would be his life. Or perhaps the worst thing was knowing he had no control in the situation. All the power was held by Alexi Kulak, cousin of that Russian cunt who had now ruined his life.
While the Russian stationed at the back door kept anyone from coming out to witness the act, Kulak had personally slapped a wide swatch of duct tape over Van Zandt's mouth and taped his hands together behind his back. They shoved him into the backseat of Lorinda's rental car, which they drove through an open gate onto the grounds of the auto salvage yard behind the bar. They then parked the car inside a cavernous, filthy garage and dragged him from it.
He tried to run, of course. Awkward with his arms behind him and panic running like water down his legs, it seemed the door grew no closer as he ran. The thugs caught him with rough hands and dragged him back onto a large black tarp laid out on the concrete floor. Tools had been lined up on the edge of the tarp like surgical instruments: a hammer, a crowbar, pliers. Tears flooded his eyes and his bladder let go in a warm, wet rush.
'Break his legs,' Kulak instructed calmly. 'So he cannot run like the coward he is.'
The largest of the henchmen held him down while another picked up a sledgehammer. Van Zandt kicked and writhed. The Russian swung and missed, cursing loudly as the hammerhead connected with the floor. The second swing was on target, hitting the inside edge of his kneecap and shattering the bone like an eggshell.
Van Zandt's screams were trapped by the duct tape. The pain exploded in his brain like a white-hot nova. It ripped through his body like a tornado. His bowels released and the fetid stench made him gag. The third blow hit squarely on the shin below his other knee, the force splintering the bone, the head of the hammer driving through the soft tissue beneath.
Someone ripped the tape from his mouth and he flopped onto his side and vomited convulsively, again and again.
'Defiler of young girls,' Kulak said. 'Murderer. Rapist. American justice is too good for you. This is great country, but too kind. Americans say please and thank you and let killers run free because of technicalities. Sasha is dead because of you. Now you murder a girl and the police cannot even put you in jail.'
Van Zandt shook his head, wiping his face through the mess on the tarp. He was sobbing and panting. 'No. No. No. I didn't… accident… not my fault.' The words came out in gasps and bursts. Pain pulsed through him in searing, white-hot shocks.
'You lying piece of shit,' Kulak snapped. 'I know about the bloody shirt. I know you tried to rape this girl, like you raped Sasha.'
Kulak cursed him in Russian and nodded to the thugs. He stood back and watched calmly while they beat Van Zandt with thin iron rods. One would strike him, then another, each picking his target methodically. Occasionally, Kulak gave instructions in English so Van Zandt could understand.
They were not to hit him in the head. Kulak wanted him conscious, able to hear, able to feel the pain. They were not to kill him-he did not deserve a quick death.
The blows were strategically placed.
Van Zandt tried to speak, tried to beg, tried to explain, tried to lay the blame away from himself. It was not his fault Sasha had killed herself. It was not his fault Jill Morone had suffocated. He had never forced himself on a woman.
Kulak came onto the tarp and kicked him in the mouth. Van Zandt choked on blood and teeth, coughed and wretched.
'I'm sick of your excuses,' Kulak said. 'In your world, you are not responsible for anything you do. In my world, a man pays for his sins.'
Kulak smoked a cigarette and waited until Van Zandt's mouth stopped bleeding, then wrapped the lower part of his head with the duct tape, covering his mouth with several layers. They taped his broken legs together and threw him in the trunk of Lorinda's rented Chevy.
The last thing he saw was Alexi Kulak leaning over to spit on him, then the trunk was closed. Tomas Van Zandt's world went dark, and the awful waiting began.
39
I watched the world come and go from The Players that night, but Tomas Van Zandt never showed. I heard a woman ask for him at the bar, and thought she might be Lorinda Carlton: the hard downside of forty with a low- rent Cher look about her. If it was her, then Van Zandt must have called her about meeting for drinks. But there was no sign of Van Zandt.
I saw Irina come in with some girlfriends around eleven. Cinderellas on the town, just in time to blow five bucks on a drink and flirt with some polo players before their coaches turned into pumpkins and they had to go back to their rented rooms and stable apartments.
Around midnight Mr. Baseball tried his luck again.
'Last call for romance.' The winning smile, the eyebrows up.
'What?' I asked, pretending amazement. 'You've been here all evening and no sweet young thing on your arm?'
'I was saving myself for you.'
'You have all the lines.'
'Do I need another one?' he asked.
'You need to take a hike, spitball.' Landry stepped in close on him and flashed his shield.
Mr. Baseball looked at me.
I shrugged. 'I told you I'm trouble.'
'She'd eat you alive, pal,' Landry said, smiling like a shark. 'And not in a good way.'
Baseball gave a little salute of resignation and backed away.
'What was that about?' Landry asked, looking perturbed as he settled into the other chair at the table.
'A girl has to pass the time.'
'Giving up on Van Zandt?'
'I'd say I'm officially stood up. And I officially look like a fool. Did Dugan call off the dogs?'
'Five minutes ago. He was betting on you. That's something.'
'Never bet on a dark horse,' I told him. 'You'll tear up the ticket nine times out of ten.'
'But you can make it all back when one comes in,' he pointed out.
'Dugan doesn't strike me as a gambling man.'
'What do you care what Dugan thinks? You don't have to answer to him.'
I didn't want to admit that it mattered to me to gain back some of the respect I'd destroyed when my career ended. I didn't want to say that I had wanted to show up Armedgian. I had the uncomfortable feeling I didn't need to say it. Landry was watching me more closely than I cared for.
'It was a gutsy move, calling Van Zandt the way you did,' he reminded me. 'And it might have paid off. What'd he say when you asked him if he was free?'
'He said he had some business to take care of. Probably dumping Erin's body somewhere.'
'I saw Lorinda Carlton,' Landry said. 'I stopped her on her way out.'
'Long braid with a feather in it?' I asked. 'Stalled on the shoulder of the fashion highway?'
He looked amused at the description. 'Meow.'
'Hey, any woman stupid enough to fall for Van Zandt's act gets no respect from me.'
'I'm with you there,' he said. 'That one got an extra helping of stupid. A hundred bucks says she saw that bloody shirt, even helped Van Zandt get rid of it, and she still thinks he's a prince.'
'What did she have to say tonight?'
He huffed. 'She wouldn't call nine-one-one if I was on fire. She thinks I'm evil. She had nothing to say. But I don't think she came here trolling for men. Strikes me her idea of a good time would be burning incense and reading bad poetry aloud.'
'She asked the bartender if he'd seen Van Zandt,' I said.
'Then she came here expecting him to be here. See? You weren't such a long shot after all.'
