Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

The back of a small man blocked my vision. His hair was thick and coal black and he wore a green shirt, about the same puke green color as my Prism. Should have brought the Prism. I would bet that they wouldn’t have recognized that car.

“Come on, James. You protect someone else, but then you can’t protect yourself. You see what I’m saying?” Thud.

Someone else was kicking or hitting him. My green-shirted guy stood motionless.

I pushed the door open farther, becoming increasingly bolder. Now I had a clear view through the windshield. James was on the hard cement floor, his hands behind his back. The first thing I noticed was blood running from his face. Juan, Carlos, and someone else stood around him, Carlos bouncing on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter waiting for his opponent to get up off the canvas. James wasn’t getting up.

Juan, his arm in a cast, kept taunting James. “Come on, Mr. Lessor. You’re not so tough without your friends. Tell us who else is coming. If they come before we load our truck, we’ll have to show them how we treat our visitors.”

I pushed the door even farther and no one noticed. They were concentrating on my roommate, face down on the cement, blood flowing freely, staining the concrete floor.

Putting the oil can I had in my right hand on the floor, I reached for the passenger-side door handle. It opened quietly. With the seat folded down, I could reach the door with my leg. I picked up the can and pulled my leg back. I kicked the door wide open, leaped from my dark closet, jumped to the cement floor and fired a can at Big Mouth’s head. I hit him on the back of his neck and Carlos went down.

Running for my life I turned and fired the second can, catching the small guy with the green shirt in the middle of his back. He stumbled and fell. I reached for the door handle on the side door of the warehouse and the door popped open. Head down I ran one, two, three steps and hit a stone wall.

“Hey!” Arms wrapped around me, binding me up. I struggled, kicking and fighting to get free, as my assailant turned me and put his arm around my neck. He was squeezing, applying serious pressure, and I could feel myself choking, gasping for air. Lights popped off inside my head, brilliant flashes exploding behind my eyes, and I fought for consciousness.

“Don’t kill him. Tie him up and put him in the office and we’ll decide what to do with him later.”

I was passing out, but I recognized the voice. It was the second time Vic Maitlin had saved my life.

My head was splitting open. Someone had taken an axe and cleaved it. I can’t even describe the incredible pain. And then I opened my eyes and concentrated on consciousness. And there was James, propped up against the wall next to me. He was tied with thick rope, and maybe because the light was dim, he appeared to have a gray hue to his skin.

My hands were numb, tied too tightly behind my back, and my head really did ache. Part of me hoped that James was passed out so the pain of his beating wouldn’t be so hard to bear. The other part of me wanted him to wake up fast so we could try to make some plans. Hardy Boys novels didn’t seem so glamorous this time.

Someone had been stationed outside that door. Knowing I’d snuck in before, they must have decided to secure the entrances. And someone who sounded like Vic Maitlin had stopped the guard from strangling me. I couldn’t be wrong about that voice. He wasn’t dead. But it didn’t appear he was being held captive, either.

My head throbbed, and my neck was raw and bruised. And that was minor compared to what James must be going through. His nose appeared to be left of center, and he had a large swelling over his right eye. Someone had wiped the blood from his face, but fresh blood was dripping from his nose and a cut on his lower lip. His breathing was shallow and raspy, and I was afraid if we didn’t get medical attention soon, he might go into shock. I didn’t want to speculate on how much worse he might get.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and I could feel my T-shirt, moist and sticky on my skin. It must have been over one hundred degrees in the small office. Gently I twisted my head and surveyed the surroundings. Four walls and a window that seemed to look out into the warehouse. A gunmetal gray desk, swivel chair, and two filing cabinets were shoved up against the far wall. A faded calendar with a dark-skinned girl in a bikini smiling seductively hung on the far wall. It just seemed out of place. I figured we were in the office that I’d seen at the far end of the warehouse. The balcony would be above us.

The faint aroma of a cigar wafted through the small room and low voices murmured outside. They were talking about a truck arriving, picking up the guns, and driving down to Key West. Then there was something about a boat. So the guns were being taken to Cuba tonight. The invasion must be soon.

What the hell was the deal with Vic Maitlin? I tried to picture a scenario where he would be in a position to order someone not to kill me. This from a guy who’s finger had been severed and was being held for ransom. A ransom of twenty million dollars in shares of Cafe Cubana. It made no sense, but my head hurt, I was dizzy, and my best friend was next to me, unconscious and barely breathing. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

I wondered if the truck had arrived yet. I don’t know how long I was out, but if people were still in the warehouse it would appear that they were still waiting to load the guns on a truck. I glanced at James and there was no change. Sweat and blood soaked his shirt where his head hung down on his chest and his rough breathing didn’t sound good.

Footsteps and Spanish-speaking voices approached the office and I closed my eyes. Let them think both of us were unconscious until I knew what they wanted.

The door opened and several people walked in.

“You guys have got to stop with the Spanish.” A different voice. “It’s been too long, man. I can’t follow you.”

I didn’t recognize the voice.

“They have been nothing but a thorn in our side. This entire part of the operation would have been trouble free without these two.”

“Not altogether true, Israel. What about the grocer and his gay friend?”

“Castro’s spies. There is no doubt.”

“They caused problems.”

“And they were dealt with. But these two-”

“These two are here, under our control, and we can now get rid of them.”

Only two voices speaking and one of them was Carlos.

“Maybe there is another alternative.”

It was Vic.

“Maybe we can keep them tied up here in the office. Jesus is staying here and he could keep an eye on them until our operation begins.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Finally, Carlos spoke. “Keep an eye on them? What the fuck are they, children to be watched? Listen, Victor, we talked about collateral damage. People will die. Some innocent, some not. It will happen. It’s a necessary part of war. Are you losing your courage?”

“I was born with more courage than you’ll have in a lifetime!” There was venom in Victor’s voice.

“Then show some. Here is my pistol. Shoot them both, and we’ll throw their bodies in the water. Casualties of war, Victor. Here, take it.”

It was time to open my eyes. I wanted to have some say in the matter.

“Vic.”

He looked down at me. The same good looks, dark skin and eyes, and big hands, one of them wrapped around a pistol. There seemed to be five healthy fingers on each one. “Hey, Skip.”

Carlos stood in the doorway, smirking. A third man watched with wide eyes and an unhealthy grin plastered on his face. He seemed to be eagerly awaiting my demise.

“Vic, I’m really glad to see you have all your fingers.” Vic’s fingers. One of the main reasons I was in this predicament.