“What did you say, McEvoy? Did you say what I think you said?”
Oh shit. What did I say?
“Motherfucker said fluffer,” says Freckles. “Fucking fluffer.”
Shea draws breath. “I gotta hand it to you, McEvoy. Ten minutes from grisly death and still thinking with your dick. Maybe you are as stupid as you pretended to be.”
Fluffer? I don’t get it.
“Fluffer?” I say, relieved to be able to speak. “Definitely fluffer? Not suffer, or even mother?”
Freckles shakes his big pumpkin head. “Nah, it was fluffer, McEvoy. I heard that term often enough to know.”
Fluffer? Why does my subconscious have to be so vague?
Overalls guy is wiping down the taxi’s trunk with a rag when I am escorted into the bay, flanked by Shea-ster and Benny T, or as I like to think of them, Pussy Lips and Blood Spatter.
“We good?” asks Shea.
The guy nods and tosses him the keys. “All good, Mr. Shea. Just to remind you, we need her back later for the Albanians.”
Freckles closes his eyes, frowning. “Fuck, I forgot about those assholes. Where are we putting them?”
“With the Russian guys, I think.”
“Oh, the Connecticut farm?”
“Nah, the recent Russians.”
Freckles types a reminder into his phone. “Okay, the industrial park. I got it. You get backed up, you know?”
Shea is sympathetic and I think these two have a real chance of making their relationship work.
“Tough at the top, partner,” says the kid.
“Hey, at least we can share the burden.”
Freckles and Shea are being so sunny and optimistic that surely fate will drop the hammer on them soon.
Maybe I am the hammer. Why not, I was the stone earlier.
That’s a nice thought.
Overalls skedaddles and Freckles pops the trunk. “Okay, McEvoy. In you hop.”
I haven’t decided whether I will meekly lie down or make them shoot me for spite. As it happens the choice is taken away from me.
“Ain’t no way I’m fitting in there,” I say. “I think someone forgot to take care of business.”
The trunk has been converted to a large freezer and is packed to the rim with body parts wrapped in bags. I recognize KFC’s face with its second skin of white plastic.
“Bloody hell fuckballs,” says Freckles. “These were supposed to be taken care of.”
Fuckballs. Nice.
Shea pokes the ice, looking for space. “No way this Chewbacca-looking motherfucker is going in there. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
I think it only fair to point out: “You had good help, Shea-ster. And you shot them.”
Shea is embarrassed that his criminal empire is coming across a little half-assed.
“Shut up, McEvoy. What’s going on, Benny T? Who takes care of dumping the bodies?
Freckles points at KFC’s head. “This guy. Usually.”
“I think I see what happened here,” I say, half expecting a pop from Freckles, but he is busy placating Shea.
“Don’t worry, partner. Maybe can do the whole lot in one run. It’s a bit risky having McEvoy in back, but we could drive to the park, dump the frozen meat and we’re back here in an hour. And after that, I am gonna treat you to the best breakfast in New York.”
“You talking about Norma’s?” I ask.
“You know it,” says Freckles. “You ever have the pancakes there?”
“I love those things.” I nod at Shea. “Listen to this guy, forget the hummus for one day. Live a little.”
“Shit,” says Shea. “Now, I’m excited. Let’s get this show on the road so I can order me a mountain of pancakes.”
And in this sneaky fashion, I have Pussy and Spatter visualizing breakfast so clearly that they lower their guard a little and load me into the backseat when what they should have done was made two runs.
I got a chance now.
Freckles hooks the chain of my handcuffs over a custom carabiner set into the metal-framed back of the front seats and screws it tight.
It occurs to me that I should have kept my mouth shut. I had a much better chance of escaping if I was left here under guard while Freckles did the run with the first load of bodies instead of being shackled in the backseat.
Balls.
Thanks for the help, subconscious.
Fluffer.
Fluffer.
I turn the word over in my head hoping for the lightbulb moment.
What does a fluffer do? She fluffs before a shoot.
So they’re gonna shoot me, should I fluff something?
Freckles is driving the cab along the river. The gray tsunami of the USS Intrepid looms over us and I can see Union City across the water, its night lights like one of Spielberg’s mother ships. I never thought I would pine for Jersey but right now those lights are like the promise of safety. At least over there I would have a decent chance of surviving the day, but we’ve passed the tunnel now, so I guess the day’s gruesome business will be conducted on this side of the Hudson.
I call out to my captors. “Hey, guys. Can you hear me?”
There’s a sheet of reinforced glass between us with a tiny sealed hatch in the center. I can see the guys talking but I can’t hear a word, but obviously they can hear me, ’cause Freckles presses a button on the dash and his voice crackles over the speaker system.
“What is it, McEvoy? You wanna go potty? Why don’t you save it for when the kid plugs you. Your bowels are gonna empty anyhow.”
Shea is intrigued. “He’s gonna crap himself?”
“Sure. There’s a good chance. Guys often let go. I’ve seen the strangest shit with corpses. Coupla guys got boners.”
“What? The guys doing the shooting?”
“No. The guys who got shot. Dead as fucking doornails, sporting a bugle.”
“That is some gross shit, Benny T. Boners, oh my God.”
Seeing as they’re already talking about boners I decide to make my fluffer pitch.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m open to offers at this point. Sincerely. You saw what I can do back in the Masterpiece. I could be a real addition to your organization.”
Shea claps his hands delighted. “This is unbelievable. I am genuinely incredulous.”
Of course you’re incredulous, arsehole, that’s because it’s unbelievable.
I do not voice this aloud as now is not a good time to further antagonize Shea.
When he finishes laughing Freckles explains my motivation; he forgets to switch off the speaker so I hear the whole thing.
“Y’see this is typical death’s door behavior. This guy is desperate now. He’s even offering to work for the guys he humiliated yesterday. Anything to get him off that hook.”
“This happens all the time?”
“Oh sure. I had an Italian guy once offered me his daughter if I’d cut him loose.”
“Did you take the deal?”
“Nah. Cut his throat like a pig. Then I visited the daughter anyway.”
“Those Italians are badasses, right?”
Freckles shrugs. “Once upon a time, maybe, but they spent too long at the top. Gone a little doughy, you know what I mean?”
“Sure. Doughy. Dad never told me none of this stuff. So which guys are the toughest?”
Listen to this kid. Like anyone’s tougher than a bullet. Still, Freckles considers the question, doing this weird sucky squeaky thing between his lips that would be enough to get him punched in the face under different circumstances.
“As an individual, one person per sé,” says Freckles when he’s completed his squeaky thought process. “I am the toughest individual in this city. You cross Benny T and I will hunt you down like a fucking dog. But as a group. Collectively per sé. I’d have to say the Russians are the toughest bastards around. Those guys come outta some real hardship. Fuckin’ Siberia. I seen pictures. They ain’t scared of nuthin’. Micks and Spics. They shit ’em. And I say that as a fifty-fifty Mick ’n’ Spic. I got Latin blood though it don’t show.”