by Dan Taylor
While he glares at me, Beans says, “If you think it’s reasonable, Jimmy, then I also think it reasonable.”
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Are we done here?” I ask.
“Just a second. I want Mr. Hancock to thank you before you leave, on the good job you’ve done.”
Jimmy holds out his hand, inviting Beans forward, who puts down his holdall and then gets a handkerchief out of his pocket, which he uses to cover up his fingers while he rips the piece of duct tape off his mouth.
They stand there looking at him as he talks in tongues, so to speak.
Then Jimmy says, “Why’s he talking like that, like he’s deaf?”
“That would be on account of his not having a tongue,” I say, then hold up a baggy, inside which is the dismembered lump of flesh.
Jimmy sighs, and then a second later so does Beans.
They glance at each other again, and then Jimmy says, “How am I supposed to identify him now that his face looks like a giant meatball and he can’t talk?”
“He’s got his wallet in his pocket,” I say.
Jimmy nods at Beans, who, using his handkerchief again, fishes out the wallet. He takes a second to check it, and then says, “It says here he’s Mr. Jacob Hancock.”
And then, as though he’s skeptical about Beans’s reading ability—and I don’t blame him—Jimmy goes over to him and takes a look himself, nods. Jimmy takes the wallet from Beans and then holds it up to the guy sitting in the chair, juxtaposing the face in the wallet with the beaten-up face in front of them. While Beans looks over Jimmy’s shoulder, Jimmy glances back and forth from the photo to the face.
They’re silent a second, until Jimmy says, “He looks like shit, but it’s the same guy. What do you think, Beans?”
“I’d say they’re the same guy.”
Then Jimmy says to me, “Reason we’re being careful, Mr. Elvis, isn’t because we don’t trust you. We just wanted to make sure we got the right Mr. Jacob Hancock. This may surprise you, but this is the second time we’ve tried to take care of Mr. Hancock.”
“I understand.”
Still being sassy, Beans says, “He understands, Jimmy.”
Jimmy ignores him, says, “Okay, Mr. Elvis. You are now free to leave. Unless you’d like to watch?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay, then.”
I hand him the keys to the warehouse, and tell him he can give them to Jimmy Balbone after he’s finished.
As I’m leaving, Jimmy says, “Okay, Beans, get out the hammer, chisel, and blowtorch.”
25.
It takes a couple hours to drive to Colorado Desert. A couple minutes into digging the grave, I stop, because I hear Hancock say, “Hello?” and then start banging on the hood of the trunk, panicking and saying he’s claustrophobic.
I go over to the trunk and open it.
“Jesus, I thought you were going to leave me in there forever,” Hancock says.
The guy back in L.A., in my warehouse, is Rebel Black. The moment he sat down on the front passenger seat, I knocked him unconscious, tied him up, put him in the same trunk Hancock’s lying in now, and then drove to Hollywood Boulevard.
How did I catch Hancock?
I figured a guy like Hancock might’ve watched too many movies, and would assume I wouldn’t return to the scene of the crime. And he’s partially right. I’d have to have shit for brains to take the elevator up to the tenth floor, potentially trapping myself in the building. But I am stupid enough, or careful enough—I haven’t decided which yet—to buzz Hancock’s intercom, hold up his girl’s panties for him to see, on which was written WE’RE GOING FOR A DRIVE, in Magic Marker ink.
He came down, worried about what my intentions were, and then it was just a case of persuading him it was in his interest, and that of his friends, family, loved ones, future family members, family members’ pets, and probably his postman, that he came with me.
I’ve got to hand it to him, even though he whined like a little baby, he showed real balls getting in that car. Peter Hammer wouldn’t have done it, and you can be sure as shit Rebel Black wouldn’t, not to save someone else’s ass.
The first opportunity I got, when we were away from the hustle and bustle of Hollywood Boulevard, I delivered a swift elbow to Hancock’s head, making contact with the soft fleshy bit of the temple, and knocked him unconscious, before tying him up.
Then I drove to the warehouse with both of them in tow.
During the hour before Beans and Jimmy Blumstein arrived, I beat that son of a bitch to a bloody mess, so that he could pass for Hancock. His weight and build are about the same. He’s a bit heavier, but I had a hunch they’d only know Hancock by his face, and wouldn’t be familiar with the rest of his appearance. When his eyes were almost shut, his lips had swollen up like a Lazy River rubber ring, and the rest of his face was adequately marked with contusions, welts, and a whole assortment of injuries, I cut out his tongue, cauterized the wound, and put Hancock’s wallet in his pocket.
I could have used a baseball bat or a crowbar, but I thought it fitting that I beat him with my fists, just like he’d beaten his wife.
During his beating, Rebel Black squealed like a freshly born pig, wailing and hollering and crying until snot streamed out of his nose.
I’ve never taken pleasure in inflicting pain, but this time I enjoyed it.
The rest you know. Which brings us to now.
Hancock sits up and looks around. “Aw, fuck, this is the desert, isn’t it?”
“It is. I’m going to help you out of the trunk, and then I’m going to show you something.”
He looks around again. “What?”
“You’ll see.”
He sighs, and then I help him out.
While I do, he’s talking about not having told anyone, not even the police, and definitely not his girl.
When he’s standing, I tell him, “I believe you.”
“You do? I mean good, you should, because it’s the truth. My self-preservation way outweighs any need for getting justice for Margaret Hammer.”
We start walking.
He goes without force until he sees the shovel and the makings of a grave. Says, “If this is about your nose, then I apologize. I reckon a broken nose will really suit your face. In fact, the moment I saw you, I thought to myself, You know what that guy’s face needs to round off his chiseled jaw line and other manly features, a broken nose. I swear to God.”
“This isn’t about my nose.”
“Then it’s got to be the possibility that I’ll snitch on you, which I won’t. What can I say to make you believe that I don’t want stitches? For snitching… for being a snitcher, I mean. I live close enough to Harlem to know that snitching gets you some stitching. Jesus, what’s the phrase again?”
“Shut up and take a seat.”
Hancock, with his hands tied behind his back, waddles over to the nearest rock, sits funny, on the edge of it.
And then a gust of wind rushes passed Hancock and in my direction.
I ask him, “Have you shit your pants?”
“A little. I’ve shit my pants a little.”
I shake my head, not because I don’t think it’s reasonable for a grown man to shit his pants when he’s minutes away from dying. And then I take a seat on a rock.
I say, “Let me tell you something, Jacob Hancock. There’s not a single thing you can say that will convince me that sometime in the future you won’t get a twinge of guilt and think about telling the cops what happened today and a really accurate description of me: my accent, what I look like, that sort of thing.”
“I won’t. I swear. In fact, I’m really bad with accents. Yours could either be non-regional, like a news anchor’s, or West Texas and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference—”
“Shut up and let me finish—”
“Please do. I’ll be quiet. But before I am, let me just tell you I suffer from something called face blindness. I can’t even remember
what my girl looks like. Every time she comes to my apartment and I look at her through the intercom camera, I’m all confused, and like, ‘I haven’t ordered a hooker.’”
“Are you finished for real, this time?”
“I am if I’ve said enough to convince you not to kill me.”
He looks at me hopefully.
I like the guy. Can’t help it.
But that’s not the reason I’m going to let him go. I’m not doing it for him, or even for his girl.
I probably won’t sleep too well the next couple nights, and I see a relapse coming on from the stress of my dream retirement being in the hands of someone who shits himself, gets stoned in the morning, and wears a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it.
And if Jimmy Balbone finds out I let him go, or the other Jimmy, I’m a dead man.
I continue, “As I was saying, there’s not a single thing you could say to convince me that sometime in the future you won’t feel a little guilty, and think about going to the police… but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to let you go.”
He frowns. “I don’t believe you. Is this a way of calming me down, so that you spring the gun on me and surprise me… Wow, that sounded way sillier when I said it out loud.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then are you playing some sort of game, like a cat who lets the mouse run away for a couple seconds before he fucks him up?”
“No, that’s not what I’m doing, either.”
“Then I’m stumped.” He thinks a second.
“You haven’t done anything to earn my letting you go and not killing you, but I will.”
“So I was right. You do want me to give you an alibi?”
“That’s not it, either.”
I tell him what I want him to do.
Then he says, “Just that?”
“Just that.”
“What did you say his name was?”
I tell him again.
“Shit, you should’ve just said that when you were at the intercom, instead of driving me all the way out here. That’s my bread and butter, or at least it was.”
“I know that. And I thought you might need a little motivation.”
“That’s what the grave is for?”
“Is it working?”
“FYI, that thing needs to be a little deeper. If I’m a forty-five-year-old waitress with a snacking habit, that’s my prom dress. But yeah, it is. I’ll go ahead and say I’m a little intimidated by the idea of being buried out here. And it’s a hell of a drive for my parents to come and deliver flowers and mourn my loss. Can we leave now?”
“There are a couple things you need to do first.”
“What are they?”
“First, I want you to finish digging the grave.”
“Why, if I’m not going into it?”
“I’ve got a feeling I might need it in the future.”
“For me?”
“Not if you do what I said and keep your mouth shut.”
“Done. What’s the second thing?”
“I’m going to need you to take off your tighty whities and wipe your ass with the clean side, and then throw them away, before I let you back in my car.”
He sighs. “There’s no way I’m doing that in the presence of someone else.” He looks around. “There’s a mountain in the distance. I’d feel a whole lot more comfortable if I could just run over there.”
I look at where he’s pointing, and it’s on the horizon. “You can ride in the trunk again, then.”
“Close your eyes and we can shake on it.”
I don’t say anything, just turn around.
A minute later, I say, “Are you done yet?”
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just say it.”
“I don’t know how it got there, because it isn’t on my pants, but there’s some on my sock. Unless it’s Nutella…” He’s silent a second. “Nope. Not Nutella.”
“Then just go sockless. Or just wear the one sock.”
“No briefs and one sock. This is turning out to be one hell of a day.”
26.
With the grave dug, the coordinates taken down for future reference, and with Hancock’s sock and briefs in a grave instead of him, we leave.
We’re only ten minutes into the drive when Hancock starts waxing lyrical about how this experience has changed the way he feels about life forever.
“That’s it. I mean it. I’m a new man. Sure, I’m close to my forties, and I’m in pretty bad shape, and I feel like I should probably have more friends, but there’s no way I’ll ever wake up and press the snooze button again. Not after surviving what can only be described as a harrowing near-death experience,” he says.
We sit in silence a second, before he says, “What about you? Hey, you may as well go ahead and tell me your name now, seeing as how we’re buddies, and all.”
“We’re not buddies.”
“Okay, I get it. It depends on the definition. What I was saying was, how has this experience affected your outlook? Feel free to use the word profound. I won’t think any less of you.”
“Mind if I put on the radio?”
“Nah, I’m not really in the mood for it. You want to hear my five-step plan for getting my shit together?”
“Not really.”
“One, no more getting stoned in the morning. In fact, maybe no more getting stoned, period. Okay, I got it, no more getting stoned on weekdays. Or maybe just every third day. I’ll need to be clear minded if I’m to implement step two.”
Without responding, I turn on the radio, settling for the first station I come to.
He continues, “Two, phone my parents more often. Sure, they don’t seem all that bothered about my existence now that they’re retired and living in Florida, but this experience, it’s really made me appreciate them more. First thing I thought about when I saw that grave? How I’d ruined my parents’ retirement, because they’d never be able to get over losing me. Wow, I’m really growing as a person.”
Giving up, I turn the radio off.
He says, “Hey, I was digging that song.”
“How about I give you my email address and you can send it to me, your plan?”
“That works.”
“Okay, I’ll write it down for you when we get back.”
“You can just go ahead and tell me. I’ve got a really good memory.”
“It’s Geoff Cranberry sixty-nine—one word—at Gmail dot com.”
He sighs. “I get it. I’m boring you. I’ll shut up, now.”
And he does. I glance at him every so often in the rearview—he’s sitting in the back, after refusing to ride in the “elbow seat”—to find him staring out into the desert with a dumb grin on his face.
And I wonder if he’ll be able to do what he’s promised to do.
It’s a long shot, if I’m to base his competence solely on, well, the way he is. But I’ve got a good feeling he might come through for me. I guess I’m being hopeful.
If he doesn’t, there’s already a grave dug for him.
About a half hour away from L.A., I get a phone call.
I glance at who it is, and then tell Hancock to put his fingers in his ears again, and tell him if he makes a sound I’ll have no other choice than to change my mind about shooting him.
I answer.
Jimmy says, “Elvis, we’ve got a problem.”
27.
Upon hearing those words, I think Jimmy and Beans have somehow learned the guy whom they’re torturing with a blowtorch, chisel, and hammer isn’t the guy they wanted.
But it turns out to be more trivial than that. At least to me.
I ask, “He’s where?”
“On the roof. And he’s talking about jumping down from it.”
“Which roof?”
“His own roof.”
“Doesn’t he live in a one-story property?”
“He does. He says he’ll dive down from it, head first.”
“That’s how diving tends to be.”
“Don’t get cute, Elvis.”
“Sorry.”
“How that’s schmuck going to pay me if he’s in a—how’d you say?—non-induced coma for the foreseeable future?”
The guy he’s talking about is Peter Hammer. Seems he might be having a little crisis of conscience, if his threatening to dive from the roof of his house is any indication.
I say, “Write a will for him before he jumps. He can sign it on the way down.”
“Smartass, Elvis, is what I should call you more often.” He sighs. “Can you go and see him, convince him that the smart thing to do is to jump after I’ve gotten my money?”
“Can’t Phil and Gary go see him?”
“They’re already there; that’s how I know he’s on the roof. They went around to tell him how sorry they are for his loss.”
“Why can’t they talk him down?”
“He’s standing in the middle, holding on to the chimney, and they think it unwise to shout over to him. The neighbors, and all.”
“Then they can climb up there.”
“Look, Elvis, I’m gonna need you to do it. Phil and Gary are scared of heights.”
“They’re scared of being ten feet above ground?”
“They are. And they tell me, even if they weren’t, they can’t find a ladder on his property.”
“Okay, I’ll go over there, see what I can do. Is he talking of phoning the police?”
“He hasn’t mentioned that. Just keeps saying he’s a bad nephew. The worst. How long will it take you to get there?”
I glance at the Sat Nav. “Fifty minutes.”
“Try and get there in forty.”
“That’s how long the drive is, Jimmy.”
“Okay, then forty-five.”
He hangs up.
I put my cell back on the dashboard, and Hancock takes his fingers out of his ears. Says, “Was that your boss?”
“I don’t have a boss.”
“Say no more. Forget I ever asked.”
28.
I drop Hancock off on the way, a walking distance away from Hollywood Boulevard, and arrive at Peter Hammer’s home thirty minutes later.
