by Aaron Cohen
“Where is it?” David asks her calmly.
“Where is what?” she asks, trying to look calm, but looks worried, and a little pissed.
“One more time. Where is it?” he asks.
“I have no idea…”
He picks up a stapler from her desk and throws at her with great force. He moves fast for a big guy. He’s got a good arm and used to be able to pitch 90-mile-an-hour fastballs in high school. The stapler felt satisfying to throw, a nice weight and shape. It whizzes by Leanne’s face, just a little to the left, a slider, and cracks against the wall, leaving a deep dent in the plaster.
Leanne is silent, shocked. Her eyes widen with fear. Better. He likes seeing her scared. The truth will be coming soon.
“Give it to me and I’ll leave,” he says. “No questions asked, no repercussions. I’m a reasonable man. We have history. We were friends. I even thought of you as a daughter once. Let’s not damage our relationship any further.”
“You are supposed to be 100 percent legitimate,” she says. “A model corporate citizen, suit and tie and everything. What are the cops going to think of you breaking into a legal business and taking hostages, shooting guns, scaring the hell out of people?”
“The cops in this town, all two of them, are bought cheap, and right now they are taking an extended lunch at the local golf course, which I happen to own.”
He thinks about strangling her. It has been a few years since he choked the life out of someone. He has no problem doing it again, but the thought of wrapping his hands around her soft, thin, neck turns his stomach a little.
“Leanne, I’ll tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to walk out front to your parlor, and I’m going to find a girl I like, and I’m going to strangle the life out of her until you tell me where the data stick is. Clear?”
She looks shaken, ready to cry, on the verge of tears, almost broken, but not quite.
“Good,” he says and gets up. He towers over her, all six-foot-five of him, a monolith of a man wearing a black suit. He always wears black because it is intimidating and serious. Also, because it is slimming.
He walks past her and out the door. She follows.
“David please,” she says.
“This is your choice, not mine,” he says.
He enters the parlor. His men stand with guns ready. The brothel employees look scared. David smiles. He misses this. In the old days, he got to cause suffering on a regular basis. He took bats to heads and hammers to kneecaps. Not anymore. Now he is management. No more fun. Now the worst he can do is take an old fart’s Social Security check as he pours into a slot machine three quarters at a time.
He looks down at a brunette, wearing a bathrobe, her hair wet. Cute. Looks a little like Leanne when she was younger, back when she was just a new girl figuring out the business.
“What the fuck do you want?” the brunette asks.
She sounds like Leanne. Perfect.
“Nothing at all,” he says. “You like working here?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s alright.”
“A girl like you could do better.”
“You offering me a job?”
“Not really.”
He wraps his meaty hands around her thin neck. He squeezes, choking off a scream.
He picks her up, lifting her until she is on tip toes. She beats at his arms and hands. She kicks at his legs with her bare feet. Her face turns red. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth opens, and her tongue sticks out. An odd clicking noise comes from the back of her throat. Tears leak out of her eyes. She is dying.
“Up to you Leanne,” he says. “I’d say she’s got about a minute left, maybe less. All this kicking is burning through her oxygen pretty fast.”
The armed guys are alert, their guns at the ready, looking for someone who might try and be a hero. Everyone else is stunned. The death of their friend and co-worker is happening fast, the giant man in black so cold and calm.
“Stop!” Leanne yells and dashes across the floor.
The guys with guns look confused. She is the one person they are not supposed to shoot. The boss was pretty clear about that. No one harms her except for David. Punishment would be swift and severe if anything happens to her. That is the rule. Or is it?
They watch as she leaps into the air and lands on David’s back, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his chest. She hits him in the head with her fist.
He laughs, the strangling of the brunette continuing unabated.
Then she bites his ear, hard. She shakes her head, trying to tear it off. Blood leaks from his ear.
David drops the brunette. She gulps air.
He grabs Leanne by her hair, pulls her off of his back, and takes her by the throat. He gets a good grip and throws her across the room like he’s passing a basketball. She smashes into a Tiffany lamp and crashes to the floor. Bloods runs from his ear down the side of his face.
“You are starting to get on my nerves,” he says and walks toward her, where she lies in broken glass and blood, some of his and some of hers.
“You fat fucking pig,” she says. “It’s gone. Long, long gone.”
“Where?” he asks.
“Gone,” she says. “Just gone.”
David turns to the ex-Army guy.
“Did any cars leave here after we arrived?”
“A Cadillac El Dorado with an old guy and a midget. I thought they were just customers fleeing the gunfire.”
“They prefer to be called ‘little people,’” he says, recalling the sensitivity class he had to take as part of his corporate management training.
He takes a step forward and kicks Leanne hard in the stomach. You kick whores in the stomach, not the face. They can’t work with a smashed face. That much he remembers from the old days.
Chapter Three
Artie and Cecil trudge along on a dirt road, heading into a sun-scorched oblivion, an endless plane of dirt, rocks, heat and death.
The red El Dorado, tank empty, sits a mile behind them on the road that connects the Bunny Runner to Las Vegas, a road that has a decent amount of traffic on it, a road that if your car breaks down, someone will stop and pick you up because it’s obvious you’ll die from the heat.
But Artie and Cecil couldn’t stay on that road. David’s guys will be on that road, and David’s guys have guns and don’t mind using them.
Artie has to get to Vegas. The fate of everything rests on his shoulders. A big task for a small man. He doesn’t mind. He feels taller than he looks, and he is three-foot-five. He is going to save the day if it kills him. That’s all he cares about, so he keeps walking, as does Cecil, who keeps whining in that stupid British accent.
Cecil does have legitimate complaints. His slippers, not exactly made for desert hiking, are now covered in dust. His robe keeps blowing open, the hot wind gusting every few minutes. It isn’t like a normal wind, one that cools you off on a hot summer’s day. This wind is from God’s convection oven. This wind cooks you through, makes your skin crispy.
Artie scans the horizon for signs of life. He is sure there is a state park ranger station up there, somewhere. He thinks he remembers that. Or maybe it was a ranch or cabin or old trailer park. Roads are built to go somewhere, aren’t they?
He tries to not look to his left, because that’s where Cecil walks, and Cecil’s robe hangs open with his dangly little Cecil flopping around in the breeze. Artie’s size means he is often eye level to penises. Most of the time, they are covered.
“You want to close your robe?” Artie asks. “You’re going to get a cock burn.”
“If I die, then let it be without tan lines,” Cecil says as if in an amateur production of Shakespeare in the Park.
Artie knows Cecil is from New Jersey. Artie hacked into the Camden Records Department and found the birth certificate. Artie has worked with him for ten years now, and that fake accent still drives him crazy.
“We aren’t going to die,” Artie says.
“We
are, and you are my killer. You have murdered me.”
“That’s a lot of whining for a corpse.”
“My every word is one of my last, thanks to you.”
“We’ll be fine. Just keep walking.”
“This road goes nowhere, but to my grave.”
“It goes somewhere. Roads have reasons for being.”
“You seem to have found a reason for being, and it’s killing us. A mission. Your absurd mission.”
“A mission that will save Leanne.”
“That will save Leanne, and save us all, if it doesn’t kill us.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I’m thinking that I’d rather take my chances with David. He’s probably left the brothel by now. Not having found what he’s looking for, he’s probably already gone.”
“This road leads to a road that leads to a ranger station at a state park. I remember it from a map.”
He tries to sound sure about that, but he isn’t. He wants to be. He tries to talk himself into being sure. Could it be that the park is more to the northeast instead of due east?
“If I turned left right now,” Cecil says, “and cut across the desert. I believe I could be in our air conditioned house of ill repute in a matter of an hour or so.”
“I’m going to Vegas. Don’t try and stop me.”
“My good man, I don’t plan on stopping you. I’m too tired, and don’t want to waste an ounce of energy dragging your miniature carcass across the desert. I am merely stating that I feel I must abandon you to your important mission. Do you wish to accompany me and live, or would you rather continue on and become a buzzard’s dinner?”
“I’m heading straight ahead. You do what you like. I’m getting a little tired of your complaining. I’m three-foot-five. I’m ugly. I sunburn easily. I can’t get laid unless I pay for it. You ever hear me complain? No.”
It must be the heat making Artie grumpy. He hasn’t complained about being a little person in more than a decade. He hates even saying the words…little…person. In his head, he is six-foot-two. And in his head, there is a state park due east. Maybe what goes on in his head isn’t so reliable.
“I would rather you come with me,” Cecil says. “I don’t want to have to attend your funeral. The idea of you being buried in a child’s coffin breaks my heart.”
“Say hello to David for me, you coward. Always running from a fight. That’s Cecil. All words, no action.”
“Fine. I’ll leave you to your noble struggle against the forces of dehydration and the sun and the desert and the coyotes.”
“Later on, Cees. Make sure you get a nice even tan on your cock.”
“And make sure to apologize to the coyotes who eat you for when they are done, they will still be hungry.”
And with that, Cecil makes a smart left face and walks off the road and into the desert.
Artie continues down the dirt road, thinking about that map he saw more than a year ago. Is he right? He is pretty sure he is right. It would be great if he is right. State parks have ranger stations, phones, and water. Water sounds good. Water sounds perfect. Sweat drips down his face and he can taste it on lips, so salty, delicious.
Keep walking, just keep walking.
He has a mission. He can save the day for Leanne. All he has to do is keep walking.
Ice cold beer, the beads of sweat on the outside of a frosted glass.
He puckers his chapped lips and whistles, a loud wolf whistle, a suitable compliment for the beauty of a frosted glass of cold beer.
Keep walking. Just keep walking.
Cecil is thinking the same thing, but he’s having a tough time because he’s now walking on rocks and loose sand, not the smooth dirt road that he now misses. His slippers are disintegrating. He’ll be barefoot before making it back to the brothel, barefoot and bleeding and crippled for life.
Why didn’t I just hide? All I had to do was hide!
He never should have got in the car with that little monster.
Mission. Feh! Artie, always trying to prove himself, always showing off. He can do your taxes. He can build a website. He can hack into county court computers and change the status on pending warrants. Useful? Yes. But can he speak 5 languages? No. He can barely speak one. Can he be charming at a cocktail party? Certainly not. Can he manage a stable of temperamental beauties with cynical hearts and romantic dreams?
The thought of Artie trying, the gruff little fireplug with the charm of a bridge troll, makes Cecil smile, which cracks his chapped lips and makes him wince with pain.
He is going to die, Cecil decides. He is going to die right here, while wearing terry cloth. His robe will be his shroud, The Shroud of Cecil.
A light shines in the distance, to his right. He can almost make out the outline of a van, a van stopped for some reason.
“I’m saved!” he yells and trots as best he can towards the van. “Over here! Please help! Hey!”
Chapter Four
Artie walks on, focusing on motion, on keeping his feet moving, counting his steps. One, two, three, four… He keeps his head down, looking at the spot a foot in front of him.
Time passes, and he stops noticing. Minutes float by as his brain concentrates on the simple act of locomotion. One, two, three, four… He is so focused on the ground that he misses the rock outcropping until he walks into its shade.
The temperature drops about ten degrees, the light dims, and he stops.
“Oh fucking hell thank you lord,” Arties says.
He looks up. Around him is what seems to be the Mexican division of the Hell’s Angels, five burly men with bushy mustaches and beards, crazy tattoos of skulls, eagles and Spanish text in cursive. They wear blue jeans, black leather vests, and frowns. One of them is on his knees working on a flat tire. He pumps air into it with a hand pump while the others watch, not being helpful.
The gang looks at Artie. He doesn’t have to speak Spanish to understand what they are thinking… Did a sweaty, little midget just walk into our midst?
Artie, his brain half cooked, gets scared. He thinks about running, but his legs are only long in his dreams, and these guys have motorcycles. And guns.
“Are you okay, little man?” asks one in Spanish, a big one with a beard that reaches to the middle of his considerable belly. A knife has been tattooed onto his neck, stabbing into his jugular vein. Tattoo blood flows down his neck and into his black T-shirt that advertises a bar in Guadalajara where voluptuous women frolic in giant margarita glasses. “You need a ride somewhere?”
Artie has no idea what is being said to him. Cecil could talk to these guys, tell them what area of Mexico they are from, charm the hell out of them, then sleep with their sisters, and their mothers. That is Cecil’s thing. Artie’s thing is accounting and computers. These guys don’t need their taxes done.
“Back off, hombre,” Artie says. “I’m just passing through.”
A skinny young one, with just a handle bar mustache and a shocking absence of ink on his arms and neck, tells the big one in Spanish, “Look at him. I think he has heat stroke. Look at his lips all chapped to shit, at how red he is, like a lobster.”
“Do you speak any Spanish?” asks the big one and gets off his bike, walking toward Artie. “You need some water?”
“Stay the fuck away from me!” Artie yells. He doesn’t want to get mugged and murdered. He’s got a mission. He can lose his wallet, but he can’t lose that data stick Leanne gave him.
“The sun has fried his brain,” says someone from behind. “We need to get him out of this heat.”
Artie is surrounded. He knows attack is imminent. They are going to slit him open and leave him dead in the desert. He’s heard about desert marauders, roaming the sands on motorcycles in search of food and gasoline, or maybe that was a Road Warrior movie.
It is so hard to think in this heat. Wake up Artie! It’s fuck-shit-up time!
He whistles once and loudly to wake himself up. He gets ready to fight for his life.
“Is that a karate stance?” one of bikers asks.
Artie puts his hands up Kung Fu style. He doesn’t know Kung Fu, but he figures they don’t know that he doesn’t know Kung Fu. He is pretty sure that makes sense, but his brain seems to not be functioning at optimum capacity.
“Just calm down,” says the big one slowly, but still not in English. Artie figures the guy is asking for his wallet. “Let us take you to a nice cool place and get you some water.”
The big one walks to Artie with his hand out. He must be asking for his wallet. Fuck him. He can have pain instead.
Artie launches himself, mouth open, teeth bared. It is Artie’s patented combat trick number 7: If you bite, your opponent tends to not want to fight anymore. Artie’s teeth dig into the flesh of the tattooed man’s forearm, marring forever a portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman riding a giant tiger.
“Arrrrrrgh!” says the big one, in the universal language of getting bitten.
“Holy shit!” says the young one.
“Get him off of me before I kill him!” says the big one, who doesn’t want to smash Artie in the face, but has his giant fist in the air, ready to smash face if need be.
One of the bikers grabs Artie and rips him away, tossing him a few feet into the desert. Artie rolls, springs up on his feet and charges again, his mouth open, looking for someone to bite.
The one with the flat tire stands, pulls a Taser out of his pocket, and jabs it into Artie’s side. He presses the trigger and thousands of volts make Artie vibrate like a sex toy. Spittle flies out of his mouth. His eyes bug out. He pees himself.
“You little, crazy bastard,” the big biker says, rubbing his arm where he was bit.
He inspects his tattoo. Artie’s teeth marks form a ring around the tiger’s head.
Artie is on the ground, shaking, drooling, hoping they finish him off quickly.
Instead, they gently lift him and put him onto the back of the big one’s motorcycle. They strap him to the big guy with bungee cords. Artie is too weak to resist. He sleeps, his face pressed against the embroidered skull on a black leather vest.
