Reed Coleman - They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

“Come on, Mr. Klein, we don’t want to be late for your appointment.”

We walked for a little bit-me, the desk clerk, and the ski dude-down into the basement of the Old Watermill. It was musty as hell and made me pine for Guppy’s broom closet. The three of us had little to say. There was no need. The ski dude’s gun barrel communicated to me speed and direction. I did ask if it was possible for the ski dude not to press his pistol completely through my ribs. He responded by pressing harder. I would remember never to beg him for mercy.

We stopped by a door marked “Storage Room” and I wondered aloud if this was where the desk clerk changed into Superman. That earned me a smack in the back of my head with the gun butt. That was one way to get the damn thing out of my ribs. When I reached up to feel the lump on my head, they pushed me through the door. I landed chin first. That pissed me off and I spat in the desk clerk’s face when he bent over me. Now the square face of the 9 mm Glock was pressed against my teeth. Suddenly, I thought, my ribs weren’t such a bad place for the barrel of a gun after all.

The ski dude just stood above me smiling down. He enjoyed his work just a bit too much for my comfort. In the meantime, the desk clerk frisked me, patting down every spot on my body, turning all my pockets out.

“He doesn’t have it on him,” he said to the ski dude.

“Of course I don’t have the disc on me, you fucking moron.” I got the words out pretty well considering there was a gun in my mouth. “When I get my nephew, you’ll get your disc.”

Ski dude pulled the gun away and yanked me up like I was filled with helium. I didn’t miss the gun. And it was nice to breathe again. The desk clerk gave a nod to his accomplice. Ski dude smiled. I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this. A fist buried itself in my gut so hard that my liver French-kissed my right kidney. Some foul-tasting liquid flew out of my mouth. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was the type of fluid that was supposed to stay inside the human body. I didn’t have a chance to dwell on my body fluids very long. Unconsciousness has a way of distracting me.

To wake up running through an inventory of the parts of your body that ache is usually a bad omen of things to come. My mouth still tasted of the mystery fluid and the slice on my chin was still bleeding, so I guessed I hadn’t been out that long. My liver was back in place, but I felt bruised from the inside out.

I was lying face-down on a concrete slab and when I tried to push myself up, the back of my head nearly exploded. It didn’t do wonders for the contents of my stomach, either. I opted for rolling over onto my back. I managed that without too much discomfort. There was a string of bare bulbs dangling above my head. They swayed as if blown by a breeze I could not feel. There were space heaters placed along the base of the unpainted concrete walls. The walls themselves were not flat, but concave. The place had the feel of a construction sight.

After several minutes on my back, I inched over to a wall and used its gentle slope to ease myself into a sitting position. My head voted against the upright posture, but came around to my way of thinking after punishing me with thirty seconds of extreme nausea and pain. When the wave passed, I felt I recognized my prison. The tunnels beneath the college were of the same dimensions. I was unnerved by the deathly silence of the place. Having grown up in a bedroom above a boiler, around the corner from one of Brooklyn’s busiest thoroughfares and one block away from Coney Island Hospital’s emergency room, I had always been uncomfortable with silence. Okay, when I was writing, I wanted silence. When I was bleeding, I wanted some noise.

I stood up and walked the tunnel, up and back. I was in a section about sixty paces long closed at both ends by ply-wood walls. One wall had a locked, spring-loaded door in it. I did some requisite banging and screaming after which I did some requisite puking. At least now there was some stink to go along with the silence. I got horizontal once again and willed myself to pass out, but even that yielded mixed results. I dreamed I was in pain.

Someone was slapping my cheeks the next time I opened my eyes. Just what a man with a cracked head and a slicedup face needs. I thrust my left arm out at where I thought the slapper’s throat might be and latched onto the first bit of flesh I could find. Hearing choking and feeling hands grab my left wrist, I congratulated myself for good aim.

“Uncle Dylan! Uncle Dylan!” were words I thought I heard through the choking and gasps for air.

I let go, but, in all honesty, not without some regret. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I continued to be furious with Zak for his manipulations. I was never very good at math, but no matter how I turned the equation around, Zak’s pulling at the puppet strings still resulted in Kira’s murder. I suppose that as a younger, more narcissistic man, I might have seen things differently. I might have thought my few days with Kira were somehow worth it. I wasn’t that good a liar anymore. My joy, no matter how expansive, would never be worth someone else’s life.

“Are we in the tunnels beneath the school?” I asked, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Zak said, rubbing his throat. “But these tunnels are unused. They are extensions to buildings that were never built. Everybody knows they exist, but none of the students know how to get access.”

“Now you do, but I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“I guess not,” he agreed.

“How did-” My question was cut short by an opening door.

“I put him here, Mr. Klein,” a vaguely familiar voice answered my unfinished question. Dean Dallenbach stepped through the open door. He was flanked on either side by the desk clerk and the ski dude. “Now why don’t you make the inevitable easy on everyone and hand over the disc.”

“If it existed, asshole,” I didn’t hesitate, “I might be inclined to make it easy.”

“You are going to be tiresome, aren’t you?” Dallenbach’s hand gestures were very affected, exaggerated.

“I guess so.”

“But we’ve already been through this with your nephew, Mr. Klein. Do you actually believe me such a fool?”

I smiled. “You really want an answer to that?”

“George!” Dallenbach barked.

The ski dude hopped to and proceeded to slap me so hard across the face that the force tore a gash in my cheek.

“Nice shot, George, but you’re pissing me off. I get very stubborn when I get pissed off.”

“Jerry!” the Dean was barking again. “Hold Mr. Klein steady for George this time. I don’t think our guest quite appreciates the seriousness of the position he and his nephew are in.”

As the desk clerk stepped toward me, I thought I saw him lick his lips. But he was a phony motherfucker. With him it was all show for the boss’ sake. And I knew Jerry would be a little more careless than his partner. While he moved by me to take hold of me, I head-butted Jerry in a part of his anatomy that was particularly sensitive to strong blows with a blunt object. He folded like a pup tent in a tornado. And as he was busily getting in touch with his new vocal range, I sprang on top of him, sinking my teeth into his neck. But just as I was clamping through the thick sheath around his jugular, I heard Zak scream.

“Your nephew’s about to lose his resemblance to you, Mr. Klein,” Dean Dallenbach warned almost too calmly. “I suggest you get off of Jerry this instant.”

I rolled off and got a kick in the ribs for my trouble. It was worth it. Jerry looked like Christmas; red and green all at once. He had one hand on his balls and one on his neck. George smiled at me. That took all the fun out of things. I knew no good would come of his smile. He teased me by releasing his arm from around Zak’s neck. But just as Zak was out of his grip, George pistol-whipped Zak across the back of his head. It was one of George’s specialties. I knew from first hand experience.