Screwed: A Novel

by Eoin Colfer

  There are two guys, presumably Krieger and Fortz, dressed in gimp masks and rubber aprons, dancing happy little jigs either side of a stool-mounted laptop. The floor is lined with plastic.

  What happened to human beings? Once upon a time Marilyn Monroe holding an apple was the raciest thing on the planet. Now we gotta have middle-aged cops in gimp masks?

  I cough a few times, which feels like it’s inflating my brain, then say:

  “You know, guys. Whatever happens, at least we have our dignity.”

  Denial. That’s what it is.

  “Hey,” says Fortz, and I know it’s him not from the single syllable but from the inverted-cauldron shape of his head and the fact that his narrow-set eyes don’t quite line up with the eyeholes. “Look who’s awake.”

  Krieger whistles. “Thank Christ for that. I thought the second dart might have killed him.”

  Fortz punches his partner’s bare shoulder, which is matted with fuzz. “So why did you give him the second dart, moron?”

  “I was angry with you, Dirk,” says Krieger, whose body language screams bitch. “You’ve been ragging me all week.”

  Dirk Fortz does his eye-rolling thing. “Shit, Krieg. We’re partners. Ragging goes with the turf.” He turns to me. “That’s quite a ticker you got there. I never saw a guy still jabbering after getting sparked.”

  I have crescents of pain behind my eyes and would really like a nap, but I figure keeping the conversation going will delay whatever shit storm is drifting my way.

  “Depends on the weapon. I got hit with fifty thousand volts last year, knocked me out of my skin. What’ve you got there? Thirty?”

  Fortz’s lip juts out through the hole in his gimp mask. “Nah, it’s fifty. Well, that’s what it says on the barrel. You never know with these fucking things, right? A bullet’s a bullet. But Tasers could be shooting fairy dust for all I know.”

  “Feckin’ electricity,” I agree good naturedly, going for reverse Stockholm syndrome. “That’s some sneaky invisible shit.”

  Krieger interrupts our bonding session. “Dirk, we’re at fifteen grand already,” he says, tapping the laptop’s screen. “We should get oiled.”

  It’s a little difficult to understand what Krieger is saying because of the mask. I really hope he didn’t say oiled.

  “Fifteen grand,” says Fortz, clapping his hands. “Twenty is our reserve, which you should feel very proud of. Five more and we’re good to go.”

  Good to go? Nothing about this situation is good as far as I’m concerned. I have an idea what’s going on here, and half of me almost doesn’t want my suspicions confirmed. The other half of me blurts: “What the hell is happening, Fortz?”

  The detective scratches his beer gut and ignores the question. “You probably guessed they make porn in this building, McEvoy. Friend of mine lets me use a room on occasion. Did you know that they shot the entire Twelve in a Bed series in that bed behind you? Sunny Daze made her debut in this very room.”

  “No way,” says Krieger. “You never told me that. I love her flicks. Especially Good Daze and Bad Daze.”

  “That was a classic,” says Fortz and is lost for a moment in fond reminiscence.

  I try again. “Come on, guys. What am I doing here?”

  Fortz picks a scalpel from the table. “Deacon said you were smarter than you look, so figure it out, why don’t you? Let’s look at the clues: You’re handcuffed to a chair in a porn studio. There are two guys in rubber watching pledges mount up on a laptop with a built-in webcam. Whaddya think’s going on? Poker night?”

  It’s pretty conclusive stuff, but cops have been known to concoct elaborate scenarios to trick confessions out of suspects. My old army buddy, Tommy Fletcher, told me that two guards from Athlone once dressed up as al-Qaeda to try and get him to sell them a trash bin on wheels full of Stingers that they were convinced he kept in his yard.

  I would have sold ’em the bin too, he admitted. But they had one whiskey too many in a hot bar and their beards melted off. Coupla red flags right there.

  Tommy. What a fecking nutcase.

  “Maybe, you’re trying to set me up,” I venture. “Trick me into confessing something.”

  “You got something to confess?” asks Fortz.

  “Nothing worth this much trouble.”

  “Bang goes that theory,” says Krieger.

  “So that’s it? You’re just gonna auction me online?”

  “Yup,” says Fortz. “People gotta pay to log on and watch us torture you to death. You would be amazed at how many sickos are out there.”

  Not today I wouldn’t.

  This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I can honestly say that if Sofia wasn’t depending on me, I would prefer to be dead. They say that there are no noble ways to die, but a heart attack is looking pretty good right now. And the way my heart is thudding in my chest, a cardiac is definitely achievable if I let my fear run riot.

  “Come on, guys. There must be something we can do here. I gotta be more valuable to you alive than dead. I got certain skills.”

  Fortz laughs. “Listen to Liam fucking Neeson. Certain skills.”

  Krieger pitches in. “He could tell us where the package is. That would be worth something.”

  Package? How do they know about Mike’s envelope?

  I go to standard first base. “What package?”

  Fortz shrugs. “If you don’t know, then you don’t know and we ain’t got a use for you apart from the auction.”

  I have no play here. All these morons have to do is search my clothes and they’re going to find the envelope. I can’t believe they didn’t do that already, too busy wiggling into their rubber aprons.

  Maybe they are stupid enough for me to pull some sort of con.

  “Detectives. You’re making twenty grand? That’s chump change compared to what I can offer you.”

  The blues don’t even bother answering, returning their attention to the screen’s growing total.

  I let my chin droop to my chest and make animal snuffles that are somewhere between chuckles and sobs.

  Keep it together, soldier. You are not dead yet.

  Fortz pinches his partner’s midriff. “Nineteen grand. Still rising.”

  Krieger giggles and skips away. “Quit it, Dirk.”

  “Okay,” I say, recovering a little. “Let’s do what we’re really here to do.”

  “Which is?” asks Fortz, stepping closer.

  We’re here because these two protect-and-serve motherfuckers are greedy and maybe I can appeal to that side of their nature.

  “Negotiate,” I say.

  Fortz waves the scalpel at me. “Negotiate? What are you gonna negotiate with, Irish? Who gets to slice off your balls?”

  This casual questions hits me like a sock in the gut and I feel myself hyperventilating. I’ve been in tight spots before but this situation is so dark that I am a hair’s breadth from total panic.

  Fortz taps me on the cheek with the scalpel. “Hey, Dan. Danny. Come on, now. Gimme some of that crackling banter you’re famous for. Let’s give the perverts their money’s worth.”

  I suck the panic back down. “I got the package in my jacket pocket on the floor right over there.”

  “You got the package in your jacket pocket?”

  Fortz elbows Krieger. “Is this guy serious?”

  “The boss said it was a long shot.”

  “So he doesn’t have the package. Who cares? We’re getting paid on both ends.”

  I am insulted that they doubt my integrity. “I do have that package. I was delivering it for Mike Madden. Why don’t you pull it out, see what we have?”

  Krieger and Fortz go into a routine.

  “Why don’t we do that?”

  “Yeah, why don’t we do that?”

  “Seems reasonable?”

  “Totally reasonable.”

  Fortz conducts with the scalpel as he speaks. “We would have to be total retardos not to go ahead and act on y
our suggestion.”

  Krieger laughs at the word retardos, which is probably a new wrinkle in their double act.

  “Do we look like retardos to you, McEvoy?” Krieger demands.

  This seems like a trick question.

  “No. Look, it’s in my pocket.”

  I figure if I get away from Krieger and his partner, I can worry about Mike killing me later. Also if I do get away, then I will come back almost immediately and kick the living shit out of these two clowns.

  “My package is worth two hundred large, which is a hell of a lot more than whatever you’re pulling down here. And there’s more where that came from.”

  Give a little truth to sell a lie.

  “Save your breath, McEvoy,” says Krieger. “You’re gonna need it for screaming.”

  Fortz pats Krieger’s shoulder in silent approval for this segue.

  “Do you think we just happened to pick you up at random, Danny?” he asks, and then answers. “No, we were told to pick you up and see if you knew where the package was. And it’s obvious to me that if you think the package can fit in your jacket pocket, then you don’t even know what the package is. That being the case, we are to dispose of you however we see fit and make sure the body is never found.”

  “They ain’t ever gonna find you,” says Krieger with some certainty, like this might be worrying me.

  “We’ve read your file,” continues Fortz. “We know all about your Special Forces tricks. I go into the jacket for whatever your package is and it explodes and covers me with acid or some shit. No. Not happening. We do our thing, then we take our time extracting that envelope with tweezers. But hey, thanks for filling us in on its pedigree. That information could come in very useful when we’re negotiating.”

  Bastard. Turning a man’s own five syllable word against him.

  “Hey,” says Krieger. “Now we’re getting paid three ways. The boss, the perverts and his package.”

  Fortz tosses the scalpel in the air and catches it neatly. “Who doesn’t love a good three way?”

  I was stupid and Fortz burned me.

  You’re panicking, Dan. Getting sloppy.

  In a previous life, when I was eager to serve my country by getting the hell out of it, my army shrink gave me a spiel on being a hostage. Apparently UN peacekeepers were snatched with the same regularity as Robin the Boy Wonder, which was about once per week. Unfortunately for us, we did not survive with the same consistency.

  Always negotiate from a position of power, or at least a position of perceived power, Simon Moriarty had advised. Failing that, it’s amazing how many of these klutzs don’t know how to tie a knot.

  None of which applied to me now, as I was cuffed hand and foot and not technically a hostage. I was a commodity whose life would be traded for cash, bit by bit, saving the balls for last.

  “You can’t just snatch a guy off the street and think nobody will notice,” I say, trying not to bleat. “You guys are cops, for Christ’s sake. Ever hear of surveillance footage?”

  Fortz’s response is snide. “Yeah, we heard of it, we know every camera in town. Why do you think we parked where we parked?”

  “There’s gotta be witnesses?” definitely bleating now. I sound like a baby goat.

  “Maybe,” admits Krieger. “But by the time anyone figures you’re missing, we, as stand-up cops, won’t even remember talking to you. You remember seeing that guy, partner?”

  “What guy?”

  “The Irish guy.”

  “What Irish guy?”

  “Exactly.”

  And then they bump sweaty chests, and I notice some matted hair transferral.

  Their celebration is interrupted by the laptop, which tweets stridently like a canary. This unexpected sonic squeak is greeted by the cops with sudden hushed reverence, as though it is the Angel Gabriel’s horn.

  “A fucking canary!” whispers Fortz, and Krieger shushes him.

  “Wait, Dirk. Don’t jinx it. Let me check.”

  He rushes to the computer and checks the screen. “Private session,” he says in hushed tones.

  “Cha-ching!” exults Fortz, pointing the scalpel skyward like Excalibur. “Tell me.”

  Krieger enunciates so clearly you could slice apples on the consonants. “One hundred thousand dollars from Citizen Pain.”

  Citizen Pain? I bet he doesn’t use that name on dating sites. If I do manage to extricate myself somehow from this evil little room, I am gonna track down the good Citizen and teach him something about pain.

  “I knew Pain would lap up the preview video,” says Fortz. “He loves the Special Forces types. That guy is a slave to his dick, man.”

  “Will I confirm?”

  “Seal the deal, partner.”

  Krieger wiggles his fingers like Oliver Hardy playing with his necktie, then sends an index finger diving toward the return key.

  Click.

  “Sealed and delivered,” he says. “We have accepted his offer, the money is in our account.”

  Sealed and delivered, I think. They’re talking about me. My person.

  I literally shudder at the thoughts of what was on that preview video they must have shot while I was out.

  “When are we going live?” I ask, might as well.

  “Right fucking now,” says Fortz. “As soon as I tape your fat Irish mouth.”

  Of course. Tape. These guys don’t want their names flying around the Internet. Even with the volume muted there’s always some smart-arsed lip-reader.

  Fortz has gotta get close to use the tape. This is my last chance to make a play.

  “Cover this motherfucker,” says Fortz, snagging a roll of tape from his kit bag under the table.

  Yeah, Krieger will cover me okay, but he’ll think before shooting now that I’m private show material.

  I tighten my core, searching for focus.

  One chance. What’ve you got, soldier?

  My fingers crab under the rim of the office chair and all I find is chewing gum and the height adjustment lever. If I tug on that lever, this chair should drop suddenly, if it’s working right.

  Krieger aims his gun my way, but half his attention is on the computer. Fortz is coming at me in ever-decreasing circles. Wary, like a hyena closing in on a dying lion.

  I smell a pungent blend of talc, nerves and Speed Stick as Fortz closes in from the rear; drops of his sweat spatter my head.

  A shadow falls over me and Fortz’s elbows rest on my shoulders. His pale hands descend, a strip of duct tape held delicately between the fingertips, trying to avoid the sticky side. Even when taping a kidnap victim, a person’s gotta pay attention to the sticky side.

  When I see the tape in front of my face, I pull the lever. The chair drops down maybe a foot and I go down with it. Fortz, who had been leaning on my shoulders, is put off balance by the sudden drop and I feel his entire weight on my back. I have a little play in my legs now, not enough for anything more than a hobble but maybe enough to throw some chaos into this situation. I swivel the chair so that Fortz’s bulk is between me and Krieger’s gun, then focusing all my energy into my knees, I explode upward to the limit of my chains, which is enough to catapult Fortz toward his partner.

  Over my shoulder I see Fortz go down heavy and awkward and he loses a shelf of teeth to the laptop’s keyboard, which is a bonus. Krieger is bowled backward and drops his gun in the tangle of limbs.

  I have maybe five seconds before I get shot. And being body-bagged in this thong has definitely shot into the top five of my “Don’t Let It End This Way” list, just above accidentally drinking bleach and below diving into a freezing lake to rescue a puppy only to find out that it is actually an old rag and the girl you’re trying to impress hates dogs anyway.

  As you can see, I have put quite a bit of thought into this list. Dr. Moriarty would say I was anal and the rigout I’m wearing at the moment would do little to disprove that theory.

  With the seat at its lowest setting I have enough slack in my bond
s for a bent-over stagger. My hands and feet are cuffed around the central column and this cheap-ass chair doesn’t even have casters so I gotta hobble along like a . . . gimp. Is it ironic that I am gimping while those dressed as gimps don’t have to? I don’t think so. I think it’s just unfortunate.

  Fortz has pulled off his mask and stuffed it into his mouth in a ridiculous attempt to stop his gums bleeding, but more important, Krieger is scrabbling on the ground for his gun.

  Time to find the exit.

  This room has no windows and only one door, which is blocked by two buttery cops, so I’m gonna have to go through the wall.

  Go through the wall?

  Even thinking it sounds ridiculous. Nevertheless it’s either that or the aforementioned ball slicing. I crab roll onto the bed with just enough momentum to come to my feet.

  “Hey,” burbles Fortz through the blood. “Stop! Police!”

  In the words of the sweatband-wearing, fuzzy legend J. McEnroe: You cannot be fucking serious.

  I bet McEnroe said fucking all the time off-camera. You can just imagine it coming out of his face.

  I bounce on the bed to work up momentum and behind me I hear scuffling and clicking. I just bet that’s Krieger finding his gun. He may be a shitty cop, but usually the shitty cops are the best shots.

  A bullet clangs into the chair’s column, knocking me forward a step and I decide to make use of this blast of kinetic energy to hurl myself toward the wall, praying for a single board of sheetrock. The way my day is going my head is gonna connect with a water pipe.

  Also, my use of the verb hurl may have been a little optimistic. Lurch might be a bit more honest.

  Saints be praised, luck o’ the Irish, the wall is a flimsy partition and I bludgeon my way through, directly into the middle of a threesome. At least I only count three. One second I’m in a room with two decidedly out-of-shape cops and the next I’m on a bed with a bunch of extremely well endowed young people who seem to be loving their work.