I watched as his shadowy form moved to a large tool chest. He picked up a heavy-looking instrument. He fiddled with a cord in the darkness. A high-speed electric motor whined.
Tommy laughed. The Handyman laughed.
"Who were you looking for at the Arizona?" the Handyman repeated.
"I was looking for the spoils of war, you decimated rat-sphincter." Tommy laughed at his own wit unaware of the danger.
"There is spirit, and there is stupidity." The Handyman pressed the bit against Tommy's right shoulder. "I wonder if this bit could drill through your shoulder bone." He gunned the motor. The sharp bit only twisted the skin.
"That's a drill?" Tommy chuckled. "I thought it was your dick and you were going to fuck one of my pimple craters."
Tommy screamed at about the same pitch as the drill. The Handyman put his weight against it. Blood poured from the wound. I was sickened by the gristly sound as the drill bit chewed muscle and scored bone. If I had had a stomach of my own I would have emptied it. The Handyman stopped.
"Now, I haven't gone into the bone yet. Really just scratched the surface. Will you tell me who you were looking for at the Arizona, or will I finish this? I hate leaving a job undone." The Handyman sounded slightly winded-either from his exertions or anticipation.
"Few things, demon, have the power to wrest from these lips the truth," Tommy ranted in a rasp. "Give me your best."
"Once more, I'll ask. You're bound to lose consciousness when I pierce the lung. Who were you looking for at the Arizona?"
I was helpless. Tommy was closed to me.
"I'll tell you who I was looking for. You, you pig. I was looking for you, because I love to eat pig," Tommy's voice was strained. "There's nothing like a pork sandwich!"
The smoker with the glasses hissed from the darkness. "The hell with it. Kill him. We'll question him after Blacktime. If he doesn't value life, maybe death will change his perspective."
Something about the voice was familiar, but it sounded muffled.
Just then, a gun went off somewhere. The smoker leapt to his feet. "Kill him, I'll find out what the hell…" He moved quickly to the door and out. Something flashed under the glasses.
"Okay," said the Handyman as he turned to his tool chest. I heard the sharp rattle of a bit being dropped. "I think a longer bit will do it." Metal grinding against metal. "Right beside the spine, past the shoulder blade, through the lung and into the heart muscle. Then a touch of Blacktime, and we can do it all again. Dear me, and you'll be such a ragged dead thing." He laughed mechanically.
A harsh crack snapped his head around as Tommy tore the back off the chair. He leaped into the air and swung his arms under him, skipping rope style. He whipped the remains of the chair over the Handyman's head. It splintered. The Handyman jabbed the drill at Tommy's gut. Tommy leapt aside like a gibbon; his long arms lashed out and grabbed the Handyman's wrist. They both tumbled to the floor. The Handyman landed on top, freed his arm then rammed the drill at Tommy's head. It screeched against the concrete floor. Tommy lunged upward and clamped his teeth on the Handyman's jaw. The Handyman screamed. I could hear Tommy sucking and chewing at his opponent. The Handyman was off balance with this human bulldog. He punched Tommy's head-screamed as the clown's teeth ripped at gristle and bone. They tumbled across the floor. Tommy lost his grip and they both grappled for the drill. The Handyman's right arm was tangled tight to his side with the extension cord.
Tommy's muscles stood out like rope as his bound hands tore the drill away. He pinned the Handyman's free arm to the floor with a big black boot and stared down at his face. The Handyman had a thin crop of spiky military hair. The scalp beneath it was damp and shiny with sweat. His eyes were wide in a thick-cheeked face. Twisted lips moved mutely over crooked teeth. He looked about sixteen, one of Greasetown's forever teens-a muscle-bound adolescent.
Tommy smiled. "Like playing handyman, do you, Sonny-boy? Now it's my turn. I'll be the handyman and you be the piece of wood." Tommy began talking in an exaggerated instructional voice. "Now, if you plan on reconditioning a face you've got to be willing to accept the size of the job." The drill whirred. The Handyman gasped a garbled plea. "If it's an older face, you should be prepared for some painful costs."
The drill whined shrilly-the Handyman screamed as Tommy set the bit under his cheekbone.
"Remember," Tommy continued. "To hold the drill firmly in hand so that the bit won't bind up and the hole will be clean and true. Remember, clean and true."
The Handyman shrieked. A few sickening, bone-cracking seconds and it was over. Tommy straddled the Handyman's chest looking at the ruin. Smiling, he whispered. "You idiot, the only thing I ever passed in school was shop." The Handyman lay wrapped in Blacktime, the drill jutting grotesquely from his face.
Tommy's eyes were red coals flashing around the room. Another shot rang out. He ran to the door-me in tow-and out. A hallway set in a thin space between cinderblock walls led to the left and right. At both ends stairs ran up. Flickering lights cast strange shadows.
Another gunshot, to the right. Tommy showed teeth and ran to the left-crouching, his bound hands pulled close to his chest. His boots made too much noise and too many echoes as he raced the distance of the hall and up the stairs. I noticed a growing red stain on his back as he slammed into the door and out.
Lightning rent the black sky over an alleyway; I looked up. We were behind the Arizona. Tommy was off again. He sprinted madly through torn garbage bags and heaps of newspaper. The clown bolted between rusted trashcans, rats scurried. We were on the street in front of the hotel. Tommy looked left and right, the Chrysler was gone. All at once, rain fell from the sky like an airborne lake making a landing. More lightning.
Tommy's back was a crimson smear of rain and blood. His breath came in gasps. He panted Elmo's name. I tried to take over, but Tommy was unreceptive. He ran; I followed. More lightning. He dodged between parked cars, knocked over a dead prostitute taking shelter from the rain in a doorway.
"Stupid motherfucker!" she screeched from a puddle-yellow satin dress soaked-her dead wares damp. "You mother…"
Tommy ran wildly, apparently without a goal in mind. He just wanted to be anywhere away from the Arizona. I followed, rain passing through my substance without effort. More lightning. I hated lightning. I was too exposed.
Headlights, Tommy threw himself into the gutter behind a truck. I floated at the level of the passenger window. I recognized the engine. It rattled, the whole car rattled. Tommy leapt up so fast he passed through me. He ran for the street. The Chrysler bore down on him, and then slid through the rain to a halt. Tommy tore the passenger door open and jumped in.
Elmo's face was stretched with disbelief. "Sorry, Boss…" His eyes scanned Tommy's body. "I-I just missed you, they must'a been waitin'. I tried to break you out!" He reached for the plastic bindings at the clown's wrists
"Forget that! Drive!" Tommy screamed. "Drive!" His fists beat the dashboard. "Drive!"
Elmo's face was perplexed. His hands jittered over the wheel. "Where?"
"Mother of God Cathedral, where the hell do you think?" A sob shook his bloody shoulders.
If Elmo was going to question this odd destination, he let the query die on his tongue. The Chrysler lurched ahead.
"Faster," Tommy muttered. "Faster." He scratched around under the seat and found a pint bottle about half full. He drank from it. His eyes flashed to his waist, slid along the skipping rope belt. "My gun?"
"Take mine, Boss." Elmo pulled it from his shoulder holster with his right hand.
Tommy hugged the gat to his chest. "We'll end it now-sanctuary or bust," he mumbled. "We'll end it now." He glared at his bindings, and scowling tried to work them loose.