Enough Rope

by Lawrence Block

  People always got more interesting when you handed them something they didn’t expect. Especially if it wasn’t what they wanted. Especially if it was painful or frightening, or both.

  He pulled her down onto the couch and began making love to her. His touch and his kisses were gentle, exploratory, but in his mind he hurt her, he forced her. That was interesting, too, a mental exercise he had performed before. She was vibrating to his touch, but she’d be screaming her lungs out if his actions matched the images in his mind.

  Just something for his own private amusement, while they waited for Jerry.

  But where was good old Jere? That was the question, and he could tell it had occurred to her as well, could tell by the way she worked to slow the pace. It wouldn’t do if he got to nail her before the Jealous Husband burst through the door. The game worked best if he was caught on the verge, made doubly vulnerable by guilt and frustration, and awkward, too, with his pants down around his knees.

  Happily, their goals were the same. And, when his pants were indeed around his knees and consummation appeared to be right around the corner, they both froze at the sound of a key in the lock.

  “Oh my God!” she cried.

  Enter Jerry. The door flew open and there he was. You looked at him and you wanted to laugh, because he was hardly the intimidating figure he was supposed to be. Traditionally, the outraged husband was big as a house and meaner than a snake, so that his physical presence alone would scare the crap out of you. Jerry wasn’t a shrimp, but he was a middle-aged guy who stood five-ten in his shoes and looked like his main form of exercise was changing channels with the remote control. He wore glasses, he had a bald spot. He looked like a store clerk, night man at the 7-Eleven, maybe.

  Which helped explain the gun in his hand. You take a guy five-four, eighty years old, weighs no more than a sack of flour, you put a gun in his hand, you’ve got a figure that commands respect.

  Lori was whimpering, trying to explain. Hank got to his feet, turned from her, turned toward Jerry. He pulled up his pants, fastened them.

  “You must be Jerry,” he said. “Now look, just because you got a gun don’t mean you get to jump the line. You gotta wait your turn, just like everybody else.”

  It was comical, because Jerry wasn’t expecting that. He was expecting a load of begging and pleading, explanations and justifications, and instead he got something that didn’t fit any of the slots available for it.

  So he didn’t know how to react, and while he was figuring it out Hank crossed the room, grabbed the gun in one hand, hit him with the other. His fist went right into the pit of Jerry’s soft stomach, just about midway between the nuts and the navel, and that was the end of the war. You hit a person there just right, before he’s had a chance to tense his stomach muscles, and if you put enough shoulder into the punch you can deliver a fatal blow.

  Not instantly fatal, though. It can take a day or a week, and who has that kind of time?

  So he let Jerry double up, clutching his belly with both hands, and he grabbed hold of him by the hair on his head and forced his head down hard, fast, and brought his own knee up hard, fast. He smashed Jerry’s face, broke his nose.

  Behind him, she was carrying on, going No, no, no, clutching at his clothing. He backhanded her without looking, concentrating his attention on Jerry, who was blubbering through the blood that coursed from his nose and mouth.

  That was nice, that knee-in-the-face maneuver. His pants were already bloody at the knee, and it was a sure bet there was nothing in Jerry’s closet that would fit him. That was the advantage of having the husband be a big bozo, the way the script called for it; after you were done with him, you could pick out something nice from his wardrobe.

  But his pants were khakis, replaceable for thirty bucks at the nearest mall. And, since they were already ruined—

  This time he cupped Jerry’s head with both hands, brought it down, brought his knee up. The impact brought a great cry from Lori. He gave Jerry a shove and the man wound up sprawled against the wall, jaw slack, eyes glassy. Conscious? Unconscious? Hard to say.

  And what did it matter? Eager to get on with it now, he went over to Jerry, put one hand under his chin and the other on the top of his head, and snapped his neck.

  Hell of a sound it made. First a grinding noise like something you’d hear in a dentist’s office, and then a real sharp crack. Left you in no doubt of what you’d just done.

  He turned to Lori, relishing the look on her face. God, the look on her face!

  “Honey,” he said, “you see what I did? I just saved your life.”

  It was amusing, watching the play of emotions on her sharp little face. Like her head was transparent, like you could see the different thoughts zooming around in there. She had to come up with something that would leave her with a pulse at the evening’s end, and the effort made her thoughts visible.

  Thoughts caroming around like balls on a pool table . . .

  She said, “He was going to kill me.”

  “Going to kill us both,” he agreed. “Violent fellow, your husband. What do you figure makes a man like that?”

  “The gun was pointed right at me,” she said, improvising nicely. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “Did your whole life flash before your eyes?”

  “You saved my life.”

  “You’re probably wondering how to thank me,” he said. He unfastened his pants, let them drop to the floor, stepped out of them. A shadow of alarm flashed on her face, then disappeared.

  He reached for her.

  It was interesting, he thought, how rapidly the woman adjusted to new realities. Her husband—well, her partner, anyway, and for all he knew her husband as well—her guy was down for the count, on his way to room temperature. And she wasn’t wasting time mourning him. Off with the old, on with the new.

  “Oh, baby,” she said, and sighed theatrically, as if her passion had been real, her climax authentic. “I knew I was hot for you, Hank. I knew that the minute I saw you. But I didn’t know—”

  “That it could possibly be this good,” he supplied.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Jerry being dead that does it,” he told her. “Lovemaking as an affirmation of our own aliveness. He’s lunch meat and we’re still hot to trot. Get it?”

  Her eyes widened. Oh, she was beginning to get it, all right. She was on the edge, the brink, the goddamn verge.

  “I liked the bit with the bartender,” he said. “Kevin, right?”

  “The bartender?”

  “You got it,” he said, and grinned. “ ‘Oh, Kevvie, I haven’t got any money, so how am I going to get a little drinkie-poo?’ “

  “I don’t—”

  “He phoned you,” he said, “after he got a peek at my wallet. He probably thought they were all fifties and hundreds, too.”

  “Honey,” she said, “I think all that sweet love scrambled my brains. I can’t follow what you’re saying. Let me get us a couple of drinks and I’ll—”

  Where was she going? Jerry’s gun was unloaded, he was sure of that, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a loaded gun stashed somewhere in the place. Or she might just open the door and take off. She wasn’t dressed for it, but he already knew she cared more for survival than propriety.

  He grabbed her arm, yanked her back down again. She looked at him and got it. It was interesting, seeing the knowledge come into her eyes. Her mouth opened to say something but she couldn’t think of anything that might work.

  “The badger game,” he said. “The cheating wife, the outraged husband. And the jerk with a lot of cash who buys his way out of a mess. How about you? Got any cash? Want to buy your way out?”

  “Anything you want,” she said.

  “Where’s the money?”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  “You know,” he said, “I think I’ll have more fun looking for it myself. Make a game of it, you know? Like a treasure hunt. I’m pretty good at finding thing
s, anyway. Got a sixth sense for it.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Please?”

  Something went out of her eyes. “You son of a bitch,” she said. “It’s not a game and I’m not a toy. Just do it and get it over with, you son of a bitch.”

  Interesting. Sooner or later they let you know who they are. The mask drops and you see inside.

  His hands went around her throat. “Jerry got a broken neck,” he said. “Strangulation’s not as quick. How it works, the veins are blocked off but not the arteries, so the blood gets in but it can’t get out. Remember those Roach Motel ads? Thing is, you won’t be pretty, but here’s the good news. You won’t have to see it.”

  Jerry’s gun was unloaded. No surprise there.

  Jerry’s wallet had a couple of hundred in it, and so did Lori’s purse, which suggested the ATM wasn’t down after all. And a cigar box on a shelf in the closet held more cash, but most of it was foreign. French 500-franc notes, some Canadian dollars and British pounds.

  He showered before he left the house, but he was perspiring before he’d walked a block, and he turned around and went back for her car. Risky, maybe, but it beat walking, and the Olds was wonderfully comfortable with its factory air. He’d always liked the sound of that, factory air, like they made all that air in Detroit, stamped it out under sterile conditions.

  He parked down the block from the Side Pocket, waited. He didn’t move when Kevin let out his last customers and turned off most of the lights, gave him another five minutes to get well into the business of shutting down for the night.

  He was a loose end, capable of furnishing a full description. So it was probably worthwhile to tie him off, but that was almost beside the point. Thing is, Kevin was a player. He was in the game, hell, he’d started the game, picking up the phone to kick things off. You knocked down Jerry and Lori, you couldn’t walk away and leave him standing, could you?

  Besides, he’d be expecting a visitor now, Lori or Jerry or both, showing up with his piece of the action. What kind of finder’s fee would he get? As much as a third? That seemed high, given that he wasn’t there when it hit the fan, but on the other hand there was no game if he wasn’t there to deal the cards.

  Maybe they told Kevin he was getting a third, and then cheated him.

  Guy in Kevin’s position, he’d probably expect to be cheated. Probably took it for granted, same way as Kevin’s boss took it for granted that not all of the money that passed over the bar wound up in the till. Long as the bottom line was high enough, you probably didn’t mind getting cheated a little, probably figured it was part of the deal.

  Interesting. He got out of the car, headed for the front door. Maybe, if there was time, he’d ask Kevin how they worked the split. Good old Kevvie, with that big grin and all those muscles. While he was at it, why not ask him why they called it the Side Pocket? Just to see what he’d say.

  You Don’t Even Feel It

  She found them at the gym, Darnell in sweatpants and sneakers, his chest bare, Marty in khakis and a shirt and tie, the shirt a blue button-down, the tie loose at the throat. Marty was holding a watch and Darnell was working the speed bag, his hands fast and certain.

  She’d been ready to burst in, ready to interrupt whatever they were doing, but she’d seen them like this so many times over so many years, Darnell working the bag and Marty minding the time, that the sight of them stopped her in her tracks. It was familiar, and thus reassuring, although it should not have been reassuring.

  She found a spot against the wall, out of his line of sight, and watched him train. He finished with the speed bag and moved on to the double end bag, a less predictable device than the speed bag, its balance such that it came back at you differently each time, and you had to react to its responses. Like a live opponent, she thought, adjusting to you as you adjusted to it, bobbing and weaving, trying not to get hit.

  But not hitting back . . .

  From the double end bag they moved to the heavy bag, and by then she was fairly certain they had sensed her presence. But they gave no sign, and she stayed where she was. She watched Darnell practice combinations, following a double jab with a left hook. That’s how he’d won the title the first time, hooking the left to Roland Weymouth’s rib cage, punishing the champion’s body until his hands came down and a string of head shots sent the man to the canvas. He was up at eight, but he had nothing left in his tank, and Darnell would have decked him again if the ref hadn’t stopped it.

  “The winner, and . . . new junior middleweight champion of the world . . . Darnell Roberts!”

  He’d moved up two weight classes since then. Junior middleweight was what, 154? And middleweight was 160, and he’d held the IBF title for two years, winning it when the previous titleholder had been forced to give it up for reasons she hadn’t understood then and couldn’t remember now. The sport was such a mess, it was all politics and backroom deals, but all of that went away when you got down to business. You sweated it out in the gym, and then you stepped into the ring, you and the other man, and you stood and hit each other, and all the conniving and manipulation disappeared. It was just two men in a pure sport, bringing nothing with them but their bodies and whatever they had on the inside.

  He was a super middleweight these days. That meant he’d have to be under 168 when he weighed in the day before the fight, and seven to ten pounds more when he actually stepped into the ring. You wanted those extra pounds, she knew, because the more you weighed the harder you punched.

  Of course your opponent had those extra pounds, too, and punched harder for them.

  Darnell had run through his combinations, and now he was standing in and slugging, hitting the bag full force with measured blows that had all his weight behind them. And Marty was standing behind the bag, holding on to it, steadying it, while Darnell meted out punishment.

  Marty saw her then. Their eyes met, and she didn’t see surprise in his, which meant she’d been right in sensing he knew she was there.

  Other hand, Marty hardly ever looked surprised.

  She drew her eyes away from Marty’s and watched Darnell as he hit the bag with measured lefts and rights. He weighed what, 185? 190? But he wouldn’t have trouble making the weight. He had two months, and he was just starting to train. All he had to do was work off twelve or fifteen pounds. Rest was water, and you sweated it out before you stepped on the scales, then drank yourself back to your fighting weight.

  She always used to love to see him hit the heavy bag. It was fun to watch him train, watch that fine body show what it could do, but this part was the best because you saw the muscles work beneath the skin, saw the blows land, heard the impact, felt the power.

  Early days, watching this, she’d get wet. Young as she was back then, it didn’t take much. And, young as she was, it embarrassed her, even if nobody knew.

  Fifteen years. They’d been married for twelve years, together for three before that. Three daughters, the oldest eleven. So she didn’t get wet pants every time she watched him work up a sweat. Still, she always liked the sight of him, digging in, setting himself, throwing those measured punches.

  She wasn’t liking it much today.

  “Time,” Marty said, but he went on holding the bag, knowing Darnell would throw another punch or two. Then, when his fighter’s hands dropped, he let go of the bag and stepped out from behind it, smiling. “Look who’s here,” he said, and Darnell turned to face her, and he didn’t look surprised, either.

  “Baby,” he said. “How I look just now? Not too rusty, was I?”

  “I heard it on the news,” she said.

  “I was gonna tell you,” he said, “but you was sleepin’ when I left this morning, and I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”

  “And I guess it was news to you this morning,” she said, “even if you signed the papers yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well,” he said.

  “Last I heard,” she said, “we were thinking about quitting.”

&
nbsp; “I been thinkin’ on it,” he said. “I not ready yet.”

  “Darnell . . .”

  “This gone be an easy fight for me,” he said. He had the training gloves off now and he was holding out his hands for Marty to unwind the cotton wraps. The fingers that emerged showed the effects of all the punches he’d landed, on the heavy bag and on the heads and bodies of other fighters, even as his face showed the effects of all the punches he’d taken.

  Well, some of the effects. The visible effects.

  “This guy,” he said. “Rubén Molina? Man is made for me, baby. Man never been in against a body puncher like me. Style he got, I can find him all day with the left hook. Man has this pawing jab, I can fit a right to the ribs in under it, take his legs out from under him.”

  “Maybe you can beat him, but—”

  “Ain’t no maybe. And I won’t just beat him, I’ll knock him out. All I need, what you call a decisive win, an’ then I get a title shot.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I fight, probably for the WBO belt, or maybe the WBC. And I win, and that makes three belts in three different weight classes, and ain’t too many can claim that.” He beamed at her, and she saw the face she’d seen when they first met, saw the face of the boy he’d been before she ever met him. Under all the scar tissue, all the years of punishment.

  “And then I hang ’em up,” he said. “That what you want to hear?”

  “I don’t want to wait two more fights to hear it,” she said. “I worry about you, Darnell.”

  “No call for you to worry.”

  “They had this show on television. Muhammad Ali? They showed talking before the Liston fight, and then they showed him like he is now.”

  “Man has got a condition. Like that actor, used to be on Spin City.”

  “That’s Parkinson’s disease,” Marty said. “That Michael J. Fox has. What Ali has is Parkinson’s syndrome.”

  “Whatever it is,” she said, “he got it because he didn’t know when to quit. Darnell, you want to wind up shuffling and mumbling?”

  He grinned, did a little shuffle.