excuse for a house. The paint was peeling off in flakes the size of manhole covers. One of the support columns on the front porch had completely given way, so the front lip of the roof looked like it'd been ripped in half by some giant. The two upstairs windows were shattered like a drunk's eyes. The only possible reason that this dump hadn't been condemned was that the building inspector had not been ableto stop laughing long enough to write up a summons.
Okay, so now what?
He waited an hour for something to happen. Nothing did. He had seen a bedroom light go on and off. That was it. The whole night was fast turning into a complete waste of time.
So what should he do?
He had no answer. So he changed the question around a bit.
What would Win do?
Win would weigh the risks. Win would realize that the situation was desperate, that a sixteen-year-old boy's finger had been chopped off like a bothersome thread. Rescuing him imminently was paramount.
Myron nodded to himself. Time to play Win.
He got out of the car. Making sure he kept out of sight, Myron circled around to the back of the dump. The yard was bathed in darkness. He trampled through grass long enough to hide, Viet Cong, occasionally stumbling across a cement block or rake or a garbage can top. His shin got whacked twice; Myron had to bite down expletives. .
The back door was boarded up with plywood. The window to its left, however, was open. Myron looked inside.
Dark. He carefully climbed into the kitchen.
The smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils. Flies buzzed about. For a moment, Myron feared that he might find a dead body, but this stink was different, more like the odor of a Dumpster at a 7-Eleven than anything in the rotting flesh family. He checked the other rooms, walking on tiptoes, avoiding the several spots on the floor where there was no floor. No sign of a kidnap victim. No sixteen-year-old boy tied up. No one at all. Myron followed the snoring to the room he had seen the light in earlier.
Escape was on his back. Asleep. Without a care.
That was about to change. _
Myron leapt into the air and landed hard on Escape's bad knee. Escape's eyes widened. His mouth opened in a scream that Myron cut off with a snap punch in the mouth. He moved quickly, straddling Escape's chest with his knees. He put his gun against the punk's cheek.
'Scream and die,' Myron said.
Escape's eyes stayed wide. Blood trickled out of his mouth. He did not scream. Still, Myron was disappointed in himself Scream and die? He couldn't come up with anything better than scream and die?
'Where is Chad Coldren'?'
'Who?'
Myron jammed the gun barrel into the bleeding mouth. It hit teeth and nearly gagged the man. 'Wrong answer.'
Escape stayed silent. The punk was brave. Or maybe, just maybe, he couldn't talk because Myron had stuck a gun in his mouth. Smooth move, Bolitar. Keeping his face firm, Myron slowly slid the barrel out. '
'Where is Chad Coldren?'
Escape gasped, caught his breath. 'I swear to God, I
don't know what you're talking about.'
'Give me your hand.'
'What?'
'Give me your hand.'
Escape lifted his hand into view. Myron grabbed the wrist, turned it, and plucked out the middle finger. He curled it inward and flattened the folded digit against the palm. The kid bucked in pain. 'I don't need a knife,'
Myron said. 'I can just grind it into splinters.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' the kid managed. 'I swear!'
Myron squeezed a little harder. He did not want the bone to snap. Escape bucked some more. Smile a little, Myron thought. That's how Win does it. He has just a hint of a smile. Not much. You want your victim to think you are capable of anything, that you are completely cold, that you might even enjoy it. But you don't want him thinking you are a complete lunatic, out of control, a nut who would hurt you no matter what. Mine that middle ground.
'Please . . .'
'Where is Chad Coldren?'
'Look, I was there, okay? When he jumped you. Tit said he'd give me a hundred bucks. But I don't know no Chad Coldren.'
'Where is Tit?' That name again.
'At his crib, I guess. I don't know.'
Crib? The neo-Nazi was using dated urban street lingo. Life's ironies. 'Doesn't Tito usually hang out with you guys at the Parker Inn'?'
'Yeah, but he never showed.'
'Was he supposed to?'
'I guess. It's not like we talk about it.'
Myron nodded. 'Where does he live?' 'Mountainside Drive. Right down the street. Third house on the left after you make the turn.'
' 'If you're lying to me, I will come back here and slice your eyes out.'
'I ain't lying. Mountainside Drive.' .
Myron pointed at the swastika tattoo with the barrel of the gun. 'Why do you have this?'
'What?'
'The swastika, moron.'
'I'm proud of my race, that's why.'
'You want to put all the 'kikes' in gas chambers? Kill all the 'niggers'?'
'That ain't what we're about,' he said. More confidence in his voice now that he was on well-rehearsed ground. 'We're for the white man. We're tired of being overrun by niggers. We're sick of being trampled on by the Jews.'
Myron nodded. 'Well, by this Jew anyway,' he said.
In life, you take satisfaction where you can. 'You know what duct tape is.'
'Yeah.''
'Gee, and I thought all neo-Nazis were dumb. Where is yours?'
Escape's eyes kinda narrowed. Like he was actually thinking. You could almost hear rusty gears churning.
Then: 'I don't have none.'
'Too bad. I was going to use it to tie you up, so you couldn't warn Tito. But if you don't have any, I'll just have to shoot both your kneecaps.'
'Wait!'
Myron used up almost the entire roll.
Tito was in the driver's seat of his pickup truck with the monster wheels.
He was also dead.
Two shots in the head, probably from very close range.
Very bloody. There wasn't much of a head left anymore.
Poor Tito. No head to match his no ass. Myron didn't laugh. Then again, gallows humor was not his forte.
Myron remained calm, probably because he was still in Win mode. No lights were on in the house. Tito's keys were still in the ignition. Myron took them and unlocked the front door. His search confirmed what he'd already guessed: no one was there.
Now what?
Ignoring the blood and brain matter, Myron went back to the truck and did a thorough search. Talk about not
