by Mic Palmer
Gomez liked to keep the car out of view, in the back, but for some reason it wasn’t there. “Where the hell is it,” Jack wondered, kneeling by a dilapidated porch. “Don’t tell me he took it out.”
Jack probed the backyard with his flashlight, but all he could see were weeds, stray tires, bags of garbage, and scattered shovels. “This isn’t like Gomez at all,” he reflected.
Just then he sensed the icy presence of cold steel pressing against his ear. “Don’t say a fuck’n word,” someone could be heard whispering. “Move. Inside the house.”
“I’m sorry. I thought this was a friend’s…” Jack dreamily started, but before he could finish he felt the gun smash against the side of his head, and for a moment his legs buckled.
“Move!”
“Ok, ok,” Jack managed, as he stumbled up the steps to the back door.
“Mira,” said the squat little man, as he shoved Jack into the house. “I found him outside with a flashlight.”
The larger fellow Jack thought was Gomez’s son was seated at the kitchen table with a pile of cash. He looked upon Jack as if he had just murdered his sister. “Mother fucker,” he wailed, as he leapt from his chair. With a punch like a sledgehammer, he easily knocked Jack to the ground, at which point the other man – seemingly energized by the feral intensity of his colleague – began kicking him in the stomach.
Given the many blows raining down upon him, Jack was surprisingly calm. Whereas a part of him was right there in the middle of it, another seemed a million miles away. This was the cowardly part, the lazy part, the part that kept him from getting through school, going to the gym, settling down, or doing anything else that might have required a modicum of discomfort. When in doubt, it would pull away, the result being a rather disorienting sense of lightness.
Still on the floor, Jack wiped the blood from his mouth.
Just then the skinny blond kid entered. Dragged along by a spotted pit bull, he tugged at the leash like a cowboy on a wild horse, but the dog wouldn’t relent. With a flattened snout, pointed ears, and prominent white teeth, it snapped at the air within inches of Jack’s nose. Feeling its hot breath against his face, he was momentarily nauseated. Smelling like baloney and seaweed, it caused his eyes to water and his nose to run.
“Who are you?” shouted the man in charge.
Jack’s mind was a complete blank. All he could do was stare at the man’s shaved head, the center of which contained a strange whirling cowlick.
“You want to die? I said who are you?”
The pit bull scratched at the linoleum floor as it continued to bark and growl just inches from Jack’s face.
“He looks like a cop,” said the blond haired kid, tugging at the leash.
“More like a vampire,” said the chubby one. “Check out those fuck’n eyebrows.”
The kid with the dog laughed.
“He’s no cop,” said the leader. “If he was, they’d be up in here by now.”
Upon closer examination, he didn’t look like Gomez at all. While about the same size, he was leaner and more sinewy. With a permanent scowl that made him look much older than his twenty years, he had a muscled brow, deep set brown eyes, and a bashed in nose.
“Basta,” he yelled, as he kicked the dog. “Take this fuck’n chupacabra outside. I can’t hear myself think.”
“You’re making a mistake,” uttered Jack.
“Just get in the fuck’n chair,” said the leader, his nostrils flaring with each excited breath.
Cross-eyed with delight, the smaller man tugged at his drooping pants. “You gonna do em?”
“Sorry bout the beat’n and all,” said the boss, “but sometimes things get excitable, you know.”
“Things?” thought Jack. The young man spoke as though the attack had a mind of its own and that his role in it was a matter of historical inevitability.
“What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Jack what?”
“Lorenz.”
“People call me Bogie.”
“Like the actor?”
“There’s an actor?”
“Years ago; he’s dead.”
“Then fuck him.”
“Ok.”
“Now why the fuck you here?”
Jack paused, causing his captor to again latch onto his neck.
“Alright, alright,” said Jack. “I thought I’d find a car here that was covered and not used much. I was gonna take the plates, but must have gotten the address wrong.”
“For what – you steal a car?”
“Yes.”
Bogie made a sound like a buzzer. “Eeeeeeee. Wrong. Try again, homie. No one jacks a car like that. You have the plates ready.”
“I did have them ready,” protested Jack. “I just went to the wrong address.”
“Fry em up,” snarled the chubby little maniac with the pistol.
Bogie smiled.
“What are you going to do?” asked Jack, his eyes wide with fear.
Just then there was a knock at the door. It was a large, square shouldered, Mediterranean looking fellow with wiry black hair and a widow’s peak. “What the fuck is this?” he asked, in a rather snazzy green suit.
Bogie let out a yawn. “Nothing. Found him snooping outside.”
The visitor scratched his one day growth of blue black facial hair. “That doesn’t sound like nothing; you sure he’s not a cop?”
“Nah, I don’t think so – probably just some junkie out to rob us.”
“Maybe I should stick around?”
“No – do what you got to do.”
“You make sure you take care of business.”
“Just take the fuck’n bag, will ya.”
Grinning broadly, the man in the green suit walked over to the broom closet and pulled out a large silver back pack.”
“Keep your eyes open,” offered Bogie, as the two clasped hands.
The swarthy fellow grabbed Jack by the hair and pulled his head back. “Have fun, asshole.”
“That’s my partna,” said Bogie, as the other man walked out the back door. “We don’t discriminate.”
Jack rubbed the welt on his head. “It’s good to see what people can accomplish when they work together.”
“Fry em up,” repeated the smaller man.
Grabbing a dark rectangular object from the counter, Bogie placed it near Jack’s throat. “Last chance. Why you here?”
“Bzzzzzzzzzzz,” reverberated the munchkin, as if he were having convulsions.
The kitchen was large and bright and everything seemed to hum or rattle; the bare light bulb on the ceiling, the ancient blue refrigerator, the corroded radiator – they all seemed to be conspiring against Jack’s nerves.
“I was telling you the truth…” he pleaded, but before he could finish he was jabbed in the stomach with the Taser.
“Zzzzzzzzzzzzz,” danced the little fellow with the silver gun.
Jack’s reaction, however, was fairly subdued, just a minor tremor and momentary rolling back of the eyes.
“Fat fuck!” grumbled Bogie.
Indeed, Jack had already gathered that the thick layer of adipose tissue that covered his midsection had provided him with some degree of insulation.
“Stick him in the eye,” suggested Ernesto.
Instead, Jack felt the device against his neck, which although gelatinous did not prevent him from momentarily blacking out.
“You want it again, homie?”
Jack’s teeth were still chattering as he tried to speak. “I ta ta told you…” he responded, but this was all he could manage.
Bogie paused for a moment, comforted in Jack’s distress. “So where’s this car of yours? I know it’s not out front.”
Jack’s scalp tingled as if stuck with a thousand needles. “Sa six blocks south, on the right; a blue Acura with designer rims.”
Just then Bogie’s cell phone rang. Jack recognized Carlos Santana’s Europa, which was popular during his days
in Mexico.
“I got to step out,” he told the smaller man. “Tell Chuck to find his car, and don’t do anything stupid. Just keep your gun on him - that’s all!”
Now in charge, Ernesto strutted to the back door, shouted for the blond kid, and tossed him Jack’s keys. “Six blocks south, on the right, I want you to find a blue uh…”
“Acura,” said Jack.
“Acura,” repeated Ernesto. “Park it out back, alright?”
“Alright.”
“And leave the monster tied up in the garage.”
Now having Jack to himself, Ernesto appeared gleeful. “I got to hand it to you, dawg. You took that pretty good.”
“It’s the weight.”
“No, no, what’s right is right. I seen bigger guys than you turn to jelly.”
Ernesto motioned with his left hand to bump fists.
Complying, Jack’s muscles were still in a state of burning hyper-contraction, and yet he realized that if he was to get out of there it would have to be soon, before the other men came back.
Chapter Thirteen
The sounds of violins, guitars and horns could be heard. They were rapid and celebratory. Turning his ear toward the radio next to the sink, the munchkin seemed distracted for a moment. “You like mariachi?” he asked, with a coy expression.
“Sure,” said Jack, without feeling.
Ernesto’s thick black hair stood up like porcupine quills. “Yeah? Then why don’t I turn it up. You know this one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“El leon ruge por la noche,” sang his captor. “You know it now?” The way he was dancing caused him to rotate about 30 degrees, every third step, which meant that before long he’d turn completely around.
“He’s trying to bait me?” Jack reflected. Nevertheless, he readied himself for Ernesto to again put his back toward him. Jack pictured himself lunging for the gun, but before he could redeem the idea with action, the moment had passed. “That may have been my last chance,” he thought to himself.
No longer dancing, Ernesto leaned back against the stove and reached for the bottle of beer resting on the adjacent counter. He seemed relaxed, almost happy, as if hanging out with a friend – the only difference being the gun by his side.
Finding the silence to be even more off putting than the conversation, Jack searched his mind for something to say, but in the end remained mute.
Just then, however, as if he had read his mind, Ernesto took a loud swig from the bottle and then began singing along with the music. High pitched and twangy, his voice played on Jack’s nerves. “Le gusta correr, le gusta comer, le gusta cazar, bajo las estrellas; el siempre hace lo que quiere.”
“You try,” he told Jack, during a long instrumental. “El siempre hace lo que quiere. That means, he always does what he wants. You understand. Now you say it.”
Jack couldn’t even start.
“El siempre hace lo que quiere,” repeated Ernesto.
“El semp,” Jack muttered.
The man put down the beer and picked up the stun gun. “I don’t think you heard me. El siempre hace lo que quiere!”
While in Mexico Jack had picked up quite a few phrases, but now – after twenty years – he was lucky if he could remember how to say hello.
Ernesto was insistent. “Say it!” he demanded.
The sounds ran together like one long word, but Jack gave it his best shot. “El sempre que…”
With the Taser in his left hand and the pistol in his right, Ernesto appeared amused. “El – see – emp – ray – as – say,” enunciated his captor.
Jack wanted to strangle him. “El see emp re as say,” he repeated.
“Good. Now, lo que quiere.”
“lokeri.”
“Lo kay.”
“Lo kay.”
“Now, lo kay kee air ay.”
“Lo kay kee ear eee.”
“air ay.”
“air ay.”
“Ok, now all together, El siempre hace lo que quiere.”
Jack’s brain locked up. “El semper kee ker ay.”
Holding the little torture device next to Jack’s cheek, the little man shook his head in disappointment. “You’re not too bright are you?”
Jack tried again. “El see emp lo kee ree.”
The man zapped him. “Sorry, but how else are you going to learn. Now try it again.”
Jack moved his lips, but no words came out.
“I’m trying to teach you something, but if you’re not going to cooperate…”
“Semper…” Jack gurgled, as tears flowed from his eyes.
The left corner of the Ernesto’s upper lip was twitching as he wiped the sweat off of his matchbook sized forehead. “Now you’re just disrespecting me,” he sneered before again hitting Jack with the Taser.
The pain shot through Jack’s jaw muscles, as his mouth reflexively opened and closed in response to overexcited neurons.
“What’s that?” asked the sadistic little fellow, gratuitously resting the barrel of the gun on Jack’s cheek. “Are you trying to say something?”
Jack managed to shake his head.
“What’s the matter,” Ernesto simpered. “Cat’s got your tongue. That’s too bad, you know. Cause if you can’t speak we’re not gonna have much use for you.”
Jack eyed the barrel of the pistol out of the corner of his eye. Still resting on his swollen cheek, it felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds.
“What are you worried about?” taunted Ernesto. Taking a step back, he lifted the gun in the air and displayed it from different angles. “This? This is nothing. What Bogie likes to do is to take people into the woods and have them dig their own graves, but even then we don’t shoot them. Bogie doesn’t like none of that genetic shit, and bullets can be traced. So what we do is just cover them up.”
Jack listened intently, his expression one of disbelief.
“That’s right,” went on his tormentor, “while still alive. You should see them. Tied up the way they are, all they can do is roll around and squirm, all crazy like, yelling and screaming, shaking their heads, blowing dirt out their nose, spitting, choking, coughing, but soon enough they’re buried and you think finally it’s over – then all of a sudden a head pops up like a damn Jack In A Box.”
Jack again tried to speak, but his vocal cords remained paralyzed.
“Know what I’m saying,” chuckled Ernesto. “Sometimes they even manage to get to their feet and hop their way out of the hole, but we just kick them back in or hit them with the shovel. It’s really kind of funny.”
Clearly egging him on, he seemed to want Jack to try something, but Jack wasn’t sure if he could even walk.
The first step therefore was to see whether he had any strength in his lower extremities. Subtly moving his toes and ankles, he was surprised at how normal they felt, but what about his legs?
Not wanting to tip off Ernesto that he could move, he flexed the muscles in his calves and thighs as if he was having spasms. Again, he seemed to have a good response, but just to make sure, he pushed his feet against the floor to see how much force he could generate. “Not bad,” he thought to himself, but even if he could ambulate, what were his chances against a gun?
Knowing he’d have to grapple with the man, he squeezed his fists, until he felt his muscles begin to tighten. Again, no problem. Apparently, Jack had more control over his arms and legs than his vocal cords, but that may have been to his advantage. Seeing his slobbering inability to speak, his captor no doubt felt unthreatened, and why should he? Beyond Jack’s apparent physical state, Ernesto was holding both a gun and a Taser. Thus, even if Jack could catch him off guard, his chances of making it out of there alive were slim to none. Sure they didn’t like “genetic shit,” but if push came to shove, Jack was sure Ernesto would fire – with pleasure even.
Somehow he had to get him to put down the weapons, but the only thing he could come up with was pretending to pass out. If he fell to floor, Ernest
o would most likely try to help him up, especially since his boss had warned him not to do anything stupid. Jack’s only fear was that the son of a bitch might shoot him to cover up the fact that he had knocked him out. Ernesto could claim that he had no choice, that there was a struggle, but his boss wouldn’t be happy about that either. In his eyes, it would still amount to a fuck up.
Realizing that the other man would soon be returning, Jack had to make a decision. “Do it!” he silently exhorted.
“What’s the matter?” said Ernesto.
Having closed his eyes, Jack allowed his chin to slowly fall into his chest. He then let his body go limp, the result of which was that he slid off the chair and onto the floor.
“Shit,” grumbled Ernesto. “Ese, wake up. Come on.”
It was fortunate that Jack’s eyes were shut. This spared him the knowledge that he was about to be shot.
Pointing the gun toward Jack’s face, Ernesto contemplated just the excuse Jack had worried about, but just before he was about to pull the trigger, he began thinking about how mad his boss would be.
Jack listened intently for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally he heard a thump on the kitchen table, but just one. Ernesto had put down either the Taser or the gun, but not both.
Jack waited for a moment. “Come on, Ernesto; drop whatever you’re holding and help me up.”
Not knowing what else to do, Ernesto slapped him a few times. “Hey, man. Wake up. You hear me. Wake up. Come on, homie.”
“It must be the weight,” Jack finally reasoned. “He probably doesn’t think he can lift me.”
This being the case, he decided to act as though he were half conscious. Assuming Ernesto gave him a hand, Jack would grab whatever he was holding and quickly knock him out, either with his free hand or a head butt. He did after all outweigh him by at least thirty pounds.
“Alright,” Jack told himself. “Slowly open your eyes.”
As much as he wanted to get on with it, however, he couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if he didn’t get a good hold on the gun. One pull of the trigger and it would be all over.
“No, no, no,” Jack desperately reconsidered. “It’ll never work. It requires too much speed and precision. All he’s got to do is make one little move and I’ll miss him.”