With his vision more in focus now, Béla came into focus behind her, holding the dog. The man moved forward and handed off the Chihuahua to Kovács, never slackening the death grip on his Starbucks spit cup.
Kovács stroked the dog, placing her harelip atop the animal’s tiny skull for a kiss, and then pointed at the device next to Gavin. When she said something in Hungarian, Puma Jacket shook his head in defiance.
Kovács repeated the command with more authority.
Gavin studied the man’s reaction. Even through the throbbing of his head, he noticed Béla’s thin-pressed lips and bulging eyes. A bead of sweat trickled down the Hungarian man’s forehead.
He wasn’t angry.
He was afraid.
Béla jumped into the fray and shouted in Hungarian at Puma Jacket. His shouts stoked the fire of Gavin’s headache. Béla’s yelling went on for what seemed like forever. The man’s face reddened from screaming. Puma Jacket settled for shaking his head in refusal.
These people are nuttier than an outhouse cat. Oh, my head.
Finally, Puma Jacket yelled something, and the area went quiet. Even the dog hushed its growling. Everyone standing shifted their eyes to Gavin on the floor.
This can’t be good.
Béla spit into his cup and ordered, “Stand up! Stand up now!”
Feeling nervous about being the punchline of an impending joke, Gavin went on the offensive. “I oughta sue every last one of you.” He rubbed his head, stopping when he found a tender spot that made him wince. “I’m sure I’ve got a concussion or something.” He pulled his hand back, surprised that it wasn’t covered with blood.
“He said for you to be getting up!” Puma Jacket shouted, adjusting his stance as if to show he was prepared to kick again.
“Gimme a minute, will ya?” Gavin grunted as he rose to his feet. He made the mistake of moving his head too quickly, sending his world swimming again. He waited a moment for the throbbing to return to a manageable level before continuing. “How much for the typewriter?”
Even in his dazed state, he caught the three of them trading peculiar looks. Béla stepped forward, pointing at the typewriter on the floor. His eyes were wide. “Pick that up,” he said. He paused to spit. “Put it on the shelf there.”
“Did you hear me? I want to buy it.”
Madame Kovács chimed in, still speaking Hungarian.
This time, Béla offered a translation, ignoring Gavin’s request. “Yes, and be careful not to touch keys—dangerous here. No typing. Put it back.”
Gavin scoffed as he retrieved his keys from the floor and his jacket hanging on the PVC pipes. “Put it back? I’m going to buy it.” He produced his wallet from the coat pocket.
Béla nervously spit into the cup. “No! Not possible. Not for sale.”
“My dear Béla, everything’s for sale.” Gavin snapped a single hundred-dollar bill from the wallet as if he were a magician performing his signature trick. “You just tell me how many of these you need for me to take it off your hands.” His head still felt awful, but he relished watching Béla squirm, regardless of the reason.
Gavin looked at the old woman in the black dress with orange flowers and wondered how long he’d been unconscious—obviously long enough for her to get dressed. The shining, emerald, pear-shaped necklace she wore matched the dress better than the bathrobe from when he’d first seen her. He wondered why anyone would willingly choose to wear a pear necklace. Maybe it was a Hungarian thing.
She shot him a contemptuous look while placing another wet kiss atop the dog’s head.
He took another bill out, less flamboyantly this time. “Two hundred dollars. That’s a bargain. I doubt this old clunker even works anymore, but I want it for a friend.”
“Two hundred?” Béla scoffed. “Two hundred for stuff you broke, but not that.”
Gavin answered in a belligerent tone, “Look, I didn’t break anything. Your girlfriend, sister, or wife, or whatever threw all of that stuff down when she stole my keys.” Of course, this was a lie, but they didn’t know that he was the one who had knocked everything over in the other aisle.
Béla looked genuinely surprised.
Score one for Team Gavin.
Béla spit and asked, “Girlfriend? A woman?”
“Uh, yeah, a girlfriend would be a woman.” Gavin shifted to Puma Jacket, then back to Béla. “Don’t play dumb—the chick in the yellow dress?” His side of the conversation gained traction, though he didn’t know why. “Come on. What kind of a rube do you take me for?”
Béla’s blubbery face looked puzzled.
Madame Kovács nudged the man. “See? I tell you.”
Gavin pressed his theory. “You have her lure people back here so you can mug them, right? Isn’t that the game?”
Béla spoke softly. “You saw it?”
“Her. I saw her.”
Béla nearly dropped the Starbucks cup from his trembling hand.
These people are nuts.
Béla spun around to Madame Kovács. The two began speaking frantically in overlapping whispers. They reached a consensus of sorts, and he said nervously, “Just put on the shelf, and we’ll let you go. Just put it up, but not typing.”
“Let me go?” Gavin huffed. “Am I a prisoner here? Have you kidnapped me?” He shoved the bills and his wallet into the coat pocket and quickly snatched his cell phone. “The first rule of taking a hostage is to take their communications from them.” His head felt like it would explode from pressure, but he wasn’t backing down, not one inch—not from these clowns. He tapped in three numbers, pressed send, and then activated the speakerphone setting. “See, two can play at that little ‘I’m calling the cops’ game. The difference is, I never bluff.”
Right on cue, a voice from the phone said, “911. What is your emergency?”
Béla, almost pleading, said, “You’re not understand. There are things you don’t know. It’s something—”
“You want the cops sniffing around here or not?” Gavin brandished the phone like a crucifix from one of his novels.
“911. What is your emergency?”
Then the knife came out.
“Hang up!” Puma Jacket howled with the blade in his hand. “Hang up now!”
“Whoa, hold on there, Slick,” Gavin said, lowering the phone.
“Baszd meg! Shut up! Turn off now!”
Gavin focused on the knife. The entire universe shrank to the size of a single switchblade, and that knife was aimed at his neck. His breathing became labored. The blood flowing to his head made his skull feel as if it would explode at any second, but he had to remain calm. The unwelcome image of Eunice Hodge’s worried expression flashed in his mind. “Okay… I’m doing it, doing it right now.”
“This is not joking! Turn it off!”
Gavin’s hands shook from the adrenaline surge. His index finger quaked as he pointed at the disconnect key. He demonstratively tapped the screen, holding it up in surrender. “It’s off. I hung up. Let’s just dial it all down a little. I’m putting it back in my pocket. No more cops, no police. Let’s all just be cool here, okay?”
The man with the knife wiped his forehead with his free hand. “Now, do what my brother said. Put the machine back, there.” He pointed at a low shelf.
There was no room on that shelf. It was full of multicolored porcelain cats wearing sombreros. Gavin cleared them two by two, arranging the Mexi-cats on the floor beside the fallen luggage. When one of the figurines slipped from his shaking hand and shattered on the floor, Béla screamed, “Don’t break them!”
Gavin was grateful that Puma Jacket held a knife instead of a gun. The man would have likely discharged a gun by accident by now.
“I’m sorry! I’m just a little freaked out right now. I’ll pay for them.”
Gavin methodically moved the Mexi-cats from the shelf one at a time to avoid any more mishaps. His palms were slick with sweat, but he didn’t dare stop to wipe them.
Geez, there must be like fif
ty of these crappy little things. Though they were only the size of salt and pepper shakers, a flash crossed Gavin’s mind—if he could throw them hard enough, he could make an escape. Who am I kidding—what if I missed? I’d never be able to outrun Puma Jacket. Maybe Béla, but not Puma.
“That’s enough,” Béla said. “Now put it in there.”
Gavin squeezed the final Mexican cat figurine tight in his palm. I’m Gavin Curtis. I don’t deserve this. But he put that cat down, too.
Béla nervously spit more tobacco juice into his cup. “Just put it away and then you leave.”
He bent down to the typewriter. The mechanism was just as strange looking from this angle. The stems fanned out of the top like metal plumage, and four brackets held a paper scroll that disappeared into the base of the machine. Everything on it appeared to be hand crafted, making some areas disproportionate from others, like a kid’s science-fair project. It certainly wasn’t mass produced.
How Billy would’ve loved this piece of junk.
“Just put it away so we can get away from here,” the Puma jacket man said. “Not safe for us.”
Gavin picked it up with both hands, intrigued again by the metal’s warmth. How can it be warm? Is that what freaks them out? Bunch of superstitious bumpkins, what do they think this is?
Gavin gently placed it on the shelf. He wasn’t sure why, but he paused while still holding the antique typewriter. He observed a puzzling phenomenon of feeling exhausted and refreshed at the same time. He stared at the device, and for a few seconds, he forgot about how badly his head pounded, how his heart was racing, and how his shirt was drenched with sweat. He forgot about how a crazy man with a switchblade stood waving it at him just a few feet away. He forgot about the fortuneteller and her dog and her busted radio. He forgot about Béla’s spit cup.
Except forgot wasn’t the correct term. He was aware of all of these things, but he was conscious of them in the way someone reading a magazine or newspaper article would be aware of what was happening in the story. He marveled at the sensation of somehow being disconnected from where and when he was. The sound of rushing wind beat against his ears, but there wasn’t so much as a faint breeze against his body.
Béla asked behind him, “What is he doing? Why is he just standing, not letting go?”
The intoxicating smell of lavender enveloped him, except he wasn’t smelling it. The scent was more like it had been transformed into a light.
The dark-grey warehouse faded to a scene of a brightly lit room—a kitchen. The entire area was bathed in ruby-red light, as if he were looking at it through a plastic sheet of red filter gel. The image of a young girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt appeared in Gavin’s mind. His vantage point was over the shoulder of the child as she playfully mashed the keys of the antique typewriter on a kitchen table. He guessed the girl to be about five or six. She giggled with delight each time the antique responded to her touch with percussive strikes.
The image in his mind zoomed in closer. The girl stopped typing and slowly turned. Shaking her head from side to side, she pointed at Gavin.
The hate-filled grimace on her face stunned him. Her mouth formed the word “no” as the scene jolted back into reality. He heard a woman’s voice scream a single word: adulterer. But it wasn’t the voice of Madame Kovács, and he wasn’t certain that he’d heard it with his ears at all.
He let go of the device, and his thoughts returned to normal. The dreamy euphoria instantly subsided into the pain, anxiety, and physical sensations of where he was. All of these things rushed at his mind as if he were looking down into a geyser the moment it erupted. His body felt heavy and lethargic again.
What was that?
Madame Kovács stared at him with her black irises as she placed another harelip kiss atop the head of her rat-dog.
Gavin cautiously put his jacket on despite the fact that he was sweating buckets. “Béla, sir… if you dislike this typewriter thing so much—”
Kovács sharply cut him off. “It is not for sale! Cannot leave here. Not safe.”
“Four hundred dollars! That’s my final offer. That works out to be a hundred bucks apiece, three for you and one for the yellow-dress lady.”
“No lady! Szellem! You go now!” Madame Kovács said through tight lips. She pointed the bug-eyed dog at Gavin and commanded the two men with a single word. “Boys!”
Béla and his brother instantly sprang into action, and before Gavin knew it, the switchblade was at his throat. A shudder of fear ran through his body like he’d never experienced.
All at once, he realized that no one knew where he was. He was keenly aware that these men could do anything to him and no one would know. Be cool, Gav. Just be cool.
Before he knew it, the men had positioned themselves behind him and were manhandling him through the maze of junk down a new pathway for him.
“All right,” Gavin said as he stumbled from the shoves to his back. “You can keep the lady’s hundred. I don’t care what you do with it.”
They were heading for the emergency exit of the shop. There was no exit signage, but he recognized the panic bar mounted on the metal door. “Look, guys, wait a minute,” he said, short of breath. “Let’s try this all again.” His head pounded with every step. “Please wait a—what’s the problem here?”
With a final shove—Gavin guessed it to be from Puma, since Béla still clutched the spit cup—he was sent stumbling toward the door. He barely managed to get his hands up in time to the push bar before slamming into the door full-on.
The metal door sprang open, and Gavin’s momentum carried him spinning another twenty to thirty feet. The unexpected brightness and heat of the sun were disorienting. When he finally stopped, he looked back at the brothers laughing just outside the doorway. Puma waved the knife as he shouted, “If you ever to come back here, I’ll cut the balls for you!”
Feeling confident that he was at a safe enough distance, Gavin converted his embarrassment and rage into mockery of the man’s English. “’Cut the balls,’ eh? ‘Cut the balls’ for me? Yeah, I guess they could use a little trim.”
“You come back, I cut you! Baszd meg.”
“If I were ever to come back to this rat hole, I wouldn’t come alone! I’d bring the entire—” Gavin paused to remember where he was. “I’d bring every Connecticut state trooper with me, ya bunch of sick—”
He saw it, but it was too late to move out of the line of fire. The most that he could do was to block with his arm to avoid being hit full in the face. Even so, Béla’s Starbucks cup of a spittoon exploded across Gavin’s midsection. The warm juice sprayed like a paintball hitting the bull’s-eye. His chest was soaked, and his hair was damp, but what did him in was the sweet taste of mint that had found its way into his mouth.
“Béla, you son of a—” But it was already too much, and his stomach emptied a yellow and pinkish paste-like substance that vaguely resembled breakfast burritos and hot sauce from a few hours before.
On hands and knees, Gavin stared with watering eyes at the slop he’d made on the cement a few feet from his nose. The pungent aroma of sick mixed with the smell of sour mint and teased at another heaving.
He heard laughter but couldn’t look up. He hated these guys. He concentrated solely on restraining his gag reflex from sending a second wave of puke through his burning esophagus. His head pounded hard enough for him to hear his pulse in his ears.
Hold it together, Gav.
As he worked at steadying his breathing, the triumphant slam of the metal door rang out from across the lot. Gavin tilted his head.
He was by himself.
An aftershock rumbled through sore stomach muscles, beckoning his gag reflex back into action. Closing his eyes tightly, he fought it down.
He suppressed the urge to cry, and the emotion surprised him. “I don’t cry,” he told himself. The idea was comically foreign to him. He concluded that this emotional treason was his body’s release, the aftereffects of the adrenaline surge
now that he was out of harm’s way.
Crazy Gypsy bastards. Why were they so afraid of that thing? What kind of crazy story did that harelip witch concoct for them to act that way?
Still sweating profusely, Gavin stripped off his jacket and clutched it in his fist while it hung behind him on the pavement. He spat to clear his mouth of vomit and any remaining trace of Béla’s juice. He wiped his mouth and returned to his feet.
Why is this happening to me? I’m Gavin Curtis! I just need to get back to the resort, take a shower, change clothes, and hit the bar.
He slid his hand into his pocket, careful to avoid the dark, reeking stains of tobacco juice that had already soaked into the tweed fibers. The cell phone screen displayed: 1 Missed Call—Josephine. “Not now, Jo,” he said to himself, activating the phone’s GPS feature. When it came online, he clicked an app to summon a local cab and plugged in the address.
A minute later, his phone rang. A peppy female voice from Red Dot Taxi confirmed the request and said that her closest driver would be there in five to ten minutes.
He checked the time and looked for a spot in the shade where he could hole up until the cab arrived.
Across the way, there was a click followed by the squeak of the metal door partially opening. Gavin’s heart raced as he scanned the empty lot for cover from Béla and his brother, but they never came out. He eyed the cracked-open door suspiciously for a long moment. Was this a trap? Were they trying to lure him closer so they could really do some damage?
For some reason that he couldn’t explain to himself, he took a curious step toward the door. Nah, think about it, Gav. They had you in hand. If they intended to rough you up, they would’ve done it inside, in private.
He took a few bewildered steps closer, ready to flee at the first sight of the men. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air.
The woman… did she do this?
He paused for a few seconds, searching for any sign of movement.
Maybe she was waiting just inside the doorway to hit him on the head again to get his wallet. Maybe they really didn’t know her after all.
Cruel Devices Page 6