Humphrey was regaling Helen with amusing tales of “the guys.” They were walking along the Lake Saint Clair shore in front of the house. A blustery onshore wind buffeted them, making their eyes water, yet it wasn’t too cold. Spring was in the air. Already, Helen’s mother had visited. But today, the lake was dark blue-gray and choppy. The overcast was like an iron lid coming down on their heads, but it didn’t oppress them.
Helen was dashing around, playing with a dog, one of the rangy Dobermans from the guard kennel. She called it Fritzy, although that was not its name. Humphrey was smoking a large, torpedo-shaped cigar.
“His real name is Angelo,” Humphrey said, continuing a story, “but everybody calls him Mongelo, because he’s a biter.”
“A biter? Well, he’s supposed to be, isn’t he?” Helen laughed and capered along the shore like a girl, tussling with the dog, tossing a stick for it to fetch. She looked like a teenager in her woolen cap. “He won’t bite me. He likes me.”
“Not the dog,” Humphrey said, amused. “The guy I’m telling you about. Angelo. Mongelo. You know”—he made eating gestures with his hands—“mangia, mangia, like he eats a lot. He’s fat. Fatter than me.”
“Oh, Unca Umby,” she cooed, snuggling him momentarily, caressing his cheeks and attempting a kiss, which he dodged. “You’re not fat. Not anymore.”
“Well, like I was,” Humphrey said. He enjoyed her fooling. He liked her attempted kiss, but felt that for the sake of dignity, decorum, he should pretend not to like it. “Actually, Mongelo’s fatter than I ever was. The trouble is, he’s a biter. He bit a guy’s finger off.”
“My god!” Helen stopped, appalled. “Why on earth would he do that? Is he crazy?”
“Sure he’s crazy, whaddaya think?” Humphrey puffed appreciatively on his cigar. “They’re all crazy. Well, not all of them, but some. Yeah.” He nodded, thoughtfully, gazing out at the cold lake. “There’s some crazy guys we got working for us. That’s one of the things, you know, when you’re in this business. Some of the guys who work for us aren’t wrapped too tight.”
“Mongelo works for you?” she asked. She had taken his arm. The dog trailed along as they paced, patiently waiting for the stick in her hand to be thrown again. “What does he do?”
“He bites people,” Humphrey said. They both laughed. He shrugged and took his cigar out of his mouth, holding it to the other side of him, away from her. “Well, though, that’s really the truth: he’s an enforcer for the loans. Guys don’t pay their loans, Mongelo bites ’em.”
Helen was amused and interested. She wanted to know about the loans. They walked back. They were chilled now. Humphrey tossed his cigar into the chop of the waves. The dog looked puzzled but didn’t offer to retrieve it. “Let’s get back to the fire,” Humphrey said. He made a signal and one of the security men, discreetly standing beyond a fir tree, raised a device to his lips. The silent whistle instantly drew the dog away.
Humphrey explained about the loan business over hot chocolate for Helen, coffee for himself. “There are always guys who need money, need it fast, no questions. Maybe they gambled, maybe they borrowed from where they work … and they don’t exactly have good credit, but they have access to money. So, you try to figure out if they can handle it. The interest is big, but so is their need. Can they pay it back before it’s too big a problem for them? That’s the question. It’s like all loan business, like a bank … with a difference—we collect. We don’t write it off. If they pay it back quick, the interest isn’t a problem. You’re doing them a favor. They’re grateful.
“Say an opportunity pops up,” Humphrey went on. “The guy finds out he can get his hands on some merchandise that will make him a lot of money, but he doesn’t have the large. You want to help a guy, if he’s got a chance to do something for himself. And a lot of the time you can get a piece of the action. So you say, Okay, you can have the grand, the five, the ten, whatever he needs. Give him more than he needs, even—Don’t leave yourself short, you tell him. And you warn him, the vig can get steep, so pay up. The vigorish, the interest,” he explained.
“But he doesn’t pay,” she prompted. This was not really news to her, but she’d never heard the actual details.
“Yeah, sometimes the deal goes haywire, he screws it up, he lied about it, or he’s just stupid. Maybe it wasn’t really his deal. Or it was really a gambling debt. He didn’t borrow enough. All kinds of reasons.” He got out another of his cigars from the humidor cabinet, the big fat ones, torpedo shaped. He waved it. “You mind?”
“Oh no,” she assured him, she didn’t mind. She liked the smell of cigars, good cigars. Her father had always liked cigars. “Let me try one,” she said. “Do you have any little ones?”
Humphrey rummaged in the cabinet and found a small, well-made cigar, a “petit lancero.” He clipped it and lit it for her, then lit his own. He had discreetly turned on a device that whisked away the smoke, the aroma.
“The vig can be a problem for the loaner,” he said, “for us. It gets to be too much, more than the guy can pay. Sometimes he gets scared, afraid of the collector, and he’ll do stuff he shouldn’t do, to get the money. It can cause problems. But you gotta enforce it. You send Mongelo around. You can’t have these guys thinking they can get away with this irresponsibility.”
“And he bites their fingers?” she said. She enjoyed the little cigar, but she was finding the story a little distasteful. She was glad she didn’t have to deal with any Mongelo, in any respect.
“That’s the problem,” Humphrey said. “He didn’t used to be so screwy. Used to be, he’d go around, put a little pressure on, twist his arm, maybe even slap the guy around a bit. But then he heard about Action Jackson.”
Action Jackson was a legendary collector in Chicago, Humphrey explained. Like Mongelo, he was a big, fat man who bit people. Humphrey told the story, but he didn’t think he could tell her about Jackson’s worst actions, such as when he’d bit a woman’s nipples off. The woman was the mistress of the borrower, not the borrower himself. Jackson had gone to see the man but he wasn’t home. Jackson had sat around, waiting, but after a while his attention turned to the woman. He thought he’d rape her. That would send a message. He overpowered the woman, tied her up, stripped her, but then he didn’t have the urge—or so it was said. He ended up biting her nipples off. The guy got the message. He paid up. And then he went looking for Jackson.
“Jackson went too far” was all Humphrey would say about it. But Helen wanted to know what had happened to him. She meant, Where is he these days? But Humphrey, still in the train of memory, said, “Oh, they reamed him. The guy he was collecting from, him and some others. You don’t want to know. He died from it. The guy was nuts, like I said.”
Jackson had died hanging from a barbed plug hammered up his rectum, attached to a wire cable suspended over a girder in a warehouse. Humphrey remembered when he first heard about it, wondering how they had hoisted the man up and how the plug could have held him long enough for him to die of suffocation, his mouth duct-taped. It was a grotesque image: a naked fat man hanging by a wire up his ass. Like a great pig in a slaughterhouse. According to the stories, they’d gone off and left him, and his corpse wasn’t found for several days.
Humphrey suddenly didn’t like the image and blanked it from his mind.
He wondered how he could get it across to Helen that it wasn’t all like this, tawdry and violent and even a little disgusting. It was mainly just business. Business like ordinary business, not a lot different from your friendly bank, say, but with the principles carried a little bit further, carried as far as they could go. It didn’t happen that often. Guys needed money but couldn’t get it at a bank or any legitimate source. So they had to pay a big price. They almost always paid it back; they were grateful and they knew they could borrow again. That’s how it mainly worked. Mongelo was unusual.
What concerned him now, Humphrey said, was that it looked like Mongelo had gone off the deep end. He might try to carry his imitation of Action Jackson to the same extremes, and that would cause problems. He had to do something about Mongelo before he went too far.
“What Mongelo needs,” she suggested, “is to diet.”
Humphrey laughed. Then he looked thoughtful. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Maybe a forced diet.” He abruptly changed the topic. “So, you like the cigar?”
“I like it very much,” she said. “Is it Cuban?”
“Naw. You wouldn’t like Cuban.”
“Papa always smoked Cubans,” she said. “Big ones. He used to give me a puff, secretly.”
Humphrey remembered. He’d liked Big Sid Sedlacek. A man’s man. Full of jokes, smart, a guy who would go out on a limb for a buddy and back him up. He had a lot of stories about Big Sid, though he didn’t think his daughter would like all of them. But she was tough. He looked at her, thoughtfully. She’d been through a lot and she’d showed her mettle. She had her wits about her. Maybe she wouldn’t be as shocked as he thought.
“Cubans are too strong,” he said. “I don’t even like them, most of ’em. I like the milder ones.” He puffed the torpedo.
“That looks strong.”
“But it’s not, not really. Here, have a puff.” He held it out to her and she bravely took a little puff.
She smiled. “It’s pretty mild!”
“I told you. Most people don’t know sh—, crap about cigars, even guys who smoke all the time. They hear other guys talking about Cubans, so they all want a Cohiba. Hell, most of the Cohibas they get—if they can get one—aren’t even Dominican, much less Cuban. They’re Honduran, or Guatemalan, sometimes not even that. Mexican, or Florida. But they got the label.”
“How do they get the label?”
“That’s our business,” he was delighted to tell her. “A label is a hell of a lot easier to make than a cigar. A real cigar, like a Cohiba or an H. Upmann, you got to grow the tobacco right, select it, dry it, age it. You got to have top-notch rollers and makers, and then you got to age them again. There’s a lot to it. A good cigar is worth what you pay. But in this country, especially since Kennedy did us all a favor and slapped an embargo on the Cubans, cigar smokers here don’t know from Shinola about real cigars.”
“What is Shinola?” she asked, abruptly. She tapped her little cigar on the crystal ashtray. She let it lie.
“You don’t know Shinola?” Humphrey laughed. “It’s shoe polish. I think it’s still around.”
“Shoe polish! I thought it was a cigar. So what is the business, your business?”
“I’ll show you. Come on, let’s take a ride.” This was perfect, he thought. He’d been thinking about having her meet some of the people he worked with and Strom Davidson had come to mind, as a man of some class, not just another hoodlum. Strom would be interesting to her, he thought, but not too interesting.
They drove into the city or, rather, they were driven into the city by a couple of the guys, nice-looking young men who sat silently in the front seat, the glass up between them and the passengers. The Cadillac had dark-tinted windows. It rolled through the rough neighborhoods where every block was missing at least two or three houses that had long ago burned and the lots had been graded and sodded. Many of these empty lots were still weedy, but the general effect seemed to be to let light and air into the old, rundown neighborhoods. That hadn’t been the object, presumably, but it was the effect.
Eventually, somewhere west of Saint Aubin, a very old part of town, they entered a kind of warehouse district. The limo pulled up at a door served by a simple concrete stair of six steps. The young man on the passenger side hopped out and opened the car door for Helen. The driver opened the door for Humphrey.
“You want us to go up, boss?” the driver asked.
“No, that’s all right,” Humphrey said. “You guys wait here. We won’t be long.”
They went into a little office. A young woman with a fancy hairstyle, all pushed up in back and then artfully messed up to look like a waterfall over her well-cosmetized face, greeted them with obvious interest. She knew who Humphrey was, clearly.
“Mr. Davidson’s upstairs, in the shop,” she said. “Want me to get him?”
“No, we’ll go up. I just wanted to show Miz Sid the operation,” Humphrey said.
They pushed through a door and climbed a dimly lit stairs, then passed through another door into a kind of loft. Here there were several rows of waist-high benches, at which more than two dozen women were busily opening plastic-wrapped bundles of cigars and dumping their contents onto trays that traveled along a conveyor belt. At the end of the belt another woman operated a machine that rapidly applied a colorful cigar band to the cigars, which were then carried farther along to be packed into boxes bearing the same “Cuban” label as the newly affixed band. At other tables previously banded cigars were stripped of their bands and new ones were affixed.
All of the women were young, dressed in jeans and shirts, over which they wore a variety of aprons—some of them very kitcheny floral prints, others more standard work aprons supplied by a linen service. Many of the women appeared to be Chicanas. There were no black women.
A tall man in his fifties was pacing about, barking at the girls fiercely. He was berating one young woman in particular, a rather pretty, dark woman of Helen’s age who worked swiftly and competently, seemingly ignoring her persecutor.
“You could have done all this hours ago,” the man was raging. “I told you to get them out by noon, but no, you hadda take your fuckin’ break!”
“We gotta eat,” the woman said, calmly, not even looking up. She worked on swiftly. “The girls don’t eat, they start screwin’ up, they make mistakes, it takes longer. We’ll get ’em all out, don’t worry.”
“Worry! Yeah, it’s me ’at’s gotta worry! You bitches don’t care! Get a fuckin’ move on!”
He spun on his heel and strode away. As he came toward them, before he even saw Humphrey and Helen, she could see that he was actually laughing. She was shocked. He’d seemed so furious, so enraged. And yet, she could see the women shrugging, looking at one another, shaking their heads, getting on with their work, brushing back their hair with grimy hands, deftly stacking and sorting, placing bundles out, picking them up from the machine, or loading boxes on pallets.
“Hey!” Davidson cried out when he saw them. “It’s the man, himself.” He pulled up in front of them, towering. He hoisted his trouser belt unconsciously and looked at Helen. “What’d ya bring me, Hump? More help? I can always use more help.” He bellowed the last to carry over the din of the shuffling noise of the women, the clanking and humming of the machines. “I’ll fire all a these bimbos, get me some babes who can work!”
Humphrey smiled and introduced Helen. Davidson seemed pleased to meet her. He’d known her father, a good man, he said. Then, “C’mon, let’s get outta this racket.”
He ushered them through a passageway, toward another room. “It’s going good,” he told Humphrey. “Great! This fuckin’ cigar business is going through the top. You wanta know my biggest problem?” He stopped in the passageway and looked at them. “I can’t get enough crappy cigars. No shit. If I could get my mitts on another ten million crappy stogies they’d be outta here in two days, lookin’ like Havana Supremos.”
Humphrey told him he was showing Helen the business. Davidson was happy to conduct a tour. He had a printing operation in the next room, where elegant labels were being created. He had a couple of artists who designed them, then more who transferred the designs through the processes leading to a beautifully printed label. Helen had never heard of any of these brands, naturally, and neither had anyone else. But they looked good.
“Hell, I’ll create one for you,” Davidson said, grandly. He bent over a thin, harassed-looking young man at a drafting table, explaining what he wanted. The man quickly sketched a picture of what appeared to be a Greek goddess wearing an Indian headdress, carrying a basket from which flowers, fruit, and cigars tumbled.
Davidson was delighted. “That’s it, Ramón,” he cried. “And we’ll call it …” He paused, thinking as he regarded Helen standing there. “I got it! Call it LaDonna Helena. And make her skinnier. She should be sitting on a donkey. You know, some flowers around, a palm tree, maybe some parrots or colorful birds, whaddaya call ’em, macaws. One on her shoulder.”
He leaned over the man. “No, skinnier. Not so much tits. She should be more like … like her.” He pointed to Helen.
The young man tossed his lank black hair back with a habitual gesture and peered at Helen through his glasses. He poked the heavy black frames firmly onto the bridge of his nose with his index finger and smiled shyly. In a moment he had made the changes. “Perfect!” declared Davidson.
They went downstairs then, to his office. He poured a little glass of brandy for Humphrey, one for himself. Helen had declined to join them. “They’ll have them labels on a thousand boxes by tomorrow,” he boasted. “Our new brand. It’ll sell like ice cream in July. You’ll see. So, whaddaya think?”
Helen was impressed, even amused. She found herself caught up in the man’s enthusiasm. “But why do you have to yell at them?” she asked. “They look like they’re going full blast.”
“You gotta,” Davidson said. “They expect it. If I don’t yell they slow down. Pretty soon they’re taking coffee breaks, smoking cigarettes … as it is, every damn one of ’em has to go to the fuckin’ can every ten minutes. This morning three girls didn’t show. It’s the same old shit. They got their period, their old man’s in jail, the kid’s got a cold. They come back the next day, but then another three or four don’t show. It’s a pain in the ass.”
He cocked his ear, suddenly, at the ceiling. “See? They’re slowin’ down. I gotta get back up there. Hey, glad you could stop by.”
He started to rush out, but Humphrey caught hold of him, then asked Helen to wait. He went out into the corridor and the two of them talked, the big man hunched over, listening to Humphrey patiently. It wasn’t a long conversation. The big man seemed agreeable, slapped Humphrey on the back, and then went bounding up the stairs. Before Humphrey and Helen departed they could hear him screaming, even before he’d reached the top of the stairs.
In the car, Helen asked, “What was all the conversation?”
“Oh, just a little business,” Humphrey said. “He’s doing me a favor.”
Three days later, two boxes of LaDonna Helena Petit Coronas arrived at Humphrey’s house. The wooden boxes sported a splendid design. The label assured that the contents were “Hecho a mano” and very official looking stamps sealed the box. The principal feature was a picture of a svelte, dark-haired beauty wearing a diadem, with a macaw on her shoulder, strewing flowers and cigars, perched on a white donkey. She looked a lot like Helen, except that instead of her silver skunk stripe, this goddess had two golden stripes rising from her temples. According to the gold medallions surrounding the picture, these cigars had won prizes in 1898, 1910, and 1925, in Havana, Cuba, and Paris, France. Humphrey advised against opening the box. “It’s the only good thing about those cigars, the label,” he said.
Later that morning, in his office at Krispee Chips, DiEbola received Angelo Badgerri. He was a fat man, about Humphrey’s age. They even looked a bit alike, although the resemblance was not so marked as it had once been, when DiEbola was carrying much the same weight. Badgerri’s people were reputed to be from the same region in Italy as DiEbola’s, though why anyone said that wasn’t clear, since Humphrey’s heritage was so uncertain. But, until just a year or so earlier, it wasn’t uncommon for acquaintances to remark that they looked like brothers, or cousins, at least. After the slaying of Carmine and the accession to power of Humphrey, no one said that.
For all Humphrey knew they could be half brothers. He wasn’t sentimental about connections like that. He’d never really known his father, at least not as his father. Humphrey had known Angelo all his life and he’d never liked him. As a boy he’d been a nasty little jerk, stupid and venal, and he’d only gotten worse with age. But they got along. Angelo did his job, he was useful. Unfortunately, he was becoming a liability.
Like many of his contemporaries, Angelo seemed unaware that times had changed in the business. Of course, they hadn’t changed completely, but the old days of mob arrogance were fading fast. The modern mobster needed a slimmer, less obnoxious profile. That was what Humphrey wanted to talk to Angelo about.
He explained it to him as delicately as possible. “Monge, you’re a pig. You gotta get rid of that lard.”
Angelo wasn’t offended. He grinned. “Like you did, Hump?” Evidently Angelo believed that the length of their relationship entitled him to the “Hump.” Humphrey was unperturbed.
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s gonna kill you. I’m worried about you.”
The fat man’s padded brow furrowed. Humphrey knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he was going to get chewed out for biting the finger off the deadbeat. “Boss, I warned that shithead, I—”
Humphrey shook his head. “No, forget that, Monge,” he said, in a comfortable manner. “We’ll talk about that some other time. I’m serious. I’m worried about your health. I think you should see a doctor. Get a checkup. Look at you, you’re wheezin’, your face is red, I bet you don’t sleep worth a damn—”
“I sleep fine. I—”
Humphrey cut him off. “I already made an appointment. With my own personal physician. Here.” He handed the man a slip of paper with the name and address of a physician in Grosse Pointe. “You go see Dr. Schwartz. Two o’clock. And don’t gag down an extra-big lunch.”
Angelo squinted at the piece of paper in his hands. “Whatta I gotta see this guy for?” he said. “I got my own doctor.”
“Your doctor ain’t doing such a good job of looking after you,” Humphrey said. He got up and smiled broadly, coming around the desk. He looked almost slim in his elegant blue pinstripe suit, new from his tailor. He patted Angelo on the shoulder and guided him to the door. “You go see Dr. Schwartz. Do it for me, Monge, you fuckin’ monkey. And for your family. Don’t worry, it’s not gonna cost you a fuckin’ cent. It’s on me. That’s how concerned I am.”
Angelo was almost out the door before he balked. “I ain’t goin’ on no fuckin’ diet, Hump!”
“All right, all right, I hear you,” Humphrey said. “But go see the doctor. A checkup isn’t gonna kill you. It might save your life.”
That afternoon Humphrey checked to make sure that Mongelo had visited the doctor, that they had done a full workup. “What do you think, Doc?” Humphrey asked.
“Well, I can’t discuss a patient’s case, Mr. DiEbola,” Dr. Schwartz told him, “but since you are a good friend—”
“I’ve known him since we were both toddlers,” Humphrey interjected. “I’m worried about the man, Doc. I don’t want to know any secrets and I’m glad you maintain strict confidentiality. I just wondered, how’s he look to you? Generally. That’s not violating anyone’s privacy. I mean, the guy’s not dying of some disease we don’t know about?”
Dr. Schwartz laughed. “Well, anyone looking at Mr. Badgerri can see what he’s dying of. But really, I mean … are you sort of in the nature of his employer, Humphrey? Yes? Well, the man’s in amazingly good health, when you consider…. But if you’re really a friend, I’d encourage him to go on the diet I recommended.”
“I’ll do it. I’m a believer, Doc. You know what it did for me.”
Dr. Schwartz did know, although he wasn’t as sure of the medical virtues of chili peppers as DiEbola was. That diet was something that Humphrey and his chef had concocted. Still, there was no question that it had gotten splendid results. “Well, I gave Mr. Badgerri a regimen that I believe will work for him,” the doctor said. “If you can encourage him, we’d all be grateful, especially Mr. Badgerri.”
“I’ll do it,” Humphrey said. “Thanks, Doc. And, if you don’t mind, keep me out of it. You never heard from me.”
“You’re not in it, Mr. DiEbola. This is not part of Mr. Badgerri’s record. But that reminds me, who is his regular physician? It might be helpful to see his medical history.”
“Didn’t he tell you? No? To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy never saw a real doctor in his life. These old-fashioned Italians, a lot of them see grandmas … you know, some old gal from the Old Country who knows how to cure warts or constipation. But I’ll ask him.”
“Folk medicine,” Dr. Schwartz muttered. “Well, I shouldn’t say anything against it. But ask him.”
Two days later, Mongelo was picked up by the two men who had driven Helen to the cigar factory and delivered to the back door of that same building. At first, he hadn’t wanted to go along. He’d been approached at an awkward moment, when he was going to the bathroom of a restaurant in Harper Woods, not far from his home. He went there every morning for breakfast, a meal that typically featured veal scallopini, eggs, freshly baked rolls, even tripe soup, and wine. So far, he’d only had a few biscotti and torcetti with his coffee before he’d had to piss. But the boys convinced him that his presence was urgently needed. They’d bundled him out the back door and into the limo, where a couple of other friendly fellas accompanied them downtown.
They entered the building through a disused basement entrance, an old stairwell with concrete steps and a steel door. Humphrey was waiting in the basement of the cigar factory. He was sitting behind a desk, under a hanging light. It was otherwise dark and cool, and an earthy, cellar odor filled the air. On the table before Humphrey lay a brutal-looking object, seemingly of metal, about six inches long and shaped like a large bass plug, except that it wasn’t alluringly painted with eyes and scales. At first glance it seemed to be a basically smooth object, but it had many small, flexible steel leaves or scales, rather like a pinecone, and it terminated on one end with a sturdy eye, through which one might, perhaps, thread a wire or a line, except that it was the wrong end: if the object were trolled, or drawn through some medium, the leaves would tend to catch.
Mongelo stared at the object. “What the fuck is this all about?” he said. “You wannida see me, we couldn’t meet at the chip fact’ry?”
“This …” Humphrey said, poking at the object with his now long and slender finger, then wincing slightly as it almost nicked him, “… is the actual dingus that they cut out of Action Jackson’s asshole.” Humphrey looked up with a smile. When he’d nudged it the device had partially rolled, then resettled itself. It was obviously heavy. “Can you believe it? I got it from the cops in Chicago. It cost me.”
Mongelo recoiled. He looked about him. The other men were in the shadows, but they were there. “What the fuck?”
“I can’t have no more of this Action Jackson shit, Monge,” Humphrey said, quietly.
Mongelo drew himself up, puffed out his cheeks, then sighed. “All right, all right. I get the poi—” He stopped himself.
“Good,” the boss said. “But it ain’t enough to get the point.” He smiled and there were mild, distant titters from the shadows. “All right, that’s enough of that,” he called to the men. He addressed Angelo again: “You like to play at being Action Jackson, you can get the dingus, like he did. It ain’t enough for you to just say Okay boss. I want you to go on that diet.”
“That diet! What that fuckin’ doc you sent me to gimme?”
Now there were guffaws from the back. Humphrey ignored them. “Schwartz gave you a diet and you didn’t take it seriously,” Humphrey said. “That’s your problem, Monge. You don’t take what you’re told seriously. So now I’m going to see that you do. Come here.”
Humphrey stood up and walked toward the back of the basement. Mongelo followed fearfully. Humphrey stopped and flipped a light switch, revealing an open door. Beyond it, lighted, was what appeared to be an apartment. “Come on, come on,” Humphrey urged, his hand out. He clapped Mongelo on the shoulder and guided him gently into the room.
Aside from the obvious feature of the steel bars that converted the room into a jail cell, it looked like an ordinary one-room apartment, what was usually described in newspaper ads as a studio apartment. Cozy, they would say. It had an ordinary, department-store couch and easy chair, a couple of lamps on end tables, a small television set, and a tiny little kitchenette, complete with a small refrigerator, a coffeemaker, a radio, some metal cupboards.
“The couch makes into a bed,” Humphrey said. “It’ll be comfortable enough. And you got your TV, magazines. Back there is a pisser and shitter, a little shower.” He thrust the open-mouthed man through the open steel-barred door.
Mongelo caught hold of the bars. They held firmly, Humphrey was glad to see. He’d only had them installed overnight. They were anchored in the joists above. They would be all right if Mongelo didn’t make too violent a move on them. They could be beefed up later, if necessary. But there would be someone around to keep an eye on Mongelo. He wouldn’t be left alone to work on the cage.
“I ain’t going in there,” Mongelo declared. He clung to the bars like death, bracing himself against entering.
“Oh yeah, you are,” Humphrey said. “And you ain’t coming out until …” He paused. “How much do you weigh? Three something? Okay. You stay until you lose a hundred.”
“A hundred pounds? You’re fucking nuts!”
A hand snaked out of the dark and slapped him on the side of the head with a weighted cosh. He reeled and stumbled into the cage. The door clanged shut. It locked by itself.
Mongelo quickly recovered and began to rage, shouting, screaming. But the sound didn’t resonate much and Humphrey had turned away, talking to someone in the darkness. “You give him the meals I told you. He can have magazines, videos, get him whatever he wants. He can smoke. Give him some of them cigars, the LaDonnas. He’ll like those.”
Humphrey turned to go. Mongelo fell silent. “I hope you like peppers, Monge,” he said. And then everyone withdrew into the darkness.