I figure Shea’s dad must have been an ungodly asshole and Ben never had any kids. It’s like they have a second chance at life. I bet they got autumn-hued plans for kite flying and shit.
“We got a bond now,” says Shea. “A blood bond. We are two sides of the same coin.”
“This asshole is probably wondering how we found him,” says Freckles.
To be honest, the asshole is past caring. They found me and knowing how they did it won’t make me any less found. Actually if they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead by now.
“My car has GPS, moron,” says Freckles, knuckling my head like I’m stupid. “I called the monitoring company and they told me where it was parked. We was staking out the hotel garage when the two cops came out and rolled you into the back of their cruiser. I oughta thank them really. Taking bodies out of hotels is a bitch.” He winks at Shea. “As we know only too well, right Shea-ster?”
“You got it. Benny T. I’m gonna feel it in my quads tomorrow.”
“These fucking kids,” says Bent Tool. “Fucking quads and shit. I gotta whole new lingo to learn.”
“That’s so wack,” I grunt, giving him his first lesson.
Shea pats himself down until he finds an energy bar and I think, No, don’t start eating.
But he does, right up in my face. Making a gooey paste of the bar, smacking his beard-rimmed fleshy lips, which from this angle, God forgive me for even thinking it, look a bit like a pussy.
I think about head-butting Shea, but then I might get some of his crud on my face, so I hang my head low and wait for this to be over. He’s still chewing, I can hear it.
“I went through your pockets, McEvoy,” says Freckles. “Took back what was mine. Checked your calls. Seems the only text you sent to Mike was a confirmation that the kid was dead. Is that all Mikey knows?
“Everyone knows,” I manage to splutter. “I got a friend in the cops.”
“Nah,” says Freckles. “Bullshit. You were trying to buy a little time. If I know Mike, he’s out in—what the fuck is it? Cloisters? Celebrating. Tying one on. For the next coupla days Irish Mike Madden, the double-crossing asshole, is wide open. And let me tell you, I’m gonna drive a spike straight up that open asshole.”
Normally I would not be too broken up at the idea of someone lethal paying Mike a visit, but then it occurs to me that I will be extremely dead before that happens and plus Zeb could be at Mike’s too. Though if Zeb suffered a flesh wound or lost half a testicle I wouldn’t be all that upset.
“I swear,” I say. “I put the word out. You guys are fugitives.”
Shea buys it. “We’re fugitives, Benny.”
Freckles, the pro, ain’t in the market for bullshit. “My guy tells me there’s nothing on the scanners, or Web site. Not a dickie. But just to be sure, we hang on to this guy for a few hours in case we need a hostage. I reckon if we ain’t heard anything by morning, then we’re in the clear.”
“So all we gotta do is wait until the cab is ready and have a few of the boys to take you for a little drive.”
Freckles is an old hand at the body disposal racket. He won’t shoot me here ’cause of me being a hefty sonuva bitch and it would take six of them to carry the dead weight. So they got a tricked-out death cab. I’ve seen these hearses in the Lebanon. I remember we seized a standard-looking Renault one time to find the trunk all wired up with a freezer box for body parts. Freckles’s boys will transport me in the taxi then, make me climb down into a dug grave and shoot me on-site. Makes sense. That’s what I’d do to if I was a cold-blooded killer, maybe roll Krieger and Fortz in there for good measure and a couple of animal parts just to screw with the crime lab. And if I had a spare minute I’d scrawl a few verses of Klingon poetry on Shea’s forehead with a Sharpie. I could tie up Homeland for months.
“Come on, Benny T,” says Shea then and I swear his voice doesn’t sound like it’s broken yet, maybe it’s the excitement. “Let’s do it. Me and you.”
This is a step too far.
Oh, wait. Maybe I’ve misunderstood.
“Let’s finish the job, T. We can kill this fucking mook. Me and you.”
Thank Christ. The kid just wants to kill me personally.
“I don’t know,” says Freckles. “This guy is a handful and I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Come on, Benny,” the kid is pleading now, like he wants to break Santa’s rules and open a present on Christmas Eve. “Tomorrow I’m back to the corporate life, but tonight I wanna be a gangster, like you.”
Shea makes a good argument. Presents it well. He totally sealed the deal with the like you there at the end. I bet he was on the debating team at Harvard.
“How can I turn down that face? Look at this guy, McEvoy. We’re gonna run this town.”
I got the strength for nothing, but my body jerks spasmodically of its own accord and Bent Tool takes it as acknowledgement.
“You’re gonna be Edward Shea’s first execution, not counting the guy who was already winged. That’s a great honor.”
Fab. T’riffic. Can’t hardly wait.
Thank you, Fuckapalooza. It’s been a trip.
I must be in shock, or maybe whatever sedative Edit snuck into the whiskey is still my bloodstream because I’m taking all this impending-death stuff very placidly. I’m vaguely aware that I don’t want to die tonight but I can’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the idea. I know this kind of torpor, this leaden lethargy, is a common symptom of PTSD but I ain’t PTS yet, I am smack bang in the middle of TS right bloody now. I reckon maybe the S from the last PTS is just kicking in. So what I’m feeling now is a result of the torture video. I really hope that Krieger and Fortz get gut shot making a break for Mexico. Ain’t it funny that I feel stronger about them dying than me living?
Just in case there are a few folks who are unaware what the letters PTSD stand for I can tell you that it ain’t, as my buddy Zeb once suggested, Prison Twinks Suck Dick, though I gotta say I did laugh at that, which wasn’t very enlightened of me. Zeb made the whole thing into a running joke. After I dragged him to Broadway with me to see that Rock of Ages show he claimed to be suffering from post-dramatic stress disorder. I thought that was a bit forced.
They leave me alone for a few hours, popping in every now and then to make sure I am still tethered to the radiator with a chain they had handy that looks like it came north on the underground railroad a couple of centuries ago. I feel guilty for not attempting to escape but I simply ain’t got the resources. I been knocked out twice, beaten with a frankly embarrassing blackjack and rammed with a Hummer. That’s gotta be some kind of record.
So I sleep on the floor and even the fact that I’ll be taking a one-way trip when I wake up cannot keep me from passing out. I read an article in Simon Moriarty’s waiting room once that said your subconscious already holds the key. Whatever the question is, you already have the answer inside you. So maybe my inner self is gonna pipe up with the key to this dilemma. I’ll tell myself something I don’t know. That would be really nice, ’cause generally all my subconscious does is give me phobias and behavioral tics. The trick is to wake up and shout the first word that comes to mind. It’s called auto manifestation or, to quote Zebulon, a crock of psycho bobbemyseh. I don’t know what bobbemyseh means exactly, but I imagine it ain’t complimentary. Good things rarely come in crocks.
I dream a little in those few fitful hours but that doesn’t enlighten me any, unless good old Dad wrapping my head in duct tape, saying, Good soldier, good soldier, is the answer to the world’s prayers.
Daddy dreams are a staple in my repertoire of nightmares, but this one is even creepier than usual and kicks my arse straight back to consciousness. I sleep jerk myself awake to find the Shea-ster and Benny T gazing down at me, cracking up like I’m Louie CK on his best night ever.