I look back up at the guys above: silhouettes against the blank sky. I drop my smoke, grind it out under my boot, and climb.
They’re young as hell and armed to the teeth. The ones at the top of the stairs flash me the tiny black machine pistols that dangle from their shoulders. One of them latches onto my arm and jams his weapon into my back. If he pulls the trigger the bullets will spew out and slice me in half. He pushes me away from the wall as the other one stays at the top of the steps making sure no Hoodies are following me. Once he’s sure his rear is safe, he follows us to the curb and raises his fist in the air. A black SUV pulls out from between two parked cars, zips up and stops on a dime. The back door opens and another young guy with a machine pistol grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me inside. The door slams, a bag is dropped over my head, my hands are yanked behind my back and bound with wire, and I’m finally given a proper pat-down that finds both my revolver and my switchblade. The only real pisser is that they take my smokes and my Zippo as well.
They don’t talk. The SUV jerks around a corner, taking a left. Another quick left, and another. And one more for good measure. Then some more of the same. Jesus, they got most of the snatch right, but this is just embarrassing.
– I can tell you’re driving in circles.
Another left.
– I mean, if you’re trying to disorient me, you might want to throw in a right turn every now and then.
Another left.
– See, like right now, we’re on the south side of that same block you grabbed me off of.
Another left.
– East side.
Another left.
– If you don’t want to change it up, you can also try giving a guy a whack over the head or something so it’s harder for him to know his left from his right.
WHACK!
I shut up and let them do it their way.
The boys are young. The woman is old.
– What did he have?
One of the black leather jacketed muscle boys hands her a Ziploc bag full of my stuff. She unzips it. She opens the cylinder on the revolver, ejects the shells, sees the one spent round and sniffs the barrel. She empties the smokes into a bowl and hands it to one of the boys, who grinds them up and sifts the tobacco and paper through his fingers. She pulls the inner workings of the Zippo out of the scratched chrome sleeve. She undoes the little screw at the bottom and shakes the lighter ’til the flint drops out. She uses her fingernails to pinch out the piece of cotton at the bottom and unravels the long, Ronsonol-soaked wick inside. She places the gutted lighter beside the gun. She gives my keys and the change that was in my pocket a quick glance. She pops the switchblade open and squints into the slot the blade folds into. She taps the handle against the table and hears that it’s hollow. She hands it to the boy who ruined all my smokes. He sets it on the floor and stomps on it and the plastic grips shatter. She bends and looks through the pieces. She looks at me.
– His clothes?
One of the boys who grabbed me shakes his head.
She frowns.
– Do it now.
One of them pulls wire-cutters from his pocket and snips my hands free and they strip me to my skivvies. They run their fingers over seams and inside pockets. They tap the heels of my boots. She passes my jacket through her hands, finding flakes of tobacco in the pockets along with a couple movie ticket stubs and a poker chip I got at a bar as the marker for my second drink during a two-for-one happy hour. She flexes the chip between her thumbs and forefingers, it snaps in half.
I scratch my balls.
– That was good for a drink at HiFi.
She doesn’t look up, her fingers probing at an irregularity in the collar of my jacket. She picks up the switchblade with the broken handle.
– There’s nothing in the jacket.
She presses the tip of the blade against the collar.
– Ma’am, I’d really prefer if you didn’t do anything to that jacket.
She shoves the point through the leather and jerks it to the side, tearing a small hole in the collar. She puts the knife down, works her fingers into the hole, gets a grip, and rips the collar wide open. She looks at the filleted leather. She throws the jacket on top of the rest of my clothes.
– He can dress.
I dress. I look at the ruined collar. I remember the day Evie gave me the jacket. It was my birthday. The day she thinks is my birthday, anyway. I look at the old lady and put the jacket back on.
– Can I have my poker chip back? They might still accept it.
She picks up the two halves of the poker chip and hands them to one of the boys.
– Make him eat it.
They don’t really make me eat it. What they do is, they get me on my knees and stick the barrel of one of those guns in my neck and I open my mouth and they shove the jagged edged pieces of plastic inside and force it closed and punch my face a few times and the broken chip cuts up my tongue and gums and the soft insides of my cheeks. But, no, I don’t actually eat the chip. When they’re done I look at the old woman, still seated on her couch, wearing that very practical sweater and slacks combo and equally practical walking shoes, gray hair back in a bun, reading glasses dangling from a neck strap, machine pistol-armed boys arrayed around her. I open my mouth and the broken chip and some bits of skin and a large quantity of blood falls onto the parquet floor.
– I don’t suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?
She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I don’t like it.
She lowers the glasses.
– If Dexter Predo were my child, I’d cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.
I wipe blood from my lips.
– Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.
– One lump or two.
I scratch my cheek.
– If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?
She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.
– Excuse me?
– Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.
– Milk?
– Black is fine.
She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff. Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.
She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.
– Tell me, Mr. Pitt.
– Yeah?
– What is it about the manner in which you’ve been treated here that makes you think we’d resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?
I take a sip.
– Nothing. Habit.
She nods.
– One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.
– If one wanted to, sure.
