One o’Clock

I see Marijane in the stairway. She sees me, too, but immediately turns away and pretends she doesn’t. That works for me.

“I’m gonna be using the basement,” I tell her as I’m walking by. She rummages through an open box in front of her.

“I see nothing, I hear nothing, I know nothing,” she says, pretending I’m not walking by, pretending she’s really engrossed in the contents of the box. I don’t say any more. She owns the store beneath the apartments. She’s good at keeping her mouth shut. It only took one threat after she walked in on one of my interrogations. She saw my handiwork, she knows I’m not messing around. She goes about her business, I go about mine, and her trap stays closed. Not that she would really have a choice. Not here. Not with me. She stops rummaging for a moment to sneak a glare at me over her shoulder. “But the Good Lord does.”

I ignore her, as I normally do. I make my way to the basement and drop the goon on the floor as I reach out to open the door. I hit the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs overhead fizz to life, unveiling the rows of flowers on the walls. Marijane operates a silk flower shop. It’s called Le Jardin. In French, it means “the garden.” It never made much sense to me. I’ve never been to France, but I figure that they must have the real deal over there. Every time I use the basement, it’s like interrogating someone in a fairy tale. At least the scent of spring isn’t in the air.

I walk into the room, leaving the goon beside the door behind me. Toolbox on the wall shelf, duct tape in my hand. With my hands free, I go back and grab the goon from the floor. He goes in the chair in the center of the room. Nothing new for me. I’ve been here countless times before. The faces change, but the routine is always the same.

When I first started off in this business, I worked for a guy named Campbell. I met Campbell when he showed up at the bar I worked for looking for the owner. I didn’t like Campbell right off the bat. I had no idea who this suited-up weasel was, but the fact that he came in like he owned the joint and that he was flanked by two guys who looked like they were distant cousins of Magilla Gorilla put a bad taste in my mouth. I asked Campbell what he needed to see Jimmy for, and when Campbell responded that it was none of my fucking business, I told him in great detail what he could do with his business and where he could keep it. Admittedly, I could’ve handled the whole situation better, but I was young and stupid and had a big mouth. Thankfully, I had the moxie to back up my words, so when Campbell sicced his bodyguards on me a few minutes later, it didn’t take long before I laid them both out. After I was done knocking those two assholes around, I turned toward Campbell to throw him a beating. I was shocked to find him looking more impressed than scared.

Next thing I knew, I was being offered a job as a knock-around guy. In the beginning, I really had no idea what Campbell did for a living, but the money he was offering was good and I figured that I would find out soon enough. Soon enough came almost immediately as I found out that it was my duty to beat the living hell out of people and obtain from them whatever Campbell needed. I did good work, and shortly thereafter, I had made a name for myself. Campbell promoted me up the ranks, and before I knew it, I was a hired gun. That was where the fun was. That was where I got my training for what I’m about to do. I often wonder where I would be today if I hadn’t burned my bridge with Campbell. I probably would never have struck out on my own. Not that it really matters. What’s done is done. No use focusing on the past. I gotta stay in the present.

“What’s your name?” I ask the goon as I duct-tape him into the seat. He mumbles something incoherent. I look into his eyes. “Sorry.”

When I yank the duct tape from his mouth, he screams, so I punch him in the jaw and he quits making noise in a hurry. His eyes wobble, but he’s a tough guy and he shakes it off pretty quick. I move to the shelf.

“What’s your name?” I ask again. He spits a mouthful of blood and teeth onto the concrete floor. That’s just the beginning of the mess, so I don’t utter a word of complaint. Jacks’s guys will clean this all up, spic and span.

“Jeff,” he says. He talks like he has a mouthful of marbles. I guess that’s what a good sock in the face can do. I turn around and look at him. The wound on his scalp is bleeding good and the blood is running down his forehead. If I was anyone else, I might actually feel sorry for him. But I’m not.

“How’s your head?”

“It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“An inch further down and it would’ve hurt a lot more,” I tell him. I can see in his eyes that he already knows this. He doesn’t respond. He’s trying so hard to play it cool, but I can see his eyes screaming with terror. I nod at him and plug my drill into the wall. I pull the trigger a few times to rev it up. “Let’s get moving, shall we?”

I take a few steps toward Jeff. Close enough so that I can put the drill bit against his trembling kneecap. If his legs weren’t taped to the chair, his knees knocking together would probably be deafening. His eyes burn into mine, filled with hate but pleading for me to stop. They’re now filled with a fine mixture of anger and horror. I can tell that he’s probably going to be a tough nut to crack.

“This can go one of two ways, Jeff.” This is the speech I give everyone that I bring down here. “You can spill it now or you can spill it later. The end result is going to be the same.” I take my cigarettes out of my pocket and light one. Jeff gets up enough courage to spit in my direction. A fine mixture of blood and saliva spatters onto my Converse. I grit my teeth. I hate getting my shoes dirty.

I take a deep drag off the cigarette. “Well, I can already see how this is going to turn out.”

I fire up the drill and bear down hard.

For a moment, I’m not sure which is worse: the screams of pain, the smell of bone, or the fact that I’m not half as liquored up as I should be.

To me, the answer is obvious.