Lee Child - Killing Floor

The nearest guy was wearing pale sunglasses. The sort which darken in the sun. Silver halide. The guy had probably last seen the sun in the seventies. May never see it again. So the shades were redundant, but they looked good. Like the muscles. Like the bandannas and the torn shirts. All image. I waited.

The guy with the sunglasses spotted us. His look of surprise quickly changed to excitement. He alerted the group’s biggest guy by hitting his arm. The big man looked round. He looked blank. Then he grinned. I waited. The knot of men assembled outside our cell. They gazed in. The big guy pulled open our gate. The others passed it from hand to hand through its arc. They latched it open.

“Look what they sent us,” the big guy said. “You know what they sent us?”

“What they sent us?” the sunglasses guy said.

“They sent us fresh meat,” the big guy answered.

“They sure did, man,” the sunglasses guy said. “Fresh meat.”

“Fresh meat for everybody,” the big guy said.

He grinned. He looked around his gang and they all grinned back. Exchanged low fives. I waited. The big guy stepped half a pace into our cell. He was enormous. Maybe an inch or two shorter than me but probably twice as heavy. He filled the doorway. His dull eyes flicked over me, then Hubble.

“Yo, white boy, come here,” he said. To Hubble.

I could sense Hubble’s panic. He didn’t move.

“Come here, white boy,” the big guy repeated. Quietly.

Hubble stood up. Took half a pace toward the man at the door. The big guy was glaring with that rage glare that is supposed to chill you with its ferocity.

“This is Red Boy territory, man,” the big guy said. Explaining the bandannas. “What’s whitey doing in Red Boy territory?”

Hubble said nothing in reply.

“Residency tax, man,” the big guy said. “Like they got in Florida hotels, man. You got to pay the tax. Give me your sweater, white boy.”

Hubble was rigid with fear.

“Give me your sweater, white boy,” he said again. Quietly.

Hubble unwrapped his expensive white sweater and held it out. The big man took it and threw it behind him without looking.

“Give me the eyeglasses, white boy,” he said.

Hubble flicked a despairing glance up at me. Took off his gold glasses. Held them out. The big man took them and dropped them to the floor. Crunched them under his shoe. Screwed his foot around. The glasses smashed and splintered. The big man scraped his foot back and flicked the wreckage backward into the corridor. The other guys all took turns stamping on them.

“Good boy,” the big guy said. “You paid the tax.”

Hubble was trembling.

“Now come here, white boy,” said his tormentor.

Hubble shuffled nearer.

“Closer, white boy,” the big man said.

Hubble shuffled nearer. Until he was a foot away. He was shaking.

“On your knees, white boy,” said the big guy.

Hubble knelt.

“Unzip me, whitey,” he said.

Hubble did nothing. Filled with panic.

“Unzip me, white boy,” the big guy said again. “With your teeth.”

Hubble gave a gasp of fear and revulsion and jumped back. He scuttled backward to the rear of the cell. Tried to hide behind the john. He was practically hugging the pan.

Time to intervene. Not for Hubble. I felt nothing for him. But I had to intervene for myself. Hubble’s abject performance would taint me. We would be seen as a pair. Hubble’s surrender would disqualify us both. In the status game.

“Come back, white boy, don’t you like me?” the big guy called to Hubble.

I took a long silent breath. Swung my feet over the side of the bunk and landed lightly in front of the big man. He stared at me. I stared back, calmly.

“You’re in my house, fat boy,” I said. “But I’m going to give you a choice.”

“Choice of what?” said the big guy. Blankly. Surprised.

“A choice of exit strategies, fat boy,” I said.

“Say what?” he said.

“What I mean is this,” I said. “You’re going to leave. That’s for sure. Your choice is about how you leave. Either you can walk out of here by yourself, or these other fat boys behind you are going to carry you out in a bucket.”

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“For sure,” I said. “I’m going to count to three, OK, so you better choose real quick, right?”

He glared at me.

“One,” I counted. No response.

“Two,” I counted. No response.

Then I cheated. Instead of counting three I headbutted him full in the face. Came off the back foot with a thrust up the legs and whipped my head forward and smashed it into his nose. It was beautifully done. The forehead is a perfect arch in all planes and very strong. The skull at the front is very thick. I have a ridge up there like concrete. The human head is very heavy. All kinds of neck muscles and back muscles balance it. It’s like getting hit in the face with a bowling ball. It’s always a surprise. People expect punching or kicking. A headbutt is always unexpected. It comes out of the blue.

It must have caved his whole face in. I guess I pulped his nose and smashed both his cheekbones. Jarred his little brain around real good. His legs crumpled and he hit the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. Like an ox in the slaughterhouse. His skull cracked on the concrete floor.

I stared around the knot of men. They were busy reassessing my status.

“Who’s next?” I said. “But this is like Vegas now, it’s double or quits. This guy is going to the hospital, maybe six weeks in a metal mask. So the next guy gets twelve weeks in the hospital, you understand that? Couple of smashed elbows, right? So who’s next?”

There was no reply. I pointed at the guy in sunglasses.

“Give me the sweater, fat boy,” I said.

He bent and picked up the sweater. Passed it to me. Leaned over and held it out. Didn’t want to get too close. I took the sweater and tossed it onto Hubble’s bunk.

“Give me the eyeglasses,” I said.

He bent and swept up the twisted gold wreckage. Handed it to me. I tossed it back at him.

“They’re broken, fat boy,” I said. “Give me yours.”

There was a long pause. He looked at me. I looked at him. Without blinking. He took off his sunglasses and handed them to me. I put them in my pocket.

“Now get this carcass out of here,” I said.

The bunch of men in their orange uniforms and their red bandannas straightened out the slack limbs and dragged the big man away. I crawled back up into my bunk. I was shaking with adrenaline rush. My stomach was churning and I was panting. My circulation had just about shut down. I felt terrible. But not as bad as I would have felt if I hadn’t done it. They’d have finished with Hubble by then and started in on me.

I DIDN’T EAT ANY BREAKFAST. NO APPETITE. I JUST LAY ON the bunk until I felt better. Hubble sat on his bed. He was rocking back and forward. He still hadn’t spoken. After a while I slid to the floor. Washed at the sink. People were strolling up to the doorway and gazing in. Strolling away. The word had gotten around fast. The new guy in the cell at the end had sent a Red Boy to the hospital. Check it out. I was a celebrity.

Hubble stopped his rocking and looked at me. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Opened it for a second time.

“I can’t take this,” he said.

They were the first words I had heard him say since his assured banter on Finlay’s speakerphone. His voice was low, but his statement was definite. Not a whine or a complaint, but a statement of fact. He couldn’t take this. I looked over at him. Considered his statement for a long moment.

“So why are you here?” I asked him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he said. Blankly.