The Winner: Part Fourteen

Between my broken toe and Apple collapsing to her knees to cry hysterically, it takes literally ten minutes to get upstairs to my loft. Several of my yuppie neighbors open their doors to see what the commotion was and see me practically dragging a beat up and bloody woman. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them calls the cops.

Once we're finally upstairs, I drop her on the couch and she immediately lays down and curls up into a ball and starts repeating "They took my kids…my babies…help me…please help me…" like she has been the whole way up here. I'm disconcerted by the amount of blood, tears and snot she's getting on the Italian leather. I grab a box of Kleenex and start cleaning up her face as best as I can.

"Apple, you have to calm down," I say as gently as I can. "Tell me what happened."

She just keeps on repeating: "They took them…I love them so much…they took my babies."

"Look at me. Who took your babies?"

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!" she screams. She almost starts crying again, but she regains her composure. "Sorry. I've never seen these guys before, but they mentioned you. They told me to give you this…" she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a cell phone.

What the fuck is going on? I take the cell phone and look at it briefly. "Apple, start from the beginning…what is happening? What did these guys say?"

"Well, you know how I applied for welfare aid a few weeks ago. I finally got my food stamps from the county in the mail this morning, so I decided to go the market and get some food for the week.

"I left the babies by themselves at the trailer like I usually do. When I got back from taking the bus to the store, the door was open and the lock was busted. My place gets broken into all the time and I was worried they might have hurt the kids. Usually, it's just one of the tweakers from the trailer park, but when I went inside there were two men sitting in there with suits…"

"Suits?" I don't know too many people who wear suits.

"Yeah. Dark ones, like the one that Will Smith Negro wore in that movie with the aliens. But only one of them was a Negro."

Shit, I think. I've got the fucking Men in Black after me.

"They told me that they had my babies and if I wanted to get them back, I had to find you and give you that phone. Poopy, who are these people? Why do they want you?"

"I have no clue," I say. "I swear I don't know who would be after me. Why did you get mashed up?"

She sobs. "When they said they had my kids, I went after them. What else would a mother do? But they knew kung-fu or something and they hurt me real bad. I couldn't do nothin' to them."

"Did they tell you what they wanted me to do with this phone?"

She shook her head. I look it over. There were no numbers in the address book. It just seemed like a normal phone.

"We should call the police," I say, getting up off the couch and heading towards the charger with the cordless. "And your gonna tell them everything you just told me."

"No. No! Please don't! That's another thing they said; that if I told the police about this I'd never see them again."

"Apple, that's what assholes like that always say…" though, after a moment of reflection and considering what I'd just done to her boyfriend, perhaps getting the police involved shouldn't be my first choice. "Dammit, what the hell do you think I should do?"

"I don't know," Apple says. She seems calmer now. She stands up and comes over to me and nuzzles her face in my neck. "You like me, don't you?"

I don't say anything.

"I know you like me," she coos. "I've known for awhile. Promise me, Poopy that you'll do what you can to help me get my kids back, and I'll be your woman. I don't care if Luke comes back or not. If you get my kids back for me, you can do…that one thing you did to me…all you want. I'll even do it to you if you want. Just please help me get my kids. I'm nothin' without them."

She starts kissing my neck and her lips feel almost electric. They hold in them the promise of redemption that that priest couldn't offer me. I don't even care if I ever get to take a dump on Apple again, I want to help. I need to help.

"Apple, I swear to you I won't let anyone harm your kids."

She looks at me, her eyes welling up with tears. They look like tears of relief. "Thank you. God bless you, thank you. Anything you can do…please…"

We hold each other there in the middle of the loft for I don't know how long. She quivers all so slightly in my arms. At least I think it's her. After a second, I realize it's actually the cell phone vibrating.

I let her go and look at the phone. The incoming number is restricted. It keeps vibrating and vibrating. "Aren't you gonna answer it?" Apple says incredulously. I snap out of it and put the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Is this Mr. Peanutz?" the voice on the other end is both tinny deep. They must be using electronic voice-masking.

"Who the fuck wants to know?"

"I see you received our message," the voice says. "If you want the stripper cunt to ever see her children again, you will be at the second level of the parking garage at Jackson and Lowell in one hour."

"What if I don't give a fuck what you do to her and her welfare babies?" I say.

Apple yelps. I mouth the words "Just kidding" to her, but it doesn't erase the look of alarm on her face.

The voice gives a sinister, guttural electronic chuckle. "If you don't, then you will be responsible for two more deaths.

Two more? Oh shit…

At first, I assumed these people were just kidnappers looking to shake me down for some ransom money. But does this guy know about what I had done to Luke? This situation could be worse than I thought.

"Come alone," the voice commands. "If you contact the authorities, they are dead. And also consider, if we have no problems with the idea of murdering babies, then imagine what we would be willing to do to you."

I don't say anything and the line goes dead before I can respond. I take the phone from my ear.

"Poopy!" Apple says, horrified. "You didn't really mean what you said, right? You promised me you'd save my kids…"

"I will," I say, snapping out of my shock. I look for a bigger jacket.

"Then why did you say that?"

"To throw them off guard. I had to look like I wasn't willing to play their game or…something," I say, trying to sound like I know what the fuck I'm doing. I throw on the seven hundred dollar leather jacket I bought last week and grab my wallet. "I have to go. I'm gonna get your kids back. Wait here."

"Do whatever you have to," I hear Apple say right before I shut the door behind me.

I run downstairs to garage and get in the Mercedes. I peel out of my parking space and lay a trail of rubber racing to get to the exit and almost take the roof off my car on the metal gate. Once out on the street, I calm down. I have to drive carefully. Getting pulled over would majorly fuck things up right now. Besides, the garage at Jackson and Lowell is only about ten minutes away. What the hell am I rushing for?

I try to think as I drive but my mind is racing in too many directions. Is this guy looking for a ransom, or blackmail or what? The only person who knows I had Luke killed is Sergei and the guys he got to do the job. Is he behind all this? I was of a mind to give him a call to see if he could scrounge up some protection for me when I go to this, but now I'm thinking twice about it.

I almost rear-end a Dodge at a red light. There's a sporting goods store nearby. I have time, maybe I should go in and buy a handgun. It seems like it would be a good idea to have one with me. These sound like serious fucking guys.

No, dammit, I can't. While I'm not sure what the gun laws are in this state, I'm sure they involve things like waiting periods and background checks, which I'd be sure to flunk given my felony record.

I keep on driving and soon I realize I'm going past Wal-Mart. Maybe I can get something to protect myself with. A hunting knife…anything. I screech into the lot and pull into the closest parking space to the front, which happens to be a handicap space. Fuck the crips. This is an emergency.

I half-walk, half-run into the store. The geriatric old greeter croaks out a "Welcome to Wal-Mart!" to me but I ignore him. I realize this is the same Wal-Mart I nearly lost my lottery ticket in months ago. I wonder briefly if this would all be happening if I had lost the ticket.

I briskly walk towards the sporting goods section, fast enough to lap all the land-whale sized women pushing their carts full of cheap Chinese manufactured goods, but not so fast to attract undue attention. I keep my eye open for those two security guards who beat the crap out of me the last time I was here. Once I get there, I look around for anything I could use for self-defense. I don't see any knives (or at least, no knives that would be good for anything more than cutting a tackle line) but there's a rack of BB guns over by the counter.

I look over the selection, eventually settling on the Beretta, or at least looked like a Beretta. I have to whistle to get the attention of the pimply-faced teenager in a blue vest and emo hair working the counter.

"Can I help you sir?"

"Yes you can fucking help me," I yell at him. "Get me that!" I say, pointing towards the gun I want. The teenager rolls his eyes, but pulls down the plastic encased gun from the wall. "And get me a box of BB's to go with them."

"Pellets," the teenager says snottily. "That gun fires pellets."

"What's the fucking difference?"

"Fine. If you want BBs you can have BBs. I don't care," he says.

"Just get me the fucking pellets. I want the thing to work moron."

I get more eye rolling and groaning from the kid who with great effort gets a box of pellets to go with the gun. "Anything else…ahem…sir?"

"No. How much is it?"

He punches some buttons on his register. "Seventy-three eighty. And I need to see an ID."

"Do I look sixteen to you, asshole?"

The little fucker gives me a smug grin and taps the sign partially hidden by a fishing vest against the wall. "Sorry. It's the rules. We must have an ID with all pellet gun purchases."

I give him a nasty look and slap my license and credit card on the counter. The little bastard takes his sweet time ringing me up. I sign the slip and he hands me my receipt. "Would you like a bag with that?"

"Fuck you," I say. I take the gun and the box of pellets and head straight towards the door. I keep my receipt out in case anyone tries to accuse me of shoplifting, but nobody stops me.

Though I haven’t really been keeping up with time, I couldn’t have been in the store more than ten minutes. Yet when I come outside, there’s a tow truck parked behind my car. The driver is busy hooking the chains to the bumper of my Mercedes. Right beside him, I see the two Wal-Mart loss prevention officers that fucked with me months ago. They see me rushing out of the store and start chuckling like they just watched Larry the Cable Guy or something.

“What the fuck is going on?” I scream.

“Sir, you were parked in a handicapped spot,” the fat one says, barely able to conceal a giggle under his semi-official tone. “The Wal-Mart Corporation takes great pride in making sure its stores are accessible to all its customers, regardless of disability. Therefore, we are required to tow your vehicle.”

“Tow? There’s no one in half these spaces!” I say, flabbergasted. “Can’t you just give me a ticket?”

“That’s at the discretion of the store, sir. Unfortunately we don’t recognize incontinence as a disability, you pants-shitting freak.”

I hear a whirring noise as the winch of the tow truck starts lifting my car up on its platform (and likely fucking up the alignment in the process). I growl and dig out my wallet. “Alright. How much do you want to make this all go away?”

“Go away?” the security guard asks. “What are you talking about?”

“How much money do you want? I have to have my car. It’s important. I have to be somewhere, now!”

“Are you offering us a bribe?”

I roll my eyes as I yank out a couple hundred-dollar bills from my alligator skin wallet. “Duh! Of course I’m offering you a bribe. How much?”

Suddenly, the smirks melt off their faces and they get righteous. “Sir, we aren’t for sale.”

“Jesus H Christ on a rubber crutch!” I scream. “You’re fucking security guards, not cops. It’s okay for you to take bribes!”

“No it isn’t,” he says, crossing his arms righteously. “We have a code.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I ask, money in hand.

My question is met with stony silence.

“Fine!” I yell, stuffing the money back in my wallet and my wallet back in the seat of my pants. “Fuck you both! I hope you both rot in a shit filled Hell!”

Their only response to this is laughter, but I don’t stick around. I start running as fast as I can. If I run, I might yet make it there in time. Jackson and Powell isn’t very far driving by car, but on foot I’ll have to sprint.

I make it three blocks before I’m winded. Christ, I’m so out of shape. Also, the pain in my toe is flaring up again. I keep hobbling forward as fast as I can. While I go, I try and work the pellet gun out of the insane amount of plastic packaging it’s wrapped up in. I tear at it with my teeth and cut my lip on a jagged shard of plastic. I wince and spit a bloody loogie on the sidewalk, but I get the pellet gun free.

I find the slot where I think the pellets go and pour a small handful in the bottom. I fiddle with the thing while I limp along and think I’ve figured out how to set the spring. I stop for a second and test the thing on the bench of a bus stop that has some smiling asshole hawking real estate on it. It fires sure enough, the pellet imbedding itself about a quarter inch deep into the plywood. Not quite as effective or satisfying as a handgun, of course, but it’ll probably at least hurt to get hit with this. I stuff it in my jacket and keep on going.

I try to jog again for the last few blocks to try and make up some time. By the time I’m within sight of the garage at Jackson and Lowell, the bones in my foot are grinding together like a mortar and pestle and I’m wheezing like my mom after she walks up a flight of stairs. I take a moment to catch my breath and look at my watch. I’m only seven minutes late. I’m not too worried. I figure that anyone who would go through so much trouble just to get me to meet them in a parking garage can deal with me being fashionably late.

There’s nobody in the booth at the entrance of the parking garage, so I walk in, trying to be as aware of my surroundings as I could. The door to the staircase is open, so I walk up to the second level. The lamps inside there flicker epileptically and the stairwell reeks of the urine of god knows how many homeless men who have camped out in there. I hold my breath until I’m outta there.

The second level is nearly empty. There’s maybe a dozen cars parked there. “Hello?” I yell and my voice echoes off the columns of metal and concrete. No one answers.

“I’m here you fucks!” I yell again. “What do you want?”

Still nothing. A sinking feeling comes over me. Maybe I’m too late.

Then I hear laughter behind me. I whip around and there’s this black guy behind me. Sure enough, he’s dressed in a black suit as well as a black trench coat. Apple was wrong however; he looked nothing like Will Smith. His hair is cropped neatly almost to the skull and he had a nasty knife scar that split across his face like a lightning bolt.

“Mr. Peanutz I presume…” he says.

“Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”

“You can call me Mr. Burke for the time being,” he says. He starts tapping the expensive gold Rolex on his wrist. “True to form, you’re not really much for punctuality.”

“I had a setback. Couldn’t help it.”

“With the lives of two innocent children hanging in the balance, I’d imagine one would do their best to minimize any setbacks that may occur.”

I chuckle. “I guess your right,” I pull the pellet gun out my jacket and aim it at “Mr. Burke”. “Speaking of innocent babies, tell me where they are right now nigger before I shoot you in the face.”

Mr. Burke starts laughing like this is Def Comedy Jam or something. “Oh dear, Mr. Peanutz. Do put that thing away before you take someone’s eye out.”

“The hell I am! Where are they?”

“Mr. Peanutz, do you see the glowing red dot moving across my chest right now?”

I did. It looked like one of those annoying laser pointers. The dot illuminates his chest for a moment then disappears.

“Notice how the dot is now gone?” Mr. Burke says, still smiling. “That’s because it’s now glowing on the back of your head. You have five seconds to drop that toy pistol before a very real seven-point-six-two millimeter steel jacketed round enters the base of your brain and blows your head clean off. Four…three…”

Mr. Burke starts to raise his hand and I drop the pellet gun. It clatters on the ground. Yeah, maybe that was a bad idea.

“Wise choice,” he says. Mr. Burke turns his head and a limousine suddenly turns its lights on and roars forward. It screeches to a halt right next to us. Mr. Burke grabs the handle to the rear door and opens it. “Get in.”

I’m paralyzed. I can’t move.

“Get in before I wave my hand and have the side of this car painted with the contents of your skull.”

That breaks my paralysis. I get into the back of the limo. There are two other men inside, another man in a black suit with an earpiece and an old white guy in a pinstripe suit. Mr. Burke gets in after me and shuts the door, blocking me inside.

The car doesn’t move. The old white guy glowers at me silently from across the limo. Finally, I break the silence. “Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

The old white guy finally speaks up. “Do you know who I am?”

I don’t know who is, so I shrug. “Are you a faggot?”

The old guy leaps from his seat and sucker punches me in the face. I raise my hands up to defend myself, but Mr. Burke grabs my wrist and twists it painfully, then puts his forearm against my windpipe to keep me pinned against the seat. The other man in black is working to pull the old white guy off me and back in his seat.

The old white guy finally gives up and settles back in his seat. He straightens his tie. “Wiseass piece of shit. I’ll tell you who I am. My name is Carl Van Hertzwelder. Have you ever heard of me?”

“Not ringing any bells,” I wheeze through my constricted throat. “I’m still voting for ‘faggot’ though.”

Carl loses it again. He jumps off his seat and the other man in black is doing is best to keep him off me. The expression on Carl’s face is pure rage. It’s almost comical.

“Dammit Burke!” he yells as he struggles against the other man. “Let me kill him now! Let me kill this piece of shit RIGHT NOW!”

“Control yourself, sir. I can’t let you do that,” Mr. Burke says, still pinning me against the seat. “Remember, we have plans for him. I can’t let you jeopardize them!”

“FUCK!” Van Hertzwelder screams. Then he starts pounding the leather car seat like a child throwing a tantrum. When he’s done, he looks at me red faced, like he’s on the verge of having a heart attack. He seems oblivious as spittle drips from his lip.

After a minute, he finally seems to regain his composure. “You might not know me,” he hisses. “But I’m sure you remember my son, Chad. Do you remember him you faggot rapist? DO YOU?”

I did remember, and suddenly everything began to click. I had that all to familiar feeling of my balls crawling up into my body cavity while my guts sank to the floor and then I had the all to familiar realization.

I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.