Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [7]
The freak's face was contorted in pain, his lips bleeding where he had bitten into them. "Yes!" he gasped out.
"And every time you try and dial a phone, Mark, I want you to think about today—will you do that?"
"Yes, yes!" he blubbered again. Max reached over and took one of his hands gently from the tree stump. A quick twist behind the freak's back, another loud snap, and the arm was useless. They call it a spiral fracture—the doctors would never get it set right. The freak had opened his mouth wide, set for a desperate shriek, when he saw the pistol six inches from his face. The scream died—he didn't want to.
"Mark," I told him, "listen to me real good. I know your name, your address, your Social Security number…I know everything. If this ever happens again—if you ever so much as use a scissors on a newspaper or make a phone call again—I'm going to pull your eyes out of your head with a pair of pliers and feed them to you. You got that?"
The freak looked at me; his body was working but his brain was on the critical list. All he could say was "Please…" It wasn't enough.
"Mark, when you get to that emergency room, you better tell them you hurt yourself, right? You bring anyone else into this, and you're a piece of meat. We're going to be leaving in just a minute. You can still drive, and the pain will pass. But if you ever forget the pain, there's lots more coming, okay?"
"Yes," the freak said.
"Oh, just one more thing," I told him, "I got to make sure you don't forget, Mark. And, like I told you, pain goes away. So I'm going to leave you something permanent as a souvenir of your little war–games today."
The freak's eyes turned crazy when I pulled the butcher knife from my coat, watching his one hand resting on the tree stump.
"Don't move," I told him, but he whipped back his hand and tried to run. You can't run on a broken leg. This time we let him scream.
Max hauled him back to the chopping block, holding the freak's forearm down like an anvil on a feather.
"Now, see what you did to yourself, Mark?" I asked him. "You turned a nice clean broken leg into a compound fracture. You jump around too much now and you're liable to lose an arm instead of just a hand, okay?"
The freak's slimy smell mingled with his urine as he lost all control. He was making sounds but they weren't words. Max grabbed the freak's fingertips, stretching the hand out for me. I raised the butcher knife high above my head and brought it flashing down. The freak gasped and passed out.
I pulled the knife short, looked back at Max. He immediately grabbed the freak's hand and stretched it again, but I waved him away. If the freak hadn't learned from what had happened to him already, he was past anything we could do.
Time to go. Max picked up the two cartons of filth in one hand and we worked our way back to the blind. I pulled out the screen and carried it to the hidden Plymouth. Another two minutes and we pulled out of the forest onto the pavement. I left Max in the car and used some branches to sweep away the tire tracks.
Another five minutes and we vanished onto the Inter–Boro, heading for Brooklyn.
3
IT SHOULD have been over then, except for picking up the money. You don't get cash in front from a man like Julio—it's disrespectful. Besides, I know where he lives, and all he has for me is a pay–phone number in Mama's restaurant.
I gave him three weeks and then I called the gas station from a pay phone near my office. You have to call early in the mornings from the phone—it belongs to the trust–fund hippies who live in the loft underneath me. They generally stay up all night working on their halfass stabs at self–expression, and they usually fall out well past midnight, dreaming of a marijuana paradise where all men are brothers. Good thing they never ride the subways. I don't pay rent for the top floor and I never expect to, unless the landlord sells the building. His son did something real stupid to some