Czechmate

by Seth Harwood

  He waits for Jack to respond, but Jack doesn’t speak, just stares at Jane, trying to see in her eyes if she has some trick up her sleeve, if other agents are on their way.

  Then Alexi takes Jack’s good hand in his. He gently pulls on Jack’s thumb. Jack looks down at his pale, dry hand and back up into Akakievich’s bloodshot grey eyes.

  “Do you remember what I said about your thumbs the last time we spoke with each other?” Akakievich starts to pull harder on Jack’s thumb. Jack pulls back, and Akakievich stops. “So you remember?”

  “Fuck you.” Jack manages to pull his hand away from Alexi’s.

  “Do you know what you could do with no thumb on your right hand, Jack?” Alexi pats Jack on the bad shoulder again, just harder than before. “It is all right if I call you Jack, no?”

  “Where’s Mills Hopkins? Let’s go talk to him and get this done with.”

  Akakievich looks at his thugs. “He does not want to hear about the human’s need for thumbs.” The one immediately to his right, the ham-neck, smiles and rolls his head from one shoulder to the other, eliciting a series of cracks. The guy’s wearing a striped button-down tucked into a pair of jeans, his short brown hair slicked up into his impression of a porcupine. He’s younger than Alexi and Andre, any of the guys Jack saw at the Top Notch or Tedeschi’s cafe. The shirt clings tight to his shoulders, stretched across his chest.

  “You bring some new meatheads into town, Alexi?”

  “Ha. Nice, Jack.” He points to the goon closest to him. “This is Ivan. He will be very kind to you if you treat him right. Perhaps.”

  Jack looks back at Jane Gannon. He walks past Akakievich and goes right up to her. “I’ve been meaning to give you this for a while,” he says. Then he kisses her, hard on the mouth and again softly, pressing his lips into hers.

  She looks up at him, her shirt low-cut, unbuttoned so Jack can see the contrast between the tan of her chest and the white swells of her breasts from where he is. Only now there’s no cross hanging from her neck between them, no gold chain.

  “You lose your faith in God?” Jack asks. “Or just marriage?”

  Her eyes meet his. “I’m still deciding.”

  She pulls Jack toward her by the belt, and he puts his good arm around her, leans down to make this kiss count.

  Her tongue tickles Jack’s, then he feels a hard kick in the back of his knee that brings him down in front of her. He falls to his knees as she steps back, leaving his face at her belt line. She runs her hands through his hair. In a deep, bedtime voice, she says, “Oh, Jack.”

  And that’s when two of Akakievich’s boys haul Jack up onto his feet and pull him away from her.

  “Let him go,” Gannon yells.

  They bring him to stand in front of Alexi again, one holding each of his arms, and Jack struggles to get his feet under him. The one on his left wrenches his bad shoulder. A wave of pain slams over Jack for a moment.

  Akakievich clicks his tongue, scolding Jack.

  “Let’s go find Mills,” Jack says. “Time to get this over.”

  They start to escort him out of the building, toward one of the black H2s waiting outside. The building’s security guards do nothing; they stand behind their desks, watching the scene unfold. Jack’s sure they’ve been paid well for this, maybe even coaxed to stop rolling the tapes they record. It occurs to him they might’ve seen him leave Shaw on two with some cameras, but he hopes this isn’t the case. With any luck, Shaw’s close enough to all this to take some action. Help Jane, at least. Something. Not now, but soon.

  Jack looks back at Jane Gannon, still standing in the same place, both of her feet on the ground.

  20

  The First Touch

  In the back of the H2, Jack sits between two thick-necks, with Alexi in front giving the rest of his crew a lecture in Russian. Jack can’t understand a word of it, but his best guess is a long point-by-point analysis of how he always gets the people he’s going after, how good a gangster he is, and all that stuff. Jack just wishes he had a cigarette between his lips. The shoulder’s still bothering him and having a big guy squeezed against it doesn’t help.

  Finally, Alexi stops talking—in Russian, that is. He turns around to face Jack, says, “We will go to your Mills Hopkins. But first we have just one stop to make. Why don’t you tell me where we can go to find your car, Jack Palms? The Mustang, I believe it is called. Your Fastback? We will stop and get it.”

  “What?” Jack says, genuinely surprised. “Did you just ask about my car?” He shakes his head. “Let me have a cigarette.”

  Alexi pushes his lips out of his thick beard. The lower half of his face reminds Jack of a dog’s backside—maybe a Yorkshire terrier’s.

  “No,” he says. “I do not think so.” He takes out his own pack and starts to tap one down against the top of the box. Still turned around in his seat, regarding Jack, he says, “Your car.”

  “Right. Yeah, I—who told you I have a Fastback?”

  Alexi frowns, tilts his head toward one shoulder. “We know. We hear. This is what happens.”

  “Let’s just go get Mills.”

  Alexi nods at the two thugs next to Jack, and each of them wraps both hands around one of Jack’s shoulders. They start to dig in with their fingers, squeezing with increasing strength. On the right side, Jack’s not too bothered, but on the left—the shoulder that Gannon put a bullet into—it’s agony. Jack squints. He thinks he can feel the stitches getting stretched across the wound.

  “Ow. Fuck. All right already.” He holds up his good hand. Alexi nods and the guys stop. “The car’s out in Walnut Creek,” Jack says. “Right across from the police station. Want me to tell you how to get out there?”

  Alexi flips the cigarette between his lips and pushes in the car’s lighter. He nods at Jack. “Is that the truth?”

  Jack nods. “You think I’m going to lie about where my car is? Think I want these guys to play squeeze Jack’s shoulders again?”

  Alexi narrows his eyes. He regards Jack with something that might be a KGB mind trick, might be his best telepathic attempt to know if Jack’s telling the truth. This goes on for about a block; the H2’s headed downtown, below Market. As best Jack can tell, they should be close to the downtown entrance for the freeway, the ramp for the Bay Bridge and points east like Walnut Creek right about now. If they start in that direction, not only will they have a forty-five-minute drive, at least, to get out there, but Jack’s going to have to come up with some kind of plan for what he’ll do when they arrive.

  The cigarette lighter in the Hummer’s dash pops out, and Akakievich smiles. He tells the driver something in Russian, and the car shifts to the right lane, starts to slow down. “I do not want us to hit any bumps with this, Jack Palms.” The driver says something back to Akakievich. “And we are close to the Bay Bridge now. How we will get to the Walnut’s Creek.”

  Jack watches as the H2 finds some empty real estate along the side of the street and pulls over. The dudes on either side of him slide closer. Alexi pulls the cigarette lighter.

  “Now, Jack Palms. Let me see your good hand.”

  Jack looks at Alexi, not even really believing what’s taking place. Then Akakievich says “Ivan,” and the guy on his right grabs Jack’s arm and pushes it toward the front seat, holding it in place in the middle of the car. Jack struggles to free it from the guy’s grasp, and Akakievich scolds him for it. “Ah, ah, ah, Jack Palms. You’re only going to make this harder.”

  So Jack sits still, watches as Akakievich moves the orange-hot filament of the cigarette lighter up to his face and lights his cigarette. The Russian takes a long, satisfied drag, then removes the cigarette from his mouth and blows against its cherry. He exhales, but then keeps blowing on the cigarette’s end until he has a nice little red cherry at the end of it. Then he looks down at his hands and shoves them toward Jack. In one is the cigarette. In the other is the hot metal lighter.

  Alexi
nods at the guy on Jack’s right, and the guy rolls up Jack’s sleeve to expose the soft side of his forearm. “Now we are starting to have fun,” he says.

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  “No.” Alexi shakes his head. “You took my girls. You killed some of my associates. You, Jack Palms, came into my house and took from me.” Akakievich looks at Jack with wide red eyes, bloodshot, with way too much white around his irises for Jack not to think he’s crazy. It’s at this moment that Jack notices what’s always bothered him about his Russian mug: his eyes always look bugged out, there’s always some white above his irises, and this makes him look like a freak, someone you cannot trust.

  “Fuck you, you Russian pimp. Get yourself some silk and a fur, at least a fucked-up hat. Then we’ll talk.”

  Alexi shakes his head. “Yes, Jack. Fuck you. That is good.” He moves the cigarette toward Jack’s forearm, bringing the ember close to Jack’s wrist. Their eyes meet, and Alexi brings the cigarette very softly against Jack’s skin. Jack feels the warmth, a slight tickle as a few of his arm hairs burn and curl toward his skin. “The first touch,” Alexi says. “It is like love, no?” He smiles, raising his eyebrows. Jack looks down at his arm and watches as Alexi pushes the hot cherry directly into his wrist.

  21

  Torture, M*therf*cker

  The cigarette’s ember meets Jack’s skin, and he feels the pain like a wash of rain coming over him. He sees a thin trickle of smoke rise from his arm and breathes hard, grinding his teeth and clenching his fist. When he looks up, Akakievich is smiling.

  “Yes Jack, do you feel my touch?”

  “You’re fucked.”

  “Oh, yes. In a way, though, you are the one who is getting fucked, Jack. I am penetrating you now.” He tilts his head, holding his jaw open and waiting for Jack to speak.

  Jack nods. Akakievich twists the cigarette a little and then pulls it back, leaving a white circle on Jack’s arm, surrounded by pieces of ash. He lifts the cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. The ember goes from dark to light again; where it’d turned dull against Jack’s arm, it’s fully relit now. Then he blows the ashes off Jack’s skin. He offers the filtered end of the cigarette toward Jack. “Want a drag?”

  Jack shakes his head. He watches the white spot on his arm turn red.

  “Now. Tell me where is your Fastback, Jack.”

  The other men in the car had moved closer to Jack’s arm with the progress of the cigarette, watched its connection to Jack with what appeared to be their utmost interest. Now they sit back, regard Jack’s face with intent. The driver, fully turned around in his seat, smiles at Jack. He bites at his lower lip, trying to contain his enjoyment, but the smile shines right on through.

  “It’s in Walnut Creek, across from the police station. Where’s Mills?”

  “Yes.” Alexi nods. “We are playing our game now. I will answer your question just as soon as you can answer mine. Now, is that your final answer?”

  “I told you already. It’s in Walnut Creek.”

  Alexi checks the end of the cigarette lighter: the ember gone dull, he pushes it back into the dash. “In one moment,” he says, “we will know if this is really what you want me to believe.”

  “That’s where it is, big guy. Fucking burn me again, answer’s not going to change.”

  Alexi gives the smallest shrug. “Then we will see.”

  The lighter pops out of the dash and Alexi draws it with his right hand. He looks at the filament and shows it to Jack. “Good? Are you ready for me to touch you?”

  Jack doesn’t want another burn. The first is still stinging, will leave a mark and is probably going to hurt for the rest of the day. If he had his hands free right now, two Vicodin would be the first things in his mouth. But at the same time, the idea of seeing them do something to his Fastback, the red machine that he’s taken care of since he bought it four years ago, coddled and done all the maintenance on himself—even after it took three shots from one of Akakievich’s thugs—he will not let them know where it is. The burns are going to be a part of playing the game. Best to just get them over with.

  “Bring it,” Jack says.

  And Alexi moves the lighter down toward Jack’s arm, dancing it around as close as he can get to Jack’s skin without touching it. Jack feels the heat, watches as Alexi burns some of his hairs, having fun. It’s like this is his foreplay.

  “You’re a fucking punk,” Jack says. “You afraid to do it?”

  Akakievich laughs once and touches the lighter full on to Jack’s skin. It burns and Jack rears back, fights against Ivan’s hold on his arm, pushing away with his body. He kicks at the front seats. This is when Alexi says, “Sasha,” and the guy on his left wraps his arm around Jack’s shoulders and holds him tight where he is. Jack can hear him whispering in delight at the burn, his lips up close to Jack’s ear. Then Alexi withdraws the lighter and for the briefest of moments Jack sees his skin as a melted liquid, forming to the shape of the lighter as it cools. “Fuck,” he says.

  Now the pain washes over him in a wave of clarity, something he feels from his head to his toes. Alexi blows on the lighter, pushing the fumes of his own burnt hair and skin toward Jack. It’s not a pleasant smell.

  Then he burns Jack with the lighter again, holding it down on his arm this time and bearing into Jack. The thugs tighten their grip on Jack’s body as he squirms involuntarily, not quite flopping like a fish, but if they let him go it might look that way. He coughs something white and foamy out of his mouth.

  “Where is your car?”

  “Across the bridge,” Jack tells him through clenched teeth.

  Alexi removes the lighter and puts it back into the dash, pushing it all the way in. He barks an order to the driver, who turns back around in his seat to drive, and pulls them out of their spot, back into the traffic. Up ahead, at the end of the block, Jack sees a sign for the bridge. “See that sign?” he says. “That’s where you want to go. Head right on over to Oakland.”

  Ivan still holds Jack’s arm in place. Now it has three circular marks on it, the last being by far the worst. It bleeds freely, the blood pooling in its circle and trailing down Jack’s arm. Fucking thing hurts like he’s just been stung by a bee that has a stinger about a half-inch wide—and that’s even an understatement. The three of them together hurt far worse than his shoulder, worse than it did after he was shot. These leave a sting Jack can feel in its entirety, without anything blocking it out. His breathing comes fast around the sensation, almost as if it’s taking him to a new high. He knows Alexi enjoyed it, the sick motherfuck, and maybe that makes it even worse. He wipes away the spit-foam off the leg of his jeans with his sling.

  “See this turn?” Jack says. “Take the bridge and then we’re about forty-five minutes away.”

  Alexi says something to his driver in Russian, and the guy on Jack’s left, Sasha, responds. They all three exchange a few fast comments and then Jack hears Alexi saying, “Da, da, da.”

  They’re drawing closer to the turn for the bridge’s on-ramp and the driver brings them into the right lane for the turn. On the next street, the two right lanes lead onto the bridge, the left two keep on through downtown, heading toward the Mission. Jack bites his lip. He’s still breathing fast, trying to get air in that’ll help take away the rush of the sting. If they head to Walnut Creek, at least he’ll have that much time before he gets burned again, or worse.

  The turnoff is about thirty feet ahead of them, the H2 in the right lane, and Alexi says something else in Russian. His driver nods, and Jack sees the guy’s eyes in the rearview, checking his face. Akakievich turns to look at Jack. “Walnut Creek?” he says. Jack nods. “You are ready for this long drive?”

  “I have another choice?”

  “No.” Alexi frowns and shakes his head.

  Twenty feet from the turnoff.

  Jack sits back, finally manages to pull his arm away from the thug called Ivan and holds it to his bo
dy. It doesn’t take the sting away, but he feels less vulnerable.

  Fifteen feet from the turnoff.

  “You are sure, Jack Palms?”

  Jack doesn’t answer again. He meets Alexi’s eyes and does not blink. The two look at each other like this, hard, for a few seconds, maybe five, then Alexi barks, “Niet” at his driver and pushes the wheel hard to the left. The H2 cuts off a minivan, even scrapes its side along the other car’s front and pushes it into another lane, before the Hummer leaves the lanes for the bridge and continues into downtown.

  Jack looks behind them at the traffic headed onto the bridge. “Guess we’re not going to get my car.”

  22

  Home

  They head west now, back into the city. The H2 follows Harrison toward Mission but doesn’t go far in this direction. Soon Alexi has the driver turn left on 4th Street to head down toward Mission Bay, a district where Jack knows there’s very little for anyone to find. It’s the part of the city where the San Francisco Giants play at their Corporate Sponsor of the Moment Park. Around the park are bars and scattered nightclubs, trendy condo buildings, and offices mixed with the not-so-trendy. Beyond that, beyond McCovey Cove and the Mission Creek Marina, are a few odd warehouse buildings and a whole lot of construction.

  They follow the old bridge over Mission Creek, pass the commuter train station and the China Basin landing. Below that the world flattens out to open lots and short, long buildings. The huge structure of an old power plant still stands among the sparseness. Here, someone could scream all day and never be heard. Hopefully, somewhere in all of this, Jack will find Mills Hopkins and Mills will get to die.