Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

“We’re not here to be polite,” Toshi said. “We’re here for the card.”

Good, thought Teddy. Time to drive up the price. “I already have a very good offer. You’re going to have to pay top dollar if you want it.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Toshi and his associate stood, advanced toward Teddy.

“What the hell is this?”

They jumped on him, punched him in the stomach. He tried to talk but couldn’t catch his breath. Toshi landed a punch to the side of his head. Lights exploded. Teddy’s head buzzed. He tried to talk, but he was too rattled.

“Let me be clear,” Toshi said. “We want the card, and we’re prepared to offer you the bargain price of your life.”

Teddy barely heard them, was barely even conscious he was being dragged across the floor.

The alarm went off at midnight. Conner splashed water in his face. Jenny spent ten minutes in the bathroom. They dressed, cleared out of the motel. They pushed the canoe into the deep water, paddled upriver against the weak current.

A thin, clinging fog lay low on the river. It was too dark. Conner hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but occasional dock lights or flood lamps from a riverfront home kept them on course.

It was silent work, paddling in rhythm with their heavy breathing, muscles just a little sore from yesterday’s canoe trip. They didn’t want to talk anyway. Conner thought maybe they were finished with each other. They’d gotten what they’d needed from a moment in a certain time and place. There was left only the business of the sailboat.

They turned the canoe into Folger’s canal, passed the houses into the dark, deserted stretch, paddled a little faster, and emerged into the fuzzy light spilling from the bungalow’s windows across the yard. Conner motioned for Jenny to quit paddling. They glided along the quiet, glass-topped canal, not even the obligatory screech of a night bird.

Which was good because the screech of nearly anything would have scared the shit out of Conner. Conner didn’t like any of this. Not one damn bit. He’d never repossessed anything as clumsy and slow as a sailboat. Should he paddle it out like he’d told Jenny, or should he crank the engine and make a run for it? His arms were already too sore from the canoe trip, but he hated the thought of the engine not turning over. He pictured Folger barging out of the bungalow in a bathrobe, a shotgun in his hands. Conner had spent some time with boats. He knew the engine might crank, make a racket, then sputter out.

And Jenny. When Conner made a repo he usually didn’t have a sidekick. Worrying about her would only be a distraction.

Jenny leaned close, her hot whisper on his ear. “Why did we stop paddling?”

“I’m thinking how to do it,” Conner whispered. “Drop me off, then take the canoe to the Jenny . Tie up the canoe. We’ll tow it. I’m going to peek in his windows. If there’s nobody home, we’ll start the engine and do this the easy way.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Cast off the lines. Be ready to leave in a hurry.”

“Right.”

She paddled him to the edge of the canal, and he hoisted himself up and into Folger’s backyard. He paused a second to watch Jenny paddle toward the sailboat. What would he do if somebody came out of the house? Jump in the canal maybe. Start swimming. Conner decided not to think about it.

He jogged toward the bungalow, keeping low in war-movie crouch. One of Folger’s windows glowed from a lamp inside, but the yard was dark, no outside floods. Some houses had lights that kicked on when motion detectors were tripped. Maybe Folger had a dog. A hundred things could go wrong.

Conner let that thought drift away with a shrug. The lights would either blaze or they wouldn’t. Dogs would bark or not. Teddy Folger would pepper his ass with buckshot or he wouldn’t. Nothing to do now but go for it.

He ran toward the house, ducked and rolled on arrival, landing under the windowsill where the lamp within cast weak yellow light. Deep breaths. He waited, listened. I hate this shit. When he heard nothing, he lifted his head slowly, peered through the window.

Inside. Bare beige walls, fake bamboo furniture, cushions with a tropical pattern. Tile floor. Ceiling fan. Conner thought it looked like his great-aunt’s retirement villa in Boca.

Conner watched for a minute. Three minutes. Five. Nothing. Maybe he’d sneak around the front of the house. If the driveway was empty, he could safely assume nobody was home. This wouldn’t be so tough after all.

Then a figure wearing a dark suit came into the room. He talked over his shoulder to somebody else out of sight. The man was medium height, black hair, Asian features. Conner watched as the man lit a cigarette, paced with his free hand in his pants pocket. More chatter from the other room. The Asian guy nodded and went to join his accomplice.

Who was he? Not Teddy Folger. Conner looked back at the sailboat, brass fittings shining with moonlight. He strained his eyes to see if he could catch sight of Jenny’s silhouette, but the boat was dark, no movement. She should have been aboard by now. He thought about tiptoeing back, telling her they’d have to call it off. Strangers in Folger’s house, too many variables.

He wanted more information.

Conner circled the bungalow, found another window lit from within. The kitchen. He looked inside. He blinked at what he saw. His mouth fell open.

The guy tied to the kitchen chair must’ve been Teddy Folger. He was about the right age and the only white guy in the room. The other two were Asian. Teddy didn’t look good. A split lip, a black eye, hair disheveled. Folger’s Hawaiian shirt was ripped.

Conner smelled cigarette smoke and realized the window was open. Smoke and sound carried through the screen. Conner froze. He didn’t want to sneeze or snap a twig. Whatever the hell was happening to Folger was none of Conner’s business.

One of the Asian guys backhanded Folger in the face, and the sharp crack of skin on skin made Conner jump.

“Okay. That’s good,” said one of the others. “I think maybe Mr. Folger want to cooperate now. That okaydokey with you, Mr. Folger?” The man’s accent was heavy. Folger’s name came out Mistah Folgah.

Folger nodded. “Water. A drink.” Folger spit, a gooey strand of blood and saliva hanging from his chin.

“Get him water,” the guy in charge said. The other opened a cabinet, found a glass, and filled it in the sink.

Conner had seen enough. He’d tell Jenny the deal was off, and if she didn’t like it, he’d toss her in the canal and paddle the canoe the hell out of there full steam ahead. Conner wasn’t interested in getting his ass kung-fu’d.

Conner took a deep breath, tensed for gingerly steps away from the window. All he had to do was sneak away and-

From the backyard, the hot cough of a boat engine startled sleeping birds. It sputtered, rumbled, and petered out. It cranked again, turned over, revved into a high idle.

The Asian guys and Teddy Folger all turned their heads at once.

Conner’s heart beat up into his throat. Oh shit oh shit oh shit-

The Asian guy in charge screamed something to his pal, who took off through the kitchen toward the back door. Conner was already running.

He rounded the house and sprinted toward the boat. He heard the back door slam open, footfalls galloping behind him. A flash and gunshots, bullets whizzing. Yelling in a language Conner didn’t know.

Ahead of him the Electric Jenny was already under way, slowly gliding through the canal, a Jenny-shaped bulk stirring the darkness in the cockpit. At the first gunshot, the engine revved and moved faster.

Conner angled, ran an intercept course, hit the edge of the canal, and launched himself. He landed on the bow, tumbled, rolled onto the anchor, and howled bloody murder.