Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [22]
I’ve got about fifty or so staples. The first few they yanked out real quick, without asking any questions at all, just so I’d get the idea, I suppose. Now, they’re getting serious about it. Red sits on my legs to keep them from thrashing around and digs the tips of the pliers into my wound until he gets a good grip on one of the staples, then he starts to pull on it, slowly. The Russians have my arms pinned down, stretched straight out from my shoulders to either side of the mattress. Whitey has the right and Blackie the left. They feel like they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. I know Roman is standing near the bed off to my left, because that’s where his voice comes from every time he asks another question I don’t know the answer to. The Samoan has yet to make himself known to me, so I assume he’s still on his own clogging up my toilet. Bud is definitely under the bed; I know this because every time I scream through the sock, he starts to yowl along with me.
They started with the easy questions.
—Where’s the key?
To which I mostly spluttered.
—But I left it right there, it was right there. I don’t know what could have happened to it.
Then the questions start getting a little weird.
—What is the key for?
The sock comes out.
—Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! What? Gasp! What is the key for? Gasp!
Roman pauses for a moment and I’m expecting the sock to come back, but it doesn’t.
—What is the key for, what does it open?
What the fuck?
—Gasp! How the. Gasp! How the fuck should I. Gasp! Know? It’s your fucking key. Gasp! Your fucking object.
This is not a state-approved answer. The sock is stuffed in my mouth. I’m in the middle of drawing in a lungful of air and the sock cuts it off. I get sock fluff lodged in my throat and I start to choke. I feel like I might vomit. I don’t want to vomit. Please, God, don’t let me vomit. Please, God, I don’t, I just don’t want this. Please make this stop. Please. Red gets a grip on the next staple and starts to tug. The original wound was sharply defined, a pain that had carefully designated borders. As Red pulls at the staple, I feel the wound stretch. The original pain is distorted and twisted and a new pain, more crude, takes its place. Just as the flesh around the staple starts to tear, I feel a pop and the wound snaps back.
The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds has always been one of my favorite albums. When the Russians grabbed me and started dragging me toward the bed, I made a bit of a scuffle. To help cover the noise, someone, Red I think, put on a CD: Pet Sounds. I don’t know if this represents personal taste or if it was simply at the top of the stack. In any case it was a really good idea on their part, because even with the sock in my mouth, I’m making a fuck of a lot of noise, but then I guess it should come as no surprise that these guys know their business.
The sock comes out and I vomit onto my pillow.
—What is the key for?
I’m coughing quite a bit now, trying to spit up the puke and breathe at the same time, but I manage to give him an answer.
—I don’t. Gasp! Choke! I don’t know. I don’t know. Choke!
—What did Miner tell you about the key?
—Nothing, he didn’t say. Gasp! He didn’t say. Choke! Nothing about the key. I don’t know about the key.
—You knew where it was.
—Gasp! Accident. I found it by accident.
I get the sock again. Red is having trouble getting at the next staple, he’s really digging in. The pain is making me even more nauseous than I was with just the hangover and I think I may vomit again. Please, please, God. My throat is clenching and hitching and the blood in my nose is running back in. The coppery taste of