Strega

reached into the car and pulled out the freak, the way you'd pull a dead fish out of a tank. The freak started to say something and Max twisted his neck-the something turned out to be a scream. Max flashed his spare hand into the freak's belly, palm out, and the scream turned to silence.

The Pontiac was a coupe, so I went around to the passenger side and climbed into the front seat. Then I pushed the driver's seat forward and Max climbed in too, holding the freak at arm's length until I shoved the seat-back forward to give him room. He deposited the freak next to me on the front seat, keeping his hand on the scrawny neck.

We all sat there for a minute. Nobody spoke. Three strangers at a drive-in movie with nothing on the screen. When the silence got too much for the freak, he opened his mouth-it only took a slight pressure from Max's hand for him to realize that talking would be painful. I reached over and snatched the mirror lenses from his sweaty face-I wanted to see his eyes. They darted around in their sockets like half-drunk flies on a Teflon pan.

'Give me your wallet,' I told him, in a calm, quiet voice.

The freak hastily fumbled open his camouflage suit and handed me a billfold. Just what I expected-a miniature police badge was pinned to one side, almost two hundred in bills, an honorary membership card from the PBA, credit cards, and other assorted crap. The driver's license and registration were my targets, and I found them soon enough.

'Mark Monroe,' I said, reading from the license. 'That's a nice name…Mark. You think that's a nice name?' I asked Max, who said nothing. The freak said nothing too. I took my.38 from one pocket and the silencer tube from another. He watched as I carefully screwed them together, assembling a quiet killing machine.

I made a gesture to Max and his hand vanished from the freak's neck. 'You made a big mistake, Mark,' I told him.

The freak looked at me. He tried to talk but his Adam's apple kept bobbing into his voice box. 'Just calm down,' I told him, 'take it easy, Mark.' It took a while before he could speak.

'Wh…what do you want?'

'What do I want, Mark? I want you to leave people alone. I want you to stop threatening their kids. I want you to stop getting your kicks by torturing people like you did this morning.'

'Could I explain this to you…could I tell you about…?' he wanted to know.

'Mark, if you want to tell me you're a sick man and that you can't help yourself, I got no time to listen, okay?'

'No,' he said, 'I don't mean that. Just let me…'

'Or maybe you want to tell me how the bitch asked for it-or how she really enjoyed the whole thing-is that it, Mark?'

'Well, I just…'

'Because if that's it,' I told him, leveling the pistol at his eyes, 'I'm going to blow your slimy face all over this car, you understand?'

The freak didn't make a sound-I'd just used up his only two options and he couldn't think of another. I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the car, leaving him inside with Max. The trunk had two cartons of newspaper clippings about kids, plus an assortment of magazines that made Penthouse look like House amp; Garden-Bondage Beauties, Women in Chains, Leather amp; Discipline, all hand-job specials for long-distance rapists. I took the stuff out and piled it on the ground; then I got back in the car. The glove compartment had two canisters of the halfass 'mace' they sell over the counter, a billy club, and a roll of Saran Wrap. A Saint Christopher's medal dangled from the rearview mirror. Still no surprises.

'Where do you work, Mark?' I asked him in a friendly tone.

'Con Edison. I'm an engineer. I've been with them for…'

'That's enough, Mark!' I said, jabbing him in the ribs with the silencer. 'Just answer my questions, okay?'

'Sure,' the freak said, 'I just…'

I jabbed him again, harder than before. 'Mark, you and me have got a problem, understand? My problem is how to stop you from doing this stuff again, okay? And your problem is how to get out of here alive. You got any good suggestions?'

The freak's words were tumbling all over themselves, trying to get to the surface. I guess he was better on the phone. 'Look, I'll never…I mean, you don't have to worry…'

'Yeah, Mark, I have to worry. People paid me to worry, you understand what I'm saying?'

'Sure, sure. I didn't mean that. I'll never call her again, I swear.'

'Yeah, that's right-you won't,' I told him. 'Now get out of the car, okay? Nice and slow.'

He never tried to run. Max and I walked him back deep into the woods until I found what I was looking for-a flat stump where the Parks Department had chopped down a monster maple tree for some stupid reason.

'Mark, I want you to kneel down and put your hands on the tree-where I can see them.'

'I…' the freak said, but it was a waste of effort. Max's clenched hand drove him to the earth. I let him kneel there as though I had all the time in the world.

'Mark, I notice you're all dressed in survival gear-it's real nice. When you drive yourself to the hospital, you tell them you were out in the woods fucking around and you fell and hurt yourself, okay?'

'Hurt myself?' he whined.

'Yeah, Mark, hurt yourself. Because that's just what you did today-you hurt yourself. You always hurt yourself when you try and fuck with people, right?'

'Please…please, don't. I can't stand pain. My doctor…'

I nodded to Max. I saw his foot flash in the morning light and I heard the crack- now the freak only had one thighbone that went from end to end. His face turned dead-white and vomit erupted from his mouth, but he never moved his hands. Even slime can learn.

'Every time you try and walk straight, Mark, I want you to think about how much fun you had in the park this morning, okay?' I asked him.

The freak's face was contorted in pain, his lips bleeding where he had bitten into them. 'Yes!' he gasped out.

'And every time you try and dial a phone, Mark, I want you to think about today- will you do that?'

'Yes, yes!' he blubbered again. Max reached over and took one of his hands gently from the tree stump. A quick twist behind the freak's back, another loud snap, and the arm was useless. They call it a spiral fracture-the doctors would never get it set right. The freak had opened his mouth wide, set for a desperate shriek, when he saw the pistol six inches from his face. The scream died-he didn't want to.

'Mark,' I told him, 'listen to me real good. I know your name, your address, your Social Security number…I know everything. If this ever happens again-if you ever so much as use a scissors on a newspaper or make a phone call again-I'm going to pull your eyes out of your head with a pair of pliers and feed them to you. You got that?'

The freak looked at me; his body was working but his brain was on the critical list. All he could say was 'Please…' It wasn't enough.

'Mark, when you get to that emergency room, you better tell them you hurt yourself, right? You bring anyone else into this, and you're a piece of meat. We're going to be leaving in just a minute. You can still drive, and the pain will pass. But if you ever forget the pain, there's lots more coming, okay?'

'Yes,' the freak said.