Shea makes a good argument. Presents it well. He totally sealed the deal with the like you there at the end. I bet he was on the debating team at Harvard.
“How can I turn down that face? Look at this guy, McEvoy. We’re gonna run this town.”
I got the strength for nothing, but my body jerks spasmodically of its own accord and Bent Tool takes it as acknowledgement.
“You’re gonna be Edward Shea’s first execution, not counting the guy who was already winged. That’s a great honor.”
Fab. T’riffic. Can’t hardly wait.
Thank you, Fuckapalooza. It’s been a trip.
I must be in shock, or maybe whatever sedative Edit snuck into the whiskey is still my bloodstream because I’m taking all this impending-death stuff very placidly. I’m vaguely aware that I don’t want to die tonight but I can’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the idea. I know this kind of torpor, this leaden lethargy, is a common symptom of PTSD but I ain’t PTS yet, I am smack bang in the middle of TS right bloody now. I reckon maybe the S from the last PTS is just kicking in. So what I’m feeling now is a result of the torture video. I really hope that Krieger and Fortz get gut shot making a break for Mexico. Ain’t it funny that I feel stronger about them dying than me living?
Just in case there are a few folks who are unaware what the letters PTSD stand for I can tell you that it ain’t, as my buddy Zeb once suggested, Prison Twinks Suck Dick, though I gotta say I did laugh at that, which wasn’t very enlightened of me. Zeb made the whole thing into a running joke. After I dragged him to Broadway with me to see that Rock of Ages show he claimed to be suffering from post-dramatic stress disorder. I thought that was a bit forced.
They leave me alone for a few hours, popping in every now and then to make sure I am still tethered to the radiator with a chain they had handy that looks like it came north on the underground railroad a couple of centuries ago. I feel guilty for not attempting to escape but I simply ain’t got the resources. I been knocked out twice, beaten with a frankly embarrassing blackjack and rammed with a Hummer. That’s gotta be some kind of record.
So I sleep on the floor and even the fact that I’ll be taking a one-way trip when I wake up cannot keep me from passing out. I read an article in Simon Moriarty’s waiting room once that said your subconscious already holds the key. Whatever the question is, you already have the answer inside you. So maybe my inner self is gonna pipe up with the key to this dilemma. I’ll tell myself something I don’t know. That would be really nice, ’cause generally all my subconscious does is give me phobias and behavioral tics. The trick is to wake up and shout the first word that comes to mind. It’s called auto manifestation or, to quote Zebulon, a crock of psycho bobbemyseh. I don’t know what bobbemyseh means exactly, but I imagine it ain’t complimentary. Good things rarely come in crocks.
I dream a little in those few fitful hours but that doesn’t enlighten me any, unless good old Dad wrapping my head in duct tape, saying, Good soldier, good soldier, is the answer to the world’s prayers.
Daddy dreams are a staple in my repertoire of nightmares, but this one is even creepier than usual and kicks my arse straight back to consciousness. I sleep jerk myself awake to find the Shea-ster and Benny T gazing down at me, cracking up like I’m Louie CK on his best night ever.
“What did you say, McEvoy? Did you say what I think you said?”
Oh shit. What did I say?
“Motherfucker said fluffer,” says Freckles. “Fucking fluffer.”
Shea draws breath. “I gotta hand it to you, McEvoy. Ten minutes from grisly death and still thinking with your dick. Maybe you are as stupid as you pretended to be.”
Fluffer? I don’t get it.
“Fluffer?” I say, relieved to be able to speak. “Definitely fluffer? Not suffer, or even mother?”
Freckles shakes his big pumpkin head. “Nah, it was fluffer, McEvoy. I heard that term often enough to know.”
Fluffer? Why does my subconscious have to be so vague?
Overalls guy is wiping down the taxi’s trunk with a rag when I am escorted into the bay, flanked by Shea-ster and Benny T, or as I like to think of them, Pussy Lips and Blood Spatter.
“We good?” asks Shea.
The guy nods and tosses him the keys. “All good, Mr. Shea. Just to remind you, we need her back later for the Albanians.”
Freckles closes his eyes, frowning. “Fuck, I forgot about those assholes. Where are we putting them?”
“With the Russian guys, I think.”
“Oh, the Connecticut farm?”
“Nah, the recent Russians.”
Freckles types a reminder into his phone. “Okay, the industrial park. I got it. You get backed up, you know?”
Shea is sympathetic and I think these two have a real chance of making their relationship work.
“Tough at the top, partner,” says the kid.
“Hey, at least we can share the burden.”
Freckles and Shea are being so sunny and optimistic that surely fate will drop the hammer on them soon.
Maybe I am the hammer. Why not, I was the stone earlier.
That’s a nice thought.
Overalls skedaddles and Freckles pops the trunk. “Okay, McEvoy. In you hop.”
I haven’t decided whether I will meekly lie down or make them shoot me for spite. As it happens the choice is taken away from me.
“Ain’t no way I’m fitting in there,” I say. “I think someone forgot to take care of business.”
The trunk has been converted to a large freezer and is packed to the rim with body parts wrapped in bags. I recognize KFC’s face with its second skin of white plastic.
“Bloody hell fuckballs,” says Freckles. “These were supposed to be taken care of.”
Fuckballs. Nice.
Shea pokes the ice, looking for space. “No way this Chewbacca-looking motherfucker is going in there. It’s so hard to find good help these days.”
I think it only fair to point out: “You had good help, Shea-ster. And you shot them.”
Shea is embarrassed that his criminal empire is coming across a little half-assed.
“Shut up, McEvoy. What’s going on, Benny T? Who takes care of dumping the bodies?
Freckles points at KFC’s head. “This guy. Usually.”
“I think I see what happened here,” I say, half expecting a pop from Freckles, but he is busy placating Shea.
“Don’t worry, partner. Maybe can do the whole lot in one run. It’s a bit risky having McEvoy in back, but we could drive to the park, dump the frozen meat and we’re back here in an hour. And after that, I am gonna treat you to the best breakfast in New York.”
“You talking about Norma’s?” I ask.
“You know it,” says Freckles. “You ever have the pancakes there?”
“I love those things.” I nod at Shea. “Listen to this guy, forget the hummus for one day. Live a little.”
“Shit,” says Shea. “Now, I’m excited. Let’s get this show on the road so I can order me a mountain of pancakes.”
And in this sneaky fashion, I have Pussy and Spatter visualizing breakfast so clearly that they lower their guard a little and load me into the backseat when what they should have done was made two runs.
I got a chance now.
Freckles hooks the chain of my handcuffs over a custom carabiner set into the metal-framed back of the front seats and screws it tight.
It occurs to me that I should have kept my mouth shut. I had a much better chance of escaping if I was left here under guard while Freckles did the run with the first load of bodies instead of being shackled in the backseat.
Balls.
Thanks for the help, subconscious.
Fluffer.
Fluffer.
I turn the word over in my head hoping for the lightbulb moment.
What does a fluffer do? She fluffs before a shoot.
So they’re gonna shoot me, should I fluff something?
Freckles is driving the
cab along the river. The gray tsunami of the USS Intrepid looms over us and I can see Union City across the water, its night lights like one of Spielberg’s mother ships. I never thought I would pine for Jersey but right now those lights are like the promise of safety. At least over there I would have a decent chance of surviving the day, but we’ve passed the tunnel now, so I guess the day’s gruesome business will be conducted on this side of the Hudson.
I call out to my captors. “Hey, guys. Can you hear me?”
There’s a sheet of reinforced glass between us with a tiny sealed hatch in the center. I can see the guys talking but I can’t hear a word, but obviously they can hear me, ’cause Freckles presses a button on the dash and his voice crackles over the speaker system.
“What is it, McEvoy? You wanna go potty? Why don’t you save it for when the kid plugs you. Your bowels are gonna empty anyhow.”
Shea is intrigued. “He’s gonna crap himself?”
“Sure. There’s a good chance. Guys often let go. I’ve seen the strangest shit with corpses. Coupla guys got boners.”
“What? The guys doing the shooting?”
“No. The guys who got shot. Dead as fucking doornails, sporting a bugle.”
“That is some gross shit, Benny T. Boners, oh my God.”
Seeing as they’re already talking about boners I decide to make my fluffer pitch.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m open to offers at this point. Sincerely. You saw what I can do back in the Masterpiece. I could be a real addition to your organization.”
Shea claps his hands delighted. “This is unbelievable. I am genuinely incredulous.”
Of course you’re incredulous, arsehole, that’s because it’s unbelievable.
I do not voice this aloud as now is not a good time to further antagonize Shea.