“Maybe I would if you’d-I don’t know-give me the fucking keys?”
He throws the keys onto the dashboard and says, “I’m going to beat that attitude out of you when we get to the farm.”
14
One Hour Earlier…
I’m bouncing around in the trunk of my rental car.
Bobby’s driving.
He’s shouting at me, but it’s hard to make out the words, since I think he may have burst one or both of my eardrums when he pummeled me in the parking lot a few minutes ago.
After Gary told him Willow and Cameron personally cashed out twenty-six hundred dollars and split the money last night, net of club fees.
After Gary told him I’d stopped by to leave something for Willow and Cameron.
After I handed Bobby the envelopes.
After he asked why I gave the girls twelve grand in addition to paying them for a dozen lap dances.
After I refused to answer.
After he dragged me outside the club by my hair.
I know he broke one of my cheekbones and at least a few of my ribs.
I’ve been thoroughly beaten up numerous times in my life, but not since high school, so I’m out of practice, and my point of reference is rusty. Even so, I’m positive this ass-kicking went beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Or heard about, for that matter.
It seemed to last an hour, though I doubt it was more than a half-minute. But it’s amazing how much damage one man can do to another in the space of thirty seconds using nothing more than fists and boots.
I’m hurting from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Every pain receptor in my body is screaming, every pore of my skin seems to be leaking blood. I’m wheezing and whimpering, and though the adrenalin kicked in quickly, it’s flushed through my system now, so everything hurts like hell.
And it’s going to hurt a lot more until I tell him what he wants to hear about me and Willow.
The first blow shattered my nose. That’s the one I remember with crystal clarity. The flash of pain was so sudden, so intense, and the sound of crushed cartilage so horrifying, so sickening, it took all the fight out of me. Any will I might have had to resist was gone the moment I heard that sound.
I might have cried.
Not the noisy sort of crying kids do when they’re hurt, but the moaning type men and women do when they’re anesthetized and you’re slicing them open or scraping tumors from their internal organs.
The blow to my nose made me gag and retch. Before I could even think about vomiting, he crashed his fist into my right cheekbone, then my left. Then he tagged me on top of the head, and then a right and left to my ears.
Every time he hit me it hurt, and every punch seemed to break something, as if I were being hit by a brick bat.
How could I possibly be standing upright?
I wasn’t.
Gary was holding me up from behind so Bobby could get better leverage into his punches.
I only know this because when Gary finally released me, I crumbled to the gravel in a heap. Then Bobby began kicking my ribs. When I covered up, he kicked whatever he could reach, which turned out to by my ass and lower back. It dawned on me if he happened to kick my backbone with the toe of his boot, I could wind up paralyzed.
So I rolled onto my back and tried to get my legs up before he could kick me in the nuts, but my legs wouldn’t respond. So there I was, knees bent, wide apart, giving him a perfect target. He had no trouble connecting, and the only reason my twig and berries remained attached to my groin is because he caught me with the top of his boot instead of the toe.
Not that it made much difference, pain-wise.
I threw up, then started choking on my vomit.
Absurdly, Bobby shouted, “You think that’s funny? Huh? You think that’s funny?”
Funny?
No.
Funny never crossed my mind.
No part of it was funny. Especially when he asked, “Did you fuck my girlfriend? (kick) Did you fuck Willow? (kick) Did you? (kick) Did you fuck my girlfriend? (kick) Huh?” (kick)
I passed out.
But only for a few seconds.
When I came to he was still screaming about what he’d do to me if he finds out I fucked Willow. I couldn’t imagine there was anything left undone to me. Then I saw the silver lining.
My body was blocking the pain!
I know the reason for this. When we experience shock or trauma, our bodies produce a natural morphine that dulls or completely eliminates pain. The more we need, the more we create.
Each time Bobby kicked me it made a hollow thunking sound, like a kid batting a large balloon around the room. But the pain was minimal.
When it got really ugly, Gary told Bobby he’d have to take it somewhere else. The assault could go on, he said, just not in his parking lot. He couldn’t afford the publicity of a customer beaten to death on the premises.
The two of them picked me up and dumped me in the trunk of my rental car. I landed in an odd configuration, my arms and legs so splayed they seemed disconnected from my torso, like a Picasso painting. Bobby pushed my marionette arms and legs around till I settled deep enough in the trunk for him to shut the lid.
15
I hear Bobby asking Gary to drive his motorcycle home. He says he’ll follow him there and drive him back to the club. Gary says he can’t because he’s got to meet someone named Marvin in a few minutes. The Mercedes trunk is well insulated, which makes it impossible to hear what they’re saying when they get more than a few feet away.
Five minutes pass and I’m still in the trunk. A car pulls up behind me. I hear a door slam shut. A man’s voice calls out. I strain to make out the words, but they’re garbled.
Now he approaches my car, saying, “We had a report of a fight that took place in this parking lot.”
“When?” Gary says.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, officer. Or maybe it was a crank call.”
“It was an eye-witness report.”
“There was no fight here, sir. You’ve got my word on that.”
There’s a pause. Then, “What’s this?”
“What?”
“This look like blood to you? It does to me. And it’s wet. You’re Gary, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well Gary, I think it’s time you started telling me the truth. Or you can talk to us downtown. Your choice.”
There’s another short pause.
I kick the trunk, try to yell “Help!” but my voice comes out like a stage whisper.
