Colin Harrison - Afterburn

"You could," Rick agreed, "but if the same drop-off-place number came up twice in a row, which can happen, then you have the truck appearing in the same place at the same time on the same date two months in a row, which was too risky. No, she had something in there for that, but I can't remember."

Morris consulted his piece of paper. "What about the places where you got the numbers?"

"I remember a few," he said, feeling tired. The pain from the foot wound was indistinguishable from the ankle pain. "One of them was in Penn Station, looking at the train board. Another was that big stock market board they got over on Times Square. Then I think a third was the digital thermometer on the top of the Gulf amp; Western Building, probably the last digit, since that would-"

Morris took off his watch.

"Hey," yelled Rick, "I just gave you everything!"

"You didn't give us Christina."

"I told you, I'm looking for her myself. I'm getting-"

"Drill."

He fought them as hard as he could now, butting with his head, whipping his feet out, but they'd kept his cuffs on, and while Tommy pulled his arms over his head and Jones sat on his feet, Morris touched the drill against Rick's rib cage. He could feel it powdering the bone, vibrating his whole chest.

"Rick," Morris hissed next to his ear. "Come on, be a champ here, tell us where she is, guy."

He breathed as best he could. "I don't know," he cried in misery. "I-wait, I-oh…" Suddenly he found his hatred. "Oh, you cocksuckers can fucking go to hell."

Morris nodded to Tommy and Jones. "The jaw."

He felt their fingers grab his neck and head and shove it down on the old wooden table. He fought with everything he had left, kicking with his good foot, hitting one of them hard in the chest, not even feeling his foot, his rib, but just fighting blindly, fighting against them and his own fear, fighting for the idea of survival, and they snatched his hair and lifted his head up and pounded it against the table and he fell asleep for a moment, and that was when the drill started again and went in and through his unshaven cheek and destroyed one of his upper teeth. The pain burned through into his eye and ear and neck, and he saw hot white lights in his head yet held his mouth open and kept his tongue pressed down to avoid the drill. It stayed in there, whirling blood and tissue inside his mouth, riding back and forth across the destroyed roots of the tooth, killing his head with pain. He may have been screaming, he didn't know. He went limp, eyes shut, mouth filling with blood. Morris pulled out the drill, not cleanly but dragging it over the bottom tooth, and again the pain cabled into Rick's eye socket and pushed outward along the ear canal and even into his nose. He felt air coming in coolly through his cheek. The blood was sticky and warm in his throat, and he tentatively closed his mouth and opened it, tonguing little pieces of tooth against his gum.

" That, I will freely confess," said Morris, "was a mistake."

"Why?" asked Jones.

"You want a guy to talk, you don't drill his mouth."

"Got a point there."

Morris drew close and whispered, his breath metallic, like the side effect of medication. "You're all over the Village, Rick. You been snooping around, looking in shops and talking to people. Right? You think we don't know this?"

"Ha-wait, wait," he breathed thickly. "She probably down there-could be anywhere… I don't know — "

Morris wasn't listening. "Tommy, you pack the ice chest like I told you?"

"In the car."

"Go get it."

"Right."

"Also bring the camera."

"You got it."

"Hey, Rick," Morris said, "you know, she's not worth it, okay? I mean-hey! — we're reasonable people. You tell us, we drop you at the hospital, they patch you up. You're bleeding now, see. You're in a little bit of trouble. Tell us now and it's the emergency room."

He made a noise with his mouth.

"It's not a big problem. It's like five minutes."

His groin felt wet, his head hot. His hands were cold, and he wanted to sleep. Maybe they would take him to the emergency room. Of course. He couldn't really die now, it wasn't time.

Morris started the drill.

Rick shut his eyes. "Jim-Jack," he called, mouth a socket of agony. "Bleeck-er."

"What about it?"

"Work there."

"What days?"

He didn't know, but they would not believe him if he said so. "Mon-day to Sat-day."

"Nights, day?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Downtown-we can pick her up anytime," said Tommy.

"Right." Morris turned back to Rick. He looked at the drill, then started it. "Where's she living?"

"I–I don't-" He didn't want to say it. He was sorry. He was sorry for everything, and he closed his eyes, choking.

"It's coming, I can tell," Morris narrated. "I've seen this."

"I love her… I love that girl!" The drill started near his ear and he began to cry, convulsing in despair at how worthless and weak and broken he was, a nobody afraid of dying. "I loved…" He sobbed shamefully and covered his eyes with his shackled hands.

"No, no, Rick," explained Morris, "not that, not yet, you can't break down yet. You have to just hold on now, say the address. Just say it-you can. Just let it out."

"I love her, I do!" he cried, hating himself.

"I know you do," came Morris's voice of understanding. "That's admirable, I respect you for that, but it doesn't help anything. You have to tell us the address now, Rick. You have to say it. If you don't, then I'll give you the drill again. You know I will. Right? I know what I'm doing, Rick. I worked as a paramedic for nine years, I've seen everything. I have control of you, Rick. I have control of your body and your mind, and I have more things in my box that hurt. Now, you need to give me her address or it will get very bad for you."

" Ah…" he breathed, not knowing what to do.

The drill started. His eyes were closed, but the drill was so near he could smell the burn of the electric motor. The noise was close to his nostril, just inside, tickling-"East Fourth!" he cried. "East Fourth… First Avenue. Blue building. The mailbox says Williams."

"Williams?" said Morris, withdrawing the drill.

"Yeah."

Morris let the drill stop. "Good, very good."

A few minutes passed. He dribbled spitty blood from his mouth. He didn't care about the ankle or the rib, it was the tooth, all gone, all drilled away, the roots sensitive to the air, his tongue feeling the hole in his cheek. They sat him up again and gave him a carton of orange juice. He spilled some of it down his shirt. It burned his tooth but cleaned out his throat.

"Okay?" asked Rick finally. "Thah's it?"

Morris shook his head. "You didn't tell us about the money."

"What?"

Tommy dragged a large ice chest across the floor. A Polaroid camera swung from his neck.

"The big money, the boxes."

"There's no money like that!" cried Rick. He tried to stand but fell to the floor. "You gotta take me to the hospital now!"

"We're not quite done here," Morris noted. "Tommy, show Rick the ice chest."

Tommy pulled over the cooler. "I usually take this on my boat."

"We've got this thing under control, Rick," said Morris. "Help him back up on the table." He wet his finger in his mouth, then pulled off his wedding ring and slipped it into his pocket. "Okay, so now we're going to find out if you know where the money is."

"Nah-" He didn't understand.

"This is under control, Rick, you don't have to worry."

He couldn't really talk, his mouth was so swollen and thick. Morris pointed to his arms.

"We're going to cut one off."

"Nah! Please!" He checked Morris's eyes.

"Tommy, you put film in that fucking camera?"

"'Course."

"Tony wants proof, see."

"Fuck!" yelled Rick. "What? What?"