Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.
“Dolores, this is Hutson.”
“What do you want?”
“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt and…”
She hung up on him before he got any farther.
Hutson squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?
Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on the sixth ring.
“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me.”
“How much money?”
“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five minutes.”
There was a lengthy pause.
“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”
“Mom…”
“You can’t keep expecting me and your father to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”
Hutson mopped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll never gamble again.”
An eternity of silence passed.
“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son. A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”
“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt me!”
“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this, you’ll have to get yourself out.”
“Mom! Please!”
The phone went dead.
“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”
Hutson cradled his face in his hands and tried to fight back a sob. He lost. He was going to be hurt. He was going to be very badly hurt, over a long period of time. And no one was going to help him.
“Please,” he said, in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Just give me a day or two. I’ll get the money.”
Little Louie shook his head. “That ain’t the deal. You agreed to the terms, and those terms were to the letter. You still have half an hour. See who else you can call.”
Hutson brushed away his tears and stared at the phone, praying for a miracle. Then he had an idea.
He called the police.
He dialled 911, then four more numbers so it looked like it was a normal call. A female officer answered.
“Chicago Police Department.”
“This is Hutson. This is a matter of life and death. Bring 30,000 dollars over to 1357 Ontario, apartment 506.”
“Sir, crank calls on the emergency number is a crime, punishable by a fine of five hundred dollars and up to thirty days in prison.”
“Listen to me. Please. They want to kill me.”
“Who does, sir?”
“These guys. It’s a gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me. Get over here.”
“Sir, having already explained the penalty for crank calls…”
The phone was ripped from Hutson’s hands by Rocko and handed to Little Louie.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Little Louie hung up and waggled a finger at Hutson. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Hutson. After all, you had agreed to my terms.”
Hutson began to cry. He cried like a first grader with a skinned knee. He cried for a long time, before finally getting himself under control.
“It’s time.” Little Louie glanced at his watch and smiled. “Start with his fingers.”
“Please don’t hurt me…”
Rocko and the other thug moved in. Hutson dodged them and got on his knees in front of Little Louie.
“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Anything at all. Name it. Just name it. But please don’t hurt me.”
“Hold it boys.” Little Louie raised his palm. “I have an idea.”
A small ray of hope penetrated Hutson.
“Anything. I’ll do anything.”
Little Louie took out a long, thin cigarillo and nipped off the end, swallowing it.
“There was a guy, about six years ago, who was in the same situation you’re in now.”
He put the end of the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around on his fat, gray tongue.
“This guy also said he would do anything, just so I didn’t hurt him. Remember that fellas?”
Both bodyguards nodded.
“He finally said, what he would do, is put his hand on a stove burner for ten seconds. He said he would hold his own hand on the burner, for ten whole seconds.”
Little Louie produced a gold Dunhill and lit the cigar, rolling it between his chubby fingers while drawing hard.
“He only lasted seven, and we had to hurt him anyway.” Little Louie sucked on the stogie, and blew out a perfect smoke ring. “But I am curious to see if it could be done. The whole ten seconds.”
Little Louie looked at Hutson, who was still kneeling before him.
“If you can hold your right hand on a stove burner for ten seconds, Mr. Hutson, I’ll relieve you of your debt and you can leave without anyone hurting you.”
Hutson blinked several times. How hot did a stove burner get? How seriously would he be hurt?
Not nearly as much as having thirty thousand dollars worth of damage inflicted upon him.
But a stove burner? Could he force himself to keep his hand on it for that long?
Did he have any other choice?
“I’ll do it.”
Little Louie smiled held out a hand to help Hutson to his feet.
“Of course, if you don’t do it, the boys will still have to work you over. You understand.”
Hutson nodded, allowing himself to be led into the kitchen.
The stove was off-white, a greasy Kenmore, with four electric burners. The heating elements were each six inches in diameter, coiled into spirals like a whirlpool swirl. They were black, but Hutson knew when he turned one on it would glow orange.
Little Louie and his bodyguards stepped behind him to get a better look.
“It’s electric,” noted Rocko.
Little Louie frowned. “The other guy used a gas stove. His sleeve caught on fire. Remember that?”
The thugs giggled. Hutson picked the lower left hand burner and turned it on the lowest setting.
Little Louie wasn’t impressed.
“Hey, switch it up higher than that.”
“You didn’t say how high it had to be when we made the agreement.” Hutson spoke fast, relying on the mobster’s warped sense of fairness. “Just that I had to keep it on for ten seconds.”
“It was inferred it would be on the hottest.”
“I can put it on low and still follow the deal to the letter.”
Little Louie considered this, then nodded.
“You’re right. You’re still following it to the letter. Leave it on low then.”
It didn’t matter, because already the burner was fiery orange. Rocko leaned over and spat on it, and the saliva didn’t even have a chance to drip through the coils before sizzling away and evaporating.
“I think it’s hot,” Rocko said.
Hutson stared at the glowing burner. He held his trembling hand two inches above it. The heat was excruciating. Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the hair above his knuckles curled and he fought the little voice in his brain that screamed get your hand away!
“Well, go ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold pocket watch. “I’ll start when you do. Ten whole seconds.”
“Sweet Jesus in heaven help me,” thought Hutson.
He bit his lip and slapped his hand down on to the burner.
There was an immediate frying sound, like bacon in a pan. The pain was instant and searing. Hutson screamed and screamed, the coils burning away the skin on his palm, burning into the flesh, blistering and bubbling, melting the muscle and fat, Hutson screaming louder now, smoke starting to rise, Little Louie sounding off the seconds, a smell like pork chops filling Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond intense, screaming so high there wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it there anymore, Jesus no more no more and…
Hutson yanked his hand from the burner, trembling, feeling faint, clutching his right hand at the wrist and stumbling to the sink, turning on the cold water, putting his charred hand under it, losing consciousness, everything going black.