by Jeff Strand
"Hey, Lurch," said Wulfe.
"Hello."
"I'm sorry, that's disrespectful. What's your real name?"
"Lurch is fine."
"Okay, can't say I didn't fuckin' try. I just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I'd pay you a quick visit. Mind if Andy and I come inside?"
(I'm being as accurate as I can remember with everything that was said. So in the spirit of complete honesty, I'll admit that he only said "Mind if we come inside?" I never found out his associate's name and it's awkward to keep writing about him without one, so for the purposes of my book, he's Andy.)
"I'd rather you didn't," I said. "I have company on the way."
"I phrased that shit as a question to make you feel like you controlled your own destiny, but that's not actually how things are working right now. I'll bet that you don't want us standing out here in the hallway, making a fuss in front of your fuckin' neighbors."
I stepped out of the way. Wulfe and Andy walked into my apartment. Andy watched me shut the door, while Wulfe wandered around, checking out the place.
"Not bad, not bad. Kinda small, but there's room to get laid in here. Who's coming over? A hot skank? You cleaning up on Tinder?"
"It's nobody."
"She up for a gangbang, you think? The three of us taking turns, man oh man would that be intense. Or is it the four of us?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I hope that's true. It's not queer, you know. I mean, it's queer if you start gobbling each other's cocks, but if you're only doing the lady it's totally hetero. What do you think? Surprise her with a couple extra guys. Early birthday present."
I said nothing.
"Oh, fuck, it's your mom who's coming over, isn't it? I was making gangbang comments about your mother. That ain't right. I am so very sorry. We'd fuck her, but I'd never ask you to participate. Even if you wanted to we'd stop you. I'm sure your mom's hot, but in the morning you'd feel ashamed of what you'd done."
"What do you want?" I asked.
"What do you think I want?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't ask."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah. I'm not big on wasting time."
"Hmmm," said Wulfe. "I feel like my fuckin' time is being wasted at this very moment."
"Well, feel however you want, but I don't know why you're here."
"Then pretend it's a social visit. Don't you enjoy our company? It's not like we came in here and took a dump on your carpet. We're guests in your home. Where's the hospitality? Why not at least offer us a glass of tap water?"
"Because I didn't invite you in," I said. "And I don't want you to stay long enough to drink a glass of water."
Wulfe looked over at Andy. "Lurch is rude as fuck, isn't he?"
"Maybe we should get down to business," said Andy.
"Maybe we should. Hey, Lurch, where's that asshole Marc?"
"I don't know."
"You haven't talked to him?"
"No."
"Really?"
"I mean, I saw him yesterday when I was getting my mail. He didn't say he was going anywhere."
"So you haven't seen him in, say, the past half hour?"
"No."
"You wouldn't lie to me, would you? I have no fuckin' use for liars. I'll fuck a liar up, believe me."
"How about you watch your language while you're in my living room?"
I didn't care about Wulfe's profanity. I just didn't want him to think I was scared (though I was terrified), and asking him to watch his language seemed like a good way to accomplish that without sending him into a rage.
"Does my cursing offend your delicate sensibilities?"
"I just don't appreciate it in my home."
"Well, fudge. I'm so darn sorry about my potty mouth. Sometimes I can't flipping stop myself. I feel terrible. You must think I'm a bad, bad man. If there was a way I could take back all of those F-words, I'd do it in a heartbeat, but I can't, so you'll have to trust that I am so deeply, truly sorry for all of those naughty words that squirmed into your ears. I'm simply beside myself with shame. I'll try to become a better person, Lurch. For you. For the children. Now where is Marc?"
"I don't know."
"Now, now, I'm watching my language for you, so you could return the favor by not lying to me."
"I'm telling the truth."
"And I think you lack credibility."
"Can I get you something to drink?"
"No."
"How about a Moon Pie?"
"They still make those?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not hungry."
"Mind if I get myself one?" I asked.
"Yes, I do."
I should have done a better job trying to leave the room. I took my cell phone out of my pocket.
"What are you doing?" Wulfe asked.
"I need to tell my friend not to come over."
Wulfe walked over and snatched the phone out of my hand. I tried to snatch it back, which is when I realized that Andy had taken out a gun and was pointing it at me. That shouldn't have surprised me. He too was wearing a jacket that was inappropriate for the warm weather.
"I can't have you calling the cops," said Wulfe.
"I was just going to send a text."
"Well, I can send it for you. What's your passcode?"
"I use my fingerprint."
"But you have a passcode, too. I know how fuckin' phones work. Oh, fudge, there I go again with my cussing. Tell me your passcode or he'll shoot you in the head. And then after we search your place for Marc, we'll hang out until your vagina on legs arrives, and then he'll shoot her too."
"6-1-3-4-1-9."
Wulfe tapped the numbers on the screen. "What's it mean?"
"Nothing." I was telling the truth. I'd originally set it up with the date that my father killed those people, and then I was aghast at myself for being so morbid, so I switched it to numbers that had no meaning. I'd made up a little song in my head to help me remember them.
"Abigail?" Wulfe asked.
"Yeah."
Wulfe scrolled back through some messages. "Aw, isn't that sweet? You two are just so darn cute."
It's hard for me to describe how angry it made me to have him violating my privacy like that. I wanted to get my phone back by ripping off his entire hand. Since I was at gunpoint, I was able to keep my rage simmering below the surface.
"Dictate," said Wulfe.
"Have a migraine and have to cancel. Promise I'll make it up to you."
Wulfe typed that, then held the phone up. "That okay?"
"Sure."
He sent it. "Want me to send a dick pic?" he asked.
"No."
"I'll let you know what she says. I hope she's not too upset." He put my phone in his pocket. "Where's Marc?"
"I don't know."
"This is one tiny-ass apartment. It's not going to take us long to search it."
"I get that."
"If I find out he's here, I'm going to be just as mad at you as I am at him. And I'm homicidally mad at him. You two had better be really good friends, I mean fuckin' soulmates, if you're covering for him. Twin graves. I don't know how deep your friendship goes, but I sure wouldn't sacrifice myself for that piece of shit."
He was making a very good point.
Andy walked right up and pressed the gun against my forehead. He had to reach up a bit to do it, but I was no less intimidated.
"I'm going to ask you a question," said Wulfe, "and this is the last time I'm going to ask this particular question, so I encourage you to give an answer that isn't immediately proven to be a lie. Nobody will think less of you if you don't die for him. I'm not here to fuckin' torture you to death or any of that shit, but still, you don't want a bullet to the head, right? That's not fun for any of us. Are you ready for the question?"
"Yeah."
"Where's Marc?"
"He's under the bed."
eight
I felt like a cowardly douchebag, even though
common sense says that if a madman is threatening to kill you unless you tell him something he'll discover for himself through a cursory search of your apartment, you tell him. It wasn't as if I'd sold out Abigail or somebody else who didn't deserve it. Marc had basically threatened to report me to the cops if I didn't help him, and though I didn't believe he'd have actually done it, it was still a dick move. There was no reason for me to get executed for him.
"Thank you for your honesty," said Wulfe. "I like you. You're an all right guy. If you're ever looking to move into a bigger place, I can hook you up with some extra rent money."
It was good to know that I had so many employment opportunities in the drug trade.
Andy lowered the gun.
"I guess we'll go collect Marc," said Wulfe. "You're coming too, Lurch."
The three of us walked into my bedroom, with Andy in the lead. Wulfe whistled as we entered.
"We know you're under there. It'd be nice if you crawled out on your own. Don't make us fuckin' drag you out."
Marc didn't make a sound.
Wulfe sighed and shook his head, amused. "He's gonna make us drag him out. I can't believe it. I can't believe he's hiding under a goddamn bed in the first place." Wulfe kicked the mattress. "What are you, twelve years old?"
I wondered if Marc had moved to the closet. I only had plastic hangers, so he couldn't straighten out a wire hanger to use as a weapon like in the movie Halloween.
Wulfe pointed to the photos and stories on my wall. "What's this?" he asked.
"Nothing. An art project."
"Looks like you're hunting a serial killer. Or you are a fuckin' serial killer. You look like one, I'm not gonna lie. I wonder if there are a couple of dead bodies under that bed along with our buddy Marc?"
He stepped over to the wall to get a closer look, then seemed to remember that he had more important issues to deal with. He returned to the bed.
"You got any nudie mags stashed under the mattress?" Wulfe asked me. "I'd hate to embarrass you."
"No."
"Of course not. No need for those when you've got a universe of online porn at your disposal. What're you into? I bet you're an interracial guy. You ever see medical porn? I don't mean sexy nurses, I mean medical procedure porn. That is some fucked up shit. Ever see that?"
"No."
"What kind do you like?"
"Amateur."
"Good man. You ever upload your own? I wouldn't pay to watch it, but if you sent me the link I'd watch it for free. Not you solo, obviously. If it was you and a hot chick I bet I could bust a nut, no problem." Wulfe kicked the mattress again. "Are you seriously still under there? What the fuck?"
"He might have gone out the window," I said.
"Third floor window? I didn't hear him scream when his fuckin' legs shattered. No, I think that dumb son of a bitch is still under the bed, praying we'll just go away. Maybe he hopes a neighbor will knock at the door and we'll have to leave before we look under the bed. Is that what you're praying for, Marc?"
Wulfe lifted the mattress. Marc was in the fetal position, eyes closed. I'd hoped he might have some kind of amazing plan to get out of this—perhaps he'd booby trapped the mattress or something—but no, he was just lying there.
"Come on out, dipshit."
Marc opened his eyes. Finally realizing that he had no choice, he scooted out from under the bed. Andy pulled him to his feet and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head.
Wulfe gestured to him. "This, gentlemen, is what a very stupid man looks like. He thought he could screw me over, and then he thought he could get away from me by hiding under a fuckin' bed. That's almost at the level of being legitimately mentally retarded. What were you thinking?"
Marc let out a sniffle. He looked like a sad and frightened child.
Wulfe slapped him in the face. "I asked you a question. But I guess it was rhetorical, so no need to answer. In fact, I don't want to hear anything from you. Keep your fuckin' mouth closed until we get some duct tape over it."
Andy gave Marc a shove. They walked into the living room. Wulfe and I followed.
"You gonna give us any problems when we take you to the car?" Wulfe asked. "You gonna try to call attention to yourself?"
Marc shook his head.
"You don't make a sound, you got that? You walk calm and steady and you remember that my guy will still have his gun even if you can't see it. We're parked right outside, so there's not much time for you to fuck up. I'm sure you'll do fine."
Marc sniffled again.
"Go on, cry like a baby. Cry like a little girl who just got a spanking and doesn't know she's supposed to like it yet. There's no shame in it. I'd be bawling too if I was in your situation and I knew what was in store."
"What are you going to do to him?" I asked.
"Bad shit," said Wulfe. "Very, very bad shit."
"Are you going to kill him?"
"Sorry, no spoilers."
Andy kept Marc at gunpoint as they walked to my front door.
"So what was that up on your bedroom wall?" Wulfe asked me. "It's gonna give me nightmares. And when I say that, keep in mind that I'm going to do some nightmarish shit tonight."
"Art project. Like I said."
"Guess I just don't understand art."
"What am I supposed to do after you leave?" I asked. "Obviously I'm not allowed to call the police, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not used to any of this."
"You don't do a damn thing. If anybody asks if you've seen Marc, you say no. You say that the last time you saw him was when you were getting your mail. You say that you hope he's all right. That's it. That's all you say. We might come back and check on you."
I nodded.
Marc was going to die a slow, agonizing death.
I barely knew Marc.
He was a piece of garbage drug dealer who'd put my life in danger by coming here.
He was stupid enough to rip off Wulfe. He deserved whatever the maniac had in store, even if it was only to get him out of the gene pool.
I should not do anything.
I should let them take Marc away and pretend that his death was quick and painless.
I owed him nothing.
My life was going well. Why would I risk getting myself killed to save somebody like that?
You can probably see where I'm going with this.
On a scale of heroism from one to ten, I considered myself about a three. You wouldn't see me rushing into any burning buildings or diving into shark infested waters. But nor would I fling a baby into the mouth of a rampaging tiger to distract it from eating me.
I couldn't let them take him away.
There was an element of selfishness in my decision. I didn't want the sleepless nights of guilt. I didn't want to see them doing something horrific to him (with a hacksaw? Matches? A claw hammer?) every time I closed my eyes. I didn't want to hear his muffled screams running through my mind like an earworm song. I didn't want to battle with my conscience about whether or not there was anything I could have done.
Andy was going to put away the gun before they left my apartment. Wulfe was presumably unafraid that I'd take any action; he figured I'd let them walk out of here, and then I'd find someplace to cower for the rest of the night.
So I had the element of surprise along with the fact that it would take Andy a couple of extra seconds to pull the gun back out and shoot me.
This isn't my problem, I thought, in a last-ditch effort to convince myself not to get myself killed. Marc did this to himself. He's not my friend. He's scum.
I'm not very good at listening to my inner voice.
Andy tucked the gun into his inside jacket pocket.
"Can I have my phone back?" I asked Wulfe.
"Oh, shit, I forgot about that. You need it to tell your piece of ass that your headache's gone, don't you?" He reached into his pocket and handed it to me.
I punched him in the jaw as hard as I could.
I'd never punched an
ybody in my life—at least not in the face, and not to inflict actual injury—but I'm a big guy and he hadn't braced himself. If I didn't actually break his jaw, I sure as hell loosened it.
My phone hit the floor. Wulfe stayed upright.
I shoved him into Andy, who crashed into my door. It made a louder sound than I would have liked, but remember that I lived in the kind of apartment complex where a guy I barely knew had asked me to accompany him on a drug deal. As long as there was no shouting or gunshots, somebody bashing against a door wouldn't attract enough attention for a neighbor to call the cops.
I pushed Wulfe out of the way and grabbed Andy's arm as he reached into his jacket. I tugged hard with both hands. Not hard enough to wrench his arm out of his socket, but hard enough to spin him around.
I slammed the heel of my palm into his nose. I was trying to jettison a bone fragment into his brain. Blood spurted but he didn't die. I grabbed him by the same arm and yanked him to the floor. He landed facedown. If I'd taken even half a second to consider what I was about to do, I'm sure I would've lost my nerve, but I was in this scary zone where it didn't even feel like I was controlling my actions. This wasn't me. This was another guy.
The kind of guy who would jump into the air and bring both of his feet down on somebody's neck.
Some people take off their shoes at the front door. I was not one of those people.
The crunch left little doubt about the end result, but there wasn't time to gape in horror at my work. Wulfe had his hand inside his own jacket and was frantically fishing around for something. I assumed it was a gun. Even if he let Andy do all of the gun-waving, it didn't make sense that Wulfe would've come here without his own firearm. Though getting a gun out of his pocket shouldn't have been a challenge, he was kind of distracted by a broken jaw.
Marc opened the door and ran out of the apartment.
I twisted Wulfe around and channeled my inner wrestler. I pulled him off-balance, but before he fell I thrust my knee into his spine. This sound was less of a crunch than a crack. I dropped him to the floor, not intending for him to hit his head quite that hard. It might have fractured his skull.
No screaming. No gunfire. I'd done it.
I sensed that I might suddenly be on the verge of having a complete mental breakdown if I didn't make a concerted effort to keep myself under control.
