Derek Haas - Dark men

Some hitters like to use their fists to elicit information, try to break a man so he’ll pour out his secrets, like punching a hole in the bottom of a water bucket. Not me. Like Kirschenbaum did to me in that hotel room in Connecticut, I stagger Deckman by playing with his expectations.

The name “Spilatro” floors him, like a driver who has to jerk the wheel suddenly when an animal darts into the road.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I let him dangle.

After a moment, he sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “You’re the guy, huh? The one he’s gone on about?”

“I’m the guy.”

“Columbus.”

“That’s right.”

“So you kidnapped me to get to him.”

“Means to an end.”

He nods. “So now what?”

“A swap. You for my friend.”

“Oh, yeah. The pistol.”

“Pistol?”

“Black guy in Chicago. Pulled a. 22 from under his mattress. Name was Grant but we’ll always call him the Pistol after that.”

“That’s right,” I say, and I’m oddly comforted that Archie impressed them enough to earn a new nickname. “Spilatro had two guys there.”

“Three, actually. And Spilatro never left the lobby. Pretty straightforward snatch-and-grab except your friend pops up with that pea-shooter right as I get my knee into his back. He squeezed a round off at Bando but missed his head by six inches-I pried the gun away from him after that.” He spits on to the dirty cement next to his feet, making a clear mark in the dust. “That scrawny dog could put up a fight. I’ll give him that.”

“Who broke his nose?”

“Who cares?”

“Little payback from Bando?”

“Does it matter?”

I let that one sail by.

“How long have you and Spilatro been government guys?”

He looks at me sideways. “Who sold you that dope?”

“Two and two makes four.”

“Except you put the wrong numbers into the calculator.”

“Did I?”

Deckman shrugs. “Who’s the chick?” he asks as he cranes his neck to get an eye on Risina.

“Man in your position might choose his words more carefully.”

“I haven’t felt this terrified since my dad got out his belt,” he says flatly.

“Your dad in Northville?”

“My dad six feet under in Birmingham.”

“That’s right. It’s your brother in Northville.”

“You hurt him?”

I shake my head.

“Sure I can’t have a smoke?”

I shake it again and he grins. “How’d you get Lance to give me up?”

“I told him you were dead. Said you left him some money.”

He nods. “Dollar signs was all it took, huh? Surprised you were the first to try it. He tell you I was a government man?”

“I already knew it.”

“Uh-huh. He’s my kid brother. You think I’m gonna tell him I plug guys for money?”

“I don’t care what you tell him.”

He falls silent for a moment. Then lifts his chin again, “You gonna let me-“

I interrupt to throw a wrench in his tactics. “How do we get ahold of your army buddy?”

He snickers, like this is all too much for him. “You’re not fishing. I can tell that. You must have a full file on me.”

“I had to pick up a new fence since you snatched mine.”

Risina smiles at that. She’s behind Deckman, so he doesn’t notice. I repeat, “How do I contact Spilatro?”

“You got my phone?”

“What’s the number?”

“Give me my phone and then give me my hands. I’ll track him down for you.”

“Your phone is smashed and in a trash can in the parking garage at the MGM. Along with your two pistols and the knife you had in that cute little wrist sheath.”

This gets him to draw in his smirk. “Doesn’t matter. They’ll know where I was last.”

“Who will?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Will I? It’s a big city.”

He shrugs, looks down at the floor. He tries to toe that spit mark he made in the dust, but can’t get to it with his foot.

I haven’t broken his confidence, but chipped at it, like a ship cracking through ice to get to the pole. I sit back and fold my hands behind my head. “Tell me about the dark men.”

His eyelids flutter, slightly. Then, he offers, “I gotta go to the can.”

I don’t move, just keep the chain tethered between our eyes.

“You gonna make me piss myself?”

“You can earn trips to the bathroom.”

“You’d fit right in at Abu Ghraib.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He takes another run at the bindings then settles again to see if he accomplished any slack. He grunts, unsatisfied, then does that thing people do when they’re absently thinking. He sort of moves his lips over to the side of his face. After a moment, he looks up again. “All right then. How you wanna play this? Because I’m getting bored and quite frankly, a little angry.”

“Tell us how to bring Spilatro out, and this can end lickety-split.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I’m not going to shoot you, or beat you, or cut you, if that’s what you’re wondering. I always thought that was more of a weasel play, and I don’t care for it, to tell you the truth. I mean, if you want immediate results, it’s probably the way to go, cut a man up, get him to talk, but why go to the trouble when I have nothing but time? So what I’m going to do is sit behind you in the dark back there and watch you die of thirst.”

He stares at me evenly, his face hot, as he tries to gauge whether or not I mean what I say.

Risina walks over and hands me a fast-food bag. I take out a plastic bottle of water, take a swig, then set the remainder in my chair.

“I checked online, and the maximum someone can go without water is ten days. But the statistics say your body will pretty much shut down in three. Three days? Can you imagine? That’s nothing. That’s a weekend. That’s a ‘hey, I’ve got plans on Tuesday so I’ll see you on Wednesday.’”

Risina pulls up a camera and takes a picture of him. Then we leave him there to think about that water bottle just out of his reach, Tantalus with his grapes.

This place must’ve once been some sort of manufacturing plant servicing the auto industry, but it has the look of a place run-down long before the Big Three started asking for government handouts.

An office adjacent to the room provides a window that looks out onto the front of the building so I can spot any unwelcome vehicles approaching. Whoever owns this warehouse doesn’t keep a regular security guard here, but maybe he pays someone to come out and look around once a week or once a month, the way Bacino’s neighbor did back in Chicago. It doesn’t look like the front door has been cracked in years, and I’m happy to keep playing the percentages, but if someone does happen to roll snake eyes, I’d like to have a few minutes warning to get my money off the table.

The room has another window on the opposite wall that faces the back of Deckman’s chair. He spent the first hour trying to tip the chair, and the second hour yelling just to yell. The next morning, he’s stiff and sore and broken. It didn’t take long.

“You kept in your piss. I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck you,” he croaks.

I start to stand again, and I can see the desperation in his eyes as clear as if I can read his thoughts. I’m going to guess he’s never been tortured before, neither during the first Gulf War nor at any point in his professional life, because he doesn’t have the mettle to test his own durability.

“Okay, listen. I don’t know why we gotta play it like this.” His voice sounds scratchy, like a rake on the sidewalk.

“Tell me how to contact him.”

“Okay, but listen. Here’s the thing.” His eyes ping-pong between my face and the water bottle in the chair. “You’re a dead man. You have to understand this. I say this not to be confrontational, but it’s a fact, as sure as these walls are white or that floor is cement. As sure as I can admit you know what you’re doing in tying a man to a chair. Spilatro is the smartest man I know, the smartest I’ve ever known. He thinks differently, you see? He sees the world as interconnected lines, or, or, dominoes toppling against each other.. but he sets ’em up, you see? He cuts the lines. He knows exactly which pieces are going to fall when, because everything fits into the little designs, the patterns he creates. We’re the dominoes, man. And he’s the finger pushing ’em over.