Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

He shook his head several times, muttered, “I can't think straight—everything is fuzzy. Before you call the police, can I douse my head under the shower?”

“Sure. Only don't try anything super-clever; this isn't your racket.”

I followed him into the bathroom. He brushed the shower curtains aside with one hand, turned on the cold water. It ran on his head and part of his collar. I stood several feet behind him, in case he tried yanking off the curtain, throwing it around me.

Bent over the tub, Saxton was a comical figure—his broad fleshy can facing me, water splashing on his head, over his clothes. He shut the water off, reached over toward the towel rack beside the tub, came up with a towel... and one of those old big .45s.

For a split second I had to admire him, he'd found a new place to park a gun. His eyes were cold and over-bright as he advanced toward me, his dripping wet face giving him an insane look. He growled, “Keep your hands up high. You Wop scum, thinking you could match your lousy brains with mine. Turn around!”

I turned, and there's always that horrible second of waiting when you know you're going to get conked... wondering if it will be the barrel of the gun or the butt... will your brains be splattered.... But I couldn't make a play—with a .45 even a slug in the shoulder will knock you flat, maybe take off your arm. He was too close to miss or.... I heard the faint swish the gun made through the air. A flash of terribly bright pain swept over me and then I was drowning in heavy mushy darkness.

I must have been out a long time. When I came to I thought I was still up in the clouds... I was naked and hanging from the doorway by my wrists, which were roped to pipes some place on the bathroom wall. I was standing on the floor but Saxton had pushed heavy barbells in front and in back of my ankles, anchoring my feet. I stood there, as though crucified while Saxton took off his coat and shirt, exposing his heavy muscle-bound arms. I pulled at my wrists and only succeeded in burning them with the ropes. Things were still fuzzy from the sock on the head and the entire back of my skull seemed miles away. I mumbled, “You must be a Scoutmaster, Willie, you're good at tying knots... and nooses. Bet you're a whiz at camping and...”

He stood in front of me and started slugging me in the stomach and chest.

Willie didn't know how to hit, thought muscles meant power. His blows weren't love-taps, but except for knocking the air out of me, he wasn't doing much damage. I forced myself to pee on his floor—a bladder full of urine can burst under a punch and then you're in real trouble.

The sight of me relieving myself seemed to drive him into a spurt of wild punching that left him puffing after a few seconds, and he stopped, dropped his hands and glared at me. I gasped, “What you doing, you crazy son of a bitch?”

“You're going to have a hemorrhage, and die, Ranzino. Look very natural, for a person suffering from T.B.,” he said, breathing hard”.

“Won't go, you'll never get away with this,” I said, the words sounding odd because my mouth was open like a fish's, eating air.

“I'll chance it. This is something else I planned... in advance. Even though you haven't much confidence in plans, I...”

“Don't be a fool, Saxton, Mady will miss me, call the cops, tell them...”

“Madeline is drunk right this moment. We both saw her at the bottle. I've arranged everything, you'll be found dead in the street... of natural causes.”

“But...”

“You must know as well I do, that I have to kill you, Ranzino. There's no choice, for me,” Saxton said, coming at me with his big arms out like a bear. He put them around my chest and began to squeeze.

The pressure on my ribs was unbearable, and all I could think about was the delicate X-ray pictures of my lung—the left one with the scar on it. I tried to wiggle out of his hold and almost wrenched my arms out of their sockets. I managed to pull a leg out from between the barbells, ripping my skin off my ankle. I brought my knee up but missed his groin. I caught him inside the thigh—high—up and he let go and staggered away, bent over.

I thrashed about wildly but couldn't get my spread-eagled arms loose, and finally I just hung there, exhausted. Saxton straightened, up, said coldly, “Unfortunately I can't hit your face, don't want you marked.”

“You've already marked me... with that clout on the head,” I mumbled wondering why I talked.

“When you had your hemorrhage, you fell and struck your head on the curb. I shall leave your body in the proper position.” Saxton suddenly grabbed my free leg with his left hand and hit me in the gut with his right. Without knowing it, he got in a lot of leverage, and I thought his fist would come through my back. I must have passed out. When I came to he had my foot anchored again and was beating a steady blow of clumsy punches on my chest and stomach.

He was sweating and huffing like a bull, and he stopped and got more rope and tied my feet down. Then he opened the bathroom window behind me, and all the living-room windows, and sat down to rest.

I suppose I could have yelled, maybe I tried, maybe I didn't, knowing he'd only put a gag in my mouth. I hung there limply and a draft of cool damp air went through the room, chilled my body.

Saxton gave me an evil grin and I knew the draft was on purpose.... Willie knew what he was doing! Back in the hospital they used to leave us in beds on the open roof in the middle of the winter, all bundled in blankets, woolen caps on our heads. Just our faces exposed. They had the blankets pinned down, in case we fell asleep and twisted out of the blankets. The orderly used to crack, “Keep under cover, fellows, in this cold you'll be a corpse within an hour and you'll keep so well... I wouldn't even know you're dead for two days.” The orderly thought his sense of humor was part of building up our morale. But we were careful to keep bundled up.

It wasn't that cold in Saxton's apartment, but I knew I couldn't last more than a couple of hours in this draft.

He rested for what seemed hours, then got up flexed his shoulders, and squeezed past me, through the doorway, and into the bathroom. As an afterthought he socked me in the kidneys and the pain made me scream. Only a cotton-dry sound came out of my lips.

Saxton untied one wrist, bent my arm behind my back and held me up as he untied the other... tied my arms together behind my back. My arms were numb, no longer a part of me, and I couldn't have lifted them if I wanted to... and I couldn't think clearly enough to want to do anything.

I heard a grunt, then a sort of whistle as Saxton took a deep breath and lifted my 200 pounds off the floor and let me slide into the clammy-cold tub. He turned on the shower and a stream of cold water cleared my head.... I could hear a funny sound and it took me a minute to realize it was my teeth chattering. He yanked the shower curtains off and that damn draft of air hit my wet body like a shroud.

Saxton sat on the John and lit a cigarette. He pulled his wristwatch out of his pocket, said, calmly, “Only ten-thirty. By three in the morning you'll be ready to dump in the street.”

I opened my mouth and told him to go to hell—but I'm not sure any words came out. He sat there, watching me, that satisfied gleam in his eyes. When he finished his butt, he thumbed it at me, I didn't feel it, I suppose the water put it out.

The room was beginning to swim before my eyes when he turned the water off, pulled me out of the tub and hung me up again. As from a great distance I felt his blows and I must have blacked out.

When I came to, I was back in the tub, under the water once more. I knew I was delirious and so numb I couldn't feel the cold water. I passed out again.