Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

‘How are you doin’ there, Moose? Ready to have a little Socratic dialogue yet? That means I say one thing, you say another, and I get to reach a conclusion.’ Dave flung away Willy’s socks with distaste and sipped some of his drink. ‘Ever hear of Socrates, Moose? He was a Greek philosopher, who was condemned to death for corrupting the youth of Athens. This was before television of course. Kids today, they’ve got cable, so they’re probably already corrupted, right? This Socrates was obliged to take hemlock. That’s a kind of poison. Related to the parsley family of plants, as a matter of small interest, so be careful how you garnish. Anyhow, when I read about this, in a book by Plato, I got to wondering just how the fuck do you go about obliging someone to take poison of his own volition. I mean it’s not like they strapped him down on a gurney for a lethal injection like they do in the can. No, he just sat around with a few of his good friends and drank it himself. No shit. And I asked myself, why?’

‘Fugg you,’ groaned Willy.

‘Well now, it turns out that those ancient Greeks — nasty bastards — gave you an alternative to letting you poison your own self. You know what that was? A guy would come along and torture you to death. How he did it was like this. He’d tie you down and give you some kind of drug to help your ass relax. Amyl nitrate, or its ancient equivalent most probably. Same as those S&M gays do. Those guys do all kinds of shit to each other that I can’t figure. When the executioner figured you were ready, he would stick his whole fucking arm up your ass, Robert Mapplethorpe style, and just keep on going until he got a hold of your heart. When he did — and this was the most exquisite part of the torture — he would slowly crush your heart in his hand, like it was a fucking sponge or something. Can you imagine that? Talk about pains in your chest. Jesus. The real experts could make it last a while, like experienced lovers. And that — that was the alternative to poison, I kid you not. A fatal fist-fuck. No wonder old Socrates elected to off himself, right?’

‘Gee-zuzz greist...’

‘Precisely. Another writer — you’re gonna hear me refer to a lot of literary figures, you spend any time with me, Moose. The last five years, I’ve done nothing but read. And work out. But that part you already know, I guess. Sorry I had to hit you so hard. But you’re a big guy, Moose. Anyway, this other writer, name of Samuel Johnson, said that the prospect of being hanged helps concentrate a man’s mind wonderfully. And my guess is that so does torture.’

‘Vugg ovv... my eye... zayin’ nuthin’... azzhole...’

Dave drew Willy’s feet toward him.

‘Moose, Moose, you wanna do something about these feet of yours. Worst case of athlete’s foot I ever saw. Do you dry between your toes? You should, you know. You’ve got yourself a chronic case of it here, I suspect. Damn difficult to eradicate. Most of those fungal preparations? They don’t work. But I’ve got a sure-fire way of getting rid of the tiny microbe that causes this misunderstood chiropodic condition. It’s really a secret, but I don’t mind sharing it with someone like you, Moose.’

Dave turned around.

‘But before I do, is there some secret you’d like to share with me? Kind of a quid pro quo? Like maybe who was it sent you to see me, packing thunder, and why? Talk to me, Moose. And don’t tell me you’re looking for your Velma or I’ll think you’re being cute with me.’

‘...the vug’s Velma...?’

‘You’re not a Chandler fan? That’s too bad, Moose. I think you’d enjoy him. He’s what we call hard-boiled. A bit like these feet of yours. So what do you say?’

Willy Barizon coughed painfully. ‘Look Mizter, you got the wrog guy. I don’t know nuthin’. Nobody vuggin zent me. My eye. There’z been zum miztake.’

‘Moose, you’re insulting my intelligence. And my intelligence doesn’t like that. It takes offense at just about anything. But mostly it takes offense at the assumption that it isn’t there. That I’m as dumb as you are.’

Dave started to thread the hotel matchbooks between Willy Barizon’s malodorous and clammy toes as if he had been preparing to paint the big man’s toenails.

‘Ugh. Remind me to wash my hands when I’m done here.’

‘What are ya doin’?’

‘It’s what I was telling you about, Moose. That sure-fire way of getting rid of athlete’s foot? Fact is man, you’ve got to burn it out. Like cauterizing a wound. Extreme heat kills infection. These are matchbooks, Moose. You ever see a whole matchbook burn? It’s like a Roman fucking candle, man.’

‘Help,’ screamed Moose and started to struggle desperately. But Dave was ready with a bar towel, stuffing it into Willy Barizon’s chop-shaped mouth.

‘Moose. Moose. Just shut the fuck up, will ya? You and I are going to have a Yossarian-sized problem here if we’re not careful. Catch-22? You remember that? I mean, you can hardly answer my questions if I gotta keep a towel in that Picasso-drawn mouth of yours. But then I can hardly go ahead and let you scream the fuckin’ place down either. You perceive my dilemma? So I tell you what I’m gonna do. Part of your problem here I think is your lack of imagination, your inability to visualize just how fiercely one of these little matchbooks can burn. Hence you are unable to conceptualize just how painful this will be for you. So, I’m gonna give you a little demonstration, in as nice a way as possible. And then I’m gonna take this towel out of your blowhole. At the risk of seeming otiose, that’s the point at which you’d better start talkin’ or I’m going to be cooking some bacon down here. So here goes with the object lesson.’

Dave placed an ashtray in front of Willy Barizon’s face. Then he tugged one of the matchbooks from between Willy’s toes, unfolded it, and lit it with the silver lighter he’d bought from the Porsche shop that afternoon. The cover of the book burned reluctantly for a moment and then extinguished. Dave snapped the lighter on and lit it again. This time the cover caught properly alight and a second later the matches themselves ignited spectacularly in a cloud of acrid blue smoke.

‘Whooa,’ chuckled Dave. ‘Olympic fucking flame. Ouch. That looks painful to me. What do you say, Willy? That look painful to you?’

Willy nodded furiously.

‘Ready for that dialogue now?’

Willy kept nodding.

‘Good boy.’ Dave hauled the towel out of Willy’s mouth. ‘So who sent you and why?’

‘It was Tony Nudelli.’

That surprised him.

‘Tony? Why? What the hell’s his beef with me?’

‘He wanted you to be reminded to keep your mouth shut about whatever it is that you know about.’

Dave frowned as he tried to make sense of this information.

‘I’ve spent the last five years in the joint keeping my mouth shut.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I swear it’s true.’

‘Exactly how were you going to remind me? I mean were you just going to have a quiet word in my ear, or was I supposed to feel the need for silence in some non-essential part of my body?’

‘I was just to smack you around some, that’s all. Maybe break a few fingers. Nothing serious.’

‘I’ve had girlfriends who might dispute that, Willy.’

‘It’s the God’s honest truth, I swear.’

‘Shut up a minute while I think.’

Dave was silent for a moment as he weighed up what Willy had told him. It was just possible that Tony Nudelli was indeed sufficiently scared of what Dave knew about him to have ordered up the goon he was now sitting on. Only Tony usually took care of things on a more permanent basis than just a few broken fingers and a busted lip. Dave knew that from personal memory. But as he thought about it some more, it occurred to him that maybe there was a way he might turn the situation to his advantage. A way of demonstrating his loyalty to Tony. A useful prelude for what was to come.