyer."

  "OK, I'll give you that. But seriously…"

  He looked into her eyes and that was that. Her eyes told him she was telling the truth. She was a lousy liar. Looking into them made him feel warm and safe and pushed out any doubts that his feelings were betraying him.

  Kathy watched as the tension bled from his body. He relaxed.

  "I guess I owe you an apology."

  "No. You don't."

  They sat for a moment. She reached for his hand and held it against her thigh.

  "Where'd you get the car?" Smith asked.

  "Can I get some dry pants?"

  D'Onofrio ignored the request. The UPS guy squirmed in his chair.

  "Here's what I think happened: You were fucking the mayor's wife. We know that. And the FedEx guy was also dipping his wick into the mayor's wife. She was tied to the bed buck naked when he was iced…"

  "Dipping his wick?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Well, you don't have to be so fucking crude."

  "Just before that I said you were fucking her and you didn't object.

  Jesus. Take it easy. Now, where was I? Right. She was tied to the bed …"

  "I didn't know she was into that. She never said anything…"

  "Stop interrupting me, OK? Jesus. Now, what I think happened is you found out she was fucking the FedEx guy and you got jealous. That pissed you off. You were filled with rage. You went there and popped him."

  "Are you serious? You can check my delivery scanner. I was on the other side of town. And besides, I don't care who she was fucking."

  "Come on, don't play that with me. FedEx. UPS. We know what's going on here."

  "I don't think you do. I don't give a shit about FedEx. Now, if it was DHL, then I might care. Those guys are assholes."

  D'Onofrio rubbed his eyes.

  "Give me a second," D'Onofrio said, pushing himself out of the chair and heading to the door.

  Outside, he asked a detective, "Did you guys check his delivery scanner?"

  "Yeah. He was nowhere near the place when the guy bought it."

  "Were you planning to tell me that?"

  "Yeah, but first, we were waiting to see if you could get the guy to piss himself again. The boys got up a pool."

  D'Onofrio looked at his shoes.

  "Cut him loose. And get him some dry pants."

  Smith pulled Spew aside. Spew had been staring at Slim Sam, who was still lying on the couch.

  Before Smith could say anything, Spew whispered, "What's with the dude's face?"

  Smith looked at Slim Sam. The allergic reaction to the peanut oil had taken up residence in his face, inflating his features into a bulbous mass.

  Spew said, "He looks like the fucking Elephant Man."

  Smith saw the resemblance. Slim Sam had better hair, though.

  "That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. What should we do with him?"

  "Sell him to the fucking freak show. I'd pay fifty cents to look at that shit."

  "Shane, watch your language!" Grandma yelled from the kitchen. "OK, Grandma."

  Spew turned back to Smith. "Freakin' freak show motherflipper," he whispered.

  "He looks, um, unusual, I'll give you that. Now, we have to decide what to do with him. We can't leave him here on Grandma's couch."

  "You don't like the freak show thing?"

  Smith closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

  Slim Sam tried to express his objection to the freak show idea, but all he was able to do was wheeze. He sounded like the Elephant Man, phlegm gurgling in his throat.

  Kathy came out of the kitchen, eating a brownie.

  "These things are amazing. Want a
bite?" she asked, shoving the brownie in Smith's face.

  "Maybe later. We have to move. First, we have to figure out what to do with the Elephant Man here."

  "Sell him to a freak show?" Kathy asked.

  "All right. That's on the list. For now, let's get him ready to move."

  Spew and Smith bound Slim Sam with duct tape and put a pillowcase with yellow daisies over his head. Smith thought they'd drive him out of town and ditch him in the country. It would at least buy some time.

  He grabbed Slim Sam by the arm and dragged him off the couch. He fell to the floor.

  "Let's get him out to the truck," Smith said to Spew.

  As they wrangled Slim Sam toward the door, Spew said, "Come on, buddy. We're going for a ride. You want to go for a ride? Who wants to go for a ride?"

  Like he was talking to Buster.

  They dragged him to the truck and tried lifting him into the bed. He was dead weight and it was awkward, what with him twisting in their grip as they tried to heave him into the truck.

  "Come on, don't be a baby," Spew said. "Get in the truck. Come on, get in the truck. Be a good Elephant Man."

  Slim Sam had enough.

  "I am not an animal," he wheezed.

  Papa came to in the gutter. He had been lying in the middle of the street, but a helpful passing motorist stopped and rolled him to the curb so he wouldn't get run over or impede traffic.

  He blinked a few times and tried to sit up, but wound up reclining on the curb. He sat for a while, gathering his thoughts. His head throbbed. He felt the back of his skull and looked at his hand. At least his head wasn't bleeding. His pants were torn and his knees were scraped bloody. He felt his mouth. One of his front teeth was broken. The ring of hair around his bald scalp winged from his head, making him look like he combed his hair with a Weedwacker.

  He got up and brushed the gravel off his ass. He felt his pockets. His wallet was gone. He looked around, thinking it fell out into the street. No such luck. Actually, the helpful motorist who rolled him to the curb had helped himself to his wallet, a reward for his effort.

  He started trudging toward the club, talking to himself. His left knee hurt so he was walking with a limp, kind of dragging his leg down the sidewalk.

  "Fucking goddamn bitch I'll kill that fucking bitch fucking bitch cunt bitch fuck her up that cunt bitch asshole."