Bobby Joe, in particular. Bad army life, doesn’t like authority, certainly doesn’t like women. A bad combination for your situation. Tell me where Fitzpatrick is and we’ll walk out of here.”
“Who?”
“I was afraid we’d hear that from you.”
The other two men, Bobby Joe and Erik, came out of the bedroom, crossed my wrists behind me, and wound the adhesive tape deep into my flesh. I could feel the blood swelling in my veins. Then the man in the raincoat nodded to Bobby Joe, who jerked my head down with both hands and brought his knee up into my face. I crashed against the coffee table, my nose ringing with pain, my eyes watering uncontrollably. Bobby Joe and Erik picked me up by each arm. Their hands were like Vise-Grips on me. Then Bobby Joe hit me twice in the stomach, and I doubled over and gagged a long string of saliva on the rug.
“Now you’re a cooperative biscuit-eater,” Bobby Joe said, and they led me into the bathroom.
The tub was running over now. Erik turned off the taps, and the man in the raincoat lowered the toilet-seat cover, sat on it, and lighted a Camel cigarette.
“In ‘Nam we wrapped a towel around Charlie’s face and soaked it in water,” he said. “It was kind of like a portable river to drown in. But it always worked. Even better than calling him up on the telephone crank. Let’s have it, Lieutenant, so we don’t have to go through this bullshit.”
They had me on my knees, bent over the tub now. My nose was dripping blood into the water. They waited a moment in the silence, then shoved my head under.
I fought to get up, but it didn’t do any good. My knees felt like they were greased with Vaseline; my stomach was pressed hard over the tub’s rim, and Bobby Joe was leaning all his weight on the back of my neck. My breath bubbled out my nose and mouth, I shook my head violently from side to side with my eyes open, my teeth gritted, then the closure apparatus in my throat broke and I sucked water inside my head and lungs like a series of doors slamming forever.
They pulled me up roaring with water and air, and threw me against the metal legs on the sink.
“This isn’t so bad. There’s no permanent damage done,” the man in the raincoat said. “It’d be a lot worse if Segura’s people handled it. It has something to do with the Latin tradition. I think they got it from the Romans. Did you know that Nero killed himself because the Senate sent word to him that he was to be executed in ‘the old way,’ which meant being whipped to death with his head locked in a wooden fork? If you don’t want to say where Fitzpatrick is, you can write it on a piece of paper. It’s funny how that makes a difference for people sometimes.”
My heart was thundering, my breath laboring in my throat.
“I never heard of the cocksucker,” I said.
I felt Bobby Joe begin to lift me by one arm.
“Wait a minute,” the man in the raincoat said. “The lieutenant’s not a bad fellow. He just doesn’t know what’s involved. If he did, he might be on our team. Fitzpatrick probably gave you a patriotic shuck and you thought you were helping out the good guys.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“You’re probably a good cop, but don’t tell us you’re shaking the bushes all over New Orleans and Cataouatche Parish because of a drowned colored girl,” he said.
“Two minutes this time. He’ll tell,” Erik said.
The man in the raincoat leaned down and looked intently in my face.
“He means it,” he said. “Two minutes under water. Maybe you’ll make it. Sometimes they don’t. It happens.”
“All he’s got to do is nod his head up and down, then he can have all the air he wants,” Bobby Joe said.
He jerked me up half-erect by my arm and started to slide me across the wet tiles to the tub’s rim again. But this time I was dripping with water and sweat and I slipped loose from him, fell on my buttocks, and shot one leather-soled shoe like a
“Who?”
“I was afraid we’d hear that from you.”
The other two men, Bobby Joe and Erik, came out of the bedroom, crossed my wrists behind me, and wound the adhesive tape deep into my flesh. I could feel the blood swelling in my veins. Then the man in the raincoat nodded to Bobby Joe, who jerked my head down with both hands and brought his knee up into my face. I crashed against the coffee table, my nose ringing with pain, my eyes watering uncontrollably. Bobby Joe and Erik picked me up by each arm. Their hands were like Vise-Grips on me. Then Bobby Joe hit me twice in the stomach, and I doubled over and gagged a long string of saliva on the rug.
“Now you’re a cooperative biscuit-eater,” Bobby Joe said, and they led me into the bathroom.
The tub was running over now. Erik turned off the taps, and the man in the raincoat lowered the toilet-seat cover, sat on it, and lighted a Camel cigarette.
“In ‘Nam we wrapped a towel around Charlie’s face and soaked it in water,” he said. “It was kind of like a portable river to drown in. But it always worked. Even better than calling him up on the telephone crank. Let’s have it, Lieutenant, so we don’t have to go through this bullshit.”
They had me on my knees, bent over the tub now. My nose was dripping blood into the water. They waited a moment in the silence, then shoved my head under.
I fought to get up, but it didn’t do any good. My knees felt like they were greased with Vaseline; my stomach was pressed hard over the tub’s rim, and Bobby Joe was leaning all his weight on the back of my neck. My breath bubbled out my nose and mouth, I shook my head violently from side to side with my eyes open, my teeth gritted, then the closure apparatus in my throat broke and I sucked water inside my head and lungs like a series of doors slamming forever.
They pulled me up roaring with water and air, and threw me against the metal legs on the sink.
“This isn’t so bad. There’s no permanent damage done,” the man in the raincoat said. “It’d be a lot worse if Segura’s people handled it. It has something to do with the Latin tradition. I think they got it from the Romans. Did you know that Nero killed himself because the Senate sent word to him that he was to be executed in ‘the old way,’ which meant being whipped to death with his head locked in a wooden fork? If you don’t want to say where Fitzpatrick is, you can write it on a piece of paper. It’s funny how that makes a difference for people sometimes.”
My heart was thundering, my breath laboring in my throat.
“I never heard of the cocksucker,” I said.
I felt Bobby Joe begin to lift me by one arm.
“Wait a minute,” the man in the raincoat said. “The lieutenant’s not a bad fellow. He just doesn’t know what’s involved. If he did, he might be on our team. Fitzpatrick probably gave you a patriotic shuck and you thought you were helping out the good guys.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“You’re probably a good cop, but don’t tell us you’re shaking the bushes all over New Orleans and Cataouatche Parish because of a drowned colored girl,” he said.
“Two minutes this time. He’ll tell,” Erik said.
The man in the raincoat leaned down and looked intently in my face.
“He means it,” he said. “Two minutes under water. Maybe you’ll make it. Sometimes they don’t. It happens.”
“All he’s got to do is nod his head up and down, then he can have all the air he wants,” Bobby Joe said.
He jerked me up half-erect by my arm and started to slide me across the wet tiles to the tub’s rim again. But this time I was dripping with water and sweat and I slipped loose from him, fell on my buttocks, and shot one leather-soled shoe like a
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