Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

“I’ve got lots on my mind,” Eddie said.

“Like what?”

Where to begin? Karen? Evelyn? JFK? Galleon Beach? Grand Cayman? It all began at USC, didn’t it? Eddie rose. “Tell you in a minute.” He went off in the direction Raleigh had gone.

The bathroom was part of the experience. It was all pearly light and rounded surfaces. For a moment, Eddie thought it was supposed to be a giant urinal. There was a female attendant, dressed in a little space skirt and halter top. Eddie, trying to take her presence in stride, said, “All it needs are holes in the floor.”

“Everyone says that,” said the woman, toying with the change on her plate.

Eddie found Raleigh soaking his nose on a wet towel. Their reflections studied each other in the mirror.

“Now would be a good time,” Eddie said.

“For what?”

“For telling me what happened at USC.”

Raleigh zipped up. “Ask Jack. Didn’t I say that already?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“No can do.” He faced Eddie. “You’re going to beat me up in here, aren’t you? That would be the inmate thing.”

It was true, both parts. Eddie backed away. “You did something and Jack took the blame.”

“Keep guessing,” Raleigh said and walked out the door, passing the attendant without leaving a tip. Her eyes were on Eddie.

“He didn’t even wash his hands,” Eddie said.

“Ninety percent of them don’t,” the attendant replied. “I wrote a poem about it.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s long,” said the attendant, “but it starts, ‘You stupid fucking fuckers / with piss-dripping dicks / and silver-dripping pockets / divine Manhattan Judases, artists of betrayal / so careful with every scheming breath / why do you forget to wash your pissy digits?’ ”

Quite different from the poem Eddie knew best, but he liked it. “I like it,” he said.

“You do? You’re not in publishing, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Maybe you know someone in publishing? A university press will do.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit.”

The door to one of the toilets opened. A man came out, short and fat, wearing a dark suit. It was Senor Paz. He went to the sink beside Eddie, washed his hands. They were plump pink hands with manicured nails; not what Eddie pictured as a surgeon’s hands. Eddie started to back away, thinking that Paz hadn’t recognized him. Then Paz spoke.

“Young lady,” he said, “will you leave us for a moment, please?”

She went out. Things came together in Eddie’s mind, and he realized where he was.

“I thought you were calling it Neuron.”

Paz smiled. “Or Synapse. But our consultants on Madison Avenue came up with Brainy’s. More impudent, they said, as though impudence were somehow desirable. What do you think?”

“I like Neuron better.”

“As do I,” said Paz. “You strike me as an intelligent man.” He sighed-theatrically perhaps, yet what wasn’t theatrical in a place like this? — and looked melancholy. “But isn’t there an English expression about being too smart for one’s own good?”

“Meaning what?”

“We’ll explore the subject of what it all means in good time,” said Paz. “Let’s just say some of us are very disappointed.” He glanced over Eddie’s shoulder.

Maybe it was the pearly light, or possibly the rounded surfaces. Both disorienting: dulling the fifteen-years-honed edge on Eddie’s alertness. He didn’t spin around, or start to spin around, until it was too late to avoid the first blow, that brought him to his knees, and the second, that sent him into unconsciousness.

Awoman said, “One-twenty over eighty.”

Eddie opened his eyes, looked up into a blue-white glare. He saw a white ceiling with powerful lights hanging from it. He tried to turn his head to see more but couldn’t. He couldn’t move his head, couldn’t move any part of his body. He started to say something stupid, like “What the hell?” but found he couldn’t open his mouth. Something was clamped tight under his chin. All he could do was make an angry noise in his throat. He made it.

Soothing music played in the background. Massed violins. The woman’s face came into view. She wore a surgical mask. Her eyes looked into his. There was something familiar about her.

“Pulse-eighty-two,” she said.

“Remove the gown,” said a man he couldn’t see.

Eddie recognized the speaker: Senor Paz.

The woman’s face withdrew, and Eddie found himself looking again into the blue-white glare. He felt a draft around his groin. Then something sharp and silver came gleaming into view: a scalpel. It came close to his eyes. The hand holding it was pink and plump, with manicured nails.

Eddie tried to get up, tried to move, tried to struggle against whatever bound him. He couldn’t even squirm. He made a noise in his throat, a raw noise, as loud as he could. The soothing music played on. The scalpel turned, inches from his eyes. Even as it did, he recognized the tune: “Malaguena.”

The scalpel moved away, down across his chest and out of sight. After a few moments, he heard Paz say, “Right there.”

Eddie tried to make a noise in his throat. Now he couldn’t even do that, although nothing was stopping him. Time passed. He didn’t feel anything, didn’t see anything but blue-white glare, didn’t hear anything but “Malaguena” played soothingly on countless strings; yet he sensed work going on around him.

He heard Paz grunt. Then the pink, plump hand swung up into his view; the pink, plump hand now spattered with blood. In the manicured fingers dangled a little pouchlike object Eddie couldn’t identify at first. And then he did: it was a severed scrotum, with testicles still inside.

Something stung his arm. Everything went white, then black.

Eddie awoke in a pleasant room. There were books, soft lights, pictures on the walls. The curtains were drawn. It might have been any time at all, but it felt like night.

He lay on a hospital bed. He couldn’t move his arms or his legs, but he could raise his head. He raised it, looked down at his body. He was naked except for the bandages wrapped around him from just below the rib cage to midthigh. His wrists and ankles were bound to the safety bars along the sides with hard rubber restraints. He felt no pain, but he remembered everything. He lost control of his face. It began to crumple, like the face of a baby about to bawl.

The door opened. Senor Paz came in, glancing at his watch. “How’s the patient?”

Without thinking, Eddie tried to burst up off the table. He didn’t budge. At least he got control of his face.

“Quite pointless,” said Paz.

Eddie spat at him, a gob of spit that landed far short.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Paz. “Apart from the vulgarity, it’s unhygienic.”

Eddie tried again to burst free, tried even harder. Again, he got nowhere with the restraints; but he felt the end of one of the safety bars, the end near his right hand, giving slightly. Be smart . He stopped struggling. He couldn’t possibly free himself while Paz was watching.

“That’s better,” said Paz. “It won’t do any good, you know.”

Be smart, Eddie told himself, but he couldn’t stop his voice. “I’m going to kill you,” it said. “And the nurse and anyone else I can find.”

Paz nodded. “Understandable. The pity is you brought it all on yourself. You didn’t factor in the sort of people you were playing your little tricks on. I find that strange, considering that you must be some kind of survivor, given your history.”

“What are you talking about?”