Final Stroke

by Michael Beres

  “Shut the fuck up! I’m handlin’ this now! I already called Patty and he’ll make sure the third floor hallway is clear. We do it like the old days. Quick and quiet and private. Then we get the hell back to our business!”

  Max let go of her and moved back to the front of the van. “Speak ing of business,” he said, “I got business in this hell-hole because they fuckin’ killed my Aunt Marjorie, didn’t they? Bring that tape.”

  “The tape?”

  “Don’t fuckin’ ask questions! Just bring the fuckin’ roll of tape!”

  After they left, the driver was back. The lift bringing him and his greasy oniony smell back inside. Instead of sitting up front, he turned his chair toward the back, vaulted to the seat and sat where Dino had been.

  It was over. Speaking openly in front of her proved that. They’d bring Steve. They’d take them to a place where screaming did no good. She’d eventually tell them what they wanted to know as a last resort, as the only way to give her and Steve a few more seconds of life. Then they’d kill them and no one would ever find their bodies.

  As if to stress the truth and the hopelessness of this, the beast be side her—the same beast who had broken her ankle—reached out, put his hand between her legs before she could clamp them shut, and kneaded her gently through the fabric of her slacks.

  “There-there, sweetie,” he said. “I always feel sorry for a date who spills her beer on herself. ‘Course, who can blame you? That boss, he’s a scary sum-bitch. Took weight training in the army, and still does so he can stay scary. I did mine after. Part of the therapy they give us at the VA hospital. Did therapy to music. At night someone pulled a few strings, because at night these volunteer ladies brought in beer. Can you picture it? Music and ladies dancing us around in our chairs right there in the VA hospital dining room.”

  Then, as he continued rubbing her through her damp slacks, the beast began humming what sounded like “The Beer Barrel Polka.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  EIGHT

  He’d show Flat Nose and DeJesus a thing or two. He’d take care of Babe and by the time Flat Nose showed up he’d have everything under control. No need to worry about Babe bein’ a flap-jaw, he’d be able to say. Yeah, he’d show them who was a piss-cutter.

  But after Tyrone eased down the hall, being careful not to let any one see him, and after he ducked into the room, just in time because there’d been the shadow of someone down at the end of the hall in the TV lounge, and after he snuck up to the bed in the dark, glad the night light was blown and maintenance had fucked up as usual, and after thinking he’d lucked out—after all this, he discovered Babe was not there.

  Instead of Babe in bed there was a pillow and a couple of bunched-up blankets. When he failed to find Babe he made his way back to the door, carefully pulled it all the way closed so the latch wouldn’t make any noise, and turned on the light. Nothing. Not a Babe to be found anywhere. No Babe in the chair in the corner, no Babe under the bed, no Babe in the can. And no wheelchair, meaning that his job would be a little harder than he thought. Either he’d have to look around the place and find Babe, or he’d have to come back another night.

  Another night at Hell in the Woods trying to talk a Babe in the woods into not talking. Or maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that. Maybe the shadow he’d seen down at the TV lounge was Babe and all he’d have to do is wheel his ass back here and give him hell.

  Voices in the hall, men’s voices. He shut off the light and moved closer to the door. He pulled the door open enough so he could look out through the crack. Two guys in jackets were standing at the far end of the hall near the TV lounge with their backs to him. One guy was bald and both guys were big. The backs of their necks were thick, pale like concrete slabs, white guys. They were talking to someone in a wheelchair, and when the bald guy stepped a little to the side, Tyrone recognized the black leather jacket guy he’d seen hanging around the floor, the smart-assed tough guy who’d hogged the hallway and put a tough shit look on his face.

  After a while it looked like the meeting in the hallway was over, the leather jacket guy turning his chair back to the TV lounge while the two big guys spun around and started walking his way down the hall. As the two guys got closer, Tyrone thought, No way, they can’t be comin’ here. A jet began its pass overhead as the two guys came closer, and Tyrone thought, Yeah, they’ll just pass on by and head straight for the elevators. But the two guys seemed to slow down as they came closer. The jet overhead was making its presence known now, its roar coming into the building muted, but enough of a rumble to maybe help him get the hell out without these guys or anyone else hearing him or seeing him.

  Tyrone eased the door closed, lifting the handicapped handle care fully. He stood for a while with his back to the door not feeling like much of a piss-cutter after all and wishing he’d waited for Flat Nose.

  When the jet was gone he heard voices again. He turned and put his ear to the door to listen. The two guys argued in harsh whispers right outside the door, and he knew they were definitely not doctors or patients or relatives of patients because of what they said.

  “How do we get him out?”

  “You fuckin’ carry him. You’re the one lifts weights.”

  “Shouldn’t we just wheel him out like we’re visitors?”

  “Not this fuckin’ time of night. Besides, he’s not comin’ easy.”

  “And if someone tries to stop us?”

  “That’s why we got silencers. Quit fuckin’ worrying. Patty’s cleared the way and nothin’s gonna happen.”

  “Right, nothing’ll happen. So who was that guy Patty threw down the stairs?”

  “Fuck the guy on the stairs. He probably worked for an ambu lance chaser.”

  Tyrone could see shadows moving where light from the hall came in beneath the door. He reached out, felt his way along the wall, turned the corner, and followed the wall until he found the thresh old for the doorway into the can. He made his way around the open door and once inside, being as quiet as a mouse, carefully pulled the door shut behind him. As he stood in the dark he could hear his heart pounding. Every breath he took sounded like the rattling breath of an emphysema guy from the VA hospital. Somewhere else in the building a toilet flushed. He could hear the faint whine of the plumbing. Then the whine ended and it was dead silent, not even a jet on takeoff.

  Damn Hell in the Woods. Doors to the cans opening out so the dumb-fuck patients won’t block the door if they fall. But for him it meant he couldn’t hide behind the door if it opened. And then there wasn’t even a fuckin’ lock on the door.

  Because there was no window in the can, he was in complete darkness. He heard the muted sound of the latch on the door to the room, silence for a while, some whispering, then silence again until the latch on the door to the can made a slight squeak. He backed up in the darkness until the backs of his legs touched the crapper. He imag ined the light going on and two silenced guns pointing at him. He pulled down his pants and sat on the crapper. He formulated a scene in which he claims he was simply ambling down the hallway minding his own business when all of a sudden he had to take a shit. Stomach flu or something. In the scene he puts on a step-and-fetch-it smile and says something dumb-ass like, “And when a guy’s gotta go, a guy’s gotta go.” Maybe he could fake a barf. Maybe he wouldn’t have to fake the barf.

  When the door opened he could see the dim light filtering in from the window in the room. And framed against this dim light he could see one of them, probably the biggest one by the look of the shoulders. He was about to start his story with a line about a guy not being able to have privacy in this place, let them know he wasn’t Babe, if Babe was the one they were after, when he saw what looked like the shadow of a giant bird with outstretched wings loom up and cause the man in the doorway to step aside. The shadow came toward him, blocking what little light there was, and all he could think of was a fuckin’ black hole from outer space come down to swallow his ass.

  A
blanket was thrown over him and he was slugged in the head before he could open his mouth. Although he was dizzy and felt like he would barf, he tried to say something. Tell them he’s not their man. Tell them they made a mistake. Politely ask if he could pull up his pants. But all that came out of his mouth was a bunch of moaning that didn’t even sound like him.

  His wrists were taped behind his back, tape was put over his mouth, and he was being carried. He could feel the movement and a brush of air where the blanket separated at the backs of his legs. When he kicked out, there was another slug, this one even harder, and he lost consciousness until he felt cooler air on his legs.

  He was dropped to the ground. Cold cement ground because they were no longer in the building. The blanket was off and he was pushed face down so he could feel the cold grittiness of the concrete trying to push up his nose. If it wasn’t for the tape on his mouth, he would’ve eaten some grit, and maybe chipped a couple teeth. As it was, he could taste blood.

  He turned to the side, his cheek on the cold concrete better than his nose smashed into it. When he lifted his head to look around he saw that he was on the loading dock and wondered how they had gotten through the door without the alarm going off. His legs were trapped and he knew that before he could run, he had to stand up and try to pull up his pants.

  They were behind him. One of them said, “Who’s this fucker with the black ass?”

  The other said, “How the fuck should I know! Maybe Patty knows.”

  “Well, it ain’t who we wanted so we’ll have to fuckin’ tell Patty he fuckin’ blew it!”

  Although it was difficult with his hands taped behind him, Ty rone managed to get up onto his knees and grab hold of the elastic on his shorts with one hand while getting the thumb of the other hand through one of the belt loops on the back of his pants. As another jet on takeoff passed overhead, he conjured up images of being able to fly away home. He rocked back and forth from one knee to the other, try ing to pull up his pants, not wanting to look behind him and piss these guys off any more than they seemed to be pissed off already. While he rocked back and forth trying to pull up his pants he stared out into the parking lot looking for his DeVille in its regular spot out at the far end of the lot where no one would ding the doors, then realized the DeVille wouldn’t be there because he’d parked out front in handi capped. Then he wondered if he was now eligible for a handicapped sticker because of the way he’d been pounded.

  Before he could get his shorts and pants part way up, an arm came around his neck and his arms were shoved halfway up his back. The upward pressure on his arms continued until he realized they wanted him to stand. When he stood the pressure eased off, but he sure did wish he’d been able to pull up his pants. The jet was gone, a faint rumble in the distance.

  “Who the fuck are you? What the fuck you doin’ in Babe’s room? Tell us where Babe is or we’ll shoot off that thing makes fuckin’ spooks like you so fuckin’ cocky!”

  If it wasn’t for the tape on his mouth he would have told the guy he wasn’t cocky at all.

  The guy who wasn’t holding Tyrone circled around to the front. Big white guy in a jacket and black sweatshirt holding a gun with a silencer, the overhead light on the loading dock making the guy’s eyes flash and scaring the shit out of him because all he could think about, besides the pain in his arms and neck and face, was the flash from the gun and the time it would take for the bullet to cross the space be tween it and his dick.

  The guy holding him from behind ripped the tape from his mouth, taking some skin from his lips, then pushed up harder on his arm. The pain made Tyrone’s words come out like the squealing of a pig.

  “Shit, man! I don’t know nothin’! I’s jus’ takin’ a shit!”

  The guy in front moved closer, lifting Tyrone’s cock aside with the barrel of his gun and shoving the nose of the barrel up into the soft tis sue between his balls. “He fuckin’ knows somethin’ or he wouldn’t’ve been in Babe’s room!” He pushed the barrel up and in. “So where the fuck is he?”

  Tyrone tried to think of a good lie. Had to be a lie because he didn’t know where the hell Babe had gone. Had to be a good lie so they’d feel confident enough to check it out and maybe let him pull up his pants. He was about to say he thought Babe had been picked up by his wife earlier that evening when an engine gunned loudly at the far end of the parking lot and the guy with flashing eyes holding the gun to his balls looked toward the sound of the engine.

  When the engine gunned again and headlights from the road into the back lot swept across the guy’s face, the barrel eased out of the flesh between Tyrone’s balls. The guy backed off, held the gun on him.

  “Pull ‘em up, and no other moves ‘cause I’m a good mother fuckin’ shot!”

  When the guy holding him let go, Tyrone thought he would take the tape off his wrists so he could pull up his pants. But instead, the guy behind grabbed a handful of pants and yanked them up hard. Ty rone tried to wiggle into the shorts in order to make them more com fortable, but the attempt failed and the top part of the shorts ballooned out above the top of his slacks. They were the oversized shorts with hearts Latoya had given him for his birthday. He wished he were with Latoya right now, and the hell with any other women.

  The light that had swept over them swept back the other way, even brighter, and when Tyrone glanced back and saw the Christ Health Care Supplies truck pull up to the loading dock, he felt a slight tingle of relief, like maybe now he wouldn’t get shot in the balls after all. If there was any time for the tough little fucker to show his stuff, now was that time.

  The guy with the gun spun Tyrone around, holding the gun to his back. The guy who had held Tyrone from the back stood watching as the Christ Health Care truck braked hard, skidding and banging into the edge of the loading dock with a thud and bouncing back a couple feet.

  Flat Nose jumped out without shutting off the engine or lights. After leaping up onto the dock to face them, Flat Nose turned his baseball cap backward, took his fighter’s stance, and stood there, glar ing. Now the fucker would explode into a ball of fire. He should drop, let Flat Nose know there’s a gun in his back. Flat Nose would go for the gun and take a hit and he could make a run for it. But after a couple seconds of looking meaner than hell and glancing to Tyrone, then to each of the two guys, Flat Nose said, “What the fuck you guys think you’re doin’?”

  Before Flat Nose could make a move, the guy without the gun took a step back, faking retreat, then made his arm into a blur and let Flat Nose have it with a vicious right. Flat Nose fell off the loading dock, landing in the narrow space between the front of the truck and the dock. The guy went down after Flat Nose, held Flat Nose’s head up, his face in the glare of the headlights as he flattened Flat Nose’s nose again and again with more vicious blurry rights that spit some of Flat Nose’s blood onto one of the headlight lenses. Then the guy lay Flat Nose down on the ground like putting a baby to bed, whispering a warning to him, and calmly walked around to the side of the truck, opening the door and shutting off the lights and engine.

  The Flat Nose who was supposed to have exploded was a lump of flesh doing all he could to breathe through his spit and blood. Flat Nose’s baseball cap, which he’d turned backward moments earlier, was nowhere to be seen.

  Before Tyrone could react, the guy with the gun poked the barrel hard into Tyrone’s back and said, “He fuckin’ knows somethin’! We’ll take him to the van and get it out of him! Kills two birds because the bitch’ll think it’s Babe if we keep him wrapped in the blanket.”

  After they put the tape back on Tyrone’s mouth and the blanket over his head and arms, he was lifted over a shoulder. As he was car ried, the guy in charge, who wasn’t the one carrying him, moved in close and said, “Go easy, man. None of that kicking like before or I’ll shoot your balls off right through this thing.”

  Then to the other guy, he said, “I’ll get Jimmy to help. Keep him this side of the van ‘til we get her out. One way or another, w
e’ll get what we fuckin’ want!”

  “Like in the old days?”

  “Yeah, like in the old days.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  NINE

  Under normal circumstances she might have felt pity for him and not thought of him as a beast. Under normal circumstances she might have thought it cruel that his cohorts had nicknamed him Legless. But these were not normal circumstances.

  Legless, who had earlier roughed her up and broken her ankle, kissed her, walking his slimy lips over her cheeks and nose and fore head and eyes. If not for the tape she would have bitten him, and even though she could not bite him, he seemed to sense this and steered clear of her mouth. Perhaps he didn’t want to feel the tape on his face. Perhaps that would destroy the fantasy. The button Dino had fastened on her raincoat was still fastened, and as Legless kissed her face he mumbled something about being sorry for the way he had acted earlier and that he would make it up to her.

  As Legless began fiddling with the button holding her raincoat together, the tailgate behind the rear seat suddenly opened and the cold wet air of the night came inside the van. When she turned to look back she saw the outline of a bald head. Max Lamberti came in through the tailgate, stepping up into the narrow space behind the seat and cuffing Legless away from her.

  “Fuck off on your own time,” growled Max, a shadowy hand at his scalp as if expecting to find hair to straighten. “You and Jimmy take her in the car. We got someone else to put in the hot seat and there’s not enough room in here to do what we got to do.”

  When her shoulder belt was off, Max leaned close to her ear and whispered.

  “Who knows, Mrs. Babe. Maybe if things go right and we get what we want, you and hubby might even be able to go back into that hell-hole and finish out your fuckin’ lives.”

  In a louder voice meant for Legless, Max said, “Take her out the side door. Keep her with you guys while we get hubby ready for ther apy. And if therapy don’t work, fuck it, there’ll be more food in the world for those less fortunate.”