"You tell us."
Barry's face was a shifting mass of bewilderment and twitching eyelids. He held his hands up, palms open, and breathed deeply through his nostrils. It whistled like a tiny tea kettle. "Now," he said through clenched teeth and forced composure, "why would I know where Ralphie is? Isn't that what I hired you two numbnuts to figure out?"
"So your first team never brought him in? That what you're saying?"
"You are the first fucking team!" Barry hollered. He held his palms up again, re-composing. His tea kettle nose whistled once more as he took another deep, calming breath. Then he opened up the drawer of the desk, popped two antacids and chased it with Maalox. Calmly, he said "You don't have Ralphie then. Is that what you're telling me?"
Junior sucked on his teeth. "Uh. No."
I said, "You don't have him either?"
"I do not."
"Shit,"
Barry sighed into one of his trademark groans. "So what you're telling me is, somebody else got him before you two did?"
"Looks that way."
"Who?"
"Well, we know who. Now we have to figure out why."
"Well, why don't you both do that. Because one drawer down? Under the one filled with pills and syrups to keep me from hemorrhaging myself into the morgue every time I sit on the crapper?"
"Yeah?"
"I have a gun."
"Gotcha," we both said at the same time.
"Always good to see you George," I said as I backed out of the office.
"Yeah. Better circumstances next time, huh?"
Junior was slowly backing out, too. "Yeah. Forget everything we said. Barry's a great guy."
"Real stand-up," I said.
"For a Hard-On."
Barry reached for the drawer. We ran like hell.
By the time we got back to the car, Mother Nature had decided to take a swipe at us too. Ominous black clouds roiled over the Boston skyline, the air holding the charge of an impending storm
"Well, ain't that just a dandy," Junior said, flinging his hands skyward in frustration. "So now what? I'd say we got maybe a couple of hours before we get dumped on."
"You hear how much we're getting?"
"Yeah. Two hundred dollars for this bullshit."
"I was talking about snow."
"I know what you were talking about."
"Maybe there's something back at the O'Malley's. Other that that, we just have to find Fat Pat or Swede."
"If the snow doesn't cover them up, we might be able to find a trail of fried chicken bones. That should lead us to Pat, at least."
"Do we have their numbers still?"
"What? You gonna call them and ask; 'Hey, you guys beat Ralphie O'Malley into a coma?', or do you have another question in mind?"
"Bring the mountain to Mohammed, my brother. We'll call them and say we need extra guys for a gig."
"Think they'll buy it? Fat Pat sure as shit qualifies as a mountain."
"They should. They're even dumber than us."
"True dat."
Back at The Cellar, Junior and I waited downstairs where the bands played. It was early enough in the day that the space was still completely empty.
Did I mentioned it was soundproofed?
Half an hour after I left a message on The Swede's voicemail, I could hear the huge, thumping footfalls that heralded Fat Pat's march down the stairs.
I crouched behind the gate opposite the entryway. They walked in, looking around for us in the darkened room, the only light emanating from the red exit signs.
"Where are they?" Fat Pat wheezed softly from the exertion of walking down a flight of stairs.
"What time they say to be here?" asked Swede.
I shut the gate with a slam, making them both jump in surprise. Well, Pat didn't jump exactly, but he did wiggle.
"Jesus, Boo," wheezed Fat Pat.
Behind them, Junior silently vaulted the bar, baseball hat in hand.
The Swede caught a glint of metal reflecting off my hand. Dumbly, he asked, "Why you wearing knuckles, Boo?"
Junior swung for the fences, whacking the bat into the thick meat at the back of Fat Pat's thighs. Fat Pat screamed, dropping hard to his knees onto the concrete floor. With Pat's weight behind it, the fall probably hurt more than the bat.
The Swede turned to his fallen buddy. I could almost smell his synapses firing. "Hey!"
I socked him hard in the ribs with the brass knuckles. With a pained explosion of breath, Swede was on the ground next to his pet blob.
I flicked the lights on and stood over the two dummies. "Now, before this experience gets any more painful for you guys, just tell us who told you to grab Ralphie O'Malley and…what the fuck happened to your head, Swede?"
Swede had a huge purple shiner, the whites turned blood-red from smashed blood vessels. Over the eye, a huge red knot bulged horribly. More than slightly ashamed, The Swede said, "I got hit with a shoe."
Junior and I looked at each other. "No shit?"
"No shit," Swede said. "What happened to your nose, Junior?"
"That woman is a fuckin' menace," Fat Pat said, shifting uncomfortably in his barstool. His legs must have still hurt like a motherfucker. Boo-hoo. Since it took the three of us to help Fat Pat back up the stairs, my back was killing me. I drew the short straw and got bottom duty while Junior and The Swede pulled from above. I'd have to remember to boil my hands after.
"She's like Bruce Lee with a Dr. Sholl," Junior agreed nasally, his nose clogged from the swelling.
"It was an accident. I mean, I swung on her, but I didn't know who was hitting at us when I did. She's a freakin' animal."
The Swede gingerly touched his disgusting eye. "But we swear to God, Boo. We never hurt Ralphie. We just grabbed him for-"
Fat Pat silenced him with a hard glare.
"For who?" I asked.
"We don't know," Fat Pat said, a bit too quickly. "We got an anonymous call, said pick up Ralphie."
"Who paid you, then?"
"Direct deposit." Fat Pat said, then smiled, obviously satisfied with his on-the-fly answer. Truth be told, it was pretty smart for Fat Pat.
"Where did you drop him then?"
"I…" I reached over and grabbed a fistful of Fat Pat's ear and twisted. "Ow-ow-oww!" he whined.
I loosened the twist but didn't let go. "Shut it. I'm asking Swede." While Fat Pat may have exhibited a minor talent for improvisation, Swede was dumber than a bag of wet hamsters.
Swede looked nervously at Fat Pat. "We… Just… Dropped him off?" He answered in the form of a question, like an unsure fifth-grader. But since this wasn't Jeopardy, I continued my line of interrogation.
"Where?"
"On a corner?"
"Let me get this straight," Junior interjected. "You two rocket scientists snatched Ralphie, then just released him back into the wild on some corner? Is that what you're babbling at us Swede?"
"Yes."
"Retard," Fat Pat muttered.
"Hoooo-kay, Pat," I sighed, "as much a contradiction in terms as this may be, natural order has made you the brains of your operation. Swede?"
"Yeah."
"You're a retard. Fuck off."
"Got it." Swede jumped up and walked out quickly, abandoning Pat. He stopped at the doorway. "Yo Pat. Call me later if you want to rent a movie or somethin'."
"I'm gonna step on your head later, is what I'm gonna do, you stupid fuck."
The Swede looked sincerely hurt by Fat Pat's anger and walked away, head down. I felt a twinge of guilt, like I'd just kicked a disabled puppy.
I turned my attention back to Pat. "So, all things considered, we're just going to keep hurting you until you tell us who paid you to get Ralphie." I twisted his ear again.
Pat squealed in pain. "I can't," he whined.
Junior leaned in close. "Whaddaya think, Boo? Another inch and the ear starts to tear off?"
"Let's see."
"Garrett!" Fat Pat shrieked. "We took him to Al Garrett!"
"Aw, no," Junior said softly.
I released his ear and smacked him upside the head with the same hand. "What's wrong with you?"
"He paid us."