Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out.
"Want a puff?"
"Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a butt that was just in some strange asshole's mouth."
"You sure? It's a Chesterfield."
"Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself."
The man shrugged, took another puff.
"I haven't smoked another brand in over thirty years.
You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things in life without knowing where it came from. Who made it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I smoked. Now I can't get enough of 'em. Ironic, 'swhat it is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap like that and never listened to her. I'd say, baby, because one's interesting, and one ain't."
I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I stayed alive.
"Chesterfields started to become popular back in the day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by saying, 'This is Arthur buy-'em-by-the-carton Godfrey!'
Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty soon that's all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered
Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was good enough for the fighting men and women of this country was good enough for him."
The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better look at him.
His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.
The crow's-feet at his eyes actually made him look handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven, wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn't been stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto the floor.
My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn't be much help.
"Where is she?" I said.
"You need to be more trusting," the man said. "I told you she's fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I'm not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy, and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.
Davies. But let's just focus on the here and now. You and me. Got it?"
"Who are you?" I said.
"Who I am isn't as important as what I have to offer," he said.
"I don't want anything from you," I spat. "People know
I'm here. That door's gonna get busted in any second and
I'm gonna laugh as they haul your ass away."
"Really…they're coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?
FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn't mind then if I leave your girl alone for a few weeks. She won't need food or water since, you know, they're coming for her."
"You're making a mistake," I said. "She doesn't belong here."
"Well, she's here. No changing that now. Anyway, back to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry, and if you're as smart as I think you are you'll take this offer."
"What is it?" I said.
"It's simple, really," the man said, taking another puff.
"I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.
It's very important you lay all your cards on the table. And if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number one will be your girlfriend's life. You spill, she lives. You don't spill, her blood does. Simple as that."
"I'll take the offer," I said, "because we don't know anything. Petrovsky didn't say a word to us. Now, let us go."
"Oh, come on, Henry, you think it's that easy? You think that's it? Nah, we can get some more out of you."
He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the filtered end.
"Chesterfields," he said. "Just about heaven. Can't find the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke enough of these and they do the trick."
"Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick," I said.
"If it gets me, it gets me," he said. "But I'll go out with a smile."
A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.
A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.
The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.
He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.
Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle through the paper.
When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill, looked at me through the hole, smiled. "Peekaboo, I see you."
He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something that nearly made me gag. Covering the man's arms were a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.
They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.
"So what did Petrovsky tell you?" he said, his voice frighteningly calm.
"I told you, nothing. Leave us alone."
He scratched his chin, looked at me. "Hmm…no."
He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.
I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.
Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.
Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where he'd just burned me.
"That's gonna leave a mark," he said.
I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands were bound, found that piece of metal I'd felt before. I rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.
The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half an inch. Just maybe…
I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth, trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.
The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it out with his shoe. "I hate to waste one, but I don't think you taste quite as good on the end of a butt as tobacco does."
My breath was ragged, but I tried to focus. I gently tugged down on my wrist bonds, felt the reassuring pull that the screw was fastened inside the knot. I began to work it more, continuously pressing my wrists against the metal to wedge it in even farther. I nearly gasped when I realized the screw was in as far as it would go. I'd created a hole in the knot. Now all I had to do was make it bigger.
"Do you smoke?" the man asked.
"Fuck you," I said.
"That's a brand I'm unfamiliar with. But since you seem to be full of answers now, I'll ask again. What did
Petrovsky tell you?"
"He told me your mother's a whore and your father liked to dress up like Raggedy Ann for Christmas."
The man sighed deeply. I didn't care. The longer we played this game the more time I had. I felt the knot begin to loosen, and soon I was able to slip my index finger inside the knot hole. I pulled down on the screw, worked the loop with my finger, felt it began to slip more. I couldn't let him notice, so I did it slowly. Methodically.