Survivor

by J. F. Gonzalez

  1bey were going to renege on their deal," Brad said. "They tried to abduct her in the parking lot of that Coco's, probably to take her back to that cabin. But somehow-I don't know how she did it-she escaped. She got the hell out of there and screamed at the top of her lungs and they split."

  "And they got that lady, right? And her baby?"

  Brad nodded. He poured himself another glass of Jim Beam.

  "Fuck!"

  The two men were silent for a moment. William drank down the rest of his whiskey and quickly poured himself a refill. Despite already drinking steadily for the past forty minutes or so, Brad didn't feel the least bit drunk. He was sweating it out as rapidly as he was pouring it down.

  "Billy, I need your help," Brad finally said, his voice low and shaky.

  William looked at him. "What do you want to do? Go to the police?"

  "1 don't know," Brad said. "I want to do something, but… I'm confused and I'm scared and…"

  "Are you afraid these guys will come after you?"

  Brad felt like he was going to collapse. He struggled to contain his emotions; he could feel his limbs shaking. He nodded, the tears springing to his eyes. "Yes"

  William leaned forward. He set his hand on Brad's knee, looking directly into his face. "Listen, buddy, there's nothing to worry about. I'm going to help you, okay?"

  Brad nodded. His throat hurt. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "Yeah," he said, stammering. "I'm sorry, Billy," he said; choking back the tears. "It's just… I'm just so glad she's back and… and I had no idea what she went through and to… to think that… it was much worse than she let on… God, no wonder she's been acting this way!"

  "I know," William said. He took Brad's hands in his own. Billy was acting more like a fatherly figure to him than a friend. Billy was twenty years Brad's senior, but he looked thirty."But now we know, and that means we can do something about it."

  "I don't know what we can do, though," Brad said. He took a deep breath. He took a peek down the hall where his and Lisa's bedroom was, then looked back at Billy. "She didn't want me to tell anybody. She's scared that they'll make good on their threat. I know she is."

  'Thankfully, Lisa has a good memory," William said. He had gained a lot of composure, and his stature was making Brad feel good about calling the lawyer over. "She got names. Tim Murray, Al, and Jeff. No last names on the other fellows, but I'm sure that shouldn't be too hard to get. We do have one full name of a victim, though. Debbie Martinez. That should be easy to trace. If she and her husband own a cabin in Big Bear, we can probably find the place Lisa was taken and locate the deed."

  "Do you think we should go to the police?" Brad asked.

  "You're goddamn right we should go to the police," William said. Now Billy was looking more angry than confused or frightened.

  "I'm scared," Brad said. He looked at William, feeling suddenly flush with adrenaline. "I'm scared of what might happen if we go to the police. These guys have our address, and they have her social security card, for God's sakes!"

  "Don't worry about that," William said. "I can get you and Lisa whisked away into a protection program. They won't be able to find you"

  "Shit." Brad broke down and cried.

  He felt hopeless.

  When he gained a little bit of control over himself, he looked up at William. "I don't know what to do," he said, wiping his eyes. "I feel like… such a helpless idiot.*

  "Leave it to me," William said, gripping Brad's knee with his hand. "I'll take care of everything. I'll talk to Detective On. He'll probably want to talk to Lisa again. We'll have to talk to her when she wakes up tomorrow. She might not like it, but we'll have to reassure her that the two of you will be safe and we'll catch the people who did this. We're gonna get these bastards, Brad. I'll hunt them down myself if I have to.'

  Brad gripped his friend's hand. "Thanks. Thanks a lot. I don't know what I'd do without you."

  William offered Brad a smile of encouragement. "I'll take care of everything."

  Twenty

  The Seagram's Business District in the City of Industry comprised rows of industrial buildings that circled the perimeter of a large lot in a U shape.'Iwin rows of identical buildings flanked this structure. The majority of the businesses that operated in the thirty or so spaces fell on the industrial side: commercial printers, T-shirt manufacturing plants, auto-body shops, glaziers, electronics shops, computer hardware manufacturers. The office Al Pressman was visiting this evening bore the legend Mark and Sons, Printers, and it was at the end of the lot. He pulled in front of the sliding door of the garage into what would have been the print shop but which had since been turned into a makeshift film studio. Al turned the car off and sat in the front bucket seat, listening as the engine cooled. He hated this fucking car. It was a Pbrsche, and it had a great engine,but he hated it anyway. It was too goddamned tiny. Like driving a roller skate on the highway. When he got his check for the latest job he was going to get a Corvette. He'd always liked 'Vettes. They were not only strong, they were durable and wouldn't crumple if you sneezed on them.

  Al sat in the car for a moment. It wasn't every day he got called to Rick Shectman's place of business. He usually dealt with Sam Bash, who gave out the orders for jobs. Most of the time it was routine blood-sport shit. The last job-the one that had turned into quite the gold mine thanks to the Miller woman selling that homeless woman and her baby down the river-had been arranged by Sam. Al had been told to shoot footage that was to include Animal and a woman that Tim Murray brought. That was it, no questions asked. Al had been surprised to see two women at the cabin, but when Tim explained what had happened he'd shrugged it off. Since they had to get rid of the other bitch anyway, might as well film the shit, right? He was paid to operate a camera and catch the right angles and provide the right amount of lighting, then edit the shit down. That was it. And Animal was paid to do what he did best: rape, torture, and then kill people. They didn't care who they did it to, as long as they were paid.

  Except this job had been different. Sam Bash had been quite explicit when he told Al that the woman Tim brought was a special job, that there was double money involved in it. Fine. No big deal. So when the bitch mentioned the homeless woman and the baby, of course it attracted their attention. There were plenty of pedo freaks out there who got off on the prepubescent scene, but infants were another league altogether. You just didn't find many of them in the extreme hardcore underground. Al had known of junkies who sometimes sold their babies for crack and the kids usually wound up dead from whatever freak they'd been sold to. Al knew there was a thriving pedophile underground that got off on this shit, and he knew some of them had money falling out of their assholes. He'd seen the dollar signs immediately, so he'd gone to another part of the cabin and made an executive decision. He'd pretended to call Sam with the news, and Tim just about shit his pants when he came back and told him that the Miller bitch was out and the other woman and the baby were in. Later, while Animal was putting Lisa in the van, he'd pulled Tim aside and told him the real deal: get Lisa Miller's money, get the homeless woman and the baby, and get back to the cabin pronto. They were still going to do the Miller bitch as planned. That had made Tim feel better, but then the cunt had escaped. Tim had been fucking paranoidhell, Al had been paranoid too and had had to indulge in some blow to cope. He'd just about had a fit when Tim came back sans the Miller bitch, but he eventually calmed down. "We'll get her," he'd told Tim. "Don't worry. They want her, we'll get her, but I think right now they're going to be pretty happy with what we got now"

  He'd explained that to Sam Bash the day after he made the delivery, when Bash called and asked in an icy tone why he had not carried out the job he'd been paid to do. "You paid me to shoot a scene that included Animal and whatever woman Tim Murray brought me," he'd explained. "'That's all I did, no questions asked."

  It was clear that Bash had been pissed, even though he conceded that they already had two buyers willing to pay two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars for the tape with the infant. That was more than double what he'd get for a normal snuff film. They'd exchanged a few more words and Sam had rung off with a "you'll be hearing from me," then he'd hung up. Al hadn't heard from him since.

  In the last week, though, he'd talked to Tim. They'd been paying close attention to the news and there'd been no media coverage of Lisa Miller's abduction. Tim had even done an Internet search and had come up with nothing. Tim told Al he'd been yelled at by Sam too, and he was nervous. You didn't fuck with these people; Al knew that, and he assured Tim they'd be fine. "You gob her address. I can hold Sam off for another week until the money for these films comes in. That'll be a nice pacifier for him. Then, say in two weeks, me and you pay a surprise visit to Ms. Miller. Get yourself a white panel van and I'll have a shot of morphine all fixed up and ready for her. It'll be a nice quick abduction, and this time we'll just do it. She'll be dead and disposed of within a few hours after we pick her up, and the next day Sam'll be happier than a pig in shit. How's that sound?"

  That had sounded fine to Tim, and Al had lain low for the rest of the week. He didn't hear from Tim or Animal, and he tried to keep a low profile. He didn't even call Sam to check on where his money was. Then this afternoon he got a phone call from Rick Shectman telling him to get over to his print shop for an evening meeting regarding the next job. Rick and Sam were acquainted, and from the brief conversation he had with Rick, Al surmised that Sam had gotten over his anger regarding the last job. The money the organization had just made must've sweetened them up.

  Al reached under his seat for the coke vial he kept in a compartment he had gouged into the seat. He opened it, reached a pinkie in, and scooped some blow out with his fingernail. He took a snort up his left nostril, dipped his nail back in for seconds, snorted that up his right nostril, then rubbed the residue over his gums. He replaced the vial under the seat and checked himself out in the rearview mirror. Might as well get this over with. He opened the door, swung his long legs out of the Fbrsche, and headed to the office. He felt amped up and ready to do business as he entered and paused for a moment at the threshold, letting his vision get adjusted to the darkness. "Yo," he called out. "You here, Rick?"

  in the back," a voice called out.

  Al made his way through the office to the rear of the establishment.

  Mark and Sons Printers had originally been a commercial printer that operated a four-color press. The back room was a darkroom where paste-ups were shot and converted to plates for printing. There had once been two presses, but one had been sold and the other sat against the rear wall under a layer of dust. The remaining floor space of the shop had been cleared away from other printing machines and was now used as a makeshift studio for some of the hardcore S&M loops Al shot. Rick Shectman, the guy who had inherited the printing business from his father, only did business as a printer occasionally. Mostly he used the press to generate child pornography or other illegal underground smut. He also ran drugs and stolen jewelry through the shop. And he leased space to Al for the production of some milder hardcore S&M. "As long as they don't get blood and shit all over my floor," Rick had told Al one day a few years ago in that thick Slavic accent he'd inherited from his father. "You can use my shop. You use big-titty women, you tell me so I watch, yes?" He'd smiled a gap-toothed smile.

  Rick Shectman was a man who conducted himself in a casual manner, but Al knew he was a heavy key player in the illegal hardcore community. He was one of the money people. He knew the clients. And he knew the talent. Al, Tim, and Animal had worked for Rick five times in the past three years, and Al knew Rick to be a fair man, but a hard one. Rumor had it that he'd once beaten a customer who had commissioned a torture film with a lead pipe after the customer failed to come up with the fee for the finished product. The beating had been so bad that the victim had lost both eyes. Al had heard of worse crime bosses. The guys back east in New York and New Jersey, they didn't tuck around. They usually had a goon squad get medieval on your ass if you tucked with them, and you wound up at the bottom of New York Harbor with a pair of cement boots.

  When Al rounded the comer where the darkroom flanked the rear of the print shop, he saw that Tim Murray and Animal were there. They were leaning casually against the printing equipment. Rick was seated on a skid of computer paper that had been carted back there for storage. He smiled at Al. "Nice that you could join us." His teeth were very white, and Al felt his limbs go numb. There was something about the look on Rick's face, which was usually happy-go-lucky, bright and cheerful, that was sharply different. Now Rick's Slavic features were dark, with a hint of menace swimming beneath his blue eyes.

  "What's up?" Al asked, trying to sound casual.

  "We need to talk," Rick said.

  Al glanced at Tim quickly. He couldn't tell if Tim was nervous, but he guessed the man was; he could tell that last job had been too hardcore for him, and during the drive to Los Angeles Al had soothed whatever worries Tim might have by telling him how much money they were all going to make. That seemed to work at lifting the man's mood. Now Tim wouldn't meet his gaze. Only Animal looked indifferent. He looked bored.

  "Okay, let's talk," Al said.

  "What did Sam tell you to do when he gave you this last job, Al?" Rick asked.

  Al felt the blood drain from his face. He looked from Tim to Animal, who refused to meet his gaze. "He said that… that..

  "When Sam called and said that Tim had our star, I related this news to the ddnt," Rick said, smiling calmly. "He was very pleased. Very pleased. Then, when Sam called a few days later and gave us the news about the other one and the baby and what had happened, well… I wasn't happy, but I saw the potential. I ran it by our client. Personalty, he wasn't interested in a baby. But I knew some in the group would be. I knew they would pay a lot of money for it. I made the arrangements for it not knowing… what?"

  Al was mortified. He swallowed a dry lump. "I don't understand. Everything-"

  "No" Rick leaned forward and smiled. He looked like a Great White Shark; his teeth were white and long, his eyes dull and emotionless, like a predator's. "You replaced the star of our film with a baby. You let her con you into giving you money and you let the bitch go."

  "I gave those two fuckheads orders to bring that bitch back when she led them to the homeless chick and the baby!" Al protested, his voice rising. He was getting pissed now.

  "Bullshit," Tim muttered in a low voice.

  "You fucking me?" Al turned on Tim, feeling himself grow hot with anger and agitated from the cocaine he had snorted a few minutes ago. "Yau back-stabbing fuck, you fucking with me?"

  "Who instructed Mr. Murray to release the star of our film?" Rick Shectman grinned casually at Al.

  "his goddamn sonofabitch-" Al pointed at Tim.

  "You made the call to Sam," Tim said, trying to look casual. He looked nervous, and Al knew immediately that the fat fuck had squealed the minute Sam began sniffing for holes in the story he'd told him. "You told him we'd gotten hold of that homeless chick and the kid-"

  "And I told Sam that there was the potential for more money and-" Al protested.

  'And Sam told me he never received a phone call from you," Rick replied.'Bad move, Mr. Pressman'

  Al turned to Rick. He was instantly sober. "Now wait. TbUs-"

  Tim interrupted. 'You said that it was a go. I thought you'd talked to Sam and the plans were changed. You told me to take Lisa and drive her to her bank and make her find the chick and the kid. And I did'

  "And I also told you to bring that cunt back!" Al yelled.

  1 bat's not what you told me," Tim said quickly.

  "Bullshit!" Al felt hot with anger. Tim Murray was lying to save his own fat ass. He'd been called on the carpet by Sam and Rick, and now he was backpedaling to save himself. He knew he had fucked up by letting Lisa escape, and he was doing everything he could to shift the blame to Al.

  Rick hopped off the skid casually. He looked at Ani- mal.'1 don't know" He
shrugged. He looked at Tim and Al.'I don't know what to make of this shit, personally. All I know is, my client is fucking pissed. You know how much business I get from this guy?"

  Al opened his mouth to respond, then dosed it. He had no idea how much money Rick made from this faceless client, whoever the fuck he was. Probably just another closet pervert like the rest of them, but what did he care? Closet perverts usually had money falling out of their assholes.'ihat's all that mattered to Al.

  'You know what matters the most in all this?" Rick was addressing Tim and Al. He took a step forward. Tim automatically retreated back, his face showing the slightest registration of fear. Al forced himself to stand his ground. Let that fat-ass fuck Tim Murray cower with his tail between his legs. He was the one that fucked things up.

  'You deaf?' Rick asked, taking another step toward them, leaning forward as if he were straining to listen to them. "What the fuck did I just say?"

  "You asked if we know what matters most," Al said.

  "Bravo!" Rick Shectman clapped his hands, applauding. Al Pressman does have acute listening skills! Let's put them to the test. What did Sam tell you three weeks ago when he gave you the job?"

  "Shit," Al said. He felt his limbs grow tingly. He knew where this was leading.

  "Wrong answer," Rick said, and then he hit Al so hard and so fast that Al didn't even see it coming. He caught a brief flash of the fury in Rick's face, felt the sudden whoosh and saw the flash, and then he felt a freight train crash into his face and he knew no more.

  It was the pounding headache that brought Al Pressman back to consciousness.

  The cool air prickled gooseflesh on Al's bare skin. He groaned. His head felt like a sledgehammer had split it open. He was almost afraid to open his eyes.

  He was lying on something cool. Concrete? Steel? It was hard to tell.

  The cool air against his skin told him he had been stripped of his clothes.

  He opened his eyes. A wave of pain broke out across his forehead and eyeballs.