here and get the Hoover. We’ll have you as trim as Celine Dion in the twinkle of an eye.”
He looks up at me and tries to mouth some words, but just pukes again.
“Or you and your buddy seem close. Maybe he’ll show his friendship by sucking the fat out of your wound.”
I look at Skinny. “And if I tell you to do it, believe me, before I’m done, you’ll beg me to let you.”
I return my attention to fat fuck biker. “No, wait. That means I have to gouge more pieces out of you, so the fat is removed from various places to create symmetry. It’s important to me that you feel svelte and attractive, like an improved person when we’re through. It will be good for your self-image. I think a poor self-image is what brought you to this moment of ignominy that you’re now suffering. We give you a makeover, put you in a suit, your confidence will skyrocket, and before you know it, you’ll have your own office in the World Trade Center, trading stocks and bonds.”
I smack the tip on the sidewalk and the lion’s mouth springs opens. “Yuck,” I say. “On second thought, you really should have a doctor look at that,” and shake the bite of beer fat out of the lion’s mouth and onto his head. “Well,” I say, “now you’re going to walk like me.” I lift my shirt and show him the handle of the Colt sticking out of the waistband. “Look at my face. Do you want to be handsome like me, too?”
He manages to talk through gritted teeth. “Sir, I apologize for my bad attitude. Would you please stop hurting me now?”
I notice there’s a woman standing at the front door of my building, watching. I ignore her.
Back to Skinny. “The story,” I say.
“Sir,” he says, “we got a get-out-of-jail-free card on a drug bust, plus a hundred euros each a day to watch you.”
“So, a cop put you up to this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“His name?”
“He didn’t give one, didn’t even show us ID.”
“Then how do you know he’s a cop?”
“Because he got us out of the can and got the charges against us dropped. The apartment he put us in is vacant. We didn’t know you’re police officers.”
Like it would have made any difference. “Have you been smashing my windows, writing notes, playing dirty tricks?”
“Yes, sir. But we didn’t teargas your house. The cop did it himself.”
“You’ve frightened and endangered my friends and family. How do you intend to make that up to me?”
His voice quakes. “Sir, I apologize for the trouble we’ve caused you, and we’ll do whatever you tell us will satisfy you.”
“Tell me about the cop.”
“He didn’t look too good. Broken nose. Fake front teeth. Some scars on his face and what looks like a surgery scar beside his left eye.”
He’s describing Captain Jan Pitkänen of SUPO, the minister of the interior’s hatchet man. Milo destroyed Pitkänen’s face, reduced it to pulp with the butt of his pistol. Milo beat him half to death, but it was Pitkänen’s own fault. When Milo approached him, he failed to identify himself and reached inside his jacket. He might have been reaching for a gun. I told Milo he went too far, though, and Pitkänen wouldn’t forget it. However, he wouldn’t be harassing me without the knowledge of the minister, Osmo Ahtiainen. Further, he almost certainly ordered Pitkänen to do so.
“You know who it is?” Sweetness asks.
“Yep. You squeezed his partner’s shoulder so hard that you dislocated it and broke his collarbone.”
“What do you want to do with these fuckwads?” he asks.
I lean against the side of my now windowless Saab. “Be creative,” I say.
I look up. Jenna and Mirjami watch through my window.
Skinny’s hand is on the hood of my car. Sweetness grinds a cigarette out on the hand, looks thoughtful, pensive. Skinny doesn’t move or protest, just grimaces. “You guys ever seen the movie
American History X
?” Sweetness asks.
They both nod.
“You remember near the beginning, when Edward
He looks up at me and tries to mouth some words, but just pukes again.
“Or you and your buddy seem close. Maybe he’ll show his friendship by sucking the fat out of your wound.”
I look at Skinny. “And if I tell you to do it, believe me, before I’m done, you’ll beg me to let you.”
I return my attention to fat fuck biker. “No, wait. That means I have to gouge more pieces out of you, so the fat is removed from various places to create symmetry. It’s important to me that you feel svelte and attractive, like an improved person when we’re through. It will be good for your self-image. I think a poor self-image is what brought you to this moment of ignominy that you’re now suffering. We give you a makeover, put you in a suit, your confidence will skyrocket, and before you know it, you’ll have your own office in the World Trade Center, trading stocks and bonds.”
I smack the tip on the sidewalk and the lion’s mouth springs opens. “Yuck,” I say. “On second thought, you really should have a doctor look at that,” and shake the bite of beer fat out of the lion’s mouth and onto his head. “Well,” I say, “now you’re going to walk like me.” I lift my shirt and show him the handle of the Colt sticking out of the waistband. “Look at my face. Do you want to be handsome like me, too?”
He manages to talk through gritted teeth. “Sir, I apologize for my bad attitude. Would you please stop hurting me now?”
I notice there’s a woman standing at the front door of my building, watching. I ignore her.
Back to Skinny. “The story,” I say.
“Sir,” he says, “we got a get-out-of-jail-free card on a drug bust, plus a hundred euros each a day to watch you.”
“So, a cop put you up to this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“His name?”
“He didn’t give one, didn’t even show us ID.”
“Then how do you know he’s a cop?”
“Because he got us out of the can and got the charges against us dropped. The apartment he put us in is vacant. We didn’t know you’re police officers.”
Like it would have made any difference. “Have you been smashing my windows, writing notes, playing dirty tricks?”
“Yes, sir. But we didn’t teargas your house. The cop did it himself.”
“You’ve frightened and endangered my friends and family. How do you intend to make that up to me?”
His voice quakes. “Sir, I apologize for the trouble we’ve caused you, and we’ll do whatever you tell us will satisfy you.”
“Tell me about the cop.”
“He didn’t look too good. Broken nose. Fake front teeth. Some scars on his face and what looks like a surgery scar beside his left eye.”
He’s describing Captain Jan Pitkänen of SUPO, the minister of the interior’s hatchet man. Milo destroyed Pitkänen’s face, reduced it to pulp with the butt of his pistol. Milo beat him half to death, but it was Pitkänen’s own fault. When Milo approached him, he failed to identify himself and reached inside his jacket. He might have been reaching for a gun. I told Milo he went too far, though, and Pitkänen wouldn’t forget it. However, he wouldn’t be harassing me without the knowledge of the minister, Osmo Ahtiainen. Further, he almost certainly ordered Pitkänen to do so.
“You know who it is?” Sweetness asks.
“Yep. You squeezed his partner’s shoulder so hard that you dislocated it and broke his collarbone.”
“What do you want to do with these fuckwads?” he asks.
I lean against the side of my now windowless Saab. “Be creative,” I say.
I look up. Jenna and Mirjami watch through my window.
Skinny’s hand is on the hood of my car. Sweetness grinds a cigarette out on the hand, looks thoughtful, pensive. Skinny doesn’t move or protest, just grimaces. “You guys ever seen the movie
American History X
?” Sweetness asks.
They both nod.
“You remember near the beginning, when Edward
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