The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition
Page 31
handkerchief for a moment so that Rory can see the pistol is still pointed at him.
Without saying a word, Booker raises his right hand into a square as if he were signaling a left turn while riding a bicycle. A moment later, the larger of the two Chinese men steps over and places his coffee cup on Booker’s side of the table. Then a thin, strong African man steps over and places his cup on Rory’s side of the table. Rory looks at each of the cups; one has a Chinese symbol, and the other bears a mark he doesn’t recognize. Slowly and systematically, all of the men take turns placing cups on the table until there are over fifteen large coffee cups, with various symbols drawn in black marker on their sides, facing Rory and Booker.
After all the cups have been placed, Booker holds his right hand out straight over the table. Rory assumes this is to signal that no more entries are allowed. His mind is swimming with emotion, and his gut is feeling tense, remembering the horrible experience with those violent people in The Redwood Forest. Many of these men look like members of organized crime, militants, and representatives from Communist Governments. He turns to look toward the exit, hoping for some window of opportunity to escape, but is dismayed when he realizes that the open sign is facing inward and no other customers are in the store.
“Listen, Rory,” Booker begins in a shaky and serious tone, leaning over as he notices Rory staring at the exit, “unless your cock can fire ballistic missiles, you are going to leave here with one of our buyers. If you try anything, not only are they willing to hurt you; they will also kill me. So hang tight, mate, and make the most of this.”
After giving these instructions, Booker raises his right hand high in the air and begins to show his fingers one-by-one, counting up to five. Each time he finishes, he closes his hand into a fist, shakes his fist aggressively for a moment, then starts the count over again. While Booker is counting slowly and silently in the air, men step over to the table and remove their coffee cups. By the time a minute has passed, there are only three cups that remain on the table. Rory watches in disbelief as Booker continues to count with his right hand for a full minute before another cup is removed. Finally, the remaining two cups bear the mark in Chinese writing and another mark that Rory doesn’t recognize. After another ninety seconds, the large Chinese man approaches the table and removes his coffee cup with an aggressive snap of his arm.
Rory stares in disbelief at the symbol of the buyer who just won him in the auction. He feels nauseous that it took just over three minutes for his life to be traded with a large coffee cup. Every part of him wants to jump up and run toward the exit, but his fear for Kelly’s life keeps him firmly planted in his seat. Rory takes a moment to burn the symbol into his mind, wondering who would be bold enough to buy another person this way. The symbol has a loop with a line on the left side that juts out slightly to an angle at the bottom. There is an identical symbol on the opposite side and they seem joined together by what looks like a fancy anarchy symbol.
“Congratulations, Rory,” Booker says with enthusiasm as he leans close again, “you’ve been sold for one-hundred and eight million dollars. These gentlemen,” He continues with a sharp nod, “will take you to your car. Good luck, mate. Nothing personal.” Booker snaps up his handkerchief and steps feverishly away from the table, not bothering to look back.
Two men approach the table with hard and dutiful expressions. One man is tall and muscular with Italian features. He is wearing an expensive white suit, black dress shirt and burgundy tie. His associate is also Italian; a heavyset man with receding hair wearing a less expensive navy blue suit, white shirt, and black tie.
Just as Rory is thinking about sprinting for the exit, the tall man in the white suit places a photo in his hand. When he looks down, a sudden sting of fear penetrates his body. The picture shows Kelly leaving her new apartment. This sobering image makes him concede defeat and he gets up from the table, buttoning his pants before peacefully following the two men out to a large black limousine. The larger man with receding hair opens the door and waits for Rory and his associate to get inside before closing it, then walks around to the driver side of the limo. When the larger man gets into the driver seat, he starts the engine and they are soon cruising through traffic.
In the back of the limousine, Rory is now face to face with his captor; or new owner, it would seem. Everything inside this car has been designed with careful planning and manufactured with the finest materials. The leather seats have a smooth, soft feel and the floor is covered in dark plush carpeting that reminds him of panther fur. All of the door handles inside the car and interior trim are made of an expensive cherry wood. To his captor’s immediate right is a mini bar and telephone. A high definition television is mounted behind the driver taking up the entire width of the car. On Rory’s immediate left, there is a refrigerator with an ice machine and two iPod docks.
“She’s a pretty girl,” the young Italian says finally after he finishes glancing with suspicion at the road behind them. “Do you think getting into a car with two men is going to save her?”
Rory looks down at the photo in his right hand and folds it neatly before placing it in the pocket of his jeans.
“There,” the man begins, pointing at Rory’s jeans, “now she’s safe.” He smiles wickedly, showing off the olive surface of his Italian skin and neatly manicured eyebrows. “My name is Dimitri,” he says with a short nod as the wicked smile fades, “and we just paid over one-hundred million dollars for you.”
“Well, I hate to give you bad news,” Rory replies nervously, “but my blood is only worth five-hundred thousand dollars a pint, and I can only give two pints a month, so it will take ten years for you to get your money back.”
“That’s very good math, my ignorant friend,” Dimitri responds with a disgusted nod. “Unfortunately, when you appeared on National Television and told the world that you were cutting off the supply, the demand went up. In fact, half of the men at that auction represent powerful, wealthy men who have illnesses that your blood can cure. So let’s see if this math works for you, Rory” he says with a hateful stare, leaning forward, keeping his shoulders rigid and strong. “If one pint of your blood can cure five men of leukemia; each man having a net worth over one-hundred million dollars; how long before we recover our investment? What if we charge each man ten million dollars? Then we recover our total investment with just three pints of blood along with a forty-four million dollar profit. Alternatively, if we develop a cure and create a large enough stockpile, we’ll live like Gods for the rest of our lives.”
“Be careful what you wish for-“ Rory warns as he stares out the window.
“You know I fucking hate you, Right?” Dimitri interrupts with an unsavory stare. “Right!? I fucking hate you, man. Rory Chambers, the douche with the special blood. Who gives a shit!? I watched you at The Oscars on TV, and your little speech about playing God. What a pussy you are, I couldn’t believe my ears, man. You sounded like Oprah and shit. I’ve seen dying men that have more balls and courage in their little fingers than you do in your entire family… And that press conference… Daddy! Daddy!” He mocks with a satisfied smile. “My Daddy died so now I give blood to help people. Oh, but wait, there isn’t enough for everyone to share so now nobody gets any. You sound like a spoiled rich kid with a new toy, showin’ it off to everyone and then hoarding it for yourself and laughing like a spoiled little douche.”
“Great,” Rory says with a frustrated grimace, “where are we going?”
“Just shut the fuck up and enjoy the ride. Get yourself a drink,” Dimitri gestures to the fridge as
if talking to a small child, “and get me one too, but shut your fucking douche mouth or I’ll disobey the provider’s orders and smash your knees just for fun.”
Rory swallows hard and instinctively reaches out to open the fridge. There is a nice assortment of top shelf spirits, wine, and imported beers.
“What do you want?” Rory asks, looking his captor in the eye, showing his question is more than just regarding a drink.
“I said shut your douche mouth. Just give me alcohol, any alcohol, but if you open your douche mouth one more time, I’ll let Vince dip his big, hairy, sweaty balls down your throat.”
Rory shakes his head quickly and determines that a drink is a good idea; it might afford him an opportunity to escape. He retrieves a large beer for the angry Italian and another for himself. When he holds the beer out to Dimitri it is snatched from his hand as if by a crocodile’s mighty jaws. The angry man opens the beer with a crisp snap and quickly takes a sip.
“Oh shit!” Dimitri says as he looks out the window to his right, sitting up and putting his face uncomfortably close to Rory while he observes through the rear windows. “VINCE, WE’VE GOT A PROBLEM, STOP THE CAR!” He shouts toward the driver seat while he fishes for something in his right jacket pocket. The car soon slows to a stop at the side of the road. “Open the