“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.
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.”
&nbs
p; 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...
Hutson put his hand back on the burner.
“One...............two...............”
Hutson screamed again, searing pain bringing him out of shock. His hand reflexively grabbed the burner, pushing down harder, muscles squeezing, the old burns set aflame again, blistering, popping...
“...............three...............”
Take it off! Take it off! Screaming, eyes squeezed tight, shaking his head like a hound with a fox in his teeth, sounds of cracking skin and sizzling meat...
“...............four...............five...............”
Black smoke, rising, a burning smell, that’s me cooking, muscle melting and searing away, nerves exposed, screaming even louder, pull it away!, using the other hand to hold it down...
“...............six...............seven...............”
Agony so exquisite, so absolute, unending, entire arm shaking, falling to knees, keeping hand on burner, opening eyes and seeing it sear at eye level, turning grey like a well-done steak, meat charring...
“Smells pretty good,” says one of the thugs.
“Like a hamburger.”
“A hand-burger.”
Laughter.
“...............eight...............nine...............”
No flesh left, orange burner searing bone, scorching, blood pumping onto heating coils, beading and evaporating like fat on a griddle, veins and arteries searing...
“........ten!”
Take it off! Take it off!
It’s stuck.
“Look boss, he’s stuck!”
Air whistled out of Hutson’s lungs like a horse whimpering. His hand continued to fry away. He pulled feebly, pain at a peak, all nerves exposed–pull dammit! –blacking out, everything fading...
Hutson awoke on the floor, shaking, with more water in his face.
“Nice job Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie stared down at him. “You followed the agreement. To the letter. You’re off the hook.”
Hutson squinted up at the mobster. The little man seemed very far away.
“Since you’ve been such a sport, I’ve even called an ambulance for you. They’re on their way. Unfortunately, the boys and I won’t be here when it arrives.”
Hutson tried to say something. His mouth wouldn’t form words.
“I hope we can gamble again soon, Mr. Hutson. Maybe we could play a hand or two. Get it? A hand?”
The thugs tittered. Little Louie bent down, close enough for Hutson to smell his cigar breath.
“Oh, there’s one more thing, Mr. Hutson. Looking back on our agreement, I said you had to hold your right hand on the burner for ten seconds. I said you had to follow that request to the letter. But, you know what? I just realized something pretty funny. I never said you had to turn the burner on.”
Little Louie left, followed by his body guards, and Bernard Hutson screamed and screamed and just couldn’t stop.
THE END
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###
“—KILL YOUR DARLINGS—”
I was wiping down the counter with an old shirt rag when he came in. The man in the yellow slicker. I saw him without looking up, drank him in the way my customers downed their Scotch and water. Years of bartending had made me a quick study. Call it survival instinct.
Big guy, woolly Groucho Marx eyebrows, but his nose was small and sharp, more like a hawk's bill than an eagle's beak. He was an easy 6' 2” if he was an inch, and he was at least an inch. He was slouching down into the collar of his slicker, trying to make himself invisible. Fat chance.
He shook off the afternoon rain that had collected on his broad shoulders. Even in the dim light of neon beer signs, I could see his black smoldering eyes roaming over the joint. He wasn't here for the atmosphere, though we had plenty of that. A television in the corner, tuned to a 24-hour sports station, the sound turned down. A row of ragged barstools, their cotton stuffing oozing out from under the vinyl seats. A jukebox by the restrooms, broken down and so old that it featured “The Brand New Hit from Hank Williams!” A couple of regulars slouched in a booth, deep in their cups despite the early hour, whiling away the day until it was time to get down to some serious drinking. And all of that was doubled back in the long, foggy mirror that covered the wall behind the bar, the mirror that had a perfect round hole from a passionate gunshot maybe twenty years ago. He wasn't here for the scenery.
And he wasn't here for the smell. Stale urine laced with crusted vomit that never completely dried, just sort of congealed half-heartedly. The musty smell of the soggy carpet, worn down to the threads or, in places, all the way through to the rough pine planks underneath. The odor of old cigarettes which had seeped so deeply into the walls that you could kill a nicotine craving by chewing on a piece of the peeling wallpaper. And, of course, the grainy smell of every kind of imbibement known to man, at least the stuff that was under twenty bucks a bottle.
No, despite all this decadent splendor, he was here for something besides a blind date with a watered-down slug of rotgut. He was looking for someone. He walked across the floor to the chipped bar and sat down in front of me.
“What's your pleasure?” I asked, still not looking up, rubbing on a cigarette burn I had been working over for a few weeks.
“Business is my pleasure,” he said, his voice husky and raw, his throat a clearinghouse for phlegm and bitterness—
“Honey, time to go to work,” my wife called from the kitchen. She put up with my writing, humored my foolish ambitions, and served as a whimsical sounding board for my evolving plots. She even let me use our apartment's overgrown pantry as a study. At least my new hobby kept me at home, unlike my earlier flings with surfboarding and collecting Civil war relics. My writing was fine with her, as long as the bills were paid.
I gulped down the gritty dregs of my coffee and looked at my wristwatch. “Coming, dear.”
I left Marco in the middle of his story, along with the guy with the raincoat. I thought of him as “Fred,” but that would probably change to something more noble and tough, like “Roman.” Yeah, Roman would work just fine. Roman would be looking for his wife, who had run off in the middle of the night with his best friend. Naw, that was too banal—
“Honey!”
“Okay, I'm really coming.” I hit the “save” button on the word processor and jogged out of the study and into the kitchen and gave Karen a husbandly peck on the cheek. I turned before going out the door. “Be home this evening?”
“No, I've got to pick up Susanne after her soccer and then I've got a fundraiser meeting at the library.”
“Then I'll grab a burger on the way back in.”
“No, you're going to heat up the pot roast and microwave some potatoes for us.”
“Oh, yeah. Bye. Love you.”
I was two minutes late at the magazine stand where I worked. I liked the job. From my position at the register, I had a clear view of the street, and the company was good, mostly educated people who actually relished honest differences of opinion. And it was great place for scoping out characters, finding faces that I could press into the two-dimensional world of fiction.
Henry, the store owner, gave me a little ribbing about being late, but he was never in a hurry to be relieved. I tried to picture his life outside the shop, but when my imagi
nation followed him down the street, with a couple of newspapers tucked under his pudgy elbow, my imagination always gave out when he turned the corner. He was like a minor character who served his plot purpose and then dutifully shuffled off the page.
I restocked a few monthlies and had to rotate a couple of the afternoon editions that had just rolled off the presses. One of my favorite parts of the job was getting to smell the fresh paper and ink. I'd open a box of magazines or comic books and take a big relaxing sniff, like one of those turtlenecked actors “savoring the aroma” of a cup of expensive French roast.
To me, words on paper were magic: entire universes lined up in neat rows on the bookshelves, filled with heroes and heroines that dared to dream; fantastic voyages to the outermost edges of the cosmos or the inner depths of the mind; unthinkable horrors and profound rhapsodies; the vast revelations of consciousness, all for cover price and tax.
I was arranging the cigar showcase when Harriett Weatherspoon came in. She had parked her poodle by the door, and it pressed the black dot of its nose against the glass.
“Hello, Sil,” she said, in her canary voice.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Weatherspoon. What will it be today?”
“I think I'll just browse through the bestsellers today.”
“We've got the new Michele McMartin in. And probably a R.C. Adams or two. Seems like they come out every couple of months nowadays.”
“Now, Sil, you know those are ghost-written. They come out of one of those prose-generating computer programs I read about in Writer's Digest.”
“Million-sellers all. What does that say about the state of literacy today?”
“Charles Dickens is rolling over in his grave.”
“Along with the ghosts of several Christmases.”
Mrs. Weatherspoon bought a paperback and a couple of nature magazines and went out into the bright spring afternoon. She stopped at the door and unhitched her poodle's leash, and for a split-second, I thought she was going to hop on the little varmint and ride off into the sunset. But she wrapped the leash around her wrist and went down the sidewalk, chin-first.
I was watching her slip into the human stream when I saw the man in the raincoat. He stood out from the crowd because the coat was canary yellow and also because the day was sunny and warm, with not a cloud above the skyline. Unexpected showers occasionally blew in off the coast, but most of the other pedestrians needed only an umbrella in their armpit for security. The raincoat-wearer was on the edge of a meaty crush at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and in the next moment he was gone.
Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set Page 30