As advertised, the wind blew hard in downtown Chicago. Harlan raised his voice and leaned toward the passenger window to make sure he was heard.
“Get in.”
All things considered, the man negotiated himself into the front seat with a fair amount of grace. He was a good six feet tall, well over that with the heels, and Harlan figured him to be in pretty good shape underneath all the window dressing. The he-she hiked up his skirt and looked directly at Harlan.
“Tell me exactly what it is you’re after and don’t mince words.” The voice was a practiced falsetto. “Cops like to be coy. Men who know what they want speak their mind.”
Harlan shot back. “How do I know there ain’t a cop with a wire in there somewhere?” He gestured toward the prominent forty-inch chest.
“Honey, I don’t know any self-respecting officer who would go this far to nab a john,” the man said, his Adam’s apple jumping as he spoke. “Besides, cops won’t get in the car. If they can’t reel you in from the sidewalk, they’re not interested. My name’s Renee. Is there something you wanted to ask me?”
Harlan looked out the windshield and spoke in a casual tone. “I’m in town for the weekend. Staying at the Hilton up the road. Come on back to my room and we’ll talk about it there.”
Renee laughed, trying to sound effeminate. “Nothing is going to go on there that will cost you less than a hundred dollars. Pay me that now, and we’ll talk specifics about what that will get you later.” He reached out and squeezed Harlan’s crotch.
Harlan couldn’t contain his disgust as he grabbed Renee’s hand and jerked hard. Renee’s real voice came through. “Let go. You’re hurting my wrist.”
“What I’m gonna want won’t involve you puttin’ your hands on my prick, you queen fuck. Don’t touch me again.” Harlan used his “inside” voice—fearsome by any measure.
Renee reached for the door handle, ready to get out. Harlan hit the locks and regrouped. “Hang on now. Relax. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just unlock the door.” The prostitute’s voice was back to its artificial high pitch but had an audible tremor.
“Look,” Harlan said, “I’m doing a favor for a friend of mine, a client, actually. He’s a bit shy but I know how he goes.”
After the bad start, Harlan was off his prepared script, trying to make the story work. He opened his wallet and pulled out his last hundred dollars, closing it quick before the prostitute could get a look. “Here, I’ll pay you the hundred bucks now, and another two hundred when I bring you back in an hour or so.”
Renee looked skeptically at the bills in Harlan’s hand.
“You’re going to pay me three hundred dollars for an hour’s work? Must be an important client.”
Harlan keyed in on the greed in the man’s voice and played to it.
“It ain’t my money,” he said. “Comes out of an expense account that’ll get charged back to the business. But he does strike me as the generous type. You do your thing, and I imagine he’s gonna tip pretty well. Could work out for you.”
“Sounds like I might like your client more than I like you.” Renee took the money; it disappeared into his impressive cleavage. “Let’s go see him.”
Twenty minutes later, Renee, who said his given name was Bobby, was handcuffed to a wooden chair in an empty storage unit in west Chicago. Harlan had run the cuffs under the seat of the chair, making it impossible for a man of Bobby’s height to sit up straight. From a long canvas bag, Harlan took out a thirty-six-inch Louisville Slugger and slung it casually over his shoulder. Bobby eyed the bat and sobbed into the three-inch ball gag Harlan had strapped over his mouth.
Bobby struggled to speak. He wriggled his wrists, but it was a useless effort. Tears smeared the thick paste makeup all the way to his jawline, exposing a day-old growth of beard. His wig had come off during an earlier struggle, and his thinning hair made him look at least ten years older than the twenty-four years he had claimed when he and Harlan had still been on speaking terms.
“Ya know, Bobby, I knew this fella in prison, pig farmer from Iron County,” Harlan said while twirling the bat over his shoulder. “Tall like you but a good bit thicker. Strong fucker too. Son of a bitch was always trying to turn self-respecting men into cock smokers.”
Harlan had always liked the sound of a Louisville Slugger moving through the air. He took a couple of healthy swings with the bat.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
“Far as I’m concerned, Bobby, a man can find his pleasure wherever and however the hell he likes as long as whoever is on the receiving end don’t object none. Particularly in prison, where pickings are slim and we’re all fairly accustomed to the depraved side of people. I’m damn open-minded about such things as that.”
Harlan stepped into a full swing, as if he was standing at home plate, and the sound could be heard clear through the room.
Whoooosh.
Bobby yelped with fear and screwed his eyes shut tight.
“I made it clear I wanted nothin’ to do with that old boy, but he came callin’ on me anyways. Brought a couple of his farm boy associates to hold me down. I’ll admit he got the better of me to begin with.”
Whoosh.
“But after that day, he didn’t ever shove that nasty hunk of flesh in anyone’s mouth again.”
Whoosh. Whoosh.
“You know why, Bobby?”
Bobby’s chest heaved. Vomit oozed out around the edge of the red plastic ball and dribbled down his chin. He reflexively breathed in, then gagged, starting the process over. Harlan ignored the man’s discomfort.
“Cuz I bit that thing clean off.”
Whoooooosh.
“Took a good bit of work, and that old boy was banging on the back of my head with both fists the whole time. Damn near knocked me out.”
Whoosh.
“But yeah, it came off all right. I spit that prick out right there on the cell floor. Come to find out that makes for a serious injury. His boys carted him off, smearin’ a blood trail that ran all the way to the damn infirmary.”
Whoosh.
“And they don’t be offerin’ none of that reconstructive surgery shit in a prison hospital. No, sir. Prison docs just threw out the spare parts and stapled ’im up. Hooked in a tube to piss out of and told him, ‘Guess you’ll just go dickless.’ That’s some cold shit for a doc to tell a guy, ain’t it?”
Whoosh.
“And that, Bobby, is the only time I ever felt the slap of a man’s balls against my chin. First, last, and only.”
Harlan used his empty hand to position Bobby’s head while the other held the bat poised over his shoulder. In anticipation of what might be coming, Bobby made a terrible noise that Harlan took for begging. Harlan pulled on Bobby’s chin, and the man’s eyes swam in deep pools of mascara-colored tears.
“I make no judgments about ya, Bobby. I want you to know that. Now just go on and hold still.”
Bobby rocked his head back and forth. Even with the gag, he managed to make such a racket of guttural screams Harlan feared the noise might bring notice even at this late hour.
Harlan improved his stance and again recollected the face of the Iron County pig farmer. Gripping the bat with both hands, he lifted his front foot and stepped into the swing with every bit of strength he possessed. Wood connected with bone, and he rotated his hips like he was swinging for the fences. There was a loud pop as the man’s skull broke into a half-dozen sections, a good bit of the contents spraying out against Harlan’s hands, arms, and face. A sizable chunk that included one eye smacked against the wall, where it stuck for a second or two before falling to the floor, staring back from where it had come. The chair that held the now nearly headless body began to lean to one side, hung balanced for a moment, then toppled over. The man’s head had the look of a giant eggshell shattered beyond any hope of repair. A moment passed, and then Harlan’s hard breath and the settling cranial contents were the only sounds left in the room.