by Strand, Jeff
"Ah." I considered that. "What about the severed nose? Wouldn't that fall into the same category?"
"You're right, that one did veer from standard operating procedure. I was against it, to be perfectly honest, but the boss doesn't tend to give my feedback a very high priority."
The front door opened. A gentleman who was not Baldy stepped outside. He saw us and sprinted across the front lawn toward the yard next door.
"Crap!" shouted Harry, getting out of the car. He took off running after who I assumed was the other Josh White. I'd only caught a quick glimpse of his face, but even with his nose intact there was a definite resemblance between him and the man in the cage.
Josh was doing fine until he tripped over a plastic baseball bat that was lying at the edge of the neighbor's yard. His face struck the grass like a frying pan striking an unfaithful husband.
Harry pulled him to his feet, twisted his arm around his back, and hurriedly brought him back to the car. He opened the trunk, shoved him inside with moderate effort, and slammed the door shut.
"You didn't run," Harry told me, sounding surprised.
"I didn't want to make your day more difficult."
That wasn't the truth at all. I just didn't want him to shoot me in the back while I was fleeing. But, again, it was best to plant the seeds of friendship and trust and hope that I could exploit them later.
"You're really stupid," he said.
I knew his words shouldn't have stung, but they did. However, I didn't let the hurt show on my face. He would have relished it, the bastard.
"Come on," he told me. "We're going inside."
I followed him into the house. It was very tidy and well kept; apparently Josh had a housecleaning service, or knew his way around a Swiffer. Though the living room, which contained a large pool of blood and the dead body of Baldy, was somewhat less tidy.
"Dead" is probably not a strong enough word to describe Baldy/Jake's condition. "Dead" implies that perhaps there was a struggle, and the gun got twisted around, and Baldy took a bullet to the chest. That could very well be what had happened, but that scenario omits the butcher knife that protruded from Baldy's back. And the meat cleaver in his neck. And the detached left foot. And the internal organs that lay strewn on the carpet next to him.
Harry stared at the mess in shock. "How did he do this? We were only sitting in the car for a few minutes!"
I rushed down the hallway, searching for the bathroom. I found it and threw up into the toilet. I was merely thinking about not contributing to the mess, but after the first few ounces emerged I also decided that it was a good idea not to leave DNA samples.
Harry was in the doorway when I finished. Either he wanted to make sure that I didn't grab a weapon, such as the toilet plunger, or he liked witnessing regurgitation in action. Probably the former, but you never know.
We returned to the living room. This grotesque sight made the horror of finding the severed nose in my dining room seem like discovering a wad of chewing gum on the bottom of my shoe. (Admittedly, the comparison would be more apt if I'd stepped on the nose, which I hadn't.)
"I just don't understand this," said Harry. "I guess the butcher knife wouldn't take very long, and neither would the meat cleaver — it's only in there a couple of inches. But the foot? You can't just slice off somebody's foot without . . ." He stopped talking and picked up a bloody hacksaw. "Actually, this is a pretty nice saw. Yeah, with some decent elbow grease you could do it. It's also possible that some of this happened before the gunshot, which would have given him extra time. If he used this same saw on the guts, which it looks like he did — see that chunk right there on the blade? — I guess I can see him mutilating Jake's body like this before he ran outside." He nodded, satisfied.
"We're not taking it with us, are we?" I asked.
"The boss wouldn't want that mess left here."
"You don't know that. Maybe he'd be okay with the idea."
"I'm eighty percent sure that he wouldn't. Go find a garbage bag."
* * *
As we drove back to see the boss, I envied Josh for being locked in the trunk. I was in the front seat, holding a pair of garbage bags on my lap so that they wouldn't spill onto the leather interior. The contents sloshed every time the car turned or stopped at a traffic light, but had not yet leaked out of the bags.
To his credit, Harry had not forced me to handle any of Baldy's insides. I merely had to hold the bag, which I did while turning my head and squeezing my eyes shut. The main portion of Baldy's corpse was covered in multiple layers of bubble wrap that we'd found in the garage, and rested on the back seat.
Though we'd left behind a huge red stain, we'd done the best we could. Harry had sopped up most of the blood with several towels, which were now in one of the bags on my lap, and overall the mess was substantially less notable than when we'd walked inside the house.
Josh had been pounding on the inside of the trunk ever since the engine started. Harry's face had turned red and was contorted into a scowl.
"He'd better knock that off soon," he muttered. "I'm just saying."
"You can't blame him for being impatient," I said, though it was getting on my nerves, too.
"I can blame him for making me drive this car off a cliff to stop the noise."
There really weren't any cliffs around, so his comment didn't concern me. It was clearly meant to be hypothetical.
"So, when the boss sees what happened, who is he going to take his anger out on?" I asked.
"I'm not sure. Hopefully the bags."
"What if he takes it out on you?"
"He'd take it out on Josh first, at least."
"What if he's still mad after that?"
"Listen," said Harry, "if you're going to get into this business, you need to realize that sometimes jobs go bad. Obviously, you want to be as careful as possible, but this kind of thing happens, and people understand that. It's like a telephone company having a customer cancel because they couldn't get reception on their cell phone. They didn't want to lose the customer, of course, but they aren't going to throw a screaming fit over it, because that's part of the business. People are going to switch long distance providers. When you're in crime, associates are going to die. It sucks, yeah, but it's not the end of the world."
I thought about what he'd said. "Are you trying to groom me into a future partner?"
Harry looked kind of uncomfortable. "No, no, not at all. It was just a tip. Someday you might think about a career change, and it never hurts to have a broad base of knowledge, right?"
I didn't really see myself ever working for a crime lord, but he was right, it was important to keep your options open. I'd never expected to find myself in a manatee suit, either, and if it ever did happen (it hadn't yet) I'd be grateful for that lecture on manatee behavior that an elderly man had given me while waiting at the bus stop.
"You're right," I said. "Thank you."
* * *
The boss was absolutely furious.
He kicked Baldy's torso over and over. Each kick was accompanied by the crack of breaking bones and the pop of popping bubble wrap. I winced each time, even though Baldy was deceased and felt nothing.
"Stupid!" the boss said. "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
I thought he was being too hard on Baldy. There was no real evidence of stupidity. Clearly, Josh had won the fight, but that didn't mean that Baldy's loss had been the result of dumb behavior. I was much smarter than the bullies in grade school, and they won every single fight, even the one where I was (briefly) armed with a fire extinguisher. If Josh had gotten the upper hand in combat, that could have simply meant that he was faster or more agile than Baldy, not necessarily more intelligent. However, I said nothing.
"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!"
Harry winced as well. He probably was worried that his ribs might be next.
"Bring him to me," the boss roared. Harry nodded and left the room.
The boss kicked Baldy a few more times. It seemed like a waste of good bubb
le wrap. I could pop that stuff for hours.
"What are you staring at?" the boss demanded.
It seemed odd that he would think that in the presence of an enraged man kicking a partially dismembered corpse, my attention might be drawn elsewhere. "I was admiring your technique," I said, thinking quickly. "I think you broke a bone with every kick."
He didn't look even the slightest bit flattered by my comment. "You trying to brownnose me?"
"No, sir."
"I hate brownnosers. They make me sick." He kicked the corpse again. This time it slid a couple of feet across the floor. "I suppose next you're going to compliment me on my sewing job?"
The thought had indeed occurred to me, but I'd discarded it as being silly. "No, sir."
"Think you're tough? Think you can take me?" He stepped over to the side of the room and picked up something that resembled a garden rake with blades on the end. "Think you can take me now? Huh?"
"No. I do not."
He swung the bladed rake at me. I tried to protect my face and three blades slashed across my forearm. The cuts weren't deep, but I wasn't used to being sliced in this manner, and I cried out in pain.
Then I got — forgive my salty language — pissed.
Anger is not one of my more common emotions. And when I did feel it, it was usually limited to trivial things like television shows being pre-empted by football games or my favorite candy being discontinued by the manufacturer. However, standing there in the Scary Room of Horrible Awful Painful Death with my arm bleeding, I felt a rage unlike anything I'd ever experienced in my life.
"You jerk," I said.
I let out a howl of fury. Not a werewolf-style "Owwooooo!" howl, but a definite howl. I don't know exactly what the boss's expectations were for this particular encounter, but they didn't include me howling at him in rage and lunging at him, my fingers curled into claws. I'm sure I would've looked and sounded kind of goofy if somebody had happened to walk by at that time. In fact, the boss's reaction may have been inspired less by fear and surprise than by the simple desire not to be touched by a ridiculous-looking guy who'd apparently lost his mind.
Either way, he did not swing the rake at me again, which would probably have cut my jugular vein and ended me. And that gave me a chance to dig my fingernail into his eye.
As soon as I did it, my emotion toggled from pure rage to disgust over the idea of scraping somebody's eyeball. Then my primary emotion switched to urgency, in a "Hey, you really should push him into that large protruding blade in the corner" manner.
I shoved him as hard as I possibly could.
He did not strike the large protruding blade. He did, however, strike this thing that looked like a giant novelty pushpin. Had he been able to foresee our conflict, he might not have placed it at neck-level. Though I didn't see it go in, I did clearly see the tip of the pin emerge from the front of his throat. The boss looked very disappointed in himself.
It's interesting when somebody you truly dislike meets with a fate like having his throat punctured. On one hand, you're happy about it because he can't swing that rake at you again. On the other hand, there's this poor gentleman grabbing at his neck and making awful noises and bleeding a lot. You want to simultaneously laugh in his face and offer him a Band-Aid.
The boss slid off the pin and fell to the floor. He wasn't entirely dead yet, but the way he was leaking I knew it would be soon.
Soon he was dead.
Though there were plenty of weapons to choose from, I picked up the rake. It was like being at a restaurant that has a vast menu loaded with delicious sounding options, yet you pick the hamburger because you know it's going to be good.
I stood next to the door and felt bad about what I had to do. I sort of believed that Harry and I had bonded during our shared experience. Not that we'd go out golfing together or feed each other ice cream or anything like that — just that we'd had some pleasant conversation and, given the choice, I thought he might vote in favor of sparing my life.
Still, he was a bad man. I knew this. He'd done many awful things and would do many more if I left him unkilled. I had to stop him. For the sake of Josh and his brother in the cage, I had to stop him.
At the same time, Josh had done pretty well for himself against Baldy. In fact, I knew that I should probably be careful when I attacked, since the next person through the doorway might very well be Josh holding Harry's severed head. I didn't think he'd appreciate the irony of surviving almost certain death only to have me whack him with a bladed rake.
Could I really kill somebody? Could I take a human life? I mean, excluding pushing the boss into the giant pin a few moments ago.
Maybe I should just hit him in the legs.
I decided against that idea. If I got killed because I was trying not to kill him, I'd feel like a complete ignoramus.
When Harry stepped through the doorway, I smacked the rake right into his chest.
Unfortunately, I didn't hit him with the bladed part — I hit him with the wooden handle right under the bladed part. It still hurt, I'm sure.
I have to admit, I'd secretly hoped that he'd react with a look of sadness and betrayal, but my hope went unfulfilled. He looked mad. Not as mad as I'd been a minute ago, though — he was probably more used to being struck with weapons.
Josh, who was clearly one to capitalize on an opponent's distraction, shoved Harry to the floor and repeatedly kicked him. While he was kicking him, he grabbed the tool out of my hand and began raking Harry like fleshy leaves.
I'd witnessed several disgusting sights recently, and the first eight or nine rakes weren't as upsetting as what had happened to Baldy. Once it got into the double digits, though, Harry really started to look bad, and I turned away in revulsion.
Once we passed the twenty mark, it seemed unnecessary to continue, but Josh didn't cease. I cleared my throat in an effort to subtly indicate that perhaps he should stop or at least slow down. He didn't.
Finally I had to speak up: "You're getting a little carried away."
Josh tossed the rake aside. If I'd known he'd listen to my advice, I would've said something sooner. "Is there anybody else?" he asked.
"Not that I've been introduced to."
"Where's Chester?"
"Your brother? I'm not sure. Close enough for them to wheel him in here in a cage."
"Then let's go find him!"
Josh did a lot of agonized wailing after we found his brother. The phrase "What have they done to you?" was used at least thrice, along with "Oh, God, how could you let this happen?" and "Nooooooo!" He also said "Those bastards will pay for this!" a couple of times before he remembered that the bastards had already paid for it.
"At least he's safe now," I said, trying to be soothing.
We couldn't find the key to the cage at first, and I thought we were headed into another wacky misadventure, but then I found it in a desk drawer. Josh unlocked the cage, let his brother out, and gave him a big hug. They both started crying, which made me feel a bit awkward. To break the tension, I was tempted to crack a joke ("You guys sure do look alike — good thing there's the missing nose and ear to tell you apart!") but did not feel it would be well received.
"Thank you for saving my life," Chester said. His voice sounded kind of odd without a nose, although to be fair I hadn't heard his voice before that. "Any chance I could get my toe back?"
I took some offense to his tone, which dripped with sarcasm and implied that I'd been the one to saw off his toe, or at least that I'd suggested it would look better on my foot. Still, he'd been through a traumatic experience, and I didn't want to be a jerk. "Sure."
It wasn't difficult to find a cutting instrument. I graciously sat down and let Josh cut away the stitches. He removed the sixth toe and handed it to his brother, who placed it in a cup of ice. After that, they discussed the topic of surgical reattachment.
"Do you still have my nose and ear?" Chester asked.
"Yes. They're at my apartment." It only then occurre
d to me that Baldy and Harry had forgotten to bring them along, and would have had to make yet another sheepish return to my apartment if they weren't dead. When you thought about it, they really weren't very good at their jobs.
"Let's go get them," said Chester. "And then I wouldn't mind going to the emergency room."
We all agreed that was a good idea. I offered to go get the body parts myself and meet them at the hospital, but Chester wanted to stick with me. I sort of took offense to this as well, since he was hinting that I was some creepy weirdo who'd hoard somebody else's body parts. I would do no such thing.
We stole Harry's car and drove back to my apartment. Once there I skipped the tour and headed straight for my refrigerator. I took the baggie out of the crisper and handed it to Chester.
He opened it up, removed the paper towel, and unwrapped it on my kitchen counter, which seemed unhygienic and rude.
"There's only an ear," he said. "Where's my nose?"
"It's not in the bag?"
"No. Are you sure that's where you put it?"
I tried to recreate the series of events in my mind, just in case I was misremembering, but no, I'd definitely put the nose and ear in the same plastic bag and then in the refrigerator. I would have remembered taking one of them out. And I hadn't seen either Harry or Baldy go into the kitchen.
"Hmmmmm," I said, trying to buy myself some time.
"You'd better not have lost my nose," Chester warned me.
"Let's all calm down," said Josh. "It can't have gone far."
"It didn't go anywhere!" Chester pointed at me. "He's hiding it from us!"
"Why would I do something like that?"
"I don't know! That's why the idea is so disturbing! Maybe you're going to sell it!"
"What kind of market value could it possibly have? Ten bucks, maybe? You've gone insane."
"I think you've gone insane. That would explain why you'd steal my nose! Give it back!"
"I did not steal your nose," I said. "That's ludicrous."
"Is it?" Chester asked. "Is it?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Yes," Josh agreed.
Chester looked at him angrily. "Whose side are you on?"
