Mainwaring kept staring. A third knock got him moving. He went to the door, opened it, and was pushed backward, as if by a storm gust. Stumbling and tripping, he landed on the bed, winded and terrified.
The door closed. Two dark figures entered the room. Split-second blurs of hirsute face flashed across the screen then faded to black before they could be processed mentally; the bikers had turned their backs to the camera.
Ginzburg tinkered, distancing the lens and endowing the blackness with texture and contour: greasy leather, filthy denims. To the left, a bald head atop a bottom-heavy mound larded with excess flesh, the neck supporting it segmented like a rolled roast. Inches to the right, a rangy, lean phsique topped by stringy dark hair under a Marlon Brando cap. Both bikers had their hands on their hips. Mainwaring's face was a pale wisp floating in the space between their elbows.
The camera picked up glints of metal: The skinny one held a buck knife parallel to his leg; the fat one made tiny circles with a chain.
'Uh-oh,' said Milo. 'Rough stuff right away. Let's position.' He bounded up, sprinted to the door, and pulled out his .38. Easing the door open, he stuck his head out, looked both ways, and closed it softly. 'Clear. The bike's at
the back of the court, near the alley. I'm gonna let the air out, then come back and stay outside their door.'
Cash went and stood next to Milo. Whitehead padded over to the connecting door and gave each leg a limbering shake. Both men drew their weapons.
'All right, fuckbrain,' Skinny was saying, inching forward menacingly. 'What's all this about having something to sell?'
'I've already discussed that with Heather Cadmus,' said Mainwaring.
Both the bikers laughed. The movement caused the fat one to shimmy gelatinously. Soft, Old Man Skaggs had said. Like a soft sack of shit.
'Same cue?' asked Cash.
Milo nodded.
'Let's still try for incriminating conversation followed by safe body language. We want their weapons down to avoid a hostage grab or a reflex slash. But if they even get close to cutting him, go for the diversion: Pound the walls and run out screaming. Cal and I will break down both doors simultaneously.' He craned to get a look at the screen. 'Where's the blade, Lenny?'
'Still down at his side,' said Ginzburg. 'I wish they'd turn so I could get a snap of their faces.'
'I'm gone,' said Milo, opening the door and slipping out silently. Cash shut it after him and took his place.
Mainwaring propped himself on his elbows. The fat biker took a waddling step and shoved him down.
'They just pushed him,' said Ginzburg evenly. Cash and Whitehead tensed. 'He looks all right. The one with the knife is running his fingernail over the edge of the blade, could be a precursor - no, he's keeping it down, looks like he's just playing with it. Fatso's still swinging the chain.'
'I asked you a question, fuckbrain,' said Skinny. The speaker on the video recorder had distorted his voice, but it sounded vaguely familiar. I longed for a look at his face. As he talked, his head bobbed, revealing an earlobe and the ends of a moustache behind the mop of hair. But that was all.
'C'mon, putz, turn around and say cheese,' urged Ginzburg, one index finger resting upon a circular red button.
'It will do you no good to harm me,' said Mainwaring with sudden forcefulness. 'My information is locked safely away and accompanied by instructions to deliver it to the police if I don't return home by a designated hour. Mrs. Cadmus knows that.'
'Har,' said Skinny. He looked at Fat, who giggled appreciatively. 'Mrs. Cadmus knows a lot of stuff.'
'Bingo,' said Cash. 'Keep talking, fucker.'
'Then I assume we can proceed with business,' said Mainwaring calmly, and he sat up.
'I take back everything,' whispered Ginzburg. 'Guy's got balls.'
' Then I assume we can proceed with business,' exclaimed Fat, mimicking Mainwaring's English accent in a high, shrill voice. He feinted toward the psychiatrist, as if to shove him down again, then retreated and giggled, turning in the process, and revealing his face. Ginzburg began pushing the red button rapidly, snapping still photos off the videotape and displaying them on a split screen. He depressed a lever and Fat's face loomed large: bullet head shaved naked; bushy black eyebrows; lumpy, swinish features under a massive black beard.
'I'm glad we have an understanding,' said Mainwaring.
Fat passed his chain from hand to pudgy hand and laughed again.
'D'you believe this shit?' he asked his partner. His voice was still high - incongruously so coming from that massive body - and I began to wonder if it was his natural way of talking.
Skinny bent his right arm.
'Whoa,' said Ginzburg, 'he's got the blade in his palm. Holding it out.'
'Palm is bullshit,' said Cash. 'Movie stuff. You want to cut someone you grab the hilt and chop down. I just got through telling them that at MGM.'
Whitehead looked at the connecting door, then at his right foot.
'Now what?' he asked.
'No change.'
'See this?' said Skinny. 'Its name is Pigsticker. Don't fuck with us. We'll turn you into fucking summer sausage.'
'It's wintertime.' Fat laughed. 'How about hot pastrami?'
'Nah,' said his partner, 'fuckhead doesn't have enough fat on him. Cut him up find and nothin' but dry bones and shit.'
'Closer to the bone, sweeter the meat,' said Fat. 'Yum.'
'You got a point there.'
'Wonder how his toes slice. Like butter, you think?'
'Nah. Too scrawny. Maybe with wire cutters, though.'
'D'ja bring the cutters?' asked Fat excitedly.
'Nah. Just Ol' Pigsticker.'
Mainwaring sucked in his breath.
'Got something to say, fuckhead?' asked Skinny.
'Mrs. Cadmus- '
'Far as Mrs. Cadmus is concerned, you're dead meat. She gave us carto bianco to do with you whatever the fuck we feel like.'
'Yeah.' Fat smiled, stroking his beard. 'We could dice you, slice you, or cut you into julienne strips. Just like a Veg-o-matic'
'And forfeit my information?' asked Mainwaring, voice beginning to quaver.
Skinny moved around to the right side of the bed, inches from the psychiatrist, the knife still resting in his hand. It was then that I got a good look at him.
'That's Antrim,' I said. 'Souza's chauffeur.'
'You sure?' asked Cash.
'A hundred percent.'
'Quiet,' said Ginzburg. 'This may be it.'
Antrim had lowered the knife so that it was levelled at Mainwaring's groin.
'Get ready,' said Ginzburg.
'How 'bout,' said Antrim, 'you forfeit your nuts?'
Mainwaring looked at him blankly, then lashed out violently with a rabbit punch, connecting with Antrim's wrist. The knife went flying. Antrim howled with pain and threw himself on the psychiatrist. Fat let out a high- pitched scream and dived into the melee.
What followed next was a cop show scripted by a speed freak.
'Now!' shouted Ginzburg, rising to his feet. With one hand he manipulated the camera controls; with the other he pounded the wall. His mouth was wide-open, and he was howling, 'Freeze! Police!' like a banshee.
