by Bob Sanchez
As soon as he closed the door behind him, he knew he wasn’t alone. He heard a muffled noise from his den, and something—or someone—stunk. A shiver iced his back, and he wished he had the gun he kept in his bedroom. As he took a step backward, something cracked sharply against the back of his head. Between his ears a neon sign pulsated with dull red letters. As he fell to his knees, he tried to make out what the sign said, but the letters kept changing shape and color. Funeral. Durgin. Home. Mack Durgin’s Funeral Home? On a distant television ad, someone seemed to be saying, I’m not only the president, I’m a customer. The red letters became green, yellow, purple, nausea, black. “Wake him up.”
Bright light washed Mack’s face. He squeezed his eyes, but the light filled his skull anyway. Hot pain seared his head. There were several voices. Someone was called Diet Cola. There was someone named Frosty, an Elvis, a Zippy and an Ace. Some guy with skull art triggered a vague memory involving a bra and a pistol. Ace and Frosty sounded familiar, echoes from his police career. Elvis was dead, though; he had to be. His face was on a postage stamp.
“Wake up, merry sunshine!” A hand smacked his face. Mack opened his eyes and saw the owner of the hand—and the source of the smell. It—he—had enormous bulk and a stupid grin. He had a round face and double chin with heavy black stubble, sunken eyes, dirty ponytail down to his shoulders. His t-shirt had yellow armpit stains, and if he had a neck, Mack couldn’t see it.
“Who the hell are you?” Mack asked.
“Robin Hood.”
“That’s not his name, he’s Diet Cola.” Mack recognized Frosty’s voice. Diet backhanded Ace, who staggered and grabbed his nose with both hands.
“Ow! That was my brother said that.”
Mack wobbled to his feet. “Get out of my house. Everybody out.”
Diet Cola punched him in the gut. Mack staggered backwards and collapsed onto his living-room couch.
“What do you want here, Mister Cola?”
“Mister. People only call me that when they want to sell me something or they’re scared shitless. And I’m thinkin’ you have nothing to sell.” Diet Cola spoke with a strong Boston accent. Had the two men crossed paths before? Mack was sure he would have remembered this one.
“I sure want to cooperate with you. Tell me what I can do.”
“Mister Cola. That’s like a lullaby, man.”
“Certainly, Mister Cola. How about I get you gentlemen something to eat? Or a drink? Want a beer?”
“You don’t have anything.”
“Sure I do. I shopped yesterday.” Mack tried to ignore the pain as he staggered into the kitchen. There were empty cartons and dried egg yolk on the counter, dirty dishes and cracked eggshells in the sink. A glob of grape jelly stuck to the counter like a bruise. Inside the fridge were three leaves of iceberg lettuce and an unopened stick of butter. Nothing else. In the freezer, the ice cream and the ready-made pizza were gone. He grabbed a fistful of ice cubes and held them to the back of his head. They didn’t help.
Zippy—Mack remembered him more clearly now—held up the degree that Mack had dropped on the living-room floor. “The fuck is this?”
Mack ignored him.
“A degree,” Frosty said. He took the parchment from Zippy and looked at it with apparent reverence. “I got one of them.” Frosty went to college? Mack’s head throbbed still harder.
Ace looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Doctor of Life Experience,” he said. “Holy crap!”
“You people didn’t just drop by here for a snack,” Mack said. “If you’re here to rob me, you picked the wrong house.”
Diet Cola’s nostrils flared, his mouth tightened, and his eyes narrowed to slits. Blood vessels bulged in his temples. His fists opened and closed as though looking for an excuse to strike. Mack’s mouth went dry.
What was that smell that made Mack’s eyes water? Limburger? Sun-drenched garbage? It came from Diet Cola. There were no flies around him; they all must have gone into toxic shock. Mack had to find a way to take control.
“Now what is it you guys want?” Mack spoke directly to Diet Cola.
“You’ve got an urn, and I’ve got pliers.”
“I do? You do?”
“Don’t play Mickey the Dunce on me. It has jewelry in it, plus some ashes and other shit.” He pronounced it joolery.
They were after the urn? What the hell for? “Well, you’ve had a chance to look around. If I owned an urn, wouldn’t you have found it?”
“Your parents FedExed it to you. What’d you do with it?”
“You’re misinformed, Mister Cola.”
“That’s too bad. If you don’t have my urn, then you’ll have to meet a friend of mine.” Diet Cola reached into his back pocket with his left hand. His right one, Mack noticed, was gauze-wrapped and gimpy.
Diet Cola held up a pair of needle-nosed pliers up to the light. “Meet Mister Truth.”
“Whaddya do with that, Diet?” Frosty asked. “Pick your nose?”
Mack expected Frosty to pay heavily for the insult, but Diet Cola paid no attention. “Mister Truth here has a question for you, Durgin.” The pliers opened and closed in Diet Cola’s hands like the beak of a hungry mechanical bird. Mister Truth’s voice was B-movie robotic. “Where—is—the—urn?”
What was the harm in telling this psychotic thug that the urn was in his trunk? They’d find it soon enough anyway, and George wouldn’t know the difference when his ashes were unceremoniously dumped. But Mack would.
Diet Cola rapped Mack’s knuckles.
“You got a hearing problem? My friend asked you a question.”
“This urn, what’s it look like?”
“Don’t bullshit me, what’s it look like. You got thirty seconds before Mister Truth starts pulling out your fingernails.” Ace and Frosty’s eyes widened. Even Zippy and Elvis looked uncertain.
Mack waited.
Once he found the urn, Diet Cola would see for himself that it was a container of ashes and the odds and ends his mother might have dropped in there. Dad had told him about Mom’s quirk, one of many she’d begun to collect in her old age.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.” Mister Truth squawked. “Pain time!” Diet Cola clamped the pliers down hard on Mack’s left thumb. Pain rocketed through Mack’s arm, ricocheted off his brain and raced back out to where it came from. His body went rigid.
The metal tips gripped the thumbnail top and bottom. Blood was already dripping onto the floor. “The—truth—or—the—nail.”
“Don’t do this,” Mack said, keeping his voice steady. “I’m warning you.”
Diet Cola shrugged, his eyes full of malignant innocence. “Hey, don’t look at me. This is between you and Mister Truth.”
Diet Cola ripped out a chunk of thumbnail, making Mack’s entire body shake. “Stop!” he said. “Stop!”
“Kind of a messy job, Mister Truth. You tore that one in half.”
Diet Cola swung the pliers back toward his own face. Blood dripped from the torn nail as a deep guttural noise came from his throat, his sick imitation of talking pliers. “You—got—a—problem—with—my—work—Mister—Cola?”
“Hey, you know your business, Mister Truth. I’m sure the next nail will come out in one piece.”
Mack felt dizzy from the raging pain. Ace wobbled and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Elvis tried to light a cigarette, but his hands shook so badly that he dropped his lighter on Ace. Frosty ran toward the kitchen, looking like he was going to upchuck a hairball.
“Don’t you think—” Mack’s jaw trembled.
“I think I got three pussies on my team. I also think I gotta lay a loaf. Zippy, you hold onto Mister Truth for a minute while I hit the head. If Durgin talks before I get back, you get a bonus.”
“Don’t,” Mack whispered to Zippy. “Please don’t.”
“Half the pot. The pussy boys get nothing.”
“Sounds fair,” Zippy said, but did Mack detect a hopeful sliver of doubt? The pliers’ tips
opened wide, and Mack flinched. “How come you’d hold onto that much money?”
“You’re smart, Zippy,” Mack said. “If I had ten grand, it would be in the bank. But I don’t.”
“You’re a liar,” Diet Cola called out from the bathroom. “Pull ‘em, Zippy. Earn your keep and we’ll keep the urn.”
Zippy clamped down on Mack’s thumb. Mack didn’t want George’s ashes dumped like so much garbage, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. “I could, you know. I’m not like those two kids Ace and Frosty.”
Mack and Zippy locked eyes. “Prison, Zippy. You ever been?”
“I pulled five in Kingman.”
Diet Cola clamped a large hand on Zippy’s shoulder. “You better pull five while I’m on the crapper,” he said, “or I don’t need you.”
Zippy gnashed his teeth like a wild dog. “Just shut up,” he yelled. “I’ll do it when I’m good and ready. Right now we’re talking.”
“Kingman,” Mack whispered, “Was it the most fun you ever had?” Zippy shook his head. Ace and Frosty looked as though they had lost their lunch and had no desire to find it. Elvis combed his hair.
“Your friend’s mistaken. Whatever you’ve already found, that’s all I have. If you torture me, you’ll all do hard time.”
“We don’t even want to do soft time,” Frosty whined. “We’re just thieves.”
Ace squirmed and cracked his knuckles. “I don’t want to do time.”
Elvis smoothed out his silk pants with his hands. “I can’t do time either. I have my music career to think of.”
Diet Cola came out of the bathroom, waving his arms in disgust. “You guys are pathetic. Let me show you my patented method for getting assholes to talk.”
Frosty’s voice squeaked. “Flush first, then take a shower. Your stink is rotting Elvis’s jacket.”
Mack expected Diet Cola to crush Frosty with his fist, but Diet Cola laughed instead. “I don’t need a shower.”
“Suit yourself,” Mack said. “There’s clean towels and plenty of soap.”
Zippy looked like he was going to be sick. “There’s not enough soap in the world,” he mumbled.
Diet Cola turned sharply and clamped his good hand on Zippy’s neck. Everyone stopped in mid-breath as though they were in a single frame in a movie where the reel had stuck. Zippy began shaking and dropped the pliers next to Mack. Frosty let out a faint yelp. “You calling me dirty?”
“No, man, I—”
“’cause if you’re calling me dirty, I’m calling you dead. Frosty can say what he wants ‘cause he’s funny. You can’t ‘cause you’re not. Now what did you say?”
Zippy’s face turned beet-red, and his eyes bulged. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. Diet Cola’s right arm dangled, and Mack calculated his survival odds if he were to grab that bad hand and twist. Without looking down, he nudged the pliers toward himself with his foot. “Hey, don’t hurt the guy. He said I was the biggest dope in the world.”
Diet Cola smiled. “Fuckin-A right about that one. Now I’ve gotta finish my meeting.” Zippy gasped for breath as Diet Cola released his grip and headed for the bathroom with Mack’s gun in his hand. The bathroom door stayed open. Rude noises followed.
Mack stood up quickly, pliers in hand.
“Get out of my way,” Mack said, walking to the front door. Zippy stepped back, looking in no mood to argue. Frosty looked relieved. Elvis looked ready for his casting call. “Ace, you come with me. Everybody else, stay where you are.”
Mack held the door for Ace, and they stepped out to the front walkway. “You’re the only one in there with a brain,” Mack said, exaggerating. “What the hell is going on here, anyway?”
“Frosty and me don’t want to pull your fingernails, honest to God. Diet Cola just told us you have something’ll make us rich.”
“You came all the way out here to rob me? What a waste of time. There’s no urn, no money, no girl.”
“We saw the girl, Mister Durgin. She’s a hot one.”
“Touch her and you’re toast, Ace. Pass the word.”
A roar erupted from inside the house. “What did you do with him, for chrissake?” Diet Cola bellowed inside the house. Elvis and Frosty watched out the window. “I’m going to hit you,” Mack said, “but not hard. Fall on the ground like you’re in agony.” Mack pulled his punch as promised, and Ace went down on cue. Mack jumped into his car. Ace moaned and writhed as everyone else stumbled out the front door. Mack’s tires crunched as he backed out of his gravel driveway.
“All right, dipshits.” Diet Cola drove the stolen van down the Interstate, heading east toward Tombstone, maintaining the speed limit to avoid notice by the police. Ace, Frosty, Zippy and Elvis all lay behind the back seat, holding various body parts. Diet had punched Ace in the nose and Frosty in the gut. He’d slammed Elvis against a wall and kicked Zippy in the nuts so hard they could have come out the top of his head. “Stop crying, dipshits. Listen up. You are the sorriest bunch of losers I’ve ever seen. I could kill you all for letting Mack Durgin go. I probably should. Why I don’t is you’re all so bad you’ve got nothing you can possibly do except improve. There’s money to be made, dipshits, and you’ve got two choices. You can stick with me and get rich, or you can leave with a bullet between the eyes. Sounds like a no-brainer, huh, Zippy?” Diet Cola laughed and fired a round through the van’s roof. “How you make a sunroof, man. You wet your pants again, Ace? No? Bladder’s finally empty?” The pliers sat between his legs on the front seat. “These guys think I stink, but I say I’m fine. What d’you think, Mister Truth?”
“You—smell—great. Let—me—sniff—your—pits.”
“I dunno, man. That’s an honor gotta be earned. You disappointed me back there.”
“Zippy’s—fault—not—mine.”
“No, man. Zippy’s crap, I didn’t expect much from him. You, you’re hand-crafted steel. You could poke through a heart, snap a rib, pick fingernails like they were grapes. So what did you do, you gave Durgin a fucking boo-boo and let him go.”
“Not—my—fault.”
“No excuses, dude. I think I may have to make an example of you, what happens when I’m disappointed.” Then to the passengers he said, “Job one is we avoid the cops Durgin must have called. Guy’s a pussy who can’t fight his own battles. I’ll get us some food first place I find open, then I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do.”
Mack’s bandaged thumb throbbed as he sat next to a police sergeant’s desk and filed his complaint. “These gentlemen shouldn’t be hard to spot,” the officer said. “Relax, we’ll get them for you.” Unless I get them myself, Mack thought.
The house felt unfit to stay in that night. Mack stopped at an all-night café and washed down two Tylenol with bitter black coffee, then headed east at two in the morning with windows rolled down, country music turned up, stars winking through breaks in the clouds. Warm desert air calmed his nerves. His headlights illuminated fleeting images of cactus and fencing along the roadside, and he wondered at the dangers of the nighttime desert. In the cup holder was a bottle of spring water; he reached for it and took a long sip. Maybe he could see Cal one more time before she left for the coast and disappeared from his life forever. He couldn’t wake her, not at this hour, but he knew where she was staying in Tombstone. By dawn he’d be dead tired, but if he parked his car behind hers, she would have to see him before she left. He could take her to breakfast and vent a little, and he could soak up her soothing smile.