by Nick Adams
He had no answers and no clue. So instead of speaking, he took another bite of Frosted Flakes.
I asked, “Who is green and lives in a trash can?”
No answer. He chewed slowly and then said again, “Who are you?” For the first time his egg face took on a hint of an expression. He still wasn’t afraid of me, but he was growing a little wary.
I said, “I need to talk to your brother.”
“He’s in bed.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
It was possible. Maybe he really was recovering from the night before. Or maybe he was waiting upstairs with a loaded .38. No way was I about to go up those stairs and find out.
I said, “Go wake him up. Tell him Jason Bourne is here.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Wake him up.”
“He’ll be mad at me.”
“This is important.”
“Important?”
“Very important. He’s expecting me.”
He set the bowl down on a coffee table and went slowly to the stairs. He took a few steps and stopped again, all the while staring at me. The longer I looked at him, the more he started giving me the creeps. There was something very off about him.
“Go on,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “I need to talk to him.”
To my surprise, he asked, “Did you leave the water on?”
“What water?”
“In the bathroom. Jared said it was me. But I didn’t leave the water on. I never do.”
“Go get him,” I said. “Don’t worry about the water.”
After a moment he resumed climbing the steps and went out of sight. He didn’t stomp for a bigger guy. He was slow and methodical, like he had to concentrate on what he was doing. I could hear him stressing the floorboards above my head.
He was very strange. Maybe he wasn’t all there. But he wasn’t quite as lost as he looked. In a way I was tempted to feel bad for him. But not bad enough to trust him as far as I could throw him.
I shut off the TV and then went quietly to the kitchen. I found an old broom with a sturdy wooden handle. I had to laugh to myself. It didn’t make sense why they kept it around. Obviously they never used it. There were cobwebs on the ceilings and the walls. The floors were gritty and stained, clearly never swept. So why keep the broom?
A rustic decoration? Family heirloom?
Two muffled voices went back and forth above me. The big one had a fittingly deep voice, but he didn’t speak loud. The second voice spoke sharper and quicker and had less depth. Definitely a smaller guy with a more typical manner of speech. I stood still and listened carefully. But I couldn’t understand much.
Moving back into the living room, I positioned myself with my back flat against the wall along the line of the stairs. They would have to lean out and look over the railing to see me as they descended the stairs. It was the best place for me to wait, even though I hated the idea of my windbreaker touching the wall in that place. No amount of cycles through a washing machine could ever give me peace of mind again. I’d have to burn it and get a new one.
Yeah, with your money.
Now the smaller voice grew suddenly louder, angrier. Clearly I heard, “Damn it, Seth!” Then there were louder steps on the floor above me and they started thumping fast down the stairs.
I moved forward, raised the broom and stuck the handle across the stairs about a second before I felt weight hit it and then heard a sort of gasp and then a series of thumps as the smaller brother came tumbling down. He stuck his hand out to catch himself. It didn’t work. Something in his upper hand or his wrist area snapped. I heard it as I heard the air go out of him. Then there was another sound. Something heavy clattering on the floor.
I tossed the broom and pulled out my .22. Went over and got my first look at the smaller brother. He was wearing a white tank and boxer shorts, and he looked nothing like the big one. Nothing at all. His face was completely different. Aside from being sunken and sharper, the structure and features were nothing alike. And he was very thin. Almost sickly. Nothing but scum and bones.
Weird.
At the top of the stairs I saw the bigger one. He stood there like Lurch, looking down with no expression. I pointed the gun up at him. It caused no reaction in him. I ignored the creepy feeling he gave me and pointed the gun at the smaller brother. He was groaning in pain.
A .38 revolver lay on the floor a few feet from his head. It had clattered there when he came tumbling down. I dragged it closer with my foot. Bent down and picked it up. Opened the cylinder and let the bullets spill out. It was an old Smith & Wesson in sad shape. The stainless steel was dinged and dull and the wooden grip was chipped and worn. I slid it into a pocket for safe keeping.
I said, “On your feet, Jared.”
“Who are you?” he groaned.
“Bad news. Get up. Now.”
He rolled over stiffly and looked up in my direction for the first time. He saw a suppressed pistol staring him in the face, and I saw the fear and surprise in his expression.
“Get up,” I said.
Without a word he pulled himself up difficultly to a seated positon. Looked down and studied his right hand. He was breathing heavily, wincing. There was a nasty bend in his wrist. The hand was just hanging limp. It probably hurt like hell. Sleepiness and shock were probably all that was keeping him from really freaking out.
“Do you have dogs in the basement?”
He looked up at me, past the gun, and we made eye contact.
“Are you deaf?”
“What do you want?”
“I asked you a question. Do you have dogs?”
“Dude, I never seen you before. I don’t owe you shit. What are doing in my place?”
I leaned in and slapped him suddenly on the ear with my left hand. It was a hard hit that caught him by surprise. His bloodshot eyes squinted and then reopened wide. He must have seen stars.
“I ask the questions. You give straight answers. Got it?”
He nodded slowly.
“Do you have dogs?”
“Yeah.”
“A boxer?”
“No.”
“You’re not lying to me?”
“No, man. No.”
“Lying will result in greater amounts of pain. That’s fair warning.”
“I ain’t lying. I got no boxers, man. Just pits.”
“Do you like pain?”
Now he was looking at the gun again. He didn’t know me and he didn’t know if I was the sort of guy who would use it.
He answered, “No.”
“Then do exactly what I say. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“If you cooperate, I can promise you a shorter stay in the hospital. That’s the best I can offer.”
He looked up at me again, asked, “You gonna kill us?”
I slapped him again. Harder than the first time. It was Kurt Russel’s move from Tombstone. It was good for inflicting pain, shock and humiliation, while further confusing the culprit.
“What did I just tell you?”
“Okay,” he panted. “Okay. Sorry.”
To make everything clear for him, I said, “This is a twenty-two loaded with weak shot shells. That’s like a mini shotgun shell, made for killing snakes. It won’t come close to killing you, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’ll just hurt like hell. Okay?”
He nodded.
“And even if I do decide to kill you, I won’t use a gun. I’ll beat you to death. Slowly. And once you’re dead I’ll use your nasty corpse to beat your brother to death. Am I clear?”
“Okay, okay. Clear, clear.”
“Good. Now get on your feet. Then you’re going to call your brother down. Both of you will walk down to the basement without giving me any trouble. Understand?”
“Yeah,” he said, and started slowly getting up.
His right hand was useless. He had to prop himself up with his left hand on the railing. He looked up and spoke to his brother.
Told him to come down the stairs and not to start any trouble. His voice was shaking. He wasn’t used to being out of control.
Seth did as he was told. He descended the stairs slowly with absolutely no expression.
I moved back a few paces to give them room at the foot of the stairs. The small one was really hurting and the big one seemed too dumb to act on his own. But even so, I was waiting for the situation to erupt at any moment. Stranger things have happened.
Briefly I looked over at the door to the front porch. The bolt was locked. Then I looked back at the two brothers. They were fixated on me. I opened my windbreaker. Like a gunfighter. Let them see my .500 Magnum. Told them that I would use it if I had to, even though in reality it was the last thing I actually wanted to happen. I was simply employing the additional fear factor of a large weapon.
It seemed to work. Jared responded with a nod. Seth just stood there. He was starting to remind me a bit of Sloth from The Goonies. All he lacked was the mismatched eyes and the likable personality.
“Walk slowly,” I said.
Jared started off and his brother went along behind him like a good follower. We marched single file through the living room to the kitchen. I reached over and locked the kitchen door. Then told Jared to proceed down the basement stairs. He opened the basement door with his left hand. Then he looked over at me.
If he was going to try to run, either to get a weapon or to escape, that would’ve been the best time to do it.
21
He didn’t make a move. He was disoriented and in pain. Fear and uncertainty were weighing him down.
“You gonna kill us down there?” he asked.
“You need another slap?”
“I just wanna know, man.”
“You’re not in control anymore. That’s all you need to know. Now, you’ve got five seconds before I stuff your head up your ass and bowl you down those stairs. Then I’ll throw your brother down on top of you.”
That got him moving. He said nothing. Reached and turned on the light with his left hand and then proceeded down with Seth close behind him.
I closed the door behind us and followed, keeping my eyes on them as best as I could while I navigated the stairs. I wasn’t about to let my guard down for a second, though it was obvious to me by then that neither of them possessed the fortitude to fight. Jared was nothing more than a typical bully, and Seth probably needed help tying his shoes.
“Stand in the middle,” I ordered.
They did.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and said, “Back up to the far wall.”
They did.
I looked at the row of cages. Only two held dogs. One was a big pit. A muscular dog. Maybe a hundred pounds. He had the large cage all to himself. The second dog was much smaller, much younger. Only fifty pounds at most. The smaller one was cowering in the back of its small cage, but the larger one showed no sign of fear. His head and neck were covered in scars. He was obviously a veteran of many battles and had learned to survive by standing his ground. He growled low and deep as I neared his cage. A serious warning.
On top of one of the small cages I saw what looked like a long grilling fork with a plastic handle and brass tines. A cattle prod. I picked it up with my left hand while clicking the safety and slipping my .22 back into its holster under my coat. There was a power switch on the prod’s handle, and a little button set up near the top, designed to be pressed with a thumb.
“Been working on the farm?” I asked.
“No,” Jared said. He didn’t appreciate the sarcasm.
I pressed the button. Heard the faint static of current coursing through the brass tines. Saw the look on Jared’s face. Apparently he only liked electric prods when he was on the other end.
“I only use that when they get out of control,” he said. “It’s for self-defense.”
“Maybe I think you’re getting a little out of control. Maybe I need to defend myself.”
He said nothing.
I held out the prod and pushed the button. It was about a foot away from his family jewels.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “What do you want? Money?”
“Did I ask for money?”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You got into my safe last night and left the water on. Okay, fine. I got more money, man. You can have it all. Just leave us alone and you can have all my cash.”
“It’ll have to be a lot,” I said. “The man who hired me to find his daughter’s dog pays very, very well. You really picked the wrong person to steal from.”
It was total bullshit, but he took it as gospel.
“I got about three grand in my jeans upstairs,” he said. “And another five hidden in a coffee can under the workbench. It’s all yours, man. Just take it.”
I put one foot forward, suddenly, reached out and stuck the prod into Seth’s belly. He didn’t scream much. Just slumped back against the wall and slithered to the floor and sort of whimpered.
“C’mon, man,” Jared said. He was shaking all over, looking back and forth from his brother to me. “I got money. Work with me here.”
“I have no desire to work with a dipshit like you. I’d rather be kicked by a mule than ever see you again. And as I just told you, I’m already being generously paid by the very wealthy family who wants their dog returned. All I need from you is the boxer. The sooner I get him, the sooner I go away.”
“We don’t have him. I swear we don’t have him. It’s the truth.”
It sounded like the truth. He said him instead of it or her. Which made me think he knew exactly which dog I was talking about. But because he stopped shy of telling me the whole truth, I pressed the prod to his stomach and held it there. Watched him spaz and flail and heard him scream and then saw him slump down beside his brother.
I squatted down across from them, asked, “Did you steal the boxer?”
“Yes,” Jared panted. “I mean, Seth did. But yes, we had him. But we sold him last weekend. He’s gone. That’s the truth.”
“Where did you get him from?”
“From a car,” he said. “At this party in the woods. It was a red car. A Nissan, I think.”
“Red car,” Seth agreed. “I stole him. It was me. Honest.”
I stared at him, said, “You’re absolutely sure?”
He nodded, said, “His name was Simon. It was on his tag.”
I looked back to Jared. “What town were you in?”
“Saulsbury.”
It took a little effort to keep from showing my surprise. I didn’t like knowing that these two degenerates had been anywhere near my town.
“Where exactly in Saulsbury?” I asked Jared.
He hesitated as he sniffed.
I jabbed him again with the prod.
He screamed and then blurted, “Brady! Brady Construction. They’re way out in the woods. They have parties sometimes. That’s the truth.”
Brady. Very interesting.
I asked. “And who did you sell the dog to last weekend?”
“Brady. The kid, not the old man who runs the construction. Tom Jr. is his name. He rides around in a nice truck with the construction logo on the door. That’s the truth, man. I swear it.”
So, Tommy Brady was using his father’s property to play host to lowlife dogfighters. It wasn’t terribly shocking. Actually, it almost made me feel good to hear. My burning hatred for him felt more grounded, more justified. It wasn’t only my opinion. He really was the worthless shit brick I’d always believed him to be. If anything, I felt vindicated.
I said, “You stole the dog from a random car at his party, then sold it to him a week later?”
Jared said, “Right. Worked out good for us.”
“So Brady isn’t exactly a friend.”
“Not really. He’s kind of an asshole actually. We just do business sometimes. Go to some of the same parties. That’s all.”
Brady truly is an asshole. Of monumental proportions. But I didn’t tell Jared that we shared that o
ne sentiment in common. He didn’t need to know. He certainly didn’t need to know that I had any connections to the area or anyone therein.
“Okay,” I said. “Brady Construction. I believe you.”
Jared nodded, as if relieved.
I didn’t allow his sense of relief to last long.
“Now it’s time for the next stage in our little adventure,” I said. “Both of you are going into the big cage with your buddy.”
“What? Why?” Jared asked. His eyes were like golf balls.
“You want another shock?”
He shook his head fast, saying, “No, no.”
“Then get up. Now.”
Jared got up slowly and Seth followed his lead.
“Open the cage,” I said.
Jared removed the padlock, which was just hanging unlocked on the latch, and flipped the latch.
“You really gonna put us in there?” he asked.
I laughed, said, “You really are a big disappointment.”
“What do you mean? I did everything you said.”
“That’s my point. You’ve got a gun, wads of cash, an Escalade in the driveway, dog signs on the front porch, dogs caged in the basement. The whole player image going. But all I see is a pussy. You couldn’t fight your way out of a bake sale.”
He shook his head and smiled faintly. Trying to brush me off.
“Don’t laugh,” I said. “You could hang out with preschoolers, and you still wouldn’t be the toughest guy in the room. Seriously.”
He didn’t respond. He was angry for sure. He wanted to hit me back. But I knew he wasn’t going to do a thing. He was hurting too badly and was too scared. It looked like he wanted to cry. He probably would as soon as I left.
“I want to know about the dog fights.”
No answer.
I waved the prod in front of his face.
“Like what?” he said.
“How does it operate?”
“It’s nothing official.”
“No kidding. There’s no official league? Tell me how it works or I’ll break the other wrist clean off. You’ll be good practice for some young doctor learning to put busted idiots back together again.”
“It’s not organized by any one person,” he said. “Not that I know of.”