“I’d have nailed that bastard one way or the other, but I was pretty cold. And that’s not what I’m talking about right now.” Gus turned to her, the flames flickering in her eyes. “Beanie, we’ve known each other a long time, you and I, and I haven’t had a romantic thought about you, ever.”
She gave a shocked little cough. “Thanks a lot.”
“Until lately. Now I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“So you went up that trail this morning to get me out of your mind?”
“No. To figure out how to ask you to marry me.”
“Ah.” She picked up a stick and stabbed a fat marshmallow onto the end of it. “You asked me to marry you when we were in the first grade. Remember?”
Actually, he didn’t. “What did you say?”
“I told you to go soak your head.” She smiled and handed him her stick with the marshmallow. “You’re my hero, Gus. You always have been. It’s just taken us a few decades to figure out we belong together.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
Bernadette laughed, and Gus leaned forward and dipped the marshmallow in the flames. He was warm in front of the fire with his family and the woman he loved, and life was good.
ROBERT FERRIGNO
Robert Ferrigno has a background that would give him instant credibility with the type of intelligent but questionable characters who populate his books. Armed with a degree in philosophy and a masters in creative writing, Robert left the academic trail to spend five years as a full-time gambler living in dangerous places with dangerous people. Then he became a journalist, but instead of sitting behind a desk typing, he landed a job that had him flying with the Blue Angels, test-driving Ferraris and learning about desert survival with gun enthusiasts. Now a bestselling thriller author, his experiences have clearly given Robert a unique perspective and an unforgettable voice.
“Can You Help Me Out Here?” showcases an ability to mix humor with suspense and a knack for creating villains that make us smile even as they send chills down our spine. No doubt Robert has met people like this somewhere in his travels. The rest of us will be happy to meet them through his words.
CAN YOU HELP ME OUT HERE?
“How much farther?” said Briggs.
The accountant tripped over a tree root, almost fell. Sweat rolled down his face, his hands duct-taped together behind his back. “Soon.”
Briggs grabbed the accountant by the hair and gave his head a shake. “How soon?” He jammed the barrel of the.357 Magnum against the man’s nasal septum. “You may like tramping around in the great outdoors, but me, I just want to shoot you and get into some air-conditioning.”
“I…I appreciate your discomfort,” said the accountant, blood trickling from his nose, “but Junior wants my ledger detailing his financial transactions for the last eight years, so…” He dripped blood onto his gray suit, a soft, pale man with calm eyes. “So you better treat me nice, and keep your part of the bargain.”
“Nice?” Briggs glowered at him, a beefy, middle-aged thug in a red tracksuit. “Maybe I fuck nice and just start blowing off body parts until you come up with it?”
“That would be a mistake on your part.” The accountant held his head high. “I have a…refined and delicate nature. I’m already experiencing heart palpitations from your rough treatment. You torture me…you could send me into shock. I might die before I give up the journal.” He sniffed back blood. “What do you think Junior will do to you then?”
“You didn’t tell me…” Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around him with the revolver. “You didn’t tell me we were going to be slogging through a swamp.”
“That’s where I hid it,” said the accountant. “And it’s not a swamp. It’s a wetlands.”
“Swamp, wetlands, who cares? It smells like an old outhouse,” said the other killer, Sean, a tall beach-bum with bad acne and a Save the Salmon, Eat More Pussy T-shirt. “What matters, mister, is that we’re going to keep our part of the bargain. You lead us to the journal, you get a double-tap to the back of the head, no muss, no fuss.”
“I abhor pain,” said the accountant.
“Trust me,” said Sean, “you won’t feel a thing.”
The accountant glanced at Briggs, then back at Sean. “Do I have your word on that?”
Sean gave him a thumbs-up. “Scout’s honor.”
“That’s not the goddamned Scout’s sign.” Briggs raised the index and middle finger of his right hand in a V. “This is Scout’s honor, dumb-ass.”
“That’s the peace sign,” said Sean, “and don’t call me dumb-ass.”
“It’s the peace sign and the sign for Scout’s honor,” said the accountant.
“What’s this then?” said Sean, giving the thumbs-up.
“Keep walking,” Briggs ordered the accountant, “and stay out of the poison ivy.”
The accountant started back down the narrow path, brush on all sides, trees overhanging the trail.
“Fine,” said Sean, hurrying to catch up to them, “don’t answer me.”
Five minutes later, the accountant turned to Briggs. “Are you saving your money?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Briggs.
“A simple interrogatory,” said the accountant, his yellow necktie crusted with blood. “I wanted to know if you saved a portion of your money or lived paycheck to paycheck.”
Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes darting around him. “I do okay.”
“I could give you some suggestions,” said the accountant. “Something that would allow you to defer taxes and put your money to work for you-”
“Taxes?” Briggs laughed.
“You don’t pay taxes?” said the accountant.
Sean shook his head. “Me, neither.”
“Big mistake,” said the accountant. “You don’t want to fool with the IRS.”
“How much farther?” demanded Briggs.
“I kind of like the idea of my money working for me,” Sean said quietly. “Like having a maid. Or a slave.” He made a motion like he was cracking a whip.
“Good for you, Sean.” The accountant tried to scratch his nose with his shoulder. “Now you’re thinking. I can give you some tips-”
“You think this is a fucking seminar?” said Briggs. “Move!”
“Is that how you got this place?” Sean said to the accountant. “Making your money work for you?”
“Absolutely,” said the accountant. “I’ve got forty-five acres here, owned free and clear. Practically surrounded by national forest. I enjoy privacy…up until now.”
“We should listen to this guy before we pop him, Briggs,” said Sean. “Maybe take some notes.”
Briggs slapped a mosquito that had landed on his cheek, his face flushed and as red as the tracksuit now.
The accountant stopped.
“This it?” said Briggs. “Are we there?”
“Can you help me out here?” said the accountant. “I…I have to urinate.”
“You’re only going to have to hold it for a little while more,” said Briggs.
“I have been holding it,” said the accountant.
“What do you expect us to do about it?” said Briggs.
“I expect you to cut my hands loose,” said the accountant.
“I got nothing to cut the tape with and not sure I would if I could,” said Briggs. “We might not be able to find you if you take off running-this is your home turf.”
“I have no intention, Mr. Briggs, of wetting my pants,” said the accountant.
“If it puts your mind at ease, sir,” said Sean, “you’re going to piss yourself anyway when I give you the double-tap. It’s a natural reaction…loss of control, you know? A real mess, too. I seen it plenty times.”
“Yes, Sean, but I’ll be dead then, so it won’t matter to me,” said the accountant. “Now, being presently alive, it does matter.”