“Reckon so.”
“It’s just as well,” Herman said. “That fellow didn’t have any sense of pride nor place. Just look at that fence post up yonder, leaning like a Thursday drunk.”
Bud looked at the fence at 107 Oakdale, then at the construction site. “Going to get real crowded around here soon.”
“They call it ‘progress,’ I reckon.”
“Well, let me know if you remember anything. I got to get on to the real cases, not make garbage runs for Tennessee.” Bud started to the sidewalk, back to the white picket gate and his patrol car.
“Don’t lose no sleep over him,” Herman called after Bud, over the rumble of the earth machines. “To run out on a mortgage like that, and to leave the place in such a mess, it goes to show he had no respect.”
Bud stopped at the gate. “You said ‘had,’ Herman. Past tense.”
“He’s past tense to me. We don’t need people like that around, them who think their way is the only way.”
Bud nodded and lifted his hand in a half-wave, then climbed into his cruiser and eased up the street.
The red-headed girl passed in the other lane on her bicycle, the shaggy mutt running down the street after her, barking and snapping at the bike’s rear tire. That dog wasn’t as bad as its former master. At least the dog had a sense of territory. And it kept its bones buried.
Herman looked once more at the construction site, the men in their hard hats milling around the loud machines. The cement would be hard by sundown. New neighbors on the way. More barbarians at the gate. But, for now, the fences were mended and order restored.
He went into his garage to clean his tools.
THE AGREEMENT
By J.A. Konrath
Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.
“I’ll see it.”
The mobster pushed more chips into the pile. He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal, because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet. Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.
If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.
Little Louie always brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.
Thirty thousand defied the imagination.
Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.
Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.
One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.
Scary guys.
Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.
A five.
That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.
“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde moustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.
Little Louie raised him.
“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.
“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”
The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.
“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”
“I’m good for it.”
Hutson borrowed another five hundred and asked for the cards to be shown.
Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a full house.
Hutson threw up on the table.
“I take it I won,” grinned Little Louie, his cheeks brightening like a maniacal elf.
Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.
“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing full well that he couldn’t.
“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”
Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of confusion. “What boss?”
“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the money he owes me.”
Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and bringing it to Hutson.
Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at Rocko, then at Little Louie again.
“What do you mean?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?”
“You said…”
“I said you have an hour to get the money. I didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring it here.”
Hutson felt sick again.
“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”
The thugs giggled again.
“I…I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson stammered.
“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy can bring the money.”
“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”
Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest and belched.
“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have fifty-five minutes left.”
Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand, and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.
Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone else.”
Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of his neck, and dialled another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores. They broke up last month. Badly.
A man answered.
“Can I speak to Dolores?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Hutson.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real important.”
Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.
“Dolores, this is Hutson.”
“What do you want?”
“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt and…”
She hung up on him before he got any farther.
Hutson squeezed his e
yes shut. Thirty thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?
Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on the sixth ring.
“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me.”
“How much money?”
“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five minutes.”
There was a lengthy pause.
“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”
“Mom…”
“You can’t keep expecting me and your father to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”
Hutson mopped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll never gamble again.”
An eternity of silence passed.
“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son. A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”
“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt me!”
“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this, you’ll have to get yourself out.”
“Mom! Please!”
The phone went dead.
“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”
Hutson cradled his face in his hands and tried to fight back a sob. He lost. He was going to be hurt. He was going to be very badly hurt, over a long period of time. And no one was going to help him.
“Please,” he said, in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Just give me a day or two. I’ll get the money.”
Little Louie shook his head. “That ain’t the deal. You agreed to the terms, and those terms were to the letter. You still have half an hour. See who else you can call.”
Hutson brushed away his tears and stared at the phone, praying for a miracle. Then he had an idea.
He called the police.
He dialled 911, then four more numbers so it looked like it was a normal call. A female officer answered.
“Chicago Police Department.”
“This is Hutson. This is a matter of life and death. Bring 30,000 dollars over to 1357 Ontario, apartment 506.”
“Sir, crank calls on the emergency number is a crime, punishable by a fine of five hundred dollars and up to thirty days in prison.”
“Listen to me. Please. They want to kill me.”
“Who does, sir?”
“These guys. It’s a gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me. Get over here.”
“Sir, having already explained the penalty for crank calls…”
The phone was ripped from Hutson’s hands by Rocko and handed to Little Louie.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Little Louie hung up and waggled a finger at Hutson. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Hutson. After all, you had agreed to my terms.”
Hutson began to cry. He cried like a first grader with a skinned knee. He cried for a long time, before finally getting himself under control.
“It’s time.” Little Louie glanced at his watch and smiled. “Start with his fingers.”
“Please don’t hurt me…”
Rocko and the other thug moved in. Hutson dodged them and got on his knees in front of Little Louie.
“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Anything at all. Name it. Just name it. But please don’t hurt me.”
“Hold it boys.” Little Louie raised his palm. “I have an idea.”
A small ray of hope penetrated Hutson.
“Anything. I’ll do anything.”
Little Louie took out a long, thin cigarillo and nipped off the end, swallowing it.
“There was a guy, about six years ago, who was in the same situation you’re in now.”
He put the end of the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around on his fat, gray tongue.
“This guy also said he would do anything, just so I didn’t hurt him. Remember that fellas?”
Both bodyguards nodded.
“He finally said, what he would do, is put his hand on a stove burner for ten seconds. He said he would hold his own hand on the burner, for ten whole seconds.”
Little Louie produced a gold Dunhill and lit the cigar, rolling it between his chubby fingers while drawing hard.
“He only lasted seven, and we had to hurt him anyway.” Little Louie sucked on the stogie, and blew out a perfect smoke ring. “But I am curious to see if it could be done. The whole ten seconds.”
Little Louie looked at Hutson, who was still kneeling before him.
“If you can hold your right hand on a stove burner for ten seconds, Mr. Hutson, I’ll relieve you of your debt and you can leave without anyone hurting you.”
Hutson blinked several times. How hot did a stove burner get? How seriously would he be hurt?
Not nearly as much as having thirty thousand dollars worth of damage inflicted upon him.
But a stove burner? Could he force himself to keep his hand on it for that long?
Did he have any other choice?
“I’ll do it.”
Little Louie smiled held out a hand to help Hutson to his feet.
“Of course, if you don’t do it, the boys will still have to work you over. You understand.”
Hutson nodded, allowing himself to be led into the kitchen.
The stove was off-white, a greasy Kenmore, with four electric burners. The heating elements were each six inches in diameter, coiled into spirals like a whirlpool swirl. They were black, but Hutson knew when he turned one on it would glow orange.
Little Louie and his bodyguards stepped behind him to get a better look.
“It’s electric,” noted Rocko.
Little Louie frowned. “The other guy used a gas stove. His sleeve caught on fire. Remember that?”
The thugs giggled. Hutson picked the lower left hand burner and turned it on the lowest setting.
Little Louie wasn’t impressed.
“Hey, switch it up higher than that.”
“You didn’t say how high it had to be when we made the agreement.” Hutson spoke fast, relying on the mobster’s warped sense of fairness. “Just that I had to keep it on for ten seconds.”
“It was inferred it would be on the hottest.”
“I can put it on low and still follow the deal to the letter.”
Little Louie considered this, then nodded.
“You’re right. You’re still following it to the letter. Leave it on low then.”
It didn’t matter, because already the burner was fiery orange. Rocko leaned over and spat on it, and the saliva didn’t even have a chance to drip through the coils before sizzling away and evaporating.
“I think it’s hot,” Rocko said.
Hutson stared at the glowing burner. He held his trembling hand two inches above it. The heat was excruciating. Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the hair above his knuckles curled and he fought the little voice in his brain that screamed get your hand away!
“Well, go ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold pocket watch. “I’ll start when you do. Ten whole seconds.”
“Sweet Jesus in heaven help me,” thought Hutson.
He bit his lip and slapped his hand down on to the burner.
There was an immediate frying sound, like bacon in a pan. The pain was instant and searing. Hutson screamed and screamed, the coils burning away the skin on his palm, burning into the flesh, blistering and bubbling, melting the muscle and fat, Hutson screaming louder now, smoke starting to rise, Little Louie sounding off the seconds, a smell like pork chops filling Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond intense, screaming so high there wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it there anymore, Jesus no more no more and…
Hutson yanked his hand from the burner, trembling, feeling faint, clutching his right hand at the wrist and stumbling to the sink, turning on the cold water, putting his charred hand under it, losing consciousness, everything going black.
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He woke up lying on the floor, the pain in his hand a living thing, his mouth bleeding from biting his lower lip. His face contorted and he yelled from the anguish.
Little Louie stood over him, holding the pocket watch. “That was only seven seconds.”
Hutson’s scream could have woken the dead. It was full of heart-wrenching agony and fear and disgust and pity. It was the scream of the man being interrogated by the Gestapo. The scream of the woman having a Caesarean without anaesthetic. The scream of a father in a burning, wrecked car turning to see his baby on fire.
The scream of a man without hope.
“Don’t get upset.” Little Louie offered him a big grin. “I’ll let you try it again.”
The thugs hauled Hutson to his feet, and he whimpered and passed out. He woke up on the floor again, choking. Water had been thrown in his face.
Little Louie shook his head, sadly. “Come on Mr. Hutson. I haven’t got all day. I’m a busy man. If you want to back out, the boys can do their job. I want to warn you though, a thirty grand job means we’ll put your face on one of these burners, and that would just be the beginning. Make your decision.”
Hutson got to his feet, knees barely able to support him, breath shallow, hand hurting worse than any pain he had ever felt. He didn’t want to look at it, found himself doing it anyway, and stared at the black, inflamed flesh in a circular pattern on his palm. Hardly any blood. Just raw, exposed, gooey cooked muscle where the skin had fried away.
Hutson bent over and threw up.
“Come on, Mr. Hutson. You can do it. You came so close, I’d hate to have to cripple you permanently.”
Hutson tried to stagger to the door to get away, but was held back before he took two steps.
“The stove is over here, Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie’s black rat eyes sparkled like polished onyx.
Rocko steered Hutson back to the stove. Hutson stared down at the orange glowing burner, blackened in several places where parts of his palm had stuck and cooked to cinder. The pain was pounding. He was dazed and on the verge of passing out again. He lifted his left hand over the burner.
“Nope. Sorry Mr. Hutson. I specifically said it had to be your right hand. You have to use your right hand, please.”
Could he put his right hand on that burner again? Hutson didn’t think he could, in his muddied, agony-spiked brain. He was sweating and cold at the same time, and the air swam around him. His body shook and trembled. If he were familiar with the symptoms, Hutson might have known he was going into shock. But he wasn’t a doctor, and he couldn’t think straight anyway, and the pain, oh Jesus, the awful pain, and he remembered being five years old and afraid of dogs, and his grandfather had a dog and made him pet it, and he was scared, so scared that it would bite, and his grandfather grabbed his hand and put it toward the dog’s head…
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