He smiles.
– I tell ya what. You got a half kilo in the shitter there, and this might turn out to be your lucky day after all.
He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so he can look into my eyes.
– You get me, hoss?
Great. Better and better. A dirty cop. And I have such a good track record with dirty cops.
– Yeah. I get you.
He drops his finger from my chin.
– But you fuck with me, hoss?
He slaps me lightly on the cheek.
– And I’m gonna school you. Get me?
– Yeah. I get you.
He gestures for me to lead the way to the bathroom.
– So why the sad face? Let’s get happy.
I slouch past him to the open door of the bathroom. He stands close behind me, blowing smoke over my shoulder.
– You go ahead and take the lid off, but don’t you go reaching in there or anything. Just take that lid off and step to the side.
I nod, lift the lid from the tank and step to the side. He points at the lid.
– Set that on the floor there.
I set the heavy lid on the floor.
– There ya go. Ain’t no one wants to get whacked with one of those mothers. Now step on back.
I take a step back toward the shower. He shakes a finger at me, winks and looks into the tank. He glances at me, looks in the tank again, and crooks a finger.
– Come here for a sec, hoss. Got something to show you.
I step over for a sec, knowing what I’m gonna see, and look into the tank that’s empty except for the standard hardware. I start to open my mouth and he grabs me by the back of the neck and slams my face into the mirror. I’m lucky today, it doesn’t break.
– What the fuck, hoss? You messin’ with me? You fuckin’ with the law?
He presses my face harder into the mirror. My luck may be wearing out.
– This a setup?
He sticks his cigarette in his mouth and uses his free hand to pat me down.
– You wearin’ a wire? You fuckin’ IAD or somethin’?
My mouth is smashed against the speckled mirror.
– Nu-hugh.
He plucks the cigarette from his lips and thrusts it at my right eye. The scar is dead and feels nothing, but there’s a sudden flash of heat on my eyelid as I close it. He holds the cigarette close to my closed right eye, and from my still open left eye, pressed to the mirror, I see a dark blur reflected behind him. He touches the cigarette to my eyebrow and I smell burnt hair.
– So where’s the fuckin’ half key, shithead? You tell me the deal or I’m gonna burn a hole right through your fuckin’ eyelid.
There’s a ringing ceramic clunk as the toilet tank lid comes down on his head and he’s driven to his knees. I pull away from the mirror.
– He has a gun.
But Branko is already pulling the cop’s gun from its holster and stuffing it into the back pocket of his dark blue Dickies. The cop is still on his knees, eyes glazed and one hand holding the back of his head, blood oozing from between his fingers. Branko points at me.
– Water.
I grab one of the plastic cups from the sink, not bothering to tear away its wrapper, and fill it. I hand Branko the cup.
– He’s a cop.
Branko takes the cup.
– Yes. He is a cop.
He throws the water in the cop’s face, drops the cup, and slaps his cheeks a few times.
– Wake up. You are awake, yes? I did not hit you so hard. Wake up.
The cop pulls back, but Branko grabs a fistful of hair and slaps him harder. The cop winces.
– You guys are fucked. You have any idea? You know who? So fuckin’ fucked.
Branko yanks the cop’s hair, pulling his head up.
– Hey! You know who I am, yes? You see me now? You recognize me, yes? You know who I am in here for? Yes?
The cop’s face goes a shade paler. Branko nods.
– Yes, you know. So now, you tell me, who is the fucked one in this toilet?
Branko lets go of the cop and reaches into the pocket of his Windbreaker.
The cop looks at me.
– Hey, wait now. I. Hoss, this is a mistake. Tell your friend here.
Branko’s hand comes out of his pocket holding a racquetball. He grabs the cop’s face, forces his mouth open and shoves the ball inside.
– You shut up now and take it like a man.
He pulls a roll of duct tape from his other pocket, tears off a strip and seals it over the ball. He stands up and looks at me.
– You are OK?
I finger my singed eyebrow.
– Yeah, I’m fine.
– Where is the coke?
– It’s on the table in there.
He glances over his shoulder into the room.
– Good. OK.
He points at the big man kneeling on the bathroom floor.
– His fingers.
I open my mouth. Branko shakes his head, cutting me off.
– His fingers. I will get the coke.
He steps out of the bathroom, but calls back through the open door.
– And do not forget his thumbs.
I look at the cop, his hands held out in front of him, his face red and tear-streaked as he pleads through the rubber ball. I try to grab his wrists, but he wrenches them away, so I kick him in the stomach. Air explodes out his nose and he folds.
There are reasons why people do the things they do. You have to have a reason, otherwise you couldn’t do them.
I have a reason.
A good one.
And at times like these I remind myself of what it is.
I kick him in the stomach one more time and grab his wrists and lay his fingers across the lip of the open toilet seat and slam the lid so hard the seat cracks and I have to get the blood-splotched tank lid off the floor to finish the job.
And the whole time I say the same thing to myself over and over.
This is for you Mom and Dad. This is for you.
Then Branko comes in, nods once at my handiwork and tells me to go wait in the car while he cleans up.
