Skin Games (27 page)

“Up you go,” Scrubby said.

They held me up in front of Bondo.

“You really a bail bondsman?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“If someone skips bail, how does your fat ass chase them?”

Bondo slugged me in the gut.  “Ha.  Ha.  Very funny.”

Scrubby and Tommy seemed to find it funny.  Mario did not.

“Shut up,” Mario shouted.  Then he pushed Gucci Mike aside and rushed forward, bouncing Bondo and getting right up on me.  “You think this is a fucking game?  The game is over!”  He belted me in the gut.  Then he backhanded my sore nose.  “The game is over.  You hear me?”  He grabbed my ribs and dug his hand in, pinching and twisting my busted-up gut.

“Why don’t we just fuckin’ kill him already, Uncle Mario?” Scrubby asked.

Mario’s teeth clenched as his ham hands gripped at my sides.  “Because I want to hear him say it.”  As if it was hurting him more than me, he finally let go of me as he shouted, “Say it!”

“Say what?” I managed to say with a gasp.

“You know what.  Tell me that it’s over between you and my daughter.”

My wind was returning and with conviction I said, “No.”

“No?” he shouted while simultaneously backhanding my nose.  Then he did it again.  “No?”

The blood gushed out of my nose.  I could only breathe through my mouth; my nostrils were so clogged with blood and mucus.

He turned to the room and said, “No, he tells me.”  He was truly baffled that someone could defy him like this.  Then he shouted, “How the fuck does this guy tell me no?”

“Because he’s a fuckin’ idiot” Scrubby said.  “Can we just do him already?”

“No, Michael,” Mario said, suddenly speaking formally to his nephew.  “We can’t.  If you’re so fuckin’ smart, let’s see you break him.”

“Okay.”  Scrubby grabbed the back of my head and then put his leg out in front of me, tripping me and smacking my face into the same leg simultaneously.  I fell to the ground, and he started boot-stomping me again.

I curled up and ignored it.  I guess it went on for a minute.  Tommy joined in at some point.

“Enough,” Mario yelled.  “This isn’t going anywhere.”

“I can break him, Uncle Mario.  Come on.  Just give me a few more minutes with him.”

“You couldn’t break a virgin’s hymen with Tommy’s dick,” Mario said.

Vinny, Bondo and Gucci Mike all laughed.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Mario, Bondo, Vinny and Gucci Mike all headed for the door.

“Uncle Mario, what do you want to do with him?”

“Just leave him for now.”

Tommy and Scrubby Mike got in a few parting shots.  Then they left me.

* *

They left me on the floor, my hands still bound behind my back, but my legs were free.  It took at least fifteen minutes for me to catch my breath and compose myself, but I was able to shimmy to my feet.  I walked to the door and put my ear to it.  I didn’t hear a thing.  Not a bird from the outside.  Not a steam pipe working heat through the building.  Not a voice.  Not a fuckin’ thing.

I turned, and with my two clasped hands I twisted the door knob.  It was locked.  I got frustrated and starting banging at it, but that didn’t accomplish anything.  I walked to the other end of the room.  There were a few piles of boxes.  With my shoulder, I leaned into the pile trying to tip it over, but the boxes were firm and didn’t give way.

I ran out of ideas, and energy, and I plopped back down in the middle of the floor.  It suddenly occurred to me just how thirsty I was, and hungry, and how much I really needed to piss.  Mostly, I was thirsty.

There was shuffling outside, and then I heard voices.  The door opened.  Tommy and Scrubby walked in; a third man trailed behind.  I thought it was Vinny until I saw Vinny walk in and turn on the light after the other three were already in the room.  The other man was Griff.

Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Scrubby a golf club.  Scrubby stepped towards me.  I was sitting up in the middle of the room, my arms tight behind my back.

“Fore,” he yelled, then swung his club, stopping it just before it made contact with my face.  “Nah.  I don’t deserve honors.”

Tommy stepped up and began his taunting cackles.  “Swing batter batter, swing batter, swing.”  He started to swing but also stopped just before hitting my face.

Scrubby turned to Griff and said, “It’s your turn.  You have the honors.”

“I don’t know, guys,” Griff said, back-stepping slightly but banging into Vinny who stood behind him.

“You’re with us, aren’t you, Griff?” Scrubby asked.  “You’re my guy, now.  You know that.”

“I know.  It’s just...”

“Just nothing.  If you wanna be part of the crew, you show your loyalty.  He’s no longer one of us.  That was his choice.  Now you have to choose.”

I looked up at Griff, and he faced in my direction, but wasn’t really looking at me.  He couldn’t bear to.

Tommy held out the bat, and Scrubby held out the golf club.

“Choose,” Scrubby said.  “You have to choose.  Club or bat.  Him or us.”

Griff took a step towards me.

“Let’s go.  Choose.”  Scrubby waved the golf club.

Griff hesitated; but then he took the shaft of the club.

“That’s it,” Scrubby said.  “Let him have it.”

He gripped the club at the handle and waved it in the air a few inches above the ground like a golfer in a fairway.  Griff had never even seen the inside of a country club; his form couldn’t have been any good, especially the way his arms were quivering.

“Do it.  Now,” Scrubby said.

“Yeah.  Nail him,” said Tommy.

Griff took a deep breath, wound up, then bashed me in my kneecap with the club.  A burning fire shot through my leg and radiated all through my body.  I’m sure I cried out but don’t really remember it.

“Again.  Do it again,” Scrubby yelled.

As Tommy said, “Higher.  Hit him higher.”

Griff took the club back again; then he drilled me in the midsection.  The piss I’d been holding in could no longer be kept back; the pain was just too much.  I tilted to the side, the act of sitting up now taking more effort than my body had to give.

Tommy stepped up and whacked me in the hip with the bat.  Scrubby took the golf club from Griff and belted me several times in the same kneecap that was already sore.  He really laid into it, and I could feel it crumbling like a pound cake.

“That’s enough,” Vinny said.

“Aw, come on.”  Scrubby flung the golf club across the room, and it bounced off a cardboard box.

“I said enough.  Let’s go.”

And once again, they left me alone.

* *

I guess I blacked out.  The pain had become almost intoxicating.  The world becoming blurry, unreal, hard to distinguish.  My mouth was just so dry.

So dry.

It might sound hard to believe, but the pain was secondary.  I couldn’t focus on the pain itself.  It was more of an all-encompassing irritant, like a tiny man standing on my ribs while crows pecked at my nose.

But the thirst was another story all together.  My mouth crackled.  I couldn’t even gulp.  There was no saliva to send down.  My lips felt as if they might fall right off my face.

There was noise outside, and I tried to sit up.  When I put weight on my right leg, the pain was no longer secondary.  My kneecap cried out.  I knew it must have been completely shattered from the repeated nine-iron shots it took.

The door came open.  The light didn’t turn on as someone ran in.  It was Griff.

“Here.  Take this.”

I felt something cold on my face.  Griff was holding an icepack to me.  I wanted to speak but couldn’t manage many words.  All that came out was, “Water.”

“Okay.  I got ya.”  I heard fumbling; then I saw Griff pull out a metal canteen covered with a green sack.  He cradled me from behind my neck and poured water into my mouth.

I could barely swallow at first, and the water backed up in my throat.  I forced what I could down, and some water spilled out all over my shirt.  Griff cupped his hand and poured water in it, then splashed my face.  He gave me another drink.

Finally, I felt enough strength to talk.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, Sean.”

“I know.  It’s okay.  You need to leave.”

“Remember this canteen?”

I did.

“Remember when we were kids and my father used to take us up to Bear Mountain camping.  We always brought this canteen along.”

“I remember.  Your father was always good to me.”

“He always wanted to help you.”

“He did.  He helped me a lot.”

“Sean.  I have to get you out of here.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“They are going to kill you.”

“I’m already dead.”

“Stop talking crazy.” 

He took out a blade and cut the duct tape.  My hands tingled and the relief was instant as the circulation in my wrists improved immediately.  Griff put his hands underneath my armpits and hoisted me upwards.

The first weight I put on my legs was too much.  I cried out in pain.  “I can’t.  I can’t move.”

Griff eased me back down.  “It’s okay.  I’ll carry you.”

Griff was never the strongest guy.  “You can’t carry me.”

“I’ll manage.  Come on.  Let’s hurry.”

The light flipped on, and Griff froze.  His face turned an awful shade of green.  Mario walked in first, chewing on a cigar.  The whole crew followed: Vinny, Gucci Mike, Tommy and Scrubby.

The room was silent.  All eyes were on us.  Just me and Griff, two lifelong friends embracing on the floor of a twenty-by-twenty storage room that reeked of mothballs, stale blood and fresh piss.

Mario chomped on his cigar.  Tommy bit his upper lip.  Scrubby smiled and sneered.

Griff began to whimper.  After growing up the way he did, you’d think he’d know better.  Predators are naturally attracted to weakness.  A hungry hyena can’t help but pounce on a weakened impala.  It’s instinct.

This was no different.

“Get that piece of shit over here,” Mario said.

Tommy and Scrubby jumped at the command and grabbed Griff and yanked him up and off of me.

“Get a table,” Mario said, and Vinny walked over to the corner where the old furniture was stacked up.  “Grab a chair, too.”

Vinny came back with a folding table and assembled it in the middle of the room.  Gucci Mike grabbed the wooden chair and dragged it across the floor, coming to rest in front of the table.

“Sit him down,” Mario said.

Scrubby and Tommy carried Griff to the table and slammed him down into the chair.  Tommy twisted one of Griff’s arms while Scrubby pulled at the other.

“Hold him there.  Right there like that.”

Lying sideways on the ground, I looked up to see Griff’s face, green and soggy.  He wasn’t struggling, not that it would have been any use the way Tommy and Scrubby had a hold of him.

Mario tossed the grimy cigar and reached into his pocket for a fresh one.  He took the shiny cigar clipper out and snipped off the end of the cigar.  Mario put the cigar in his mouth.  Gucci Mike quickly pulled out his lighter and lit it.  “Give me that,” Mario said.  Gucci Mike snapped the lighter shut and handed it to Mario, who then flared up the lighter and slowly puffed his cigar lit.  After sucking in, then blowing out several smoke rings, Mario said, “Hold his arm out.”

Tommy pushed Griff’s body forward while Scrubby straightened his arm out across the table.

Mario shook his head and said, “You should know better.”

“We told you, you have to choose your loyalty,” Scrubby added.

Mario grabbed Griff’s hand and twisted his knuckles back.  Griff grimaced and squirmed in the chair.  Mario took Griff’s pinkie and stuck it in the cigar clipper.

“Oh, please,” Griff said.  “I’m sorry, Mario.”

Mario nodded.  “Oh, I know you are.  I know.”  Mario made a fist, then slammed it down on the cigar clipper.

I’m glad Griff’s finger wasn’t in my direct line of vision.  Shoulders and arms obstructed my view.  But the noise that came out of Griff was enough for me to know the fate of his pinkie wasn’t a good one.

“What’s the matter,” Mario spoke in a baby tone.  “Did I hurt your wuddle pinkie poo?”

Scrubby could hardly contain his laughter.  Tommy found it pretty funny, too.

Mario took the lit cigar and said, “Give me his hand.”  Mario put the flame of the cigar right against Griff’s open wound.  Griff screamed out as Mario said, “There.  That ought to stop the bleeding.”  Griff continued to scream for a bit, but it soon lowered to more of a whimper and Mario said, “Get him out of here.”

Tommy and Scrubby led Griff out the door.  Vinny followed.  Mario folded his arms and looked at Gucci Mike.  Gucci Mike shrugged but didn’t speak.

“You, too, Mike.  Leave us alone.”

“Okay.”  Gucci Mike walked out and closed the door.

Mario and I were alone.  He looked at his cigar, his face full of contempt.  I wasn’t sure if the contempt was for me or if he was grossed out by the smoldering flesh on his cigar.  He squeezed the burning nub off the front of his cigar and put the stub back into his mouth.  Mario chomped at it while staring at me.

“This can all end, Shamrock.”  He took a step towards me.  Mario grabbed the wooden chair and turned it away from the table and faced it towards me.  He plopped down into it while sighing.  “There’s no need to continue this.  All you have to do is accept the inevitable.”

“If it’s inevitable, why do you care what I say?”

The logic of my statement seemed to anger him, but he didn’t go off.  Instead he puckered his lips and spit out a chunk of bitten-off cigar.

“Because you are going to learn respect.  You will respect me, or you will never leave this room.  The choice is yours.”

“I’ve already made my choice.”

Mario stood up.  “It’s impressive.  I’m not gonna lie, kid.  You are a tough sonofabitch.  There is no quit in you.  But you can’t win this game.”  He walked towards the door and his tone turned ugly again as he shouted, “I win this game.  Me.  I always win.  You understand me?”

I understood.  I understood just fine.  But I didn’t respond.

“Answer me, dammit.”

I still wasn’t answering.

Mario opened the door, shut off the light, then stepped through the door.