It seemed to last an hour, though I doubt it was more than a half-minute. But it’s amazing how much damage one man can do to another in the space of thirty seconds using nothing more than fists and boots.
I’m hurting from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Every pain receptor in my body is screaming, every pore of my skin seems to be leaking blood. I’m wheezing and whimpering, and though the adrenalin kicked in quickly, it’s flushed through my system now, so everything hurts like hell.
And it’s going to hurt a lot more until I tell him what he wants to hear about me and Willow.
The first blow shattered my nose. That’s the one I remember with crystal clarity. The flash of pain was so sudden, so intense, and the sound of crushed cartilage so horrifying, so sickening, it took all the fight out of me. Any will I might have had to resist was gone the moment I heard that sound.
I might have cried.
Not the noisy sort of crying kids do when they’re hurt, but the moaning type men and women do when they’re anesthetized and you’re slicing them open or scraping tumors from their internal organs.
The blow to my nose made me gag and retch. Before I could even think about vomiting, he crashed his fist into my right cheekbone, then my left. Then he tagged me on top of the head, and then a right and left to my ears.
Every time he hit me it hurt, and every punch seemed to break something, as if I were being hit by a brick bat.
How could I possibly be standing upright?
I wasn’t.
Gary was holding me up from behind so Bobby could get better leverage into his punches.
I only know this because when Gary finally released me, I crumbled to the gravel in a heap. Then Bobby began kicking my ribs. When I covered up, he kicked whatever he could reach, which turned out to by my ass and lower back. It dawned on me if he happened to kick my backbone with the toe of his boot, I could wind up paralyzed.
So I rolled onto my back and tried to get my legs up before he could kick me in the nuts, but my legs wouldn’t respond. So there I was, knees bent, wide apart, giving him a perfect target. He had no trouble connecting, and the only reason my twig and berries remained attached to my groin is because he caught me with the top of his boot instead of the toe.
Not that it made much difference, pain-wise.
I threw up, then started choking on my vomit.
Absurdly, Bobby shouted, “You think that’s funny? Huh? You think that’s funny?”
Funny?
No.
Funny never crossed my mind.
No part of it was funny. Especially when he asked, “Did you fuck my girlfriend? (kick) Did you fuck Willow? (kick) Did you? (kick) Did you fuck my girlfriend? (kick) Huh?” (kick)
I passed out.
But only for a few seconds.
When I came to he was still screaming about what he’d do to me if he finds out I fucked Willow. I couldn’t imagine there was anything left undone to me. Then I saw the silver lining.
My body was blocking the pain!
I know the reason for this. When we experience shock or trauma, our bodies produce a natural morphine that dulls or completely eliminates pain. The more we need, the more we create.
Each time Bobby kicked me it made a hollow thunking sound, like a kid batting a large balloon around the room. But the pain was minimal.
When it got really ugly, Gary told Bobby he’d have to take it somewhere else. The assault could go on, he said, just not in his parking lot. He couldn’t afford the publicity of a customer beaten to death on the premises.
The two of them picked me up and dumped me in the trunk of my rental car. I landed in an odd configuration, my arms and legs so splayed they seemed disconnected from my torso, like a Picasso painting. Bobby pushed my marionette arms and legs around till I settled deep enough in the trunk for him to shut the lid.
15
I hear Bobby asking Gary to drive his motorcycle home. He says he’ll follow him there and drive him back to the club. Gary says he can’t because he’s got to meet someone named Marvin in a few minutes. The Mercedes trunk is well insulated, which makes it impossible to hear what they’re saying when they get more than a few feet away.
Five minutes pass and I’m still in the trunk. A car pulls up behind me. I hear a door slam shut. A man’s voice calls out. I strain to make out the words, but they’re garbled.
Now he approaches my car, saying, “We had a report of a fight that took place in this parking lot.”
“When?” Gary says.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, officer. Or maybe it was a crank call.”
“It was an eye-witness report.”
“There was no fight here, sir. You’ve got my word on that.”
There’s a pause. Then, “What’s this?”
“What?”
“This look like blood to you? It does to me. And it’s wet. You’re Gary, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well Gary, I think it’s time you started telling me the truth. Or you can talk to us downtown. Your choice.”
There’s another short pause.
I kick the trunk, try to yell “Help!” but my voice comes out like a stage whisper.
“What’s that?”
“Sounds like crawfish,” Gary says.
“Crawfish?”
“Help! I’m in the trunk!” I yell. This time my voice works. Surely the cop can hear. “Help! Help!” I yell. I kick harder.
“Maybe you should open the trunk, Gary, show me your talking crawfish.”
“It’s not my car. I don’t have the keys.”
“Well maybe you better shit them up.”
“Is there a problem officer?” Bobby’s voice. From a distance.
“This your car?”
“Yes, sir. What about it?”
“Open the trunk.”
“No problem.”
I’m saved. Thank God!
I hear a muffled sound. Something heavy falls on the trunk. Then to the ground.
The trunk opens.
I yell, “Help! Officer?”
It’s Bobby, Gary, and some other guy.
Bobby says, “There’s no cop here, asshole. We were just fucking with you.”
The three of them laugh hysterically, and I wonder if they’re going to urinate on me, like Joe and his friends did all those years ago.
I’m more embarrassed than disappointed.
Humiliated, actually, and pissed.
The image of a beaten, but not defeated Daffy Duck floats through my mind, saying, “Of courth you know, thith means war!”
“You’re on my list!” I yell.
“Goodnight,” he says, then punches the side of my head.
Everything goes black.
16
When I regain consciousness I hear Bobby talking to a guy named Chuckie, who’s clearly a drug dealer.
That’s what I need, Bobby Mitchell on drugs.
We’re parked somewhere, all three of us in the car, except they’re in the front seat and I’m in the trunk. Their voices are reasonably clear, which gives me reassurance my ear drums may not be damaged after all. Unfortunately, my pain receptors are in great shape, which means I’m hurting.
Good thing I’m a doctor who knows better than to leave his medical bag out in the open on the car seat, where some hoodlum could get it.
The Mercedes I’m trapped in has a compartment you can lift up to access the spare tire. It’s a square compartment enclosing a round tire, which means each of the corners have spaces large enough to store my medical bag. All I have to do is lift myself high enough to get my arm in the compartment beneath me and pull the bag out. It won’t be easy because I need to work quietly, and any movement could make me gasp or cry out in pain.
I take a few deep breaths, then lift myself up while hearing Chuckie explain the incredible rush Bobby will get after injecting a mixture of cocaine and heroin into his blood stream.
A speedball.
Bobby says he doesn’t trust needles in his vein.