by S. A. Cosby
Andy swung the Colt butt-first into the side of Buddy Lee’s head. Stars exploded all around him as he dropped to all fours. He was vaguely aware his hand had landed in the razor-sharp remains of the table. Shards of glass sliced through his thick calluses and buried their way into his palms. His stomach convulsed but the contents of his belly stayed put. Oscar fell against the door clutching his shin.
Andy put the barrel of the Python against Buddy Lee’s temple. Buddy Lee felt a trickle of blood run down his face and wind its way over his five-o’clock shadow. Andy’s top lip was beginning to swell. His cheek was on fire. A cloudy film seemed to be covering his left eye. The old man had punted him in the face like he was kicking the winning field goal in the Super Bowl.
“Cut the cord off that TV and tie him up.” Andy said. He spit a pinkish globule onto the floor. It was equal parts saliva and blood. Oscar grabbed his knife out of his pocket and limped over to the television. He tied Buddy Lee’s hands behind his back. Oscar couldn’t believe how fast the old man moved. He’d been a blur coming out of the kitchen. It was like watching the Flash.
“I think you broke one of my teeth, old man.” Andy said. He probed his right molar with his tongue. The tooth wiggled against the intruding tongue.
“That ain’t nothing compared to what I’m gonna do when I get loose,” Buddy Lee said. Andy laughed. He pressed the barrel into Buddy Lee’s head.
“You about two seconds from getting a hole in your fucking head. But first I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions and you gonna give me some answers,” Andy said.
“Hey, I mean this from the bottom of my heart. Fuck you,” Buddy Lee said. Andy kicked him in the stomach. The few remaining wisps of air in his lungs rushed out of his mouth with a whoosh! Buddy Lee pitched forward. His face landed in a pile of crushed glass. A few slivers tried to find their way into his mouth. Andy grabbed him by his hair. He put his mouth close to Buddy Lee’s ear.
“You miss your son? You gonna see him soon enough. But before that happens you gonna beg for a bullet,” he said.
Andy kicked him again. This time his lunch did make a break for it. Stomach acid burned his throat as the vomit raced up his esophagus. It spilled over his lips like a waterfall.
“You better kill me,” Buddy Lee gasped. Andy laughed.
“Ooh, I better kill you,” he said. He spoke in a high-pitched nasally tone.
“Maybe we should ask him about the girl,” Oscar offered. Andy stopped tittering.
“You know anything about the girl, old man?” Andy asked. He should have thought of that before Oscar suggested it. He was getting caught up in the moment and forgetting the task at hand.
“You better kill me or you going to regret ever crawling out of your mama’s old chewed-up cunt,” Buddy Lee said. Andy blinked rapidly a few times.
“My mama’s cunt, huh? Say hi to your son for me,” Andy said. He cocked the hammer on the Colt and pointed it at Buddy Lee’s face. Buddy Lee felt like he was tumbling into the barrel like it was a bottomless mine shaft. Andy pressed the barrel against his cheek. Buddy Lee closed his eyes. He hoped he would see Derek, but he wasn’t sure they were going to be spending eternity in the same place.
A deafening crash echoed from the back of the house.
“What the fuck was that? You got somebody here with you, old man? Oscar, go check it out,” Andy said. Oscar licked on his bottom lip.
“I didn’t bring a gun,” he said.
“Tough titty. Now go check it out,” Andy said. Oscar wiped his face, then studied his hand. Blood was smeared across his palm like Sanskrit.
“Yeah. Tough titty alright,” he said. The big man lumbered down the hall like Godzilla. Had the light been on in the hall when they first entered? Oscar couldn’t remember. It was off now. He flicked a switch on the wall and nothing happened. His breath came in quick irregular gulps. His nose was beyond fucked up. He couldn’t even force air through it. He descended into the shadows.
“Did you kill my son?” Buddy Lee asked Andy. The stars had finally retreated and his vision had cleared. Andy had moved the gun out of his face. Instead it was hanging loosely by his leg.
“Shut up,” Andy said.
“Who sent you?” Buddy Lee wheezed. He hadn’t exerted himself like that in a long time. His heart felt sluggish in his chest. The back of his throat was so dry he thought if he coughed now gravel would pop out and clatter across the floor.
“Shut the fuck up,” Andy said.
Oscar came to a door on the left side of the hall that was partly ajar. It was narrower than the other three doors he had already passed. This had to be the bathroom. Was someone hiding in the tub with a shotgun? He’d seen that in a movie once. The good guy had shot one of the bad guys when he was taking a piss. Oscar used two fingers and pushed the door open all the way. It was indeed the bathroom. A blue ambient light in the ceiling gave the room a ghostly glow. The blue light was built into the exhaust fan. The bathroom had a shower stall, a sink, and a pale-blue toilet. Or was that the effect of the blue LED light. Oscar frowned. The top of the toilet tank was missing. He heard the reservoir filling with water. Like someone had just flushed it. Oscar backed up into the hall. He heard glass crunching beneath his feet. He raised his head and squinted. There had once been a light fixture in the ceiling. One of those fancy pendant jobs. Now there was just a thin metal tube hanging down. Like someone had smashed it—
Oscar spun around just in time for Ike to shatter the top of the toilet tank over his head.
* * *
“You gonna wish you had killed me, boy,” Buddy Lee rasped.
“You keep talking that shit like you somebody I ought to be afraid of. You ain’t nothing but an old drunk that needs to shut his fucking mouth. Yeah, I can smell it coming off you. Just like my dad,” Andy said. Buddy Lee heard the bravado in his voice and the uncertainty that was hiding just beneath the surface. A minute after Oscar had ventured down the darkened hall, the whole house shook. Something had hit the floor like a slab of granite.
Andy took an unconscious step toward the hall with his gun raised. Buddy Lee was on his knees when the kid stepped toward the hallway. Quick as a wink he dropped to his ass and used both feet to kick the kid in the side of his right knee. He thought he heard a snapping sound. Andy screamed and fell backward and to the left. When he hit the ground, the big pistol jumped out of his hand like the Gingerbread Man making a break for it. Andy clutched at his knee for the briefest of seconds before realizing he had lost his gun. He rolled onto his left side and stretched out his right hand for the Colt.
Ike came out of the shadows like the spirit of Nemesis in the flesh. He stomped on Andy’s right hand, and Buddy Lee was positive he heard a crack that time. Andy screamed again as Ike picked him up off the ground by his shirt. Once he had him on his feet, Ike hit him with a ferocious uppercut. The younger man was lifted at least three inches into the air. He landed in a heap under the wall-mounted television. Ike glared at him for a moment before picking up the Colt and tucking it into his waistband. He went to Buddy Lee and retrieved his jackknife from his back pocket. Ike cut him loose, then helped him to his feet.
“Glad you decided to join the party,” Buddy Lee said.
“When I heard the commotion, I figured I’d hang back a minute. Sounded like more than one guy, so I tipped over the dresser to get their attention. Force them to split up. Besides, I figured you could handle yourself. No use losing the element of surprise,” Ike said.
“Well, I’m glad you had all this confidence in me. But tell me this: What was you gonna do if they had blown my goddamn head off?” Buddy Lee asked.
“They didn’t, so we don’t have to find out,” Ike said. Buddy Lee shook his head. He looked down at the crumpled form of the skinny kid.
“I told you you should’ve fucking killed me,” Buddy Lee said.
“Did you really say that?” Ike asked.
Buddy Lee nodded. “I meant it, too.”
FOURTEEN
Buddy Lee slapped the kid as hard as he could. He followed that up with a one-two combo to his ribs. He took a step back and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. A glob of sputum worked its way out of his lungs. He closed his mouth and walked over to the trash can near the second roll-up door in Ike’s warehouse. He spit it into the small brown wastebasket. He didn’t have to look at it to know it would have more of the faint red spots mixed in it.
“You alright?” Ike asked.
“Yeah, just out of fucking shape. Why don’t you ask him?” Buddy Lee said. He walked over to a pallet of mulch and sat down on top of it. Ike went to his cubicle office and got his roller chair. He placed it right in front of the kid. Then he went to the tool rack. He came back with a tamper. It was a tool they used to even out the dirt when they planted a large tree or ran some sprinkler lines. A four-foot-long wooden handle with a flat black iron square at one end, it was a fairly simple piece of equipment. He placed the tamper between him and the kid before taking a seat in the roller chair.
The kid was in the wooden office chair. Ike had zip-tied his wrist to the arms of the chair. Once Buddy Lee had cleaned himself up, they had grabbed an area rug from Isiah’s office and rolled the kid up inside it. The decision to take the kid wasn’t something they had discussed. There was no need. It was obvious the kid and the big guy were somehow involved in what had happened to the boys.
The kid was about a hundred pounds lighter than his partner. In this case his partner had drawn the short straw, genetically speaking. So, they left the big guy sprawled across the hallway floor and carried the skinny kid out of the town house like a pair of late-night movers. They passed a few people as they walked to the truck. Most of them didn’t look up from their cell phones long enough to notice two men carrying a vaguely human shaped rug down the sidewalk. If any of Isiah and Derek’s neighbors had heard the ruckus, they didn’t feel it was necessary to get involved. Apparently the neighborhood wasn’t that gentrified yet.
Ike put his finger under the kid’s chin. He raised his head until they were eye to eye.
“What’s your name? You ain’t got a license on you. That was smart,” Ike said. Buddy Lee was shocked at how gentle his voice sounded. It was like he was about to tell the boy a bedtime story.
“Fuck you,” Andy mumbled. Ike pulled his finger away. The boy’s head dropped into his chest. Blood dripped from his mouth and his nose. The wound on his cheek was weeping like a broken-hearted bride. Ike place his hands on the end of the tamper’s handle, then placed his chin on top of his hands.
“You smart. And you got heart, I’ll give you that. But you got to know this ain’t gonna end good for you, right? I mean, you break into the house that belonged to our sons. You try to kill my man over there. You know what that tells me? Either you killed our sons or you know who did,” Ike said. Andy didn’t strain against the zip ties. He used every ounce of his waning strength to raise his head.
“Who sent you to that house?” Ike asked.
Andy spit into Ike’s face. His head dropped back down to his chest. The spittle landed on Ike’s chin. He stood. He wiped his chin, then wiped his hand on his pants.
“Help me take off his boots,” Ike said. Buddy Lee grabbed the kid’s left foot and Ike grabbed the right. They pulled off his boots and tossed them next to the pellet lime. Ike grabbed the tamper. He moved behind Andy. He raised the tamper until the flat square head was parallel with his belt buckle. He brought it down with all his strength. The metal head striking the concrete floor created a cacophony inside the cavernous warehouse. Ike took a position near Andy’s left arm. He slammed the tamper down again. Both Andy and Buddy Lee flinched. Ike moved around Andy like the hands of a clock, each time slamming the tamper down and sending a harsh report through the building.
“Who sent you, boy?” Ike said finally.
Andy flexed his wrists. The zip tie on his left hand was immovable. The one on his right, however, had the tiniest bit of play. The Black guy had looped it through a spindle, then around the armrest, then around his wrist. The spindle was loose. If he put his back into, he could probably break it. Then he could use the chair as a weapon and make a run for it. None of that would happen if this motherfucker smashed his toes.
“A guy sent us. He was looking for info on a girl,” Andy said. Ike stopped moving.
“What guy?” Buddy Lee asked.
“I don’t know. I mean I don’t know his name. He just told us he was looking for a girl that was supposed to be talking to a reporter. He wanted info on where she might be,” Andy said.
He took a deep breath, sending an ache through his chest that made him wince. Ike bent forward. His face was barely an inch from Andy’s.
“You lying to me?” Ike asked.
“No. I swear.”
“What was the girl’s name?” Ike asked.
Andy sighed.
“Tangerine.”
Buddy Lee pulled out the piece of paper. He stared at the drawing, then at the kid in the chair.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. Ike straightened. He went over to where Buddy Lee was leaning against the pallet of mulch. He left the tamper near Andy.
“What is it?”
Buddy Lee showed him the piece of paper.
“I took this off the fridge at the boys’ place. I thought it was an orange, but I suppose it could be a tangerine. But I don’t know what that building is,” Buddy Lee said. Ike thought of the napkins he’d found at the house.
“You think it could be a bar? Maybe Isiah was going to meet this Tangerine girl at a place they hung out a lot?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee pushed off the pallet and turned his back to the kid. He dropped his voice to the bottom of his chest.
“What if she was supposed to meet them and then they got killed? Whoever killed them might be the one who hired Junior over there,” Buddy Lee said.
“He might be the one the kid at the bakery was talking about,” Ike whispered.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“We should lean on him some more. I bet if I smash one of his toes he’ll remember who hired him,” Ike said.
Andy watched them as they turned their backs on him and huddled close.
“What if he don’t give it up?” Buddy Lee asked.
“They always give it up,” Ike said.
Andy raised his head. It was now or never. He strained against the right zip tie. He relaxed, then strained again, this time twisting his upper body and pulling his right arm toward the left.
Ike heard a snap a millisecond before he turned and took a chair to the head. The kid was swinging it like a club. His left wrist was still attached to the armrest. His bare feet hadn’t made a sound on the cool concrete floor. Ike took the full brunt of his swing to the left side of his head. He went down to all fours like he was searching for grains of gold dust.
Andy shoved the chair at the thin white guy. The guy instinctively grabbed the chair legs, and Andy pushed him backward toward the pallet of mulch. Buddy Lee felt his feet slip on the concrete even as he gripped the chair by its legs. His chest rattled and his lungs begged for air. Was he passing out? He wasn’t sure, but the next thing he knew, his ass was on the floor and his hands seemed to go numb. A coughing fit picked the absolute worst time to possess him. The kid pulled the chair out of Buddy Lee’s hands and raised it above his head.
The shadow the chair cast over him was the shadow of death. Buddy Lee felt a desperate surge of adrenaline course through his veins. A huge wad of phlegm escaped his chest at last. Sweet oxygen filled his lungs like ambrosia. Buddy Lee grabbed his jackknife from his back pocket. As the kid swung the chair downward, Buddy Lee rose to one knee. In one smooth motion he flicked the blade out with his thumb and sho
ved the knife in the kid’s belly up to the hilt. The hole in his belly took some of the power out of his swing. Buddy Lee raised his free arm and blocked the blow rather easily. He watched as the kid stumbled backward. He pulled himself off Buddy Lee’s blade. A languid stream of crimson began to pour from the hole in Andy’s gut.
Ike shook his head side to side like a hound dog killing a rat. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the tamper. As the kid stumbled back from Buddy Lee, Ike gripped the handle with a two-handed high choke grip. He swung the tamper like he was sending a pitch into the upper deck. The flat tempered iron connected with the back of the kid’s head with a dull fleshy thump. The kid crumpled to the floor with the chair landing on his chest.
Ike stood over the kid.
His thin lips were quivering like the death throes of some strange woodland creature. The kid had hit him with the chair. He’d tried to kill Buddy Lee. He’d broken into Isiah’s house. He’d spit in Ike’s face. He had probably been lying about some guy hiring him. He probably knew who had killed Isiah. The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head. Hell, he might have even been the one that wrecked the headstone.
“You motherfucker!” Ike screamed. He raised the tamper and slammed it down onto the kid’s head. The skin around the eye socket split and bones beneath shifted. The kid looked like he was having a stroke. Ike raised the tamper again and brought it down with all his strength. His biceps and deltoids worked together with long practiced synchronicity. He’d done this same motion thousands of times. Hundreds of thousands of times. His wide forearms burned as he rammed the tamper into the kid’s face again and again. He felt something wet splash against his face. Bits of bone and teeth flew up from the floor.
“You killed him, didn’t you, motherfucker!” Ike howled. Buddy Lee stood and leaned back against the pallet. His lungs were on fire. The tamper moved up and down relentlessly. It sounded like Ike was leveling out a mud-filled hole.