Pain Management

The Pontiac rolled to the curb. Ann got out, taking her time, as if she was scanning the street for new customers. When nothing showed, she stepped into the lot, walked behind an abandoned sofa, pulled the hot pants down to her thighs, and squatted below my sight line.

I couldn’t tell if she was relieving herself, or just making it look real. The watcher thought it was real—he hung back until she straightened up and pulled her pants back on. When he made his move, I made mine, cutting across his path, hanging just over his right shoulder so I’d be ready to follow him as soon as he split.

I didn’t want to get close enough to spook him. Couldn’t hear what either of them said, but I could see him brace her. Saw the white knife that earned him his rep. Watched Ann open her tiny little purse and take something out, hand it to him.

I saw him turn to leave. That should have been it, then—just follow him to his crib and take care of business. But he changed the game when he reached out and grabbed Ann by the arm. I saw the white knife slash, heard her make a grunting sound and go down to one knee. I was already moving by then, heard him say, “Fucking cunt! Don’t ever forget me!” as he backhanded her across the face.

Ann saw me coming, waved her hand frantically. He took it as a “No more!” gesture. I took it that she wanted me to stay with the plan. He made up my mind for me when he wheeled and headed back toward where he’d come from.

As I merged with the shadows, I caught a glimpse of Ann sticking a small packet in her teeth, tearing it open with one hand, then smearing it all over her arm. Alcohol swab? I couldn’t wait to see—the knifeman was moving now. Not exactly running, but making good time. And plenty of noise. Following him was no trick.

Ann’s guess about his hideout was on the money. He made his way through an alley to the side of an abandoned building. The door was barely hanging on the hinges. But when he swung it open, I could see a metal gate inside. His key opened the padlock. He stepped inside, about to vanish.

“Show me your hands, punk. Empty!” I said softly, the Beretta a couple of feet from the back of his head.

He whirled to face me. “I . . .”

“Now!” I almost whispered, cocking the piece.

His hands came up. Slow and open.

“You made a mistake,” I said, moving toward him, using the cushion of air between us to force him back inside the building. We were in a long, unlit hallway. All I could make out behind him was a set of stairs.

“Look, man. You got the wrong—”

“I don’t think so. They told me, look for a jailhouse turnout who carries a little white knife. And that’s you, right?”

“I’m not no—”

“Yeah, you are. That’s why you hate women so bad. And the white knife, that’s like your trademark, huh?”

“That was your woman? I didn’t know—”

“My woman? I look like a fucking pimp to you, pussy?”

“No, man. I didn’t mean—”

“Where’s your partner?”

“My . . . I don’t have no—”

“I don’t care what you call him, punk. The nigger you’ve been working with.”

“Look, you don’t get—”

“Yeah. I do,” I said, reading his face. “I do now. He’s not your partner, he’s your jockey, right?”

“Cocksucker!” he snarled, dropping his right shoulder to swing. I chopped the Beretta viciously into the exposed left side of his neck. He slumped against the wall, making a mewling sound, left hand hanging loosely at his side. I brought my knee up in a feint. He went for it, tried to cup his balls with his good hand. By then, the slapjack was in my left hand. I crushed his right cheekbone with it.

I pocketed the slapjack, then turned him over. It was hard to do with only one hand, especially with him vomiting, but I managed it without letting go of the Beretta. When I saw there was nothing left to him, I went back to work with the slapjack, elbows and knees, all the while whispering promises about how much worse this could get, until he passed out.

Kruger hadn’t asked for a body. And he hadn’t offered enough to trade for one, either. My job was done.

I started to get up and fade away when I flashed on Ann. In that vacant lot. The white knife . . .

A good needle-artist could change the tattoos on his hands. But no surgeon was going to reattach the first two joints of both his index fingers. I took them with me.

The maggot wasn’t going to bleed to death, even in that abandoned building—I used the little blowtorch to cauterize the nice clean amputations his pretty white knife had made.

By the time I got back to the vacant lot, Ann was gone.

“She took off in her own ride. The Subaru,” Gordo told me. “I asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital, but she told me she had it under control. I didn’t know what to—”

“You handled it perfect, Gordo. Let’s get out of here.”

“You have to do the motherfucker?”

I unwrapped the black handkerchief, showed Gordo the two index fingers.

“Should have taken his fucking cojones. He cut that girl for no—”

“He didn’t have any to take. Besides, the other one’s still out there.”

“Yeah? You think that gusano could describe you?”

“Not a chance,” I said confidently. “His eyes were closed.” But even as I spoke, I knew he’d gotten a real good look at Ann. And if I was right about the black guy being the jockey . . .

“Where you want to toss the fingers, hombre?” Gordo asked.

“Anyplace there’s rats,” I told him.

“Never in all my life been no place where there ain’t,” he said, pointing the Corvette toward the waterfront.

“You okay?” I said into the cell phone, relieved that she’d answered at all.

“Fine. It was a clean cut. Shallow. He was just like any other trick, doing whatever he has to do to get off.”

“Look, knife wounds can be—”

“It’s fine, okay? I swabbed it out, put on some antibiotic paste, gave myself a tetanus shot, and butterflied it closed. It was strictly subcue, didn’t get near the muscle. I’ll be fine.”

“You did that all yourself? You didn’t go to the—?”

“Don’t be dense,” she said curtly. “And don’t talk so much on the phone.”

“Okay. When do we get to see—?”

“Meet me at my . . . at the place I use.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Can you drop me at—?”

“No, hombre. Here’s what’s up. I call Flacco, he comes to where we park, we leave you the ’Vette. You come back whenever you come back.”

“Why not just—?”

“Don’t be putting us in a cross, amigo,” he said, his voice full of that special sadness that works best in Spanish. “Gem asks us—and—you know what?—I don’t think she’s gonna ask us, but, if she does—we tell her the truth, understand? We don’t want to know where you meet anybody. Especially that woman.”

“It’s just a—”

“Don’t matter what it is. What you think it is, anyway. We had your back tonight, yes?”

“Yes. And I’m—”

“You don’t got to be nothing, man. Like we told you; it’s for Gem, bottom line. Get it?”