The Subtle Art of Brutality

The thug can’t comprehend Benny’s death happening. Poor Benny probably doesn’t understand either as I appear from nowhere and snatch his head. His neck breaking gives one staccato snap into the room. He crumples. One more step and I’m in the thug’s personal space. Elbow to the eye socket. He’s cradling his dangling lazy eyeball in one palm because the bone that used to hold it in place just doesn’t work as well broken into pieces.

He starts to scream but I clock him square on the head with my sap. Goes down. I’m pretty sure he lands square on the eyeball.

I look up at the girly-man and say: “Nicky?”

“Oh shit...” He turns around and starts to run.

He doesn’t make it far.

19

Bathroom.

Before I shoved Nicky’s head into the toilet I saw the water had a yellow tinge.

Getting information from someone the Arab terrorist way—that is, horrendous mutilation and slow, punishing torture—doesn’t work. Ask anybody except for an Arab terrorist. When your testicles are being sawed off you’ll say anything. I guarantee.

The PD teaches the newer guys all about how to gather information, define a suspect, interview the suspect, ask various types of questions such as open-ended or close-ended questions, leading questions, ask what they call baiting questions and just gather, gather, gather. Develop themes to use as a noose later. Develop hooks. Get them to commit to a story. Lock it down. Then you leave the room for a moment. Make a battle plan. Figure out your hooks and themes. Where to place the squeeze. Come back in and lay it on thick.

Of course, I am not a cop. Not anymore.

One part question, one part violence, one part threat of greater violence. Easy enough. Sniff out a nerve and press down hard. Hawk eye for hinks, tells. Jitters, hesitations, moments where lies are being concocted. I don’t have all day to ask questions, gather and maneuver.

There is very little the correct, strategic application of brutality won’t get you.

When people fear worse what will happen to them if they don’t cooperate than what will happen if they do, people usually cooperate. Benny lied some, but that happens. You can’t fix stupid, and stupid people do stupid things for no better reason than because they are stupid. In the end he gave me what I wanted.

What I know about Nicky: early thirties, rail-thin, calculating look in his eye. He’s got a tattoo of a ring on his left ring finger. He’s got to have some intelligence because he’s apparently got something of a business going on here in the apartment complex. A small manufacturing gig. It’s like any other legitimate business: you have production costs, distribution, supplies, labor, a schedule to keep, in-flow and out-flow, hours of operation.

If Nicky is the brains behind this he’s got to be squared away at least in that sense. A clandestine lab requires management. If he has Benny and the lazy-eye thug as his enforcers, he might have others I haven’t dealt with yet. I’ll keep that in mind.

Nicky has been face down in the toilet for almost a minute now. Timing method: how many drags off my cigarette I’ve had. I know he’s still alive because he hasn’t stopped struggling. Good enough. I pull him up, and as he gasps for air I exhale into his face. It’s always good for a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on here?” he screams between hulking intakes of air.

“Let’s make this simple. Delilah Boothe. Talk.”

“I don’t—”

He hinks. Bingo. I bounce his face off the porcelain rim. The spot above his teeth and below his nose is...out of alignment. His teeth just red flecks in his mouth.

“Fuck you!” Before he spits I crank his head and his gob of blood-tinged slobber paints the wall crimson. Back in the bowel. Out. In. Out. I hover his face over the rim again, the threat of more pain sinking in.

“Talk and you won’t be drinking piss and blood.”

“She and I used to date a little bit so I just wanted to know if she was still into me. That’s all.”

“Lie.”

Back into the bowel. The yellow becomes orange with mixing blood. Out.

“Why send the punk to check up on her then?”

“Restraining order for a fight—”

“Lie.”

Back into the bowel. I light a new smoke. Out.