“Wallet, motherfucker,” was all the kid who was a head shorter than Murello needed to say. When Murello just looked at him, the other two leaned in.
“C’mon, asshole, give us your fuckin’ wallet. Don’t be no hero.” They were so close to his face their spittle hit him. Murello still didn’t move or say anything. The biggest one, still an inch or so shorter than Murello but at least thirty pounds heavier, was used to people freezing up because they were afraid. But he didn’t see fear in Murello’s eyes. The short one hit Murello in the gut, hard. Murello hunched from the blow, but straightened up immediately.
“Teach this motherfucka a lesson,” the big one said. He hit Murello hard in the face, one of the rings on his hand cutting Murello’s eyebrow and drawing blood, the back of his head making a hollow thud against the brick. The three waited, knowing they could just take the wallet but wanting him to give it up.
At that moment, Murello was coming to a realization. He wasn’t afraid. He understood what was happening and he knew there was going to be pain. There already was pain. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that no one take advantage of him. He looked at his attackers with clarity. The fist hitting his jaw hurt, the blood dripping into his eye stung, and the throbbing in the back of his head was probably a concussion. But when he looked into the eyes of the one who struck him, he smiled. Murello could see behind the man’s eyes – the surprise, and then the fear. Looking at the largest of his attackers, he twisted his shoulder and put all his energy into his left hand shooting up and into the throat of the small one still holding him by his jacket. Murello’s fist made hard contact with the Adam’s apple, and the grip on his jacket was gone. The shorter man lurched back, making a gurgling sound, finding his throat with both hands. His two friends’ gazes followed him as the young man dropped to his knees, fighting for breath. Murello still looked at the largest man. He knew hitting someone in the throat like that could kill them, blocking the flow of air by crushing the windpipe. Murello didn’t know anything about martial arts but had seen enough movies. His punch had been luckier than he expected, and the man toppled to his side and began to convulse. The largest attacker looked back at Murello. A real tough guy would have beaten the shit out of Murello, not caring about his dying friend. But this was more than the other two had counted on. Murello was flush, but calm. No one moved for a minute, only the sound of the man on the ground trying to suck air. Murello reached into his back pocket, and moving his eyes from his would-be attackers, he pulled out his wallet. Taking whatever bills were in it, he flicked them toward the largest man. As a small wad of fives and tens fluttered to the ground, Murello indifferently turned his back and walked away. No one followed him.
Chapter Six
Roddy Kleeg stood by the coffee maker with a stirrer in one hand and his World’s Greatest Uncle mug in the other. He was stirring the coffee even though he had forgotten to add any creamer or sugar. Roddy was frequently distracted. Usually it was by something like the hot Asian chick in the cube next to him. Hard to believe she could have a masters from Cal Poly and such a great ass. He’d been working up enough nerve to ask her out for three weeks, ever since she was moved out of Logistics and over to his area in Design. They both were working on the XL project, the reusable sub-orbital flyer that was going to replace the space shuttle. Things had heated up since the second big failure by those nimrods over at NASA. Jeez, how many crews can you burn up before someone figures out you’re incompetent? he thought. Apparently, the answer was two since the explosion of the Columbia. But this isn’t what had Roddy distracted today. He had missed his deadline. That hot little bitch Helen had come on to him at the gym a week ago, pretending to be impressed with his triceps press-downs. She had even asked him to show her how to do it. Roddy was scrawny in the way someone who ate too many Oreos and not enough meat and vegetables as a kid was scrawny. He had never outgrown looking like the engineer he was. Pale skin that rarely saw daylight. Thinning black hair he kept a little long because he thought it was hip, knobby knees highlighting veined legs covered with a mat of black hair, and slightly rounded shoulders that reduced him from 5” 10’ to a couple inches shorter. And a little belly. By ironic contrast, Roddy had one physical anomaly – his triceps, the muscles on the back of his arms, were unusually large. It might just have been because the biceps on the other side, meant to balance the muscles of the arm, were so inordinately skinny, almost non-existent, and the contrast gave the impression of size. His forearms were so pathetically emaciated that if he’d wanted to get a tattoo it would have to be a snake or worm. But for whatever reason, he knew his triceps stood out. So he worked them hard, figuring you should go with your strengths. He was completely unaware of the snickers at the gym from even the most mundane of exercisers who recognized the foolishness of Roddy’s regimen. Maybe more effort balancing out his sad little body would go further toward his goal of being a magnet for women like his hot new Asian cube-mate. But that thought never occurred to Roddy. He favored short-sleeve dress shirts at work so he could be sure to proudly display his manliness. He even went so far as to roll the sleeves up a couple of turns until his supervisor pointed out – a little loudly in front of others in the cafeteria, Roddy thought – that all he needed was a pack of cigarettes and he’d be James Dean. Roddy had unrolled the sleeves but starting wearing a shirt one size smaller. He didn’t notice this made his paunch more noticeable.
He thought of Helen and his stomach knotted for a second. Man, she was hot, though. Perfect little ass, tits standing right out, mouth that he just wanted to kiss and then push her head down between his legs. He got a woody just touching her arm to show her how to do the exercise. But the bitch had been lying. When they went to the juice bar afterwards, she laid the whole thing out. Helen had smiled, put her hand on his arm – which he tensed so she could feel how strong his triceps were – and looked at him with that wide smile of hers. She put a photograph, a Polaroid, on the bar. He looked at it and saw it was his two giggling nieces, Josie and Karen. They were twins, and he could never really tell them apart. They were sixteen. The picture was taken at the mall. They were pointing at a directory listing all the stores in the enormous complex. Next to them was a man, tall and thin, oddly dressed. He seemed lost and the girls were straightening him out about where the best haberdasher in the mall could be found or something. Roddy could tell from the girls’ expressions they thought this man was funny, not in a ha-ha way but in the way you would tease and say something derogatory after he walked away. The girls wouldn’t do that, though. They were exemplars of “sweet sixteen.” Roddy’s brother, who got all the good genes and had passed them down to the girls, made sure they treated everyone with respect, including their homely uncle Roddy. The girls were no doubt helping the man find an answer to whatever question he had posed.
Roddy’s quick look at the picture was over. He looked back up at Helen.
“Huh? What’s this?”
Helen fingered the picture with a bright-red lacquered nail, just the kind that played prominently in many of Roddy’s fantasies.
“Look closely.”
Still confused, and still hoping this would somehow lead to him getting laid, Roddy squinted down at the picture. Then he saw it. The man was sideways to whoever was taking the picture. His left side, facing the camera, was away from where the girls stood. In his left hand, held flat against his leg, was a long, shiny object. The word that came to Roddy’s mind was “stiletto.”
“You’re going to make a copy of the wing design for the XL and email it to me. You’ll do it by Wednesday morning. If I don’t have it then, one of the girls dies. Doesn’t matter to me which one.”
Roddy looked up again from the picture. He almost threw up in her lap. Stars were starting to enter his vision, little clusters of light. Helen squeezed his arm, hard, and it hurt.
“Roddy, I’m not fucking with you. Make a copy on a thumb drive, bring it home, and email it from there to cover your tracks. If you don’t, I’ll
bring you Josie’s tongue, or maybe Karen’s. Wednesday.”
She let go of his arm and patted his cheek. She pulled a red marker out of her purse and took Roddy’s limp hand. His eyes were focused on her lips, thinking now of the words coming out of them instead of what they would taste like. Helen pulled his hand up to her mouth and licked his palm. It felt like a cat, warm and rough. She wrote something on his palm with the pen.
“Don’t lose it, and don’t forget. Wednesday at 9 a.m. If you tell anyone, they both die. Then you. No cops, no friends, not your brother. No one.”
She dropped his hand and leaned forward. A small kiss on the forehead. Then she got up and walked out of the juice bar. Roddy looked at his hand. She had written: [email protected]. Roddy wretched but nothing came out.
That was two days ago, on Monday. Still stirring his coffee, Roddy thought about his decision this morning. He wasn’t going to risk his friggin’ job just because some tightass bitch and her freaky boyfriend were playing a stupid extortion game they’d seen in the movies. He’d worked hard to get on this primo project. He may not be a great asskisser like the guys who passed him up to become supervisors, but he had the smarts and savvy to be a key player. If he lost that, he’d be banished to some shithole company engineering the next generation of drawer rollers for office filing cabinets or something. No hot chicks there, no cachet of saying he worked on top-secret, cool stuff that would inevitably lead him to some serious booty calls despite his dismal record so far. Fuck that. The girls could take care of themselves. His brother had taught them to stay away from strangers and Roddy was sure this whole thing was bullshit. He flapped his arms a little so his triceps made a smacking sound against his torso, absently spilling some coffee as he made the unconscious gesture that boosted his confidence. Screw her, he thought again, though there remained a small but irreducible gnawing feeling in his gut. He brushed the drops of coffee off his shirt and headed back to his cubicle, going the long way around so he could catch a good look at Cindy Hou on his way.
Chapter Seven
Helen and Crawford sat in the Lexus with the engine running and the AC on low, balancing the escalating heat outside. Mid-day in the Valley, even in the fall, was hot. The car was parked on a modest residential street about a mile from downtown Pasadena. The homes were small but well kept. Roddy Kleegs’ lawn was trimmed with a small flowerbed by the front steps. Helen knew it was tended by Roddy on the weekends, since Alzheimer’s confined his mother to the upstairs master bedroom, second door on the right, and Roddy was too cheap to hire a gardener. She didn’t know Roddy’s brother gave him extra money to pay for a laborer but he kept the cash for himself. Roddy felt he was owed a little extra something, since he was the one who took care of their mom. Nobody bothered to point out he lived with her by choice, too insecure to be on his own without the fallback excuse of his mother and all his responsibilities. Roddy’s silver Audi TT pulled onto the street. It was a little two-seater he had bought, sure it was a babe magnet. He passed the Lexus parked six cars down from his house on the opposite side of the street before pulling into the driveway. Roddy hopped out, in a hurry to feed the old bat her Campbell’s soup and toast for lunch before he hurried back to his cube and a cold burrito from 7-Eleven. As soon as Roddy closed the front door behind him, Helen was out of the car. Crawford was already three steps ahead of her.
Roddy was in the kitchen opening a can of Cream of Tomato when he heard the screen door slam shut. “Ma? That you? Don’t go wandering out of the house again, goddamnit!”
He put down the can half opened and turned away from the sink. Before his eyes could register what was in front of him, a hand was around his throat. It was like a vice, hard and immovable. Roddy made a sound like a cat hawking up a fur ball. The hand did not tighten further, but moved up. Roddy felt pressure under his jaw and his feet leaving the ground. As the blood behind his eyes started to cloud his vision, he recognized the face at the other end of the arm. It was the man in the photo with his nieces. Roddy had not noticed the yellow of the man’s eyes in the photo. Now he was mesmerized. Crawford, with his arm only slightly bent at the elbow, turned and rotated Roddy above the small folding chair at the table in the kitchen. Crawford smiled slightly to himself. Roddy could not know it was because this kitchen reminded Crawford of a similar kitchen back in North Dakota where he had last seen his grandfather. He put Roddy down in the chair just before the confused engineer could pass out.
When Crawford let go, Roddy grabbed at his throat, coughing. His larynx was not bruised enough to keep him from spitting out “Who the fuck…what are you doing here…” But he stopped mid-sputter as he caught sight of another familiar face. Helen. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a gentle smile on her lips.
“Hi, baby. How are you today?”
Roddy was scared, but still not sure what the hell was going on.
“What’re…what’s going on? I didn’t send…I mean….”
“Hush, Roddy, it’s okay. I understand. You weren’t sure if we were serious. I misjudged you. It’s my fault.” Helen walked over to the table. She cupped a hand to his cheek. “My fault. It wouldn’t be fair to hurt the girls yet. So we came to see you first.”
Roddy looked at the ceiling and Helen followed his gaze. “That’s okay, she’s resting. And she’s got the headset on, TV’s up real loud. We’ve got all the privacy we need.”
Crawford could hear how hard Roddy swallowed. Roddy started to get up but Crawford’s hand on his should sat him down again hard.
“What, what are you going to do? I’ll call the police! If you do anything….”
“Shhh, Roddy. If you call the police, the girls die.”
Helen looked in Roddy’s face. She could read the thoughts in the scared man’s eyes: he would sacrifice his nieces. His own flesh and blood. Helen shook her head and smiled at him. “Roddy, you little devil. I had you all wrong. It’s your ass you’re worried about.”
In the past, Helen had pushed clients too hard. It didn’t always work and those mistakes had shown her the price of failing to meet her employer’s expectations. Now she was much more skilled at recognizing what motivates people.
She flicked her eyes at Crawford. His movement was so fast she almost didn’t follow it. The next instant Roddy’s left hand was flat on the table, fingers extended. Crawford’s right hand was flat on the back of Roddy’s wrist and as Roddy started wriggling, neither his nor Crawford’s hand moved a centimeter. In Crawford’s left hand appeared a hunting knife. The serrated area extended three inches from the point, then smoothed into a razor sharp cutting surface that finished four inches further down at the handle. Before Roddy could utter the scream he felt on his lips, Crawford put the tip of the knife between his pinkie and third finger. Angling the blade down sharply and without hesitation, Crawford chopped off the pinkie at the second joint like he was dicing celery. It was so fast there was no blood for several seconds. Then a red flow began pumping out in a single gush that coincided with Roddy’s first scream.
Helen took the length of twine she had been fingering in her pocket and reached for Roddy’s left hand, still held motionless by Crawford. She efficiently looped and tied a knot a half-inch down from the end of the stub on Roddy’s hand and the blood flow stopped immediately. She left the pinkie on the table. Roddy was between screams and was taking a deep breath to begin anew when Helen slapped him hard on the face. She leaned in close and grabbed his jaw, shaking his head until his eyes cleared. She wasn’t smiling now.
“Tomorrow we do it again. Same hand. Mail it by tomorrow morning, 9 a.m.” She let go of his face and gently kissed his forehead. The smile had returned. Crawford’s knife was nowhere in sight. Helen turned her back and left the kitchen, Crawford a step behind. No one bothered to look at Roddy. He stared down in disbelief at his left hand, still motionless on the table as if Crawford still had it pinned. He looked for his pinkie on the table, clinging to the thought that if he got to the hospital the
y could reattach it. It wasn’t there.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday passed without any word from Helen. Despite being exhausted, Josh barely slept that night. He gave up trying around 2:30 a.m. His mind had continued to play out every variation he could think of all that day, but no answer emerged. It was killing him Helen hadn’t called. He had worked from his home office, distracted during every conference call. When the phone rang he jumped, twice dropping the receiver. For an hour that afternoon he dozed in his chair, nightmares keeping him from getting any rest. Helen was in the dreams. It made him sick to think the part of the dream with her had been erotic. He had woken with a start when the phone rang, confused and groggy from his interrupted mid-afternoon nap. Now, before dawn had begun to lighten the sky, he was feeling haggard. A noise caught his attention. It sounded like a car, but not passing on the street; it was coming up the driveway. Josh raced to the window and looked out to see headlights sweeping up the curve of the drive. His heart sped up and began thumping in his chest. He gripped the handle of the front door by instinct, ready to run out and attack the threat. He pictured the thin man jumping out of his car and bursting through the front door. Josh looked around wildly for a weapon. There was nothing. Mind racing, he pictured the poker from the fireplace and ran to the living room to grab it. The metal holder started to tip and he clutched at it to keep the jangling from waking Allison where she slept in the guest bedroom. That seemed moot, since he was about to trip the alarm and run into the front yard brandishing a sharp poker and wearing only boxer shorts. He bolted to the door and started scrabbling at the locks. Reason was gone. He could act now, he could be in control. He whipped open the front door and ran across the short expanse of grass toward the top of the driveway where the beams from the headlights were getting brighter. Weapon raised like a baseball bat, high over his shoulder, he felt the dew on his bare feet. Just as the first headlight showed around the corner of the driveway coming toward him, it stopped. There was a pause, and something flew out of the darkness and landed at Josh’s feet as he skidded to a halt on the blacktop. He looked down as the headlights began to recede and saw the plastic-wrapped Wall Street Journal. He stood frozen as reason returned and he began to feel foolish. Josh lowered the poker, picked up the paper, and got back in the house in time to turn off the alarm before the siren began screaming. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.
Catalyst Page 4