Four Live Rounds (15 page)

“Have you urinated on my seat?” She thought
she detected the faintest accent.

“No.”

“You tell me if you have to urinate. I’ll
stop the car.”

“Okay. Where are you—”

“No talking. Unless you have to urinate.”

“I just—”

“You want your mouth taped? You have a cold.
That would make breathing difficult.”

Devlin was the only thing she’d ever prayed
for and that was years ago, but as she watched the passing
sagebrush and cactus through the deeply tinted windows, she pleaded
with God again.

Now the Escalade was slowing. It came to a
stop. He turned off the engine and stepped outside and shut the
door. Her door opened. He stood watching her. He was very handsome,
with flawless, brown skin (save for an indentation in the bridge of
his nose), liquid blue eyes, and black hair greased back from his
face. His pretty teeth seemed to gleam in the night. Rachael’s
chest heaved against the strap of webbing.

He said, “Calm down, Rachael.” Her name
sounded like a foreign word on his lips. He took out a syringe from
his black leather jacket and uncapped the needle.

“What is that?” she asked.

“You have nice veins.” He ducked into the
Escalade and turned her arm over. When the needle entered, she
gasped.

“Please listen. If this is some kind of
ransom thing—”

“No, no. You’ve already been purchased. In
fact, right now, there isn’t a safer place in the world for you to
be than in my possession.”

A gang of coyotes erupted in demonic howls
somewhere out in that empty dark and Rachael thought they sounded
like a woman burning alive, and she began to scream until the drug
took her.

This bonus short is from the ebook collection
Horror Stories by J.A. Konrath and Jack Kilborn, also available via
Smashwords…

the agreement

Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard,
trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand
dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those
chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little
mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.

“I’ll see it.”

The mobster pushed more chips into the pile.
He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his
last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he
cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal,
because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet.
Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been
steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending
his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.

If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars
that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for
welchers.

Little Louie always brought two large
bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked
according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in
relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars
would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.

Thirty thousand defied the imagination.

Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and
stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.

Little Louie dealt them each one more card.
When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost
five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and
the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a
greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and
red-eyed and exhausted.

One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the
corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking
out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his
view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than
Hutson had on his entire body.

Scary guys.

Hutson picked up the card and said a silent
prayer before looking at it.

A five.

That gave him a full house, fives over
threes. A good hand. A very good hand.

“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in
the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes.
He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde
mustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the
game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when
Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He
hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred
dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t
raise him.

Little Louie raised him.

“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.

“But you’re good for it, right? You are good
for it?”

The question was moot. The mobster had made
crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson
couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.

“I’m very particular when it comes to debts.
When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash.
If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe.
That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the
letter.”

“I’m good for it.”

Hutson borrowed another five hundred and
asked for the cards to be shown.

Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a
full house.

Hutson threw up on the table.

“I take it I won,” grinned Little Louie, his
cheeks brightening like a maniacal elf.

Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the
left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.

“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing
full well that he couldn’t.

“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie
stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”

Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of
confusion. “What boss?”

“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the
money he owes me.”

Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and
went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and
bringing it to Hutson.

Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at
Rocko, then at Little Louie again.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in
a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at
this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let
you walk out of here, do you?”

“You said...”

“I said you have an hour to get the money. I
didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the
agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring
it here.”

Hutson felt sick again.

“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie
furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”

The thugs giggled again.

“I...I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson
stammered.

“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy
can bring the money.”

“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a
comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”

Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest
and belched.

“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have
fifty-five minutes left.”

Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand,
and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.

Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s
shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone
else.”

Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of
his neck, and dialed another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores.
They broke up last month. Badly.

A man answered.

“Can I speak to Dolores?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Hutson.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real
important.”

Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in
the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the
money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.

“Dolores, this is Hutson.”

“What do you want?”

“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt
and...”

She hung up on him before he got any
farther.

Hutson squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty
thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His
knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?

Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on
the sixth ring.

“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter
from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re
going to hurt me.”

“How much money?”

“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five
minutes.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”

“Mom...”

“You can’t keep expecting me and your father
to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”

Hutson mopped his forehead with his
sleeve.

“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll
never gamble again.”

An eternity of silence passed.

“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son.
A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”

“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt
me!”

“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this,
you’ll have to get yourself out.”

“Mom! Please!”

The phone went dead.

“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie
rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a
crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”

Hutson cradled his face in his hands and
tried to fight back a sob. He lost. He was going to be hurt. He was
going to be very badly hurt, over a long period of time. And no one
was going to help him.

“Please,” he said, in a voice he didn’t
recognize. “Just give me a day or two. I’ll get the money.”

Little Louie shook his head. “That ain’t the
deal. You agreed to the terms, and those terms were to the letter.
You still have half an hour. See who else you can call.”

Hutson brushed away his tears and stared at
the phone, praying for a miracle. Then he had an idea.

He called the police.

He dialed 911, then four more numbers so it
looked like it was a normal call. A female officer answered.

“Chicago Police Department.”

“This is Hutson. This is a matter of life and
death. Bring 30,000 dollars over to 1357 Ontario, apartment
506.”

“Sir, crank calls on the emergency number is
a crime, punishable by a fine of five hundred dollars and up to
thirty days in prison.”

“Listen to me. Please. They want to kill
me.”

“Who does, sir?”

“These guys. It’s a gambling debt. They’re
going to hurt me. Get over here.”

“Sir, having already explained the penalty
for crank calls...”

The phone was ripped from Hutson’s hands by
Rocko and handed to Little Louie.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Little
Louie hung up and waggled a finger at Hutson. “I’m very
disappointed in you, Mr. Hutson. After all, you had agreed to my
terms.”

Hutson began to cry. He cried like a first
grader with a skinned knee. He cried for a long time, before
finally getting himself under control.

“It’s time.” Little Louie glanced at his
watch and smiled. “Start with his fingers.”

“Please don’t hurt me...”

Rocko and the other thug moved in. Hutson
dodged them and got on his knees in front of Little Louie.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Anything at
all. Name it. Just name it. But please don’t hurt me.”

“Hold it boys.” Little Louie raised his palm.
“I have an idea.”

A small ray of hope penetrated Hutson.

“Anything. I’ll do anything.”

Little Louie took out a long, thin cigarillo
and nipped off the end, swallowing it.

“There was a guy, about six years ago, who
was in the same situation you’re in now.”

He put the end of the cigar in his mouth and
rolled it around on his fat, gray tongue.

“This guy also said he would do anything,
just so I didn’t hurt him. Remember that fellas?”

Both bodyguards nodded.

“He finally said, what he would do, is put
his hand on a stove burner for ten seconds. He said he would hold
his own hand on the burner, for ten whole seconds.”

Little Louie produced a gold Dunhill and lit
the cigar, rolling it between his chubby fingers while drawing
hard.

“He only lasted seven, and we had to hurt him
anyway.” Little Louie sucked on the stogie, and blew out a perfect
smoke ring. “But I am curious to see if it could be done. The whole
ten seconds.”

Little Louie looked at Hutson, who was still
kneeling before him.

“If you can hold your right hand on a stove
burner for ten seconds, Mr. Hutson, I’ll relieve you of your debt
and you can leave without anyone hurting you.”

Hutson blinked several times. How hot did a
stove burner get? How seriously would he be hurt?

Not nearly as much as having thirty thousand
dollars worth of damage inflicted upon him.

But a stove burner? Could he force himself to
keep his hand on it for that long?

Did he have any other choice?

“I’ll do it.”

Little Louie smiled held out a hand to help
Hutson to his feet.

“Of course, if you don’t do it, the boys will
still have to work you over. You understand.”

Hutson nodded, allowing himself to be led
into the kitchen.

The stove was off-white, a greasy Kenmore,
with four electric burners. The heating elements were each six
inches in diameter, coiled into spirals like a whirlpool swirl.
They were black, but Hutson knew when he turned one on it would
glow orange.

Little Louie and his bodyguards stepped
behind him to get a better look.

“It’s electric,” noted Rocko.

Little Louie frowned. “The other guy used a
gas stove. His sleeve caught on fire. Remember that?”

The thugs giggled. Hutson picked the lower
left hand burner and turned it on the lowest setting.

Little Louie wasn’t impressed.