‘Forget her,’ the Texan ordered. ‘You get sick, I’ll rub your goddamn nose in it.’
Gomez swallowed hard, forcing the sour bile back down. The new one, who was taller and thinner than the Texan, handed his gun to Hinge and stuffed a washcloth in Gomez’s mouth and tied it in place.
The Texan picked up the shattered lamp and carried it into the bathroom.
‘Let’s go,’ the tall one said, pulling Gomez off the bed, half dragging him into the bathroom. They shoved Gomez into the chair and tied his hands behind his back and tied each of his legs to a leg of the chair.
The Texan, the one Gomez knew as Mr Lomax, smiled down at him. He leaned the machine gun against the wall and pulled the double-strand wire from the shattered lamp and separated it into two strips. He took out a knife and stripped a foot or so of insulation off both strands of wire. When he was finished he had two long strands of cleared wire, still connected at one end to the plug.
‘This oughta give ya a little charge,’ Hinge said, and giggled as he wrapped one wire around each of Gomez’s ankles. The chauffeur’s eyes bulged even wider. He twisted violently in the chair.
Hinge turned off the water. He and Falmouth lifted the chair and set it in the bathtub. Gomez looked down. The water was well above his ankles.
Hinge picked up the plug and knelt on the floor near the socket.
‘I didn’t think you’d have electricity there, Ray-fi-el, I thought we’d have to use gasoline on the bottom of your feet.’ He giggled again and held the prongs of the plug in front of the socket and popped it in and out, very quickly. Gomez jerked as if someone had just kicked him. His scream was trapped in the gag. He was breathing hard through his nose, shaking his head, back and forth.
‘Didn’t like that, now did ya, ol’ buddy?’ Hinge said. ‘Lemme tell ya what we’re gonna do. ‘We’re gonna ask you a coupla questions and if we don’t like your answers — well, shit, man, I’m just gonna plug you in and we’re gonna go have ourselves some dinner someplace and come back after dessert. How does that grab yer ass, Ray-fi-el? Hmm?’
Gomez kept shaking his head.
‘The one with the funny eye, uh, el malo ojo, where does he live?’
Gomez looked up at Falmouth, who produced a hotel pad and a pen.
‘He’s gonna untie yer hands, Ray-fi-el, and you just write that sucker’s name and address down, comprende, motherfucker?’
Gomez shook his head no.
Hinge thrust the plug in the socket. This time he left it in for a full second. Gomez jerked forward against the ropes, then snapped back. His head lolled over the back of the chair. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. Falmouth dipped a cloth in the tub water and wiped off his face. He stuck smelling salts under the nose of Gomez. The chauffeur gradually came around. He was grunting and breathing hard through his nose and spit dribbled from the gag at the corners of his mouth. He looked up at Falmouth and then at Hinge, trying to focus.
‘What we want, friend, is names and addresses. The one with the malo ojo and the driver of the car that took me, the little shit with the cute little o1’ earring? And the other two at the meetin’. And we wanna know where ya took me and where this Lavander fellow ya snatched is. Ya savvy all that, or am I talkin’ too fast for ya?’
Gomez stared at him, dull-eyed. He was having trouble breathing.
‘It’s real easy, man. Ya write those names and addresses down on that piece a paper there, and you’re through for the day. Okay? Otherwise, I’m gonna give ya another fuckin’ ride.’
He held the plug down near the socket and slipped the prongs in just far enough to keep the plug from falling out. Gomez stared down at the plug, hanging half in and half out of the socket. He nodded his head hard and murmured through the gag.
‘Well, shit, looka there, that turkey’s ready to talk awready. I tell ya, pardner, the ol’ bathtub trick never fails. Untie him, there, see can he write plain.’
Falmouth untied Gomez’s hands and held the pen toward him. The chauffeur took it with a tremorring left hand.
‘South paw, hunh,’ Hinge said. ‘You shoulda been a baseball player, Ray-fi-el, it’s one helluva lot healthier than the game ye’re in.’
Gomez wrote names and addresses on the tablet.
‘Phone numbers, too,’ Hinge said. ‘Obviously you boys got yuhselves some new phones like that one in on the floor there, hunh? Just for this little caper.’
Gomez wrote the phone numbers below the addresses. His eyes jumped fearfully back to Hinge. He looked like a rabbit staring at a rattlesnake. Hinge took the paper and read the names and addresses.
‘How about Lavander. El prisionero?’
Gomez shook his head wildly.
‘I don’t think he knows where they’ve got Lavander,’ Falmouth said.
Gomez nodded his head in wild-eyed agreement.
‘Hell, he’s just a fink they pulled in to drive the fuckin’ snatch car,’ Hinge said. He looked at the list. ‘Pasco Chiado, Lupo Areno, Billy Zapata and — who’s this ... Chico. Chico what?’
Gomez shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. ‘He means this one only has a surname. That’s common down here,’ Falmouth said. ‘Means this Chico is a bastard. Literally. It’s an acceptable condition in Venezuela.’
‘Which one has the malo ojo? Hinge asked, wiggling a finger in front of his left eye. ‘Chiado?’
Gomez shook his head.
‘Areno?’
