John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Pointer let go of Mark’s face and leaned back into his chair. “But I talked him out of it. I talked him into one more try. So here’s where it stands, asshole. If your nephew dies and we get our money, you live. Otherwise, you’re dead.”

Mark saw a distant light on his horizon, the faintest glimmer of hope. “That’s good, Pointer. Give me one more chance—”

Pointer cut him off again. “What, do I look crazy? You’re not getting a second chance at anything but living. I’ll take care of whacking the kid. Your job is to wait for the papers from your lawyer.”

In the long pause that followed, Mark knew there was something else coming, but he chose to wait rather than asking.

“There’s one more matter we need to discuss—two, actually.

First, you’re a minority shareholder in your inheritance now. Mr. Slater’s share went up to two million. That’s the price of a fuckup these days. Plus, I’m gonna add another three hundred thousand to let you live. Add to that another two hundred thou that you already owe me personally, and that makes your total bill about two million five. What’s left is yours.”

An objection formed in Mark’s throat, but he swallowed it quickly, before it could do any damage. The price of staying alive had suddenly become awfully steep. “I can live with that:’ he said, wincing at the unintentional pun.

Pointer laughed. “I bet you can. Now, that leaves us with one more bit of business.”

Sensing, incorrectly, that the worst was over for now, Mark sighed deeply and leaned forward to listen.

“You see, Mark,” Pointer explained, “I have a reputation to consider, too. And the simple fact of the matter is that I can’t afford to let you go on out of here without fucking you up.” He smoothly and slowly withdrew a pistol from a holster somewhere beneath the slick leather jacket, thumbed the hammer back, and placed the muzzle an inch from Mark’s right eye. He stood and pushed his chair back with his foot, giving himself some room to move around. Once standing, he shifted the gun from his right hand to his left, never moving the barrel from its perfect line to Mark’s brain. “Are you right-handed or left-handed?” he asked.

“L-left,” Mark stammered, in a whimpering tone that made Pointer feel sick to his stomach.

Pointer pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from an inside pocket and handed them over to Mark. “Here,” he said. “Let me see your signature here.”

Mark’s shoulders sagged visibly as he realized that his lie was transparent. There were real tears in his eyes now, to go along with the very real fear. “I’m sorry, Pointer,” he pleaded. “I made a mistake. Actually, I—I’m right-handed.”

“Put your right hand on the table,” Pointer commanded. As he spoke, something changed behind his eyes. Even in the darkness of the tavern Mark could see it. It was a chilling, calculating coldness. They were the eyes of evil.

Mark was vaguely aware that he had just pissed all over himself, adding yet another odor to the offensive bouquet that greeted him when he entered. He shook his head pitifully, not in defiance, but as a plea for leniency.

“Don’t make me ask more than once,” Pointer advised. “You need to remember that Mr. Slater and I don’t need your money. The money’s only important because it hurts you. And we owe you a lot of pain. Now, you make the choice. I can put a bullet in your eye right now, or you can put your hand on the table like I asked.”

Mark’s hand shook violently, out of control, as he complied with the orders and placed his hand on the table. His entire world consisted only of the huge circular void that was the muzzle of the cannon pointed at his face. He wondered morbidly if he’d actually be able to see the nose of the bullet as it cleared the opening on its way to kill him.

“These are the rules:’ Pointer explained. “If you make a sound, I’ll pull the trigger. No matter how bad it hurts, you just sit there quietly for once in your life and be a man. You understand?”

Mark was openly sobbing now, his. Facial features contorted like a small child’s as tears cascaded down his cheeks. But there was no sound.

A look of amusement settled into Pointer’s face as he wrapped his fist around the forefinger on Mark’s right hand and pressed his thumb firmly at the digit’s base, halfway between the second and third knuckle. Amusement turned to a wide grin as he steadily added more pressure with his thumb and leveraged upwards with the fingertip. His other hand remained firmly wrapped around the grip of his pistol.

After about five seconds, Mark’s second knuckle dislocated with a soft pop, like the sound you’d get pinching bubble wrap. Lights danced before his eyes, and he felt his gorge rise in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. And he didn’t make a sound. Ten seconds later, the finger broke midshaft, under Pointer’s thumb. Mark’s whole body jumped as pain shot like a spike all the way to his shoulder, causing him to bite through his lower lip.

When Pointer let go, Mark’s finger stuck straight up at the break, like a fleshy flagpole. Proud that he had made no noise, and that he was still alive as a result, he recovered his mangled hand and cradled it like a baby in the crook of his left elbow. Then he noticed that the gun hadn’t moved.

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Pointer said, the grin still there, “but we’re not done yet. The first finger was for fucking up. Now we’ve got to break one for telling me you were left-handed. We have to discover a basis for trust in our relationship. Now, put your hand back on the table:’

Mark’s hand had already swollen to twice its normal size as blood poured internally from ruptured vessels. Movement of any sort was excruciating, but the mental agony of going through this one more time was almost more than he could bear. Without the gentle support of his other hand, the broken finger wobbled back and forth at the break line, grinding bone ends against each other. He hoped he would pass out, giving Pointer the option of ending this while he was unconscious. But of course, no such thing happened.

This time, Pointer made it easy, grabbing Mark’s pinky even as he rested it on the table and wrenching it quickly backwards and sideways, nearly severing the finger at its root. This time Mark howled in agony, unable to control his voice, and he slipped from his chair down onto the filthy floor. Pointer considered shooting him on principle, but decided to ignore it. The son of a bitch had held out longer than he would have thought, anyway. He eased the hammer down and reholstered the Magnum. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Bailey. Write when you can. I’ll call you when we need you.”

As deliberately as he’d entered, Pointer strolled to the exit, telling the bartender as he passed, “My friend over there will pick up the tab. Be patient with him, though. Might take a few minutes for him to get the money out of his pocket.”

In reply, the bartender nodded politely and studiously avoided making any eye contact. No one in the Hillbilly Tavern had seen a thing.

Nathan licked the last of the pizza sauce off his thumb and forefinger and slumped backwards into the soft leather cushions of the sofa, thoroughly satisfied. Where a family-size frozen pizza had once resided on a cardboard tray, there were now only crumbs and a single orphaned pepperoni, which he quickly dispatched with one bite. He launched an enormous belch, and laughed aloud as the sound reverberated off the walls of the family room.

After hanging up with The Bitch, he’d listened for another hour or so in the bedroom as callers branded him either innocent and cute—Jeeze!—or guilty and vicious. There seemed to be no middle ground. He thought it was pretty cool that The Bitch was supportive. The more he listened, the more he became convinced that she was on his side.