Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

He mumbles toward my chest. “You told me you’d break my thumbs.”

“That’s right.” I step back a bit, but not enough to let him move away from the wall. “Now what am I supposed to do, Bobby? What should I do?”

“Cut me some slack, man. Please.”

I consider the possibility for a moment. “You know I can’t do that. You’re not the only one accountable here.” Making a special effort to soften my voice, as if talking to a child, I say, “But I’ll tell you what...” I am sorry as soon as I speak. Looking into his eyes, I see I’ve given him too much hope. “Sit down at the table, hold still, and don’t scream. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

I can’t read his expression. His brows are arched high above his rounded eyes and his teeth are still clenched together, making the cords on his neck stand out.

“Sit at the table,” I say.

He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language, so I put my hand on his shoulder and tug him toward the table. I sit him down. He lowers his head again.

“Are you crying?” I ask.

He shakes his head, lying.

“Give me a hand.”

He holds both hands a few inches above the table and considers them.

“Come on, Bobby. I’m going to break them both anyway. It’s not Sophie’s Choice .” [15] I regret at once the literary reference. I think perhaps the relatively wide exposure of the film version of Styron’s novel will suffice to effectively convey my intended meaning; it does not. He looks even more confused. So I reach down, grab his left hand, and quickly snap the thumb. [16] The proper technique for a clean thumbbreak is as follows: grasp the thumb at its base, as close as is possible to the hand itself, wrapping your own thumb and forefinger around the joint. Repeat the process at the upper joint. The idea is to support each of the joints to the greatest extent possible. Once this has been accomplished, snap the thumb sharply sideways, perpendicular to the direction of the thumb’s own movement. You should, in most cases, feel the bone snap in your hands. Imagine breaking a pencil wrapped in several slices of bologna for some idea of the sensation.

He yelps like a kicked Chihuahua.

Before he can pull the right hand away, I grab it and repeat the process.

Another yelp, more crying. He holds both hands in front of and away from himself as if they are on fire. He looks confused, tears on his cheeks. [17] While this reaction veers clearly toward the maudlin, I certainly prefer it to the violent or indignant. At least he stops short of wetting his pants.

I walk around the island to the freezer. Going well above and beyond the call of duty, I pull out a tray of ice and dump it into a Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. I fold the ice into the green-checkered fabric and carry it back to Bobby.

“Hold this between your palms.” I hand it to him. “Not too tight. I’ll see you next time, Bobby.”

He mutters something incomprehensible.

“You know what happens next time, right, Bobby?”

Bobby nods.

“Look at me, Bobby.”

He looks at me.

“You know?” [18] Next time, just as Bobby’s thumbs are about to be severed from his hands, he’ll be given the option of releasing his interest in the $38,000 worth of equity he has built up in his home by signing over the deed. We can be fairly sure which option Bobby will choose.

He nods.

“You should go to the emergency room to have those set.”

Another nod.

“Have a nice day, Bobby.”

I lock the door behind myself as I walk out into the street. The cool blue of the sky is just beginning to warm where the sun is nearing the horizon. I feel an itch on the back of my head. Reaching up, I gently rub my finger across the spot, hoping to feel a point or two of new hair growth. I don’t.

Sitting behind the wheel of my car, again I wonder — verb or noun?

From The Mysterious North

Two men got out of the Jeep and walked toward the building. Their fleece-lined leather boots squeaked on the snow. One of the men was young, stocky, and black. The other was old, thin, and white. Both men wore olive-drab wool pants, duffel coats, and knit wool caps. The black man rolled forward onto his toes with each step, like he was about to leap into space. The white man’s gait was something between a saunter and a stagger. Their breath escaped in white puffs. Their heads were burrowed down into their collars, and their hands were jammed into the pockets of their coats.

“Kee-rist, it’s cold,” the black man said.

Their Jeep ticked loudly as it cooled. The building they approached was part log cabin and part Quonset hut with a shacky plywood porch tacked onto the front. Yellow light leaked from three small windows. Smoke plumed from a metal pipe punched through its tin roof. A sign beside the door showed a black cat sitting on a white crescent, the words CAROLINA MOON lettered beneath.

“You sure we want to go in here?” the black man asked.

“Have to,” the white man said. “I’ve got an investment to protect.”

They hurried through the door and shut it quickly behind them. They were standing in a fair-sized room that held a half-dozen tables and a big bar. They were the only ones in the room. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and desperation. The white man led the way past the bar and through a door, turned left, and walked down a dark hallway toward the light spilling from another open door.

The light came from a small room that held a big bed and four people not looking at the corpse on the floor. One, a big, red-haired guy, was dressed in olive drab with a black band around one biceps that read mp in white letters. The other man was short, plump, and fair-haired, dressed in brown. Both wore guns on their hips. One of the women was small and temporarily blond, wearing a red robe that didn’t hide much. The other woman was tall, black, and regal as Cleopatra meeting Caesar.

“I tole you, he give me a couple of bucks and said I should go get some supper at Leroy’s,” the temporary blonde was saying.

“‘Lo, Zulu,” the thin man said, nodding to the black woman.

“Mister Sam,” she replied.

“What the hell are you doing here, soldier?” the MP barked.

“That’s Sergeant ,” the thin man said cheerfully. He nodded to the plump man. “Marshal Olson,” he said. “Damn cold night to be dragged out into, isn’t it?”

“So it is, Sergeant Hammett,” the plump man said. “So it is.” He shrugged toward the corpse on the floor. “Even colder where he is, you betcha.”

“Look you,” the MP said, “I’m ordering you to leave. And take that dinge with you. This here’s a military investigation, and if you upstuck it, I’ll throw you in the stockade.”

“If I what it?” Hammett asked.

“Upstuck,” the MP grated.

“Upstuck?” Hammett asked. “Anybody got any idea what he’s talking about?”

“I think he means ‘obstruct,’ ” the black man said.

“Why, thank you, Clarence,” Hammett said. He pointed to the black man. “My companion is Clarence Jefferson Delight. You might know him better as Little Sugar Delight. Fought Tony Zale to a draw just before the war. Had twenty-seven — that’s right, isn’t it, Clarence? — twenty-seven professional fights without a loss. Not bad for a dinge, eh?” To the plump man, he said, “It’s been a while since I was involved in this sort of thing, Oscar, but I believe that as the U.S. Marshal you’re the one with jurisdiction here.” To the MP, he said, “Which means you can take your order and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”