Authors: John Locke
One Hour Earlier…
I’M BOUNCING AROUND in the trunk of my rental car.
Bobby’s driving.
He’s shouting at me, but it’s hard to make out the words, since I think he may have burst one or both of my eardrums when he pummeled me in the parking lot a few minutes ago.
After Gary told him Willow and Cameron personally cashed out twenty-six hundred dollars and split the money last night, net of club fees.
After Gary told him I’d stopped by to leave something for Willow and Cameron.
After I handed Bobby the envelopes.
After he asked why I gave the girls twelve grand in addition to paying them for a dozen lap dances.
After I refused to answer.
After he dragged me outside the club by my hair.
I know he broke one of my cheekbones and at least a few of my ribs.
I’ve been thoroughly beaten up numerous times in my life, but not since high school, so I’m out of practice, and my point of reference is rusty. Even so, I’m positive this ass-kicking went beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Or heard about, for that matter.
It seemed to last an hour, though I doubt it was more than a half-minute. But it’s amazing how much damage one man can do to another in the space of thirty seconds using nothing more than fists and boots.
I’m hurting from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Every pain receptor in my body is screaming, every pore of my skin seems to be leaking blood. I’m wheezing and whimpering, and though the adrenalin kicked in quickly, it’s flushed through my system now, so everything hurts like hell.
And it’s going to hurt a lot more until I tell him what he wants to hear about me and Willow.
The first blow shattered my nose. That’s the one I remember with crystal clarity. The flash of pain was so sudden, so intense, and the sound of crushed cartilage so horrifying, so sickening, it took all the fight out of me. Any will I might have had to resist was gone the moment I heard that sound.
I might have cried.
Not the noisy sort of crying kids do when they’re hurt, but the moaning type men and women do when they’re anesthetized and you’re slicing them open or scraping tumors from their internal organs.
The blow to my nose made me gag and retch. Before I could even think about vomiting, he crashed his fist into my right cheekbone, then my left. Then he tagged me on top of the head, and then a right and left to my ears.
Every time he hit me it hurt, and every punch seemed to break something, as if I were being hit by a brick bat.
How could I possibly be standing upright?
I wasn’t.
Gary was holding me up from behind so Bobby could get better leverage into his punches.
I only know this because when Gary finally released me, I crumbled to the gravel in a heap. Then Bobby began kicking my ribs. When I covered up, he kicked whatever he could reach, which turned out to by my ass and lower back. It dawned on me if he happened to kick my backbone with the toe of his boot, I could wind up paralyzed.
So I rolled onto my back and tried to get my legs up before he could kick me in the nuts, but my legs wouldn’t respond. So there I was, knees bent, wide apart, giving him a perfect target. He had no trouble connecting, and the only reason my twig and berries remained attached to my groin is because he caught me with the top of his boot instead of the toe.
Not that it made much difference, pain-wise.
I threw up, then started choking on my vomit.
Absurdly, Bobby shouted, “You think that’s funny? Huh? You think that’s
funny
?”
Funny
?
No.
Funny never crossed my mind.
No part of it was funny. Especially when he asked, “Did you fuck my girlfriend? (kick) Did you fuck Willow? (kick)
Did
you? (kick) Did you fuck my
girlfriend
? (kick) Huh?” (kick)
I passed out.
But only for a few seconds.
When I came to he was still screaming about what he’d do to me if he finds out I fucked Willow. I couldn’t imagine there was anything left undone to me. Then I saw the silver lining.
My body was blocking the pain!
I know the reason for this. When we experience shock or trauma, our bodies produce a natural morphine that dulls or completely eliminates pain. The more we need, the more we create.
Each time Bobby kicked me it made a hollow thunking sound, like a kid batting a large balloon around the room. But the pain was minimal.
When it got really ugly, Gary told Bobby he’d have to take it somewhere else. The assault could go on, he said, just not in his parking lot. He couldn’t afford the publicity of a customer beaten to death on the premises.
The two of them picked me up and dumped me in the trunk of my rental car. I landed in an odd configuration, my arms and legs so splayed they seemed disconnected from my torso, like a Picasso painting. Bobby pushed my marionette arms and legs around till I settled deep enough in the trunk for him to shut the lid.
I HEAR BOBBY asking Gary to drive his motorcycle home. He says he’ll follow him there and drive him back to the club. Gary says he can’t because he’s got to meet someone named Marvin in a few minutes. The Mercedes trunk is well insulated, which makes it impossible to hear what they’re saying when they get more than a few feet away.
Five minutes pass and I’m still in the trunk. A car pulls up behind me. I hear a door slam shut. A man’s voice calls out. I strain to make out the words, but they’re garbled.
Now he approaches my car, saying, “We had a report of a fight that took place in this parking lot.”
“When?” Gary says.
“Ten minutes ago.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong place, officer. Or maybe it was a crank call.”
“It was an eye-witness report.”
“There was no fight here, sir. You’ve got my word on that.”
There’s a pause. Then, “What’s this?”
“What?”
“This look like blood to you? It does to me. And it’s wet. You’re Gary, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well Gary, I think it’s time you started telling me the truth. Or you can talk to us downtown. Your choice.”
There’s another short pause.
I kick the trunk, try to yell “Help!” but my voice comes out like a stage whisper.
“What’s that?”
“Sounds like crawfish,” Gary says.
“Crawfish?”
“Help! I’m in the trunk!” I yell. This time my voice works. Surely the cop can hear. “Help!
Help
!” I yell. I kick harder.
“Maybe you should open the trunk, Gary, show me your talking crawfish.”
“It’s not my car. I don’t have the keys.”
“Well maybe you better shit them up.”
“Is there a problem officer?” Bobby’s voice. From a distance.
“This your car?”
“Yes, sir. What about it?”
“Open the trunk.”
“No problem.”
I’m saved. Thank God!
I hear a muffled sound. Something heavy falls on the trunk. Then to the ground.
The trunk opens.
I yell, “Help! Officer?”
It’s Bobby, Gary, and some other guy.
Bobby says, “There’s no cop here, asshole. We were just fucking with you.”
The three of them laugh hysterically, and I wonder if they’re going to urinate on me, like Joe and his friends did all those years ago.
I’m more embarrassed than disappointed.
Humiliated, actually, and pissed.
The image of a beaten, but not defeated Daffy Duck floats through my mind, saying, “Of courth you know, thith means war!”
“You’re on my list!” I yell.
“Goodnight,” he says, then punches the side of my head.
Everything goes black.
WHEN I REGAIN consciousness I hear Bobby talking to a guy named Chuckie, who’s clearly a drug dealer.
That’s what I need, Bobby Mitchell on drugs.
We’re parked somewhere, all three of us in the car, except they’re in the front seat and I’m in the trunk. Their voices are reasonably clear, which gives me reassurance my ear drums may not be damaged after all. Unfortunately, my pain receptors are in great shape, which means I’m hurting.
Good thing I’m a doctor who knows better than to leave his medical bag out in the open on the car seat, where some hoodlum could get it.
The Mercedes I’m trapped in has a compartment you can lift up to access the spare tire. It’s a square compartment enclosing a round tire, which means each of the corners have spaces large enough to store my medical bag. All I have to do is lift myself high enough to get my arm in the compartment beneath me and pull the bag out. It won’t be easy because I need to work quietly, and any movement could make me gasp or cry out in pain.
I take a few deep breaths, then lift myself up while hearing Chuckie explain the incredible rush Bobby will get after injecting a mixture of cocaine and heroin into his blood stream.
A speedball.
Bobby says he doesn’t trust needles in his vein.
Chuckie says, “What’re you, a skin-popper?”
Skin-popping’s a method addicts use to inject heroin into their fatty tissue after they’ve given up trying to find usable veins. Most inject themselves directly through their clothing.
“Will it still work if I don’t mainline?” Bobby says.
“Oh, hell yeah! And it’s safer. Trust me, you’re gonna love this shit!”
I doubt Bobby will love it for long.
Speedballing is the deadliest route to a high. It combines two highly addictive drugs that potentiate each other, meaning they’re stronger together than on their own. But they have opposite effects. Cocaine raises the heart rate, heroin slows it down. It’s the lethal mix that killed John Belushi and River Phoenix, among others.
And worse, who knows what sort of crap Chuckie’s cocaine providers used to cut the drug? I mean, I’ve still got Willow’s cocaine and nutmeg in my pocket, but even if I didn’t have morphine in my medical bag I wouldn’t snort the coke. Not that I could do so with a broken nose in the first place. My point, our lab guys have isolated insecticides, anti-itch powder, and even pet tranquilizers in street cocaine samples that were sold as “100% pure.”
When Bobby and Chuckie become engrossed in a discussion about Black Toad Powder, I work my bag out of the compartment, retrieve my penlight, and load a syringe with a dose of morphine. I take another deep breath and let it out slowly before injecting the drug. Afterward, I raise my body and ease the bag back in the compartment and wait for the drug to take effect.
Chuckie’s still trying to sell Bobby what he calls Black Toad, which I know to be Black Stone powder, a substance made from toad poison.
He says, “When you rub this shit on your dick you’ll get a raging hard-on! You’ll be able to knock a grown man to the ground with your pecker!”
“No shit?”
“I swear!”
Chuckie’s full of shit. Black Stone powder may or may not make Bobby’s dick hard, depending on what else is mixed in it. But Black Stone is made from toad venom or secretions, both of which contain cardioactive steroids. The main ingredient is bufotenin, a psychedelic that can cause reactions from severe diarrhea to death, if ingested. If applied to Bobby’s skin, it could cause serious penis pain, possible chest pain, and anaphylactic shock, if he happens to be allergic to the ingredients.
Suddenly the trunk opens.
I’m blinded, so I can’t see the woman who just let out a blood-curdling scream, but I think it was Cameron. Then she or someone else tosses bedding and pillows on top of me before slamming the trunk shut again.
I’m groggy, but lucid enough to hear Willow and Bobby’s voices. Then Cameron’s.
Obviously some time has passed since Chuckie and Bobby were talking about Black Stone powder.
Willow and Cameron have discovered my name from the rental agreement, and think I’m dead. Bobby knows better. His slurred speech and maniacal laughter tells me he’s flying high. No telling what might happen when he crashes.
My guess? He’ll shoot another speedball.
There’s some sort of fight taking place regarding a vacuum cleaner. Or maybe the morphine has got me confused. A lot of yelling and door slamming, and finally the car begins moving, presumably heading to a party at Bobby’s grandmother’s farm.
Or maybe not.
I could be hallucinating.
It’s cramped in here, and I don’t want my legs to form blood clots, so I reposition myself before closing my eyes. I don’t know if I’m sleeping or dreaming, but I think I hear my cell phone ringing. If I remember correctly, it’s in my luggage in the back seat.
It’s not a dream.
Bobby shouts, “Don’t answer it! Throw it out the window!”
There goes my chance to call Security Joe to come save me. But right now I’m so damn comfortable I couldn’t care less. I’ll get some rest and see what happens when we get to Maggie’s Farm.