Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham)

by Sheffield, Jamie

  “I think that Cynthia, the woman from the library, figured out that you were using the computers to facilitate or further the production and sale of methamphetamine. I think that something she did or said at some point in the last few days tipped you off that she was looking at you and your business, and you felt that the safest thing for you was to kidnap her to protect your interests.”

  “I know that you're making meth in a number of locations within an hour or so of the Tri-Lakes, and both selling the finished product and replenishing your supply of precursor chemicals in 8-10 cities ringing the Adirondack Park. I know pretty much what you're doing and how you're doing it, and know enough to find out where the labs are, and who you've got working for you if I cared to find out.”

  “If I wanted to, I bet that I could prove all of it with a bit of legwork on my part, but let's get back to that in a minute. What I want is what you want, to be left alone. In this case, that includes Cynthia, the woman from the library. I want her back at her job, unharmed, immediately. In exchange, I will guarantee that you don't get bothered by her or me ever again, about anything. I don't care about meth or money or what you do outside of my little chunk of the world, and I can convince Cynthia to see things that way too, or I can get her to leave and never come back. That's your first choice, the best option.”

  “The other option involves massive disruption and hassle for both of us. If Cynthia doesn't get released immediately, or is harmed in any permanent way, I would be forced to interfere. I can make things difficult and costly, and possibly even disrupt and break-up everything that you have built here.” I gestured around the room, taking in the house, the land, the sub shop, his drug factories... everything of his; perhaps a little grandiose, but I had to sell my idea, the first option, as the better choice.

  “I'm a clever guy George, cleverer than you or any of the guys that work for you. I didn't come here today hoping that you'd be a nice guy and give me what I want because I asked you nicely. I came here in person to try and convince you to do this the easy way. If you refuse and decide to show me your impression of Leo O'Bannion, bad things will happen to you even after whatever happens to me.”

  “You see yourself as a Tom Reagan?” George asked me; this brought me up short for a moment. Maybe he was smarter than I had assumed.

  “Nope, I'm not in the movie at all... it's your movie... I'm a guy on the sidelines bringing you the best deal you'll get all week. One way, you get to keep all of the toys and keep making gazillion of dollars until the world runs out of people dumb enough to use meth. The other way, you lose everything. The first way is better. You don't know me, but you don't need to worry about me coming back to see you for more... for anything. That's part of the deal; if either of us comes back at you... ever... grind us up and serve us as ham salad on one of your subs.”

  I took a breath, ready for the finale, and his reaction afterwards. “That's it, unless you have questions, I'm done.”

  He sat, stone-faced for about fifteen seconds before he spoke, “So, you have a sealed letter with a lawyer or some such?”

  “Something like that, but a bit more 21st century. Time-delayed emails with everything ready to go all over the place. Messy for you, easy for me.”

  This was the teetering time; he would decide in the next few seconds. It made sense for him to go my way, but I kept quiet and still anyway. The time for pushing and teasing and manipulations was done; he needed to see it for himself, and know in his heart and head and gut that it was the right way... the smart way.

  He looked up at me and smiled; my heart was in my throat until he said, “Tyler, you're fucking me, but you had enough respect to kiss me first, and tell me you were going to fuck me. I never want to see you again, unless it's to buy a sandwich in my place. Where will you be in 90 minutes? I'll have Justin see what he can do about rounding up that girlfriend of yours.” It seemed ungracious to correct him about my relationship with Cynthia in my moment of victory, so I gave him the address of Smart Pig, finished my coke, and started on the long walk out of his living room and back towards my car, and a soon-to-be normalizing world. If I was the kind of guy to smile and whistle a happy tune, that's what I would have done; but I'm not, so I tried to decide which watercolor to bring up to Jacob Hostetler, and whether or not I wanted to visit the superb documents collection at St. Lawrence University while I was up there. Before I got to the end of George's driveway, I had picked the right painting and decided to go visit the documents for a long day of research.

  Once I got back to Smart Pig, I lay down on the couch, and dropped off to sleep until I heard the knock at my door.

  CHAOS

  Smart Pig Thneedery, 4:37p.m., 9/6/2012

  Nobody except me would have been surprised that it wasn't Cynthia at my door, but Justin, along with a guy nearly the size of Hoboken, and twice as ugly. Later on that evening, while licking my wounds, I tried to convince myself that I had been exaggerating (even to myself) about his size, but he had to both stoop and turn sideways to get through my door. Justin took my surprise and shock as an invitation, and came in, bumping me backwards and out of his way. The rough beast came slouching in next, closing the door, locking it, and standing in front of it with arms crossed; as if the other two things wouldn't have been enough to stop me leaving if I wanted to try.

  “George changed his mind.” Justin said, looking as though he thought I might be surprised by the announcement.

  “Yeah, I figured that out when I opened the door... well, shit. Is there anything I can do to change your minds about the upcoming unpleasantness? Can I get you a coke? That's not my top bribe offer by the way, just some kneejerk courtesy, which in hindsight I now regret... a bit.” I was scared and running at the mouth.

  “A coke would be nice.” said Barry White's albino and double-Y Chromosome nephew in a voice almost low enough to rattle the windows. He headed over to the non-coke-fridge, and I pointed him to the big stainless steel Church of Coke. He opened it, took in the lack of anything but coke in the packed fridge, and grabbed three cokes easily in his giant left hand. “Cold!” he said in a pleased voice as he handed them out, first to Justin, then me, saving the last one for himself. He cracked his, took a sip, and his face transformed; I could almost see a happy child that a mother must have loved and hugged (maybe having to climb a stepladder to do it). “That's the best fucking coke I've ever had, how come?”

  “I got the special fridge, which keeps them at exactly the right temperature, and a guy I know brings these ones to me from Canada; they have to use real cane sugar by law, not sugar from beets or corn, like in the US, and it's really a lot better than what you can get here.” Although surreal, this conversation was helping me to not be so frightened. They had come here, obviously intent on hurting or killing me, but some pointless talk had given me a brief respite, a safe harbor in this storm that I had been shamefully unprepared for; I reminded myself to kick my ass later for my tunnel vision in my “planning” on how to deal with George.

  “Enough about the fucking soda! We've got things to do and talk about here… we can do it the hard... or the really fucking hard way; it's up to you.” Justin roared at the giant, but mostly at me.

  “If there's an easy way, that'd be my choice.” I offered. “It's clear that I miscalculated here, something I tend to do when I fail to take the human element into account in new situations. My solution made sense to me, so I assumed that it would make sense to George; clearly not the case. I'd like to work this out so nothing bad has to happen to anyone, particularly me, if possible.” It was at this point in my semi-shameful groveling that I realized, as if someone had painted it on my walls in neon paint, that Cynthia was dead; the certainty with which I now felt her death made my breath catch and speed up, and my eyes itch a bit. Everything seemed to come into a new level of focus: all of my senses as well as my mental faculties, but of course the flood of adrenalin was useless to me in my current situation. I had as much chance of successful fight or flight
as a puppy in a bear trap.

  “You left the easy way behind you this afternoon in George's living room... shamed the man in his own home; now the best you can hope for is painless, or nearly so. Make a pile on this table,” Justin gestured at the coffee table near the couch, “of the following items: any computers or hard-drives or storage devices, any notes and maps and other documents pertaining to Cynthia Windmere or methamphetamine or George or any of George's associates, any cash or jewelry or electronics or other valuables that a thief might take. Barry is going to break the pinky finger on your left hand now, before you waste time lying or stalling, so that you believe me when I tell you that we want you to do this quickly and efficiently. If I think that you're dicking around at any point in the process, I'll have Barry (I giggled at the man-mountain's name, but they must have thought it was a whimper because neither looked at me) break another finger. If we run out of fingers to break, we can hammer or cut shit off, but I'm hoping to avoid that stuff altogether. Are we clear on what I want? If so, please begin.” Justin said this in the bored manner of cops on TV, or in movies, reading the Miranda warning to criminals, which would have freaked me out, if I had any out left to freak.

  “Two things, Justin... if Barry breaks any of my fingers, I'll scream. Not to try and give you away, but I’m just not great at dealing with pain, and I have downstairs neighbors; I don't want them (or me, when you come right down to it) involved in this... also, I have a crap-ton of money cached out in the woods which I'll happily give you two if you will just pretend that I wasn't here when you knocked.” I wasn't proud of this last bit, not much help for Cynthia or truth and justice and the American way; but I was scared and didn't want anything broken or hammered or cut off, and if money would make this problem go away, I'd give them all I had, and consider myself lucky.

  “Thanks for the heads up on the screaming like a little girl thing, Tyler, that's good to know... considerate for everyone involved. Barry can gag you before doing the deed. On the other thing... piss up a rope, although I will take another coke if you don't mind.” I nodded, and Barry got up to grab another handful; he looked at me politely, and I shook my head, so he just grabbed two.

  Barry put down his coke, took out a flattened roll of duct-tape, peeled off about a foot, stuck that on his right sleeve, grabbed a bandana out of a pocket, and came over towards me. “This will go easier if you don't fight it. I'm too big; you'll just pull a muscle or hurt yourself struggling.” I believed him, and stood when he gestured, turned when he spun his index finger (like stirring a drink, I couldn't help thinking), let him push the dry and pocket-tasting bandana into my mouth, and then fix the tape over my lips to stop me spitting it out. He twisted my right arm behind my back, and in one quick and sure move, that spoke of having done this before, he broke my pinky finger.

  I screamed into the bandana, and tears squeezed out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. Barry let go of my arm, and I spun around quickly to get away from his awful strength, hitting my hand on the way around, and getting another blinding flash of pain. I sat down on the couch to breathe and curse into the bandana for a minute, while the two guys looked on, slightly embarrassed.

  “Ok? All set? Can Barry take the tape off now, or are you gonna cry too loud?” Justin asked, and they both chuckled. I nodded, and Barry came over to take the tape off; I spat out the bandana, and drooled out a dispirited, “Motherfucker”

  Barry bristled a bit and started towards me, and I raised my hands, and tried to mollify him, “Not you, specifically, just the situation... you've got to admit that I'm waist-deep in shit, and can't feel solid ground below me.” Barry nodded, and sat back down to work on his second coke.

  “Ok, you can start any time now, Tyler; sooner and quicker would be better all the way around.” Justin reminded me.

  I took a swig of coke from the half full can, and held the coldness in my right hand against my pinky finger, which had, in fact, been dislocated at the base, not broken (although why split hairs); but was now seated more or less back where it was supposed to be. I walked over and grabbed my laptop, brought it back to the coffee table, and repeated that for all of the external drives and USB sticks around the office. Next I rounded up any of the of the notebooks and papers and maps that I had printed out or doodled on, including some from the garbage, hoping that the amount would be enough to appease Justin and Barry, and that they wouldn't look too closely and notice that all of the good stuff was missing, cached in the woods. Finally I went around the room gathering electronics and a few hundred dollars from a hollow book; I nearly skipped the box I kept on top of the bookcase with some of my parents' jewelry (rings and cufflinks and necklaces and a pocket watch and such). I didn't like the idea of these guys having it, but liked the idea of getting another finger broken even less, so I grabbed it, as well as some coins and stamps that my father and I had noodled around with when I was a kid; not worth too much, but I hoped that the thought would be what counted. By the time I was done gathering the booty and putting it on the coffee table, I had calmed down enough to get the beginnings of an idea; so I sat down and started to cry. Barry shoved everything into a duffel-bag and dropped it by the door.

  “Hey now, none of that... it looks like you did a good job. We need to head out in a bit, and if you're crying like a baby, we might attract the attention of your downstairs neighbors; and that's no good.” Justin didn't have a credible caring voice, but that might be because of the path our relationship had followed recently.

  “I'll be ok, but could I have another coke to relax... it also helps the finger.” I asked in my best pathetic voice, which wasn't a big stretch from my actual voice at this point. I added in my #8 smile (sucking up in an obsequious manner) hopefully, and it paid off; Barry looked at Justin, got a nod, and grabbed me what might be my final coke from the coke-fridge.

  “Nothing else of value in this place? Our guy says that you don't have another place... no shit... you're like homeless?” I nodded, and he went on, “Fucked up... never mind... he said you've never had a background check for any long guns, and no handgun license in New York or any other state... is that right? Do you have any firearms here Tyler? From a relative or yard sales or under the table at a gun show?” I shook my head, and they both looked a bit disgusted, “No hunting, no shooting, nothing, huh? Well our guy said you were some sort of half-assed private detective, but I just don't see it... go figure.”

  “Final set of questions, keep up the good work, and Barry won't have to break any more fingers, and that may be a record... nobody tends to act smart in this situation... but you're doing OK. What did you set up in case you disappear or get hit by a bus? Also, who did you talk to about George and Cynthia Windmere and the meth stuff? I'm looking right in your fucking eyes, and I'll know if you're lying, and Barry here won't get the record for least fingers broke, so think carefully before you answer... take all the time in the world, as long as it ain't more than five seconds.”

  I looked at him, and Barry, and pretended to think about it for a couple of seconds. Answering too quickly would be worse than taking too long. “I was lying about the emails if something happened to me; I didn't figure I'd need it because my deal seemed to make so much sense…at the time…to me. I didn't tell anyone about George or my suspicions about what happened to Cynthia, except for the dogs.”

  “What? No wait... don't bother, I don't care. I believe you, and we don't give a fuck how many dogs you told about George. You're positive you didn't tell Frank Gibson? I hear that you two are close.” This gave me pause, and I could feel my face changing, so I bumped my pinky against the table, and the pain provided some cover.

  “No, not Frank Gibson, and whoever told you that we're close should take a pay cut and maybe a pinky realignment by Barry, because they're feeding you bad information.”

  I had about 38% of an idea, some pain, some caffeine, some upset about Cynthia, and enough curiosity about who “their guy” was to give me a dash of hope. If my subconscious wa
s making plans for further investigations, it must have thought that I was going to make it through this encounter with Justin and Barry. I wondered who it could be... not Frank, but someone in the law enforcement community. If I could live through the next few hours, I'd have to try and figure out who it was, and why they told George (or Justin) about me. For now, though, I had to focus on not dying; I drank some more coke and waited for their next move.

  Justin shifted gears, nodded to Barry, and turned again to address me. “We need to leave now, and you're coming with us. If you can come peaceably, we can all three walk out the back way and drive away in our car. If you're gonna hassle us, either Barry or I can close your account right here, right now, and Barry waits until four in the fucking morning to tote you down the stairs like we planned, except he'll be all grumpy tomorrow, on account of not sleeping well in a strange place.” At this, Barry nodded to himself, and looked plaintively at me, as if for help; I gave him an oddly disturbing thumbs-up, signifying that I'd cooperate.

  “Ok, then finish up your coke, and let's go”

  I downed the rest of the can, resisted the urge to ask for a pee-break before we headed out, and walked out and down and drove away from Smart Pig with Barry and Justin; hopefully not for the last time.

  Ampersand Bay Boat Launch, Lower Saranac Lake,

  6:34p.m., 9/6/2012

  We had piled into Justin's banana-yellow crew-cab pickup truck, with Barry and me stuffed in the back. We made a couple of stops on our way out of town, with Justin getting out and throwing stuff in the truck bed at each time, while Barry kept his fingers squeezed on my neck to exert control. George's sub-shop was the first stop, and here Justin muscled a four foot tall rolling garbage can into the truck-bed. Next he pulled in at Aubuchon Hardware for enough stuff to merit a couple of trips of things sufficiently heavy to make the back of the truck bounce on its springs. The maddening thing was seeing people that I knew and not being able to call or wave or just leave; the tinted windows allowed me to see them, but they couldn't see me, and with Barry's giant sausage fingers around my favorite vertebrae, I wasn't tempted to call out. The powerlessness of my situation was disheartening, I felt dead already. Barry's sheer bulk and dumb strength took any action on my part out of the realm of possibility, and he knew it because I could feel his grip relax (just a bit) while we were waiting for Justin.