Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

Conner wasn’t sure what was happening, but he was glad the focus had moved away from him. He took the chair on the other side of the office.

Rocky said, “Okay, Otis. Tell him to come in.”

Otis mumbled at somebody through the door crack, and a few seconds later he opened it wide, ushered in a squat man with a scruffy beard. He wore a polo shirt, jeans, sneakers, a gold hoop in each ear. Brillo-pad hair.

“Have a seat, Jeff.” Rocky’s voice was suddenly lower and rough. A slight scowl on his face, which Conner couldn’t quite decide was convincing or not.

“Sure, Rocky.” Jeff’s wide smile looked tight and strained. He sat.

“Jeff, I think we need to discuss the twenty-five thousand dollars you owe me.”

Jeff’s eyes slid sideways to Conner a moment, then back to Rocky. Conner noticed Otis had moved to stand behind Jeff’s chair.

“Like I told your boys, Rocky,” Jeff said. “It’s just a little delay. My dumb-ass brother-in-law had to make a run to Mexico, right? And he had the dates wrong and now it’s just a simple delay with the merchandise.”

“I made you a loan,” Rocky said. “The particulars are of no interest to me.”

“Right, right. I know. I hear you.” Jeff bobbed his head. Agreeable. “And I totally respect what you’re saying. But I give you my one hundred percent promise that this deal I’m working on is a slam dunk. We needed you to finance us because we were up against a time thing, but as soon as my idiot brother-in-law comes back with the goods, we got a buyer waiting no problem and everybody gets paid.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

Rocky sighed. “Otis.”

Otis grabbed Jeff’s right arm, held it.

Jeff squirmed. “What is this? Hey!”

Otis took Jeff’s hand, grabbed the pinky finger, twisted. Snap.

The noise made Conner flinch.

Jeff howled.

“Again.” Rocky’s voice was barely above a whisper. He looked straight into Jeff’s face, didn’t blink.

Otis grabbed the next finger.

Jeff tried to pull away. “Hey, now wait-I said wait just a-”

Snap.

Jeff screamed. He’d gone pale, a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. “Rocky, please, I-”

Rocky nodded, and Otis broke another finger. Then another. A strangled, agonizing noise caught in Jeff’s throat. He went from pale to red to green in two seconds flat. Conner decided to look at his shoes. He felt cold and sick.

“They’re only fingers,” Rocky said. “So you can still walk out of here. But next time we do the legs. Then after that, you don’t walk out of here at all. Are we clear on this?”

Jeff’s mouth hung open. He looked at his wrecked hand, nodded.

“Otis, give the man his hand back. Jeff, see you in three days. Bring money.”

Otis helped Jeff stand. He wobbled on trembling legs, cradled his hand against his chest. Otis led him out of the office, shut the door behind them.

Rocky stood, shook his soft hands, shivered. “God, but I hate that. Oh, I think I’m going to be ill.” He shoved the phone book off his seat and onto the floor. “I simply detest violence.” He sat down again, breathing deeply.

Otis returned with a glass of water. He dropped in two tablets, and the water fizzed. He went to Rocky, put a gentle hand on the little man’s shoulder. “Your stomach?” He handed Rocky the glass. “Drink it before it goes flat.”

Rocky took the glass, drank it down, made a sour face, and put a hand on his chest. “When I heard the first finger break, I really thought I was going to lose it.” He set the glass on his desk. Otis’s hand was still on Rocky’s shoulder. Rocky covered the big guy’s hand with one of his own, offered Otis a grateful look. “You’re too good to me.”

“You need anything else, Rock?”

Rocky shook his head, smiled. “Let me have a word with your friend Conner, okay?”

“Sure.”

Otis flicked a two-finger salute at Conner. “Later, Conner-man.” He left.

Rocky gestured Conner back to the seat across from his desk. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Me too, thought Conner.

“Conner, I’ve decided we’re not going to take any more bets from you. I’m letting all my bookmakers know, so that’s really all there is to it.”

“What?”

Rocky looked slightly embarrassed. “Now, don’t be hard on Otis. It was his idea. He thinks you’re going to get yourself in trouble. Otis speaks highly of you, so I’d like to start considering you a friend of the family. It would be extremely awkward if you got in over your head, and we had to break every bone in your body. And I think you know now that having to do that would upset me just as much as it would upset you.”

Conner doubted that, but kept silent.

“In fact, Otis says you might be a useful fellow to have around,” Rocky said. “If you’re having money troubles, perhaps some sort of employment in my organization…”

“That’s okay, Rocky,” Conner said. “I always get by somehow.”

“Of course. You know best. All that’s left is to settle up the two thousand you owe me.”

Conner gulped. “I thought, well, since I’m pals with Otis, and since, you know, you’re cutting me off from the bookies… I thought you were letting me off the hook.”

Rocky sucked air through his teeth. “Mmmmmmm.” He shook his head, looked genuinely pained. “I’m afraid business is business. I just can’t do that. I hope you understand it’s nothing personal. My goodness, no. I can’t let anyone off the hook. It wouldn’t look right.”

A lead weight settled in Conner’s stomach. His mouth was dry. Conner wondered if he’d been allowed to watch Otis bust Jeff’s fingers in order to make a very specific point.

“I can see this comes at a bad time,” Rocky said. “How about this? Take a few days, get your finances in order, then bring me my money. Let’s say by the end of the week.” He picked up a pencil, flipped open his Rolodex. “I’ll even call you with a friendly reminder. What’s your number?”

Conner briefly explained his current telephone woes.

Rocky tsked. “When it rains, it pours, doesn’t it? Come with me.”

Conner followed Rocky out of the office.

They passed the machine-gun man, and Rocky said, “Hello, Pete. Have you met Conner?”

Pete grunted.

Rocky and Conner climbed into a golf cart that was parked on the other side of the forklift. Rocky drove. They whizzed past crates of stolen tennis shoes, blenders, sporting goods, and three red BMWs parked in a row. Rocky took the sharp turns at high speed, and Conner held on tight.

They screeched to a halt in front of a row of plastic garbage cans and climbed out. Rocky went to the can with the sign PREPAID written in green Magic Marker. The can was full of cell phones, all shapes and sizes. Rocky plucked one from the top, examined it, then tossed it back. He found another, turned it on, and nodded.

“This one has a full charge,” Rocky said. He scrolled down the cell phone’s menu and found the number. He scribbled it into a little book, which disappeared into a vest pocket. He handed the phone to Conner.

“Thanks.” Conner turned the phone over in his hands, wondered if he really wanted it. He stuck the phone in his pocket.

“Now we can stay in contact.” Rocky rubbed his hands together. “Anything else you need?”

“I could use a tuxedo.” Conner had meant it as a joke, but the smile died on his face. He joked when he was nervous, a bad habit that had earned him a few black eyes over the years.

“Come on,” Rocky said.

They sat in the golf cart, and Rocky unfolded a map of the warehouse. “Tuxedos on the other side. You look like a perfect forty-two to me.”