The Five Year Plan (1998)

'Vugg ovv... my eye... zayin' nuthin'... azzhole...'

Dave drew Willy's feet toward him.

'Moose, Moose, you wanna do something about these feet of yours. Worst case of athlete's foot I ever saw. Do you dry between your toes? You should, you know. You've got yourself a chronic case of it here, I suspect. Damn difficult to eradicate. Most of those fungal preparations? They don't work. But I've got a sure-fire way of getting rid of the tiny microbe that causes this misunderstood chiropodic condition. It's really a secret, but I don't mind sharing it with someone like you, Moose.'

Dave turned around.

'But before I do, is there some secret you'd like to share with me? Kind of a quid pro quo? Like maybe who was it sent you to see me, packing thunder, and why? Talk to me, Moose. And don't tell me you're looking for your Velma or I'll think you're being cute with me.'

'...the vug's Velma...?'

'You're not a Chandler fan? That's too bad, Moose. I think you'd enjoy him. He's what we call hard-boiled. A bit like these feet of yours. So what do you say?'

Willy Barizon coughed painfully. 'Look Mizter, you got the wrog guy. I don't know nuthin'. Nobody vuggin zent me. My eye. There'z been zum miztake.'

'Moose, you're insulting my intelligence. And my intelligence doesn't like that. It takes offense at just about anything. But mostly it takes offense at the assumption that it isn't there. That I'm as dumb as you are.'

Dave started to thread the hotel matchbooks between Willy Barizon's malodorous and clammy toes as if he had been preparing to paint the big man's toenails.

'Ugh. Remind me to wash my hands when I'm done here.'

'What are ya doin'?'

'It's what I was telling you about, Moose. That sure-fire way of getting rid of athlete's foot? Fact is man, you've got to burn it out. Like cauterizing a wound. Extreme heat kills infection. These are matchbooks, Moose. You ever see a whole matchbook burn? It's like a Roman fucking candle, man.'

'Help,' screamed Moose and started to struggle desperately. But Dave was ready with a bar towel, stuffing it into Willy Barizon's chop-shaped mouth.

'Moose. Moose. Just shut the fuck up, will ya? You and I are going to have a Yossarian-sized problem here if we're not careful. Catch-22? You remember that? I mean, you can hardly answer my questions if I gotta keep a towel in that Picassodrawn mouth of yours. But then I can hardly go ahead and let you scream the fuckin' place down either. You perceive my dilemma? So I tell you what I'm gonna do. Part of your problem here I think is your lack of imagination, your inability to visualize just how fiercely one of these little matchbooks can burn. Hence you are unable to conceptualize just how painful this will be for you. So, I'm gonna give you a little demonstration, in as nice a way as possible. And then I'm gonna take this towel out of your blowhole. At the risk of seeming otiose, that's the point at which you'd better start talkin' or I'm going to be cooking some bacon down here. So here goes with the object lesson.'

Dave placed an ashtray in front of Willy Barizon's face. Then he tugged one of the matchbooks from between Willy's toes, unfolded it, and lit it with the silver lighter he'd bought from the Porsche shop that afternoon. The cover of the book burned reluctantly for a moment and then extinguished. Dave snapped the lighter on and lit it again. This time the cover caught properly alight and a second later the matches themselves ignited spectacularly in a cloud of acrid blue smoke.

'Whooa,' chuckled Dave. 'Olympic fucking flame. Ouch. That looks painful to me. What do you say, Willy? That look painful to you?'

Willy nodded furiously.

'Ready for that dialogue now?'

Willy kept nodding.

'Good boy.' Dave hauled the towel out of Willy's mouth. 'So who sent you and why?'

'It was Tony Nudelli.'

That surprised him.

'Tony? Why? What the hell's his beef with me?'

'He wanted you to be reminded to keep your mouth shut about whatever it is that you know about.'

Dave frowned as he tried to make sense of this information.

'I've spent the last five years in the joint keeping my mouth shut.' He shook his head. 'It doesn't make sense.'

'I swear it's true.'

'Exactly how were you going to remind me? I mean were you just going to have a quiet word in my ear, or was I supposed to feel the need for silence in some nonessential part of my body?'

'I was just to smack you around some, that's all. Maybe break a few fingers. Nothing serious.'

'I've had girlfriends who might dispute that, Willy.'

'It's the God's honest truth, I swear.'

'Shut up a minute while I think.'

Dave was silent for a moment as he weighed up what Willy had told him. It was just possible that Tony Nudelli was indeed sufficiently scared of what Dave knew about him to have ordered up the goon he was now sitting on. Only Tony usually took care of things on a more permanent basis than just a few broken fingers and a busted lip. Dave knew that from personal memory. But as he thought about it some more, it occurred to him that maybe there was a way he might turn the situation to his advantage. A way of demonstrating his loyalty to Tony. A useful prelude for what was to come.

'No,' he said slowly. 'I just don't buy your story, Willy.'

'Look, you've got to believe me--'

'Why would Tony want to grease me?'

'I didn't say that. I said hurt not grease.'

'After five years, the one thing Tony knows about me is that I can be trusted not to spill my guts to anyone.'

'Look, I'm just the button. You know that. I ain't the man's psychoanalyst. I ain't privy to the workings of his mind. I owe him a favor. That's the way it works, you know that. He tells me to do somethin', I do it and I don't look for no fuckin' mission statement. I get paid to do what I'm fuckin' told.'

'You know what I think? I think the Russian sent you over here to whack me.'

'What Russian? There's no Russian involved here.'

'That's what I think. I think it was Einstein Gergiev who set this up. Isn't that right, Willy?'

'No, man.'

'Now that makes a lot more sense. The Russian. Be quite natural for you to be more afraid of him than you are of me, even with a bunch of matchbooks stuck between your toes. He's a terrifying character, that Russian. I should know. I shared a cell with him for four years. No, you've got to be lying, Moose.' Dave snapped on the cigarette lighter for extra emphasis.

Desperate now, Willy struggled underneath Dave, his neck and ears reddening with the exertion.

'Look man, I don't know about any fucking Russian. I never met anyone called Einstein whosits face. It was Tony Nudelli, I swear. Sweet mother of Jesus, I swear it's true.'

'Oooh, are you a Catholic, Moose?'

'Yeah, I'm a Catholic'

'Tell ya what I'm gonna do, Moose.' Dave stood up and went to the bedside drawer where he found a Gideon Bible. 'I'm gonna get you to swear an oath, on the Bible.'

'Sure, anything. Just so long as you believe me.'

Dave sat down on Willy's back and tucked the Gideon Bible underneath his large jaw.

'Now repeat after me, Moose. As I have hope for the resurrection of the body...'

'As I hope for the resurrection of the body.'

'And life everlasting in Jesus Christ...'

'And life everlasting in Jesus Christ.'

'What I have said here is the truth, so help me God.'

'What I've said here is the truth, so help me God.'

'Now kiss the Bible with that sucker of yours.'

Willy kissed the Bible until it was wet with saliva.