“THE THING IS, PERFESSER, you have to do it right or they don’t pay the reward. You have to call and talk to the right cop so when you bring him in you get credit. A thousand dollars.”
“I don’t understand. If the man is wanted, why can you not simply call the police and have them come pick him up?”
“Yeah, I know, it’s weird. But you’re supposed to call first.” Jayjay leaned against the door jamb, one bare foot atop the other. Black jeans, no belt, no shirt.
André shook his head. “It seems a rather unsavory way to make a living, Jonathan. You never told me you were a bounty hunter.”
“It’s sort of a sideline. Don’t worry, though. I’ll have him out of here real soon now.”
André frowned and removed the leg of lamb from its butcher paper wrapping. “I certainly hope so.”
“I’ll call again.” Jayjay turned to the kitchen phone and dialed. His jeans rode low on his hips, almost ready to fall to the floor. André began to hone his cleaver on a sharpening steel. Frowning, Jayjay worked a finger into his navel as he listened to the phone, then hung up. “No answer,” he said.
“How strange.”
Jayjay shrugged. “It’s a special number. They don’t always answer. I’m gonna go watch some TV.”
André watched the boy leave, considered following him, then decided that his advances would not be welcome at this time. Jayjay was more acquiescent in the evening hours. He returned his attention to the lamb.
The lamb that had once owned this leg, André thought, must have stood waist high at the shoulder. Mutton for sure. He hacked through the tendons with the cleaver, his nostrils flexing at the rich, tallowy smell. Ah well, a few extra cloves of garlic, two tablespoons of his homemade masala, a handful of dried curry leaves, and three hours on the range would overcome the pissy smell and restore the lamb to the tenderness of its youth. He set aside the cleaver and went at the leg with a boning knife, removing strips of bright red meat and trimming them of all visible fat. Every minute or so he stopped cutting, jogged from his rhythm by a thunk or a rattle or some other peculiar sound drifting up from the cellar. The duct-taped man slowly destroying his chair.
The cold lamb felt both sticky and slippery. André felt a stirring low in his gut, and he shuddered. Fear, hunger, nausea, or lust? Rather than analyze it further, André snatched up the cleaver and hacked energetically at the defatted meat, chopping it into bite-size pieces. He heard the sound of canned laughter from Jayjay’s room.
The thumping sound ceased. The man in the cellar had tired, or given up. André could hear only the gentle murmur of the stock simmering in the Dutch oven, filling the air with a rich, chickeny fog. He forced himself to evaluate his situation. Stripped to its most basic components, it was simply this: Jayjay had captured a man and duct-taped him to André’s antique Windsor chair. He claimed that the man had a price on his head, and that he was going to turn him in for a reward. Those were the facts, as supported by the presence of the duct-taped man in the cellar on the one hand, and by Jayjay’s testimony on the other.
Nevertheless, several vexing questions remained: What crime had the man committed? Jayjay had been vague on every particular. André understood that the law was flexible where bounty hunters were concerned, but he knew nothing of the specifics. Did one have to be licensed with some government agency to bounty-hunt? If so, he was fairly certain that Jayjay, having spent time in prison, was not properly certified. And at what point was the bounty hunter required to present the criminal to the proper authorities? Clearly, one could not hold a man captive for weeks or months, but what about holding him for a few hours, or days? And if the man was being illegally detained, how did this impact André’s own legal status? If he stood by and did nothing, would he become an aider and abettor? Was it already too late?
It occurred to André that he might talk to the man and get his side of the story. He looked at the glistening pile of lamb chunks, and at the remains of the leg on the cutting board. Perhaps another quarter-pound of lean meat remained to be coaxed from the bones, but the thought of slicing through more sinew and membrane had lost its appeal. He scooped the meat into the Dutch oven, stirred in the chopped garlic and spices, applied the iron lid, adjusted the flame, then took the boning knife and walked purposefully down the cellar stairs.
The man was sitting quietly when André entered the furnace room, but became agitated at the sight of the knife.
André said, “Please do not be alarmed, I am simply going to remove the tape from your mouth so we can talk.” The man stopped straining against his bonds, but his eyes remained wide. André examined the layered duct tape, trying to decide where to cut—or should he simply find the end and begin unraveling the man? How many layers were there? What had Jayjay been thinking of? Why tape the poor man’s hat to his head? Maybe that was the place to start. André wriggled the thin blade between a strip of tape and the hat, cut through the tape. He grasped the cut end and slowly pulled. It came away from the felt easily, but adhered with greater force to the man’s cheek. André pursed his lips, gave it a yank. Tears erupted from the man’s eyes. Once again, André felt the stirring low in his abdomen, and this time there was no doubt it was of erotic origin. He ignored the sensation as best he could and set about cutting and peeling away enough of the tape to free the man’s lips.
“Are you able to speak now?” he asked, setting the knife atop the furnace.
The man licked his lips and worked his jaw up and down, then said in a hoarse voice, “Something to drink?”
André nodded. The man had been bound and gagged for hours, of course he was thirsty. “I will get you something shortly, but you must promise me something, ah, what did you say your name was?”
The man stared back at him. “You don’t know?”
“I do not.”
“It’s Bobby.”
“Excellent. Bobby. Now, Bobby, I do not wish to hear any shouting, carrying-on, or other noise-making. And please do not rock to and fro, or bang the back of the chair against the wall, or otherwise strain against your bonds. That is a very valuable chair, Bobby. It is more than two hundred years old.”
“I didn’t ask to sit here.”
“Be that as it may, there you are, though I hope for not terribly much longer.”
“I gotta take a leak.”
André frowned. This had not occurred to him. “You may have to hold it a while longer.”
“I may have to piss all over your chair.”
André pursed his lips. He did not like this Bobby. He said, “Do you want me to put this tape back on your face?”
“No.”
“Then tell me, Bobby, why are you wanted?”
“Wanted?”
“What crimes did you commit?”
“Crimes?” He appeared to be genuinely surprised. “I didn’t do anything.”
Perplexed, André crossed his arms and regarded Bobby. “You must have done something or you would not be a wanted man.”
“I’m not wanted. All I know is, your friend psycho boy hit me over the head with a pipe wrench and taped me to this goddamn chair. Are you gonna get me a glass of water?”
André flexed his jaw. He did not care to be ordered about by this Bobby. “Not until you answer my questions,” he said.
“Well, hell, I’m trying!”
“What do you mean, you’re not wanted?”
Bobby hesitated, then flexed his torso in a way that in an unbound man might have become a shrug. “I mean, you make it sound like the cops are after me. Well, they’re not. It’s just Barbaraannette.”
“Who?” The name had a familiar sound.
“My wife,” he said. “That’s why your buddy cold-cocked me, ain’t it? For the million bucks?”
“Million dollars?” André experienced a moment of disorientation, then it hit him. The lottery winner, that ridiculous woman who wanted her husband back. He’d seen her on the television. This was her husband? André stood in stunned silence as his mind absorbed and collated this new information. Jayjay was planning to collect the million-dollar reward. Collect the money, then move on. André felt his face glowing with shame and anger.
Bobby said, “Hey, you didn’t know about this?” Pressing his advantage, he continued. “Well you won’t be able to spend it even if she gives it to you, which she probably won’t if you’re in jail for kidnapping. You better cut me loose right now or you’re gonna be in big trouble.”
André took a step back, seeking a clear channel of thought. He feared that the man was correct. If he was not wanted by the law, not a fugitive from justice, there could be no excuse for duct-taping him to a two-hundred-year-old Windsor.
“Let me go. I’ll just walk out of here and you’ll be done with me. You hear what I’m saying?”
He needed time to think. André’s eyes darted wildly, landed on the roll of duct tape on the floor beside the furnace. He picked it up and unrolled a long strip.
Bobby said, “You better not—” André slapped the length of tape across the man’s mouth, wrapped it twice around his head. The rich smell of concentrated urine rose up around him. André fled up the steps.
Jayjay stood in the kitchen holding the phone to his ear. As André emerged from the stairwell, he hung up the phone and asked, “What’s going on?”
“I was checking on your guest,” said André. “How long do you plan to keep him here?”
Jayjay sat down. “I just tried to call again. They’re still not answering.”
“Oh? Tell me again. Who are you trying to call?” André felt his heart speed up, felt his fingernails digging into his palms.
“I got it written down.” Jayjay leaned forward and fingered a scuff mark on the toe of his right Doc Marten.
“I have spoken with him, Jonathan.” André’s voice rose in pitch.
The boy looked up, startled.
André reined himself in, took a calming breath. “I know who he is. Listen to me, Jonathan. Even if you should collect the reward money, you will be charged with kidnapping. You cannot just grab a man off the street that way.”
“How else was I gonna get him?”
André clenched his teeth. “In my house! You kidnapped a man and brought him to my house!”
“Where else was I gonna bring him?”
André restrained the urge to seize the boy and shake him. “You will simply land yourself in jail, Jayjay—and me with you! I insist that you let him go. He told me that if we let him go he will not press charges.”
“Uh-uh. No way, Perfesser. I caught him fair and square. I want my money.”
“Money?” André banged his fists on his hips. “You little ingrate! Money? A thousand dollars? You told me a thousand dollars! You lied to me you, you ingrate.” He moved closer to Jayjay and shook a finger in the boy’s smirking face. “I want that man out of my house now. Do you understand me?”
Jayjay leaned back away from the finger. “Hey, take it easy.”
André’s hand curled into a fist. “If you do not do as I ask, you will live to regret it!”
Jayjay raised his hands in front of his bare chest, palms forward, laughing nervously. “Hey! No prob. Whatever you say, man.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No!” Jayjay forced his features into an approximation of sobriety. “I hear you, man!”
Every muscle in André’s body was contracted. His mouth was a white pucker; short breaths whistled through his nostrils. He took a step back. Would the boy do as he asked? A small part of him was disappointed. He had been about to do something. Something physical. Throw the boy out on the street where he belonged! André lowered his fist, let his hand open. For a moment there he had almost forgotten he was standing in his own kitchen. He caught sight of the wall clock. Two-thirty! Anger suddenly became alarm. He was late for his meeting with Whitly. He stripped off his apron.
“I must leave immediately. Where are my car keys?”
Jayjay pointed at the key hook by the back door.
“Thank you.” André grabbed the keys, then went to the hall closet and put on his brown tweed sport coat. He checked his reflection in the hall mirror, ran his fingertips through his beard. “Mark my words, Jonathan. Unless you wish to end up in jail, you must set that poor man free. I will be home by four o’clock, and when I return I expect to hear no thumping coming from my cellar. I expect that man and all of that awful silver tape to be removed from my Windsor chair.” He draped his Stewart plaid scarf around his neck. “I will not tolerate your disobedience, Jonathan. The man must go, and that is my final word.”
André closed the door firmly behind him, thinking, There, that should put the boy in his place.
Driving somewhat more rapidly than was his usual practice, André maintained his tight-lipped indignation all the way to campus. The situation was really quite stimulating. He had actually threatened the boy with physical harm, and it seemed to have worked! The appearance of the duct-taped man in his cellar was both frightening and inconvenient, and unfortunate as far as his Windsor chair was concerned, but it did get a man’s juices flowing.
Jayjay did not move from the kitchen chair for several minutes after André left. The guy was a know-it-all faggot professor, but a few of the things he’d said made sense. Cashing in the cowboy might not be as easy as he’d hoped. He might collect the reward and land his ass back in prison with nothing to spend it on but cigarettes and jailhouse hooch. Getting his hands on this Robert Quinn might be the worst thing ever happened to him.
On the other hand, he’d never had anything worth a million bucks before. There was no way he was going to let the guy walk. There had to be a way to get the money. He stared at the burbling iron pot on the stove, awaiting inspiration. After a few seconds he felt a squirming in his belly, so he grabbed a fork and took the top off the pot and speared himself a chunk of meat. He waved it in the air until it had cooled, then put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed. The meat was tough and not very flavorful. Jayjay remained unimpressed by the professor’s weird gourmet cooking. Why couldn’t the guy just fry up some burgers? He noticed a jar of dried red peppers above the stove and added a generous handful to the stew. They might not make it taste any better, but it would damn sure make dinner more entertaining. He built himself a peanut butter sandwich and retired to his room to watch TV.
Some time later a shuffling sound followed by a muffled crash roused him. Jayjay ran down to the basement. The guy had tipped over the chair somehow. He had one hand loose and was clawing frantically at the tape around his chest.
“Fuck!” Jayjay rushed forward, kicked him in the face, jumped back. The man screeched—Jayjay could hear it right through the duct tape.
“Shut up or I do it again,” Jayjay shouted.
The squeal subsided.
“You try that again and I’m gonna kill you. She didn’t say nothin’ about you got to be alive.” Jayjay edged closer. “Man, you pissed yourself, didn’t you?”
The man lay on his side, staring at him, breathing loudly through flared nostrils.
“You lookin’ at me?” Jayjay stepped in and kicked him again, this time in the face. “That’ll teach you.” He picked up the roll of duct tape. “I’m gonna wrap you up a little more now, hear? Don’t you fucking move. Okay? I want to see you nod.”
The man’s head bobbed. His nose was bleeding.
“You just do like I say and nobody’s gonna get hurt, understand? Everybody’s gonna get what they want.”
With the light out and the basement door closed, the darkness was complete. Bobby Quinn focused on his breathing. Air in; air out. His left cheek pressed cold concrete. Cold Rock, sucking the heat right out of him. He knew he shouldn’t have come back, no matter how many millions Barbaraannette waved under his nose. One of his nostrils was swollen shut. Breathe in, listen to the air whistle through his nose, let it out. This was all Barbaraannette’s fault. He tried to visualize what he’d seen of the basement. The guy with the beard had left a knife on top of the furnace. It might as well be on top of the house. Was there anything sharp and pointed he could wriggle to, dragging the heavy chair—a nail or a sharp stick or something that would pierce the duct tape covering his mouth? Air in—it took him nearly ten seconds to get a lungful—air out. It occurred to him for the first time that he might not survive this.
Air in; air out. He wondered what had happened to Phlox.