by Scott Young
“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” the fixer bellowed.
Senator Allan Westhoff’s little girl was dead in the roach-infested, dingy, drug den apartment of New York City’s most despicable pimp. This had officially become a fuck up of monumental proportions and Tommy had no doubt in his mind he’d be made to get the shit end of the stick because of it. In need of information and with only one place to get it, “Two Fists” went to the kitchen, retrieved a faded chair and roughly hoisted the still unconscious body of Hector Guerrero off the floor. He wasn’t very large, 5’10” and no more than 175 pounds, so Tommy had no trouble moving his limp body.
He sat the pimp in the chair and, unable to control his rising anger, punched Hector directly in the face. The punch shattered Hector’s nose and the pain briefly rousted the lowlife awake before he once again fell into the abyss of drug-induced oblivion. Blood flowed out of the unconscious pimp’s nose like a faucet. Tommy knew it would abate in a few minutes, but he wanted Guerrero to see it when he finally forced the lowlife awake. A large amount of his own blood on a man’s chest was another good motivator when asking questions. Fully aware of the time sensitive nature of the situation, the fixer nonetheless went to wash his hands before starting.
When he returned, Tommy screamed in Hector’s ear, “Wake up, asshole!” The unconscious pimp did not stir. The fixer slapped him across the face. Still no signs of life. Growing impatient, “Two Fists” resorted to some old-fashioned tactics. Luckily, there were two full ice cube trays and a half empty two-liter bottle of Sprite in the freezer and fridge. McCabe took the cap off the soda and carefully flexed the plastic trays until the cubes popped free but stayed in each cup. He calmly pulled open Guerrero’s basketball shorts and poured the 24 ice cubes down his pants before quickly emptying the Sprite over his head, while walking behind the chair. After a few seconds, Hector sprung to life.
“Wha – What the fuck! Hey! What?” Hector screamed as he tried to move to no avail. Tommy had made sure he wasn’t going anywhere with duct tape restraints. His wrists were taped in front of him with palms up; over a dozen strips were around his chest, waist and arms to further restrict movement, while his ankles were firmly taped to the legs of the chair on which he sat. After 30 seconds of frantic attempts to free himself, Hector’s body sagged and Tommy knew the reality of the situation was sinking into his pea brain. Only then did he walk around the chair and into the pimp’s line of vision.
“Hello, Hector,” Tommy said with an icy glare.
“Tommy Two Fists! Oh, shit! Hey...hey, what’s goin’ on, man?” Hector responded with sheer terror in his eyes. He kept squirming in an attempt to free the ice cubes from where they’d come to rest as he continued speaking, almost pleading, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, man, you know me. Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do nothing. I never do nothing, man.”
“Shut up, Hector.” Tommy got another chair and placed it in front of the other man, no more than 3 feet away. He got a TV tray from the kitchen and placed his bag on it. “Two Fists” then sat on the chair and casually removed a ball peen hammer, a pair of pliers, a box of razor blades, an ice pick and a vintage Italian switch blade. As he removed the items, he said in a very low, menacing voice, “Now, you and me are gonna have a little talk, okay? How that talk goes is up to you. But make no mistake, you are going to tell me what I want to know. Do you understand me, Hector?”
As each item appeared, Hector’s eyes got wider and wilder. They darted around the room, desperately searching for anyone or anything that could help him get out of this. Tommy couldn’t help but notice that Guerrero seemed fixated on the closet, his gaze repeatedly coming back to it. He briefly tried to get free again but the fixer’s furled brow quickly dispelled that notion. Hector looked into Tommy’s steely eyes as tears began to fill his own. The realization that he was at the mercy of organized crime’s most efficient and tenacious fixer eventually hit home and he began to whimper like a sick dog. Finally, the most feared and vicious pimp in the syndicate nodded yes over and over again as tears ran down his pock-marked cheeks and cocaine powder wafted down from his scalp.
Guerrero knew he was in deep shit but he had no idea why. “What’s going on, Tommy? Seriously, I ain’t done nothing wrong. Ain’t skimming or no shit like that, you gotta believe me, man!”
“This isn’t about any of that, Hector. It’s about that dead girl behind me. Remember her?” Tommy said without emotion.
“Princess? My princess is dead?” Guerrero shouted trying to look over McCabe’s shoulder to see. “Oh no, Tommy! You didn’t have to kill her, man! She was just some dumb bitch from the Midwest. She didn’t even turn her first trick yet,” Hector said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I didn’t kill her, you dumb fuck!” McCabe replied, his voice rising with each word. He took a breath to calm himself before continuing. “She was dead when I got here but I was looking for her. Now tell me what happened to her, Hector. And don’t even think about bullshitting me.” He picked up a razor blade, unwrapping it quickly.
“I don’t know, man! We was just havin’ some fun, that’s all! I swear! I didn’t do nothin’!” Hector said frantically.
“Hector, Hector, calm down. Just calm down.” Tommy spoke softly in a soothing, melodic tone. Then out of nowhere he sliced the palm of Hector’s left hand four times with the razor blade, causing the pimp to howl in pain.
“Now I’m going to ask you again and I don’t want any more of this ‘I don’t know’ shit, ok?” Tommy continued, taking out some fresh supplies from his bag: two lemons and a shaker full of salt. He gently wiped the blood from Hector’s palm as he said, “What happened here?” He then poured half the contents of the salt shaker into the captive man’s outstretched hand. Hector screamed in pain as Tommy rubbed the salt into the open wounds.
“I don’t – I mean, I mean we was partying, yeah we was doin’ some blow and some bags but Princess got sleepy after the dope so she laid down!” Hector said as fast as he could, hoping it would appease the fixer. “That’s what happened, man! For reals!”
“Two Fists” McCabe backhanded Hector across the face, blood flying out of the pimp’s mouth as it twisted to the right. He then took the ball peen hammer and smashed the big toe on Guererro’s right foot, causing the loudest screams yet. Hector began to stammer incoherently as Tommy grabbed the ice pick, moved around behind him, and forced him to look at the bed.
“Look at her, you lowlife piece of shit! Look! Does she look “tired” to you? She’s dead, motherfucker and you killed her!” the fixer screamed right next to his ear, spittle flying out of his mouth and mixing in with the blood on Hector’s t-shirt.
“No, no, no, no, no, man! I only gave her half a bag! No way she O.D’ed on that shit! No way, Tommy!” Hector pleaded, half crazed from the pain. “I always been straight with you, right? There ain’t no reason for me to hurt my Princess. I’m good to my girls.”
Tommy had to admit, Hector had a good point but his gut told him the pimp was hiding something and he didn’t have time to coax it out of him gently. Shit! Tommy thought to himself before plunging the ice pick into the soft spot between the clavicle and the acromion bone of Guerrero’s left shoulder. Tommy left Hector writhing in agony as he went to wash his hands.
By the time Tommy got back from the bathroom, the pimp was a whimpering, quivering mess. Tears, mucus, saliva and blood had congealed all over his face making it a disgusting smorgasbord of bodily fluids. Tommy sat down in front of him again without a hint of remorse.
“Please, Tommy, please. Don’t do this, man. I didn’t do nothin’. We was always cool...why you comin’ down on me like this, man? Why?” Hector pleaded between gasps for air. He sounded like a man with the worst head cold in history due to his continuous weeping. It was pathetic.
“You say you weren’t doing anything, just partying like normal, but one of your girls dies and you have absolutely no idea how that happened?” Tommy began quietly. “Let’s say I believe you, Hector.”
“Like I said, let’s say I believe you about ‘Princess.’ Here’s what I’m wondering, Hector. What happened to the window? Who did you have stashed away in that closet and how the fuck did that girl end up dead on your watch?” Tommy stood, once again causing Hector to flinch dramatically. Tommy got close to Guerrero’s right ear and whispered, “Do you have answers for me, Hector, or do I have to start getting serious with you?”
Hector gazed up at Sandra Westhoff’s dead body for a moment and the look on his face was genuine sorrow. He whispered, “Princess” softly before quickly looking over at the closet. His eyes narrowed and his face became angry as he stared at the empty space for almost a full minute. McCabe waited him out patiently, hoping he was ready to break and spill his guts. Guerrero’s face then turned to pure terror and his body began to shake before his head dropped once again. He shook it from side to side yelling, “I-I-I don’t know, man! Please, let me go! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I just do what I’m told, man! Ask Digger, man! He’ll tell you! Ask Digger!”
At the mention of his partner’s name, Tommy snapped. All the frustrations of this bitch of a day came pouring out of him in a stream of obscenities as he began to beat Hector mercilessly. His fists smashed repeatedly into the captive man’s face and body, drawing blood and shattering bone. After three minutes, Tommy unleashed a haymaker to Guererro’s midsection that caused the pimp to involuntarily vomit all over himself. His body continued to retch and convulse long after Hector lost consciousness. The only sound in the apartment was Hector’s moans, groans and rasping breaths as Tommy once again walked toward the bathroom.
After finishing his now frequent ritual, Tommy wanted to let Hector stew for a bit so he searched the kitchen for supplies. He found a recently opened box of Glad Forceflex large garbage bags, an unopened roll of paper towels and, surprisingly, a bottle of Dewar’s White Label Scotch. He poured some whiskey into an old, Loony Tunes glass that looked reasonably clean and took a hearty swig. McCabe then methodically wrapped up the last remains of Sandy Westhoff using the garbage bags, the comforter from the bed and an entire roll of duct tape. Her body looked like a giant pupa inside its chrysalis right before it emerged as a butterfly. Alas, there would be no such metamorphosis for Senator Westhoff’s baby girl. Her fate was sealed the day she met Hector Guerrero.
When Tommy was finished, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment collecting his thoughts. From where he was sitting he could see directly into the closet. Something about it still bothered him. What was Hector hiding? “Two Fists” slumped over, leaning his chin into his hands when he noticed something shiny in there. Without thinking he got on his hands and knees and crawled over to the closet to retrieve what had caught his eye. It was a cookie tin decorated with cartoon reindeer and Santa Claus in his sleigh. He sat leaning on the door frame of the closet as he opened the container.
The first thing McCabe saw was a faded, worn picture of a middle-aged woman with two younger women hugging her from either side. None of them were Sandra Westhoff. “X-mas ‘09 Montana” was written on the back in faded, blue ink. He rifled through the other items in the tin: a heart locket, two large fake- emerald earrings, an Army medal, a pair of glasses with one lens cracked and several letters. Tommy opened one of the missives and saw they were love letters: the kind teenagers write declaring their undying love for each other before the world wears them down and beats the romance out of their hearts forever.
“Nnnnn –whathafuck?” Hector mumbled as he began to stir.
Before the pimp fully regained consciousness, Tommy closed the cookie tin and placed it in his work bag. He intended to ask Hector about the closet, and its occupant again, but he didn’t want Guerrero to know he’d found anything, lest that information prejudice his responses. McCabe looked over his captive and it wasn’t pretty. Hector’s face was a mass of bruises, contusions and open wounds. His eyes were almost swollen shut, like Rocky Balboa at the end of the original movie when the fictional pugilist begged his trainer, Mickey, to “cut him” so he could see again. That gave Tommy an idea.
“Hector! Hector, wake up!” he shouted while playfully slapping the ice pick still protruding from his shoulder. “Time to finish our conversation. Are you ready, Hector?” Tommy quickly removed the ice pick, cleaned it on Hector’s shorts and placed it back in his bag.
“Tommy, man...Tommy, wait...please jus’ wait a sec. Please.” Hector whined through bloody teeth and swollen lips.
“Who was in that closet, Hector? Tell me who it was now or I’m going to get creative. You don’t want that, do you?” the fixer said without any humor.
“Tom, I-I-ca-I can’t...I don’t know what you want from me, man. Really, I don’t know.” Hector said so low it was barely audible.
“Okay, have it your way.” Tommy took another razor blade and cut Hector across both eyelids causing the beaten man to scream uncontrollably and shake his head violently back and forth. “Two Fists” then cut a lemon in two and squeezed them directly into the pimp’s eyes, causing even more violent body upheavals and caterwauling.
Tommy sat back in his chair and studied the effect of his handiwork. He couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little to himself. The lemons reminded him of Miracle Max’s line from The Princess Bride. After being asked if he was the one who worked for the King all those years, Max said, “The King’s stinking son fired me and thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject. While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?” That always cracked Tommy up, right from the first time he saw the movie with his former wife and son. He hadn’t thought about that movie or his family in a long, long time. He grabbed the paper towels and headed for the bathroom yet again.
Unbidden, Tommy’s mind drifted back to what he considered the moment of his greatest failure. The marriage had been over for years but they’d stayed together for Chris’s sake, trying to give their boy at least the semblance of a happy home. Eventually, it got to be too much for Margaret. Being married to the mob isn’t easy and it was especially hard for an honest, compassionate and God-fearing woman like her. She tried to be the doting wife and not ask questions but she wasn’t blind or stupid. There were only so many times you could wash out blood stains before you knew the answers without asking any questions. One night Margaret finally said, “This is no life for a man, cow-towing to thugs and criminals for scraps. You’re nothing but a mad dog to them, Tom...to be let off the leash if and when they need you.” In response Tommy slapped her, the only time he ever laid his hands on her, telling her to keep her mouth shut about things she didn’t understand. She left the next day without a note, message or good-bye.
Tommy knew they’d be better off without him so he didn’t even attempt to find them. Maggie was still a fine looking woman and she’d be able to remarry some solid, dependable guy who’d be the kind of man she and Chris needed, not a mook like him. Yeah, he rationalized it every time he thought about it but the fact was, it was a relief when he got home and they were gone. It was easier for him that way. Marriage and fatherhood were too hard and he was no good at either of them. So he just let them go, telling himself it was for the best, but deep down he knew. He knew he was a coward. He took the easy way out and look at him now. He was washing his hands for the fourth time in an hour while working over a lowlife pimp on the orders of a crime boss who was probably setting him up as a fall guy for the whole, fucking situation. Yeah, things had really worked out great for ol’ “Two Fists” McCabe, alright.
He shook his head in frustration and took a few long, deep breaths, exhaling dramatically after each one. Picking up the paper towels to dry his hands, Tommy muttered, “On top of everything else, the last thing I need is to start thinking about this crap. This day has been shit from the word go.
”
“Hey! Leave me alone! No! Don’t! Toooommmmy!” Hector’s shrieks broke Tommy’s reverie.
He bolted out of the bathroom like an Indy racecar right into the business end of a Sig Pro semi-automatic pistol. Tommy simply frowned and said, “What the fuck are you doing here, Digger?”
“You know me, Tommy. Just looking for a little fun,” DiSalvo responded while holstering his pistol. “What do you have goin’ on here? Looks like a good time. Well, except for Hector there and the wrapped-up stiff on the bed,” he continued, laughing.
“Seriously, Digger. What are you doing here?” Tommy repeated, cold as ice. McCabe was less than pleased to see his partner. Even if he didn’t have trust issues with him right now, Tommy hated being interrupted while interrogating someone. He felt Hector was just about to start talking, but now all bets were off. With the addition of “Gravedigger” DiSalvo, the pimp was beyond terrified and on the verge of shutting down completely.
“Hector and me go way back, buddy. He always has the best shit and I felt like gettin’ some party supplies. You know how I do,” Digger said as he meandered around the room casually.
Salvatore DiSalvo wasn’t the kind of guy you could call inconspicuous. He was slender but tall, topping out at over 6’3”. He always wore his hair slicked back and when he was nervous he continually ran his ever-present comb through his raven locks. Digger had deep set eyes with bushy eyebrows that made him look angry even when he was smiling. He dressed much like Tommy, but preferred the classic pin-striped suit jacket over the more casual blazer. McCabe had known Digger a long time now, so it was easy to recognize that his partner had already been “partying” throughout the day. DiSalvo was definitely a coke man and he was pretty wired right now.
