By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “Ben . . .” Suzi whined, confused about what was running through my head. I couldn’t blame her, I wasn’t so sure myself.

  “What’s with all the questions?” Goiler barked.

  “I’m just curious, so I thought I’d take you up on that last-request offer and ask a few.”

  He glared at me and wiped the sweat from his ample forehead. “Yeah, I’ve killed a few folks, sure. Okay?”

  “Doesn’t it get boring after a while?” I let loose with a little chuckle. “I read that somewhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would guess it gets boring, all that death. You’ve got to keep coming up with more and more interesting ways to kill people to keep it fun, right?”

  “I guess so . . .” He was still trying to figure out what I was up to. I was hoping I could keep him guessing until he was too caught up in my scheme to quit.

  “What’s the most interesting way you’ve ever killed someone?”

  He thought a moment before he said: “I guess once when I gave this guy a Colombian necktie—”

  “That’s your most interesting murder?” I interrupted. “That’s pretty boring, Henry.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?” I was starting to rattle him.

  “Goiler, your problem is you’ve got no style.”

  “Style?”

  “Yeah, style. I’ll bet you’re always in a rush and miss the finer points.”

  “Heh,” he said, switching to the defensive. “Well, I get the job done.”

  “Sure you do,” I agreed, “like Jerry Iverson.”

  “Yeah, like him. I already told you that,” he snapped, his irritation at my questions building.

  “Yeah, but you messed up, didn’t you?”

  “Whaddya mean? He’s dead, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah, but it was supposed to look like a suicide, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And it didn’t. You screwed up.”

  Silence.

  I turned it up a notch. “I bet the Red Herring Syndicate wasn’t happy about that, were they?”

  “What are you talking about?” Goiler exploded. “I’m part of the Red Herring Syndicate!”

  “How long have you been working for them?”

  “With them,” he corrected. “I’ve been working with them for a long time. Years.”

  “And you’re still a pawn to them, just a little man to be shoved around. Dirty work needs doing? No problem, call Henry Goiler. ‘Henry, do this. Henry, do that. Henry, kill Jerry Iverson. And don’t mess it up this time!’ But you did.”

  “Why you . . .”

  “And you know why? ’Cause you’re a screw-up with no style.”

  “You want style?” Goiler screamed at me. Even in the darkness I could see his puffy face turn bright red with anger. “You want style? I’ll kill you with style!” He leveled his gun at my head. He was so mad he couldn’t hold it steady.

  “How? Shoot me in the head and leave my body in the desert?” I snarled. “That’s not style.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” My throat was parched. I ran my dry tongue across my lips. “Are you a gambling man?”

  “Sure.” His eyes squinted with confusion. “I like to play the ponies.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I’d like to challenge you to a game. Just me and you.”

  “A game?” He took a wary step backward, gun still pointed at my head.

  “Yeah, a simple game.” I was feeling the adrenaline pump through my veins, knowing I was putting it all on the line. “If you win, you can do whatever you have to do with no interference from me.”

  “Oh, and let me guess,” Goiler laughed, “if you win I gotta let you go?”

  “Me and Suzi. Exactly.” I waited for Goiler to respond. He didn’t, so I prodded him along: “So, you up for it?”

  “Maybe.” Goiler scratched the side of his face with the barrel of his gun. “Depends what game we’re playin’.”

  I paused, letting the silence of the night sink in before I responded with, “Russian Roulette.”

  “Oh God, no, Ben!” Suzi cried. She fell down at my feet, looking up at me, pleading.

  Russian Roulette was an absurd and dangerous idea, but Goiler was an absurd and dangerous man. I needed this distraction so I could catch him off guard just long enough to get the upper hand.

  “Jesus!” Goiler barked. “I’ve known you to do some crazy things, Drake, but . . . but . . . you’re out of your damn mind!”

  “Scared, Henry?” I asked, whispering.

  “Shut up!”

  “It’s okay if you are; it takes a real man to play Russian Roulette.”

  “I said shut up!” Goiler looked down at the guns he held in each hand, thought creasing his brow. “I ain’t afraid, Drake. Not of you. And not of some silly game of yours.”

  He broke my gun open, carefully keeping the Beretta trained on me. With his thumb he held in one round as he tipped the gun back, allowing the remaining four rounds to fall to the dusty ground. He snapped it shut with a flick of his wrist and gave the cylinder a hefty spin.

  He handed the gun to me, barrel first.

  “Okay. Let’s do it. You first,” he rumbled, aiming the barrel of the Beretta directly at my face, just below my left eye. “And if you don’t pull that trigger, I’ll do it for ya.”

  I was gambling with my life, and that didn’t bother me. What did bother me was the fact that I was gambling with Suzi’s life too. But despite that, I had to forge ahead. This was the only chance she had.

  I could see Goiler trembling; I couldn’t tell if it was out of excitement or fear.

  My thoughts flashed back to the day—was it only yesterday?—that I stormed into Jack Walker’s office. That was a pretty risky move then, but I got out of it just fine. Maybe I’d get out of this jam in one piece too. I just had to stay one step ahead of Goiler.

  “Wait,” I said, looking into his bloodshot eyes.

  Suzi’s crying lessened to a soft whimper before she held her breath, waiting for Goiler to respond. The absence of her sobbing left a tension that was terrifying.

  “Scared, Drake?” Goiler asked.

  “No, I just need to know which rules we’re playing by.”

  “Whaddaya mean, rules?”

  “There’s two different versions of the game,” I explained, “St. Petersburg rules and Leningrad rules.”

  “What the hell’s the difference?”

  “In St. Petersburg rules, you spin the cylinder between every pull of the trigger, but in the original version, Leningrad rules, you spin it only after everyone playing has had a turn.”

  “I don’t care,” Goiler said. “Whatever you want, let’s just get this over with. No, wait. Let’s play Leningrad rules. That sounds more fun.”

  “Fine, then.”

  “Yeah, fine. Now quit stallin’ and play!” Goiler ordered, prodding me with the Beretta.

  As my finger tightened on the trigger, visions of my wife, alive, vibrant, and beautiful played in my head. The roar of blood between my ears was deafening. I focused on the images of my wife . . . squeezed . . . and . . .

  Click.

  Goiler took the gun out of my numb hand and started laughing. “Damn, Drake! I didn’t think you had the stones to do it!”

  “Your turn, Henry,” I deadpanned. “Do you have the stones?”

  Goiler suddenly stopped laughing. “Damn right I do. But first . . .” He held the gun out to Suzi.

  “No . . . oh no . . .” Suzi whined, her face wet with tears. She held her hands defensively outward and frantically waved them about like she was trying to escape a cloud of insects. She backed away as Goiler approached her.

  “Goiler, leave Suzi out of this. This is just you and me playing.”

  “I’m in charge here, Drake.” Goiler’s laugh took on a more maniacal quality. “An’ I say she plays.”

  There wasn
’t much I could do, not while he held that Beretta on Suzi. I knew if I made a move, he’d kill her.

  Suzi took the Smith & Wesson from Goiler and sank to her knees. “Please, no,” she begged, looking for mercy in Goiler’s cold eyes, her arms held limply at her sides. Then she looked at me. The tears on her cheeks glistened in the dim light, and her big eyes were glazed over with fear. “Ben . . . Ben . . . I don’t want to die.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Goiler aimed the Beretta at her forehead, careful to not turn his back to me. “Just get on with it.”

  Suzi lifted the gun to her left temple, barely having the strength to hold it there. Her whimpering echoed out across the quarry and got deep in my ears, bringing a guilt, thick and heavy, that settled in the pit of my stomach.

  “Come on, Goiler,” I pleaded, “leave her out of it.”

  Goiler looked back over his shoulder and shouted: “Drake, she’s playin’! You quit complainin’ about it, or I’ll finish her right here!” His voice was rich with hostility.

  “Please . . .” Suzi whined.

  “Pull the trigger, or I shoot you right now,” Goiler growled.

  I stood there, feeling powerless as Suzi’s sobs brought more pain to the sickness in my stomach. After an eternity of waiting, I heard a loud click. Suzi collapsed in a heap on the ground, her body twitching in spasms. She cried for all she was worth. Poor kid. I had to end this soon.

  Goiler stood over her laughing uproariously. “That was great! You should have seen her eyes, Drake. Just like a deer caught in the headlights!”

  “Okay, Goiler, your turn.”

  “Actually,” he handed the gun to me, “I think it’s your turn. That was just a warm-up round.”

  “That’s not playing by the rules, Henry.”

  “I decided we’re playin’ Goiler’s rules,” he answered. “And that means it’s your turn.”

  I figured he was gambling on one of us getting killed before he even had to play. While that may have been his plan, it sure wasn’t mine. I promised myself I’d do this one more time, then I’d make my move. But if he wasn’t going to play by the rules, I wasn’t either. And I needed better odds. I spun the cylinder.

  “Hey, what gives? Who said you could spin?” Goiler squealed.

  I chose not to answer. I put the gun to my head, closed my eyes, and squeezed the trigger. It was easier the second time.

  A long wail erupted from Suzi Biggs that seemed to go on forever. It sounded like someone was dragging a serrated blade across her belly.

  I handed the gun back to Goiler. “Are you going this time? Or are you afraid to take your turn again?”

  “I’m not afraid! I’ll show you!”

  This was the moment I’d been hoping for—I’d jump Goiler during that second of hesitation when, holding a gun to his own head, he contemplated the consequences of pulling the trigger.

  Goiler grabbed the Smith & Wesson from me, spun the cylinder, brought it to his head, and squeezed the trigger. All in one fluid motion.

  Click.

  There went my chance. Just like that.

  “There, Drake!” Goiler tittered. “You happy?!”

  “Yeah, couldn’t be happier.”

  This bad idea had just gotten worse. A lot worse.

  He turned to Suzi, still lying in a heap in the dirt, and held the gun out to her.

  “Your turn again, doll.”

  Suzi broke down into hysterics, hyperventilating uncontrollably. “No, not again. I can’t do it again. Don’t make me. Don’t make me. Please.”

  “You can thank your new boyfriend, Ben Drake, for this world of pain. This is his game. You’re gonna play ’cause that’s what he wants.” The twisted words slithered out of Goiler’s throat. “Now play!”

  Suzi gingerly took the gun and held it to her head for a moment, then let her arm fall to the ground. “Wait! I can’t go . . . I just remembered . . . my puppies are at home . . . and there’s nobody to feed them. I can’t do this! I can’t die! Who’s going to take care of Laza and Apsos? Who’ll care for my little puppies?”

  “Come on, woman, we ain’t got all night!” Goiler pulled back the hammer of his Beretta. “Play the game!”

  Again Suzi placed the gun against her temple.

  A cold chill ran down my spine. I had a bad feeling about this. I lunged at Goiler and yelled, “Suzi, don’t!”

  He saw me coming and spun to meet me, firing the Beretta in the process. The shot went wide, echoing off the quarry walls. I was close enough to the gun that it set off a ringing in my ears. The night suddenly seemed wrapped in cotton.

  I tackled Goiler, taking him to the ground.

  We struggled, rolling dangerously close to the edge of the quarry. Goiler grunted and flailed his legs. I pinned his gun arm beneath my knee.

  Inexplicably, he kept on squeezing the trigger, sending bullets off into space. He was too busy trying to keep hold of his gun to do any sort of real fighting. One by one I pried his thick, strong fingers from the pistol.

  I got the Beretta out of his grasp. Now I had to put him down quick. I hauled off and belted him across the jaw with the butt of the gun. I was rewarded with a loud crack as the bone broke beneath my blow.

  Goiler howled like a wounded dog and clutched his jaw with both hands. He rolled back and forth, as if that would ease his pain.

  I figured that would occupy him for a while, so I bolted over to Suzi’s side. She was lying on the cold ground, motionless. When I reached her I saw why.

  Her blank eyes stared vacantly at me. Her mouth hung slightly open. The whites of her eyes and her pearly teeth glowed eerily in the pale, dim light. A small, charred wound marred the left side of her head. A larger, bloodier wound blew out the opposite side of her skull. A thick trickle of viscous liquid, a mingling of blood and brains, oozed from the gaping hole.

  I felt like someone had turned me inside out. The sickness in my stomach rose to my mouth and sent the contents of my guts spewing out hotly onto the desert ground. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and watched the sand absorb my steaming bile.

  I heard a scraping sound behind me, and I spun around in time to see Henry Goiler struggling to get up. He was making a strange “wuffling” noise. It took me a moment to realize that it was the sound of a man with a broken jaw trying to laugh hysterically.

  My vision turned red. For a moment I hated Henry Goiler with every fiber of my being. He was a despicable wretch who deserved to die.

  I shot him twice in the head with his own gun. He dropped backward and landed with a sickening thump. I fell, first to my knees, then to my back. All the strength was gone from my body. It was the first time I’d deliberately killed anyone. The first time I’d committed murder.

  The events of the night played out again and again in my head. I kept changing things slightly, hoping for a better outcome, but it always ended with Suzi’s death.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that, lying on the ground, looking up at the stars.

  When I rose, I retrieved my empty gun from where it had landed beside Suzi. I went over to Goiler and pulled the diamond bracelet out of his pocket. I kicked his lifeless body over the quarry and stood there until I could no longer hear it sliding down the steep embankment. I tossed his gun after him.

  I kept glancing back over my shoulder as I trudged to my car, hoping that Suzi would get up and be all right, knowing it was a ridiculous fantasy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tell Me Tomorrow

  Nothing could possibly shake the image of Suzi Biggs from my mind. So on the hard, lonely drive back to my apartment, I thought of nothing.

  At night the desert was cold. I drove with the window down. The air that rushed into my car made the sound of a low dirge. My teeth were clenched shut, and I grasped onto the steering wheel like it was the neck of my worst enemy.

  I’m not a man who takes to crying; nevertheless, I wiped my eyes, knowing that the tears were in there somewhere and that they were bound to co
me out sooner or later.

  When I got home, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open and entered the darkness with resigned indifference. If someone was waiting to ambush me, I would put up no fight. But I knew there would be no one there.

  I walked into my kitchen and instinctively opened the refrigerator. I wasn’t even slightly hungry, which was good because it held nothing but condiments, sour milk, and leftovers that should have been thrown out long ago. I was barely awake enough to stand. I just wanted desperately to keep moving, away from that day, into the next.

  Tomorrow this case would be over. I knew that.

  I closed the refrigerator door and looked around aimlessly. I saw the paper coffee cup that Suzi had brought with her that morning. Christ, how could it have been that very morning? I thought about her slapping me and her saying I wasn’t a hero. I thought about us spending the day together at the animal park, acting like kids on a date. I slammed my fist on the counter.

  “This isn’t fair,” I said aloud, simply to hear myself say it.

  I had this sudden urge to be instantly unconscious. I headed straight for bed, not even pausing to turn the lights out. I collapsed facedown on the mattress. As I dug my head into the pillow I could smell her perfume—a faint scent remaining from when she had cried there that morning.

  I should have slept in my chair, I thought. Too late now; I wasn’t in any condition to move a muscle. I was out cold in seconds.

  * * *

  Morning came, and I just let it carry on. I felt no more desire to move than I had the night before. However, now that my eyes were open, I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  The phone rang. I didn’t answer it. Some time later, it rang some more. I still didn’t answer it.

  But it got me thinking. I had a plan for how this whole mess would get wrapped up. The first thing I had to do was set that plan in motion. This involved some phone calls.

  I dragged myself out of the bedroom and made the three calls I needed to make. They weren’t easy. I had to pretend I was more in control of the situation than I really was; certainly, I couldn’t let anyone know what had happened last night. Not yet. Despite my inner uneasiness, the calls came off okay.

  I jumped into a long shower. The only other thing I had to do before nighttime was stop in the office. I didn’t want to have to come back here after that. So after I was cleaned up and dressed real nice, I did one final check to make sure I had everything I needed. The last thing I did was clean my gun. Spinning the cylinder to check that it was oiled right sent chills up my spine.