There was a new man behind the desk, young and sharp-looking. He had on a neat blue suit and wore a gold watch that looked like an imitation Rolex, a big maybe-diamond tie tack. He’d splashed on just the right amount of cologne, which gave off a crisp spearmint scent. Women who liked money and chewing gum would find him irresistible.
Carver gave his room number and asked if there were any messages, and the sharp young guy checked the boxes and said no, there was nothing for him. He hoped Carver was enjoying his stay at the hotel, he said, as if they were in the lobby of the Royal Orleans.
Carver coaxed a newspaper from the battered vending machine and went upstairs to read it while he waited for Desoto to call.
He stretched out on the bed and had barely opened the paper when he dozed off. The booze and dinner, and then the walk back to the hotel, had made him feel doped and drowsy.
The room was dark when he abruptly woke up.
What the hell? Something was wrong. His arms were stretched over his head and he couldn’t move his hands. Worse than that, he was having a terrible time breathing.
Something-somebody-as heavy as a building was sitting on his chest.
23
The dark, bulky shape looming over Carver reached out a thick arm to the bedside lamp and switched it on. Yellow light flooded the room.
Raffy Ortiz smiled down at Carver. The lamp was reflected as tiny oblong slashes of brilliance in his narrowed eyes, lending him the look of a feral cat about to relish a kill.
Raffy was straddling his chest. Must have slipped the lock on the door, or forced it without Carver hearing. Carver writhed desperately, twisted his neck, and saw that the tie he’d draped over the chair had been knotted around his wrists to bind them to the old iron headboard. He tested all his strength against the knots. The silk tie drew tighter around his wrists, cutting off circulation in his hands. Panic welled cold and black in his bowels. He wriggled his fingers and could barely feel them.
Raffy said, “No use you struggling, compadre.” Still grinning, he used his thumb and middle finger and nimbly flicked the tip of Carver’s nose. Hard. It stung, causing Carver to toss his head from side to side in a futile attempt to protect himself. He threw back his good leg and tried to hook it around Raffy’s neck. He couldn’t quite make it. Raffy expertly flicked the tip of his nose again. Damn, that hurt!
“I told you,” Raffy said in his Cuban accent, “you gotta stop talking to people down in Florida. You didn’t hear me, I guess, huh?” Flick! went the finger. Tears spilled from Carver’s eyes.
“Bastard!” Carver spat. But even through his rage he felt a chilling fear. He was completely helpless. And Raffy was enjoying this; he was in control of where it was going. In total control.
Flick! “I dunno, Carver, maybe if your other leg was broke in eight or ten places that’d slow you down. Have to do your asking around over the phone, wouldn’t you, asshole?”
The idea of both legs ruined, of complete immobility, made Carver frantic with fear. He strained against his bonds and thrashed futilely with his good leg, his breath hissing and his body heaving. Raffy whooped and waved an arm, as if he were riding a rodeo bronco. This was sport to him.
When Carver finally lay quiet again, Raffy chuckled. It was a high, nasty sound, like something brittle breaking. His eyes got dreamy. Flick! More tears. Warm. Tickling Carver’s neck as they tracked down to the sweat-soaked pillow.
Slowly Raffy dismounted Carver’s chest. Carver sucked in a rasping breath of air and tried to blink the tears from his eyes. It helped, but his vision was blurred.
Raffy said, “Somebody tells you something, fucker, you oughta listen or you might be making a major mistake. You agree?”
Carver lay silently with his chest working like a bellows. God, it was good to be able to breathe! The warm air was like sweet liquid.
Raffy chuckled again. He reached beneath Carver’s shirt and pinched his right nipple and then twisted it brutally, Carver’s body writhed in pain. “Hear me ask if you agree?”
“I heard,” Carver groaned through his agony and anger. And he felt something else: humiliation. He knew he shouldn’t feel that, but he did.
“You’re just like a bitch, Carver. Do what you’re fucking told.” Raffy walked over to the old easy chair, whirled neatly in the air, and kicked a hole in the backrest. Chair didn’t stand a chance. White upholstery batting bulged from the rip. Raffy had on a sleeveless black T-shirt and painted-tight Levi’s. The Levi’s didn’t seem to restrict his range of motion. He swaggered over to the floor lamp near the window and chopped it in half with the callused edge of his right hand, grunting in an explosion of air as he struck. The upper half of the lamp dropped to the floor, dangling from the lower, the two pieces held together only by insulated wiring. “Hey, I could do that to your good leg, Carver. Snap that fucker easy as shit, you know?” He slashed the air with his hand. “Eee-yow! Nothing to me.”
He moved lithely toward the foot of the bed, incredibly graceful for such a wide and muscular man. He was getting high on domination now, the dreamy grin fixed firmly to go with an unblinking hardness in his gleaming dark eyes. Like a kid engrossed in pulling the legs off an insect. “What you’d do then, Carver, is sit in a wheelchair or drag yourself around like a fucking snail. Wouldn’t be no problem to me or anybody else.” He leaped like an oversized ballet dancer to the bathroom door. The wall jutted out there; he side-shuffled gracefully and with another primal, explosive grunt slammed his fist into it. His hammerlike hand, chalked white with plaster dust, emerged inside the bathroom. He laughed and wriggled his fingers. “Punched right through the goddamn wall, compadre! Know anybody else can do that? You’re a strong fucker-bet you can’t do it, huh? Well, maybe that ain’t a fair thing to say. ’Cause maybe you won’t get the chance.”
He pulled his arm and hand back through the wall. Brushing white powder from himself and his clothes, he said, “Tied up like that, Carver, with your worthless leg, I could walk over there and pull your pants down and shove it to you. Stretch your bunghole nine directions. You’re lucky I ain’t that way. I mean, I might cut your dick off and shove it down your throat, but I ain’t a goddamn fag. You oughta be glad, you know? You glad?”
“Glad,” Carver said.
Raffy whooped again and suddenly leaped onto the bed, standing and straddling Carver. One of the bed slats gave and a corner of the mattress dropped. Didn’t bother Raffy with his feline balance.
He unzipped his Levi’s, held his penis with both hands, and urinated on Carver.
At first Carver couldn’t believe it.
This couldn’t be happening.
Then he did believe it and rage overcame reason. He yanked desperately at the knotted tie, roaring, kicking up at Raffy with his free leg. Raffy ignored his efforts. Carver felt warm urine spatter over his chest and neck, then his face. He spat and cursed. Gagged. The ammonia stench of the urine was sickening him. He was clenching his fists so tightly that feeling was returning to his numbed fingers.
Raffy grinned and said, “You can make noise if you want. Nobody hear you in this old hotel. If they did hear, they wouldn’t do nothing anyway.”
Carver knew he was right.
When Raffy’s bladder was emptied he casually zipped his pants back up and hopped down off the bed. Then he drew a switchblade knife from his pocket. The spring had been removed and the blade was balanced so it could be scissored out and locked into position with a quick wrist motion. Carver barely saw Raffy’s arm move as the long, gleaming blade leaped from its bone handle and snapped into place with a firm, metallic click. It was polished steel and finely honed, and it gave back the light from the lamp by the bed. Moving as if his muscular mass weighed about ten pounds, Raffy walked around to stand near Carver’s head.