Jack of Diamonds (80 page)

‘Get used to it, Jack. Toronto’ll freeze ya balls off,’ he laughed.

I retraced my steps and took the kitchen corridor, which led into the parking station, and had just stepped through the open doorway into the street when I saw a pink Cadillac parked directly opposite the entrance and a dark shape leapt at me from behind a parked car. I felt a terrible pain in my head and then everything faded to black.

When I woke up I was in a scene from a horror movie, in a windowless concrete basement with a plain table like a narrow carpenter’s bench, and the hard wooden chair I was sitting in facing it. I was tied to the back of the chair with ropes around my chest, and my wrists were lashed to each wooden arm. When I tried to ease my back I discovered that my ankles were tied to the chair legs under the narrow bench. I could see the door through which they must have brought me, and out of which I’d probably be dragged as a corpse.

The pain in my head was severe and I felt sick whenever I tried to move. There was an unfamiliar grunting, gargling sound nearby, and when I began to focus, I saw a figure, its face almost completely covered by a plaster cast, pacing around the room. One feverishly glittering eye was exposed, the other covered by a padded bandage. It was Sammy: the fat gut and limp were unmistakeable. ‘And . . . a-a-and remember . . . and . . .’ Curiously, his gravel voice had become a squeak.

‘He’s waking up, Boss,’ I heard someone growl to my left and turned to see the minder who’d run for his life during the Desert Inn altercation. Then I saw the second minder. He was seated on a wooden box, snuffing and snorting, wringing his hands and occasionally whimpering, ‘Mama, Mama!’ His entire head was covered in bandages, except for two slits over his eyes.

Sammy came over to me and punched me on the side of the head. He may have looked sick and frail, but this didn’t extend to his fists; the blow caught me on the cheekbone and hurt, but nowhere near as much as the blow to my head that had knocked me unconscious in the car park.

‘Thaz . . . f’ tha’ piece o’ shit, Jo . . . nee . . . Dia . . . dia . . . min.’

His voice was slurred as if he had a cleft palate, and the effect was chilling. I was absolutely petrified, my heart racing, sweat prickling all over me despite the freezing temperature in the cellar.

‘Thought ya were gonna walk out on Sammy widout payin’ for what happened, did ya? Huh, piano player?’ (I won’t attempt to recreate the mangled way he spoke with a broken jaw. It was clear enough for me to understand exactly what he was saying.) ‘Well, ya guessed wrong, ya prick, and now it’s my turn, Sammy’s turn.’

‘You get out of hospital?’ It was a stupid and, of course, obvious thing to say. ‘With your pal,’ I added, nodding at the bandaged monster calling for his mama. ‘I see Chicken Shit has returned,’ I continued, glancing at the second minder, who must have played a large part in their escape from hospital. This was not bravado – I was terrified – but, rather, the first words that came to me. I could think of nothing to say and didn’t have the sense to remain silent. The back of my head throbbed, and I could feel blood sticky against the collar of my shirt and realised my overcoat had been removed. I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, but it was at least as long as it took to truss me up like a Christmas turkey and drive me to this dive.

‘No point lookin’ around, Piano Prick.’

‘Piano Prick, that good, Boss,’ Chicken Shit chortled.

I don’t suppose Sammy’s plaster cast allowed him to grin, but he nodded his head, accepting the compliment. ‘Dis is where we bring da wise guys who don’t pay what dey owe Sammy for saving der butt wid a loan they swear’d on der mama’s grave dey gonna pay back on time wid interest. Also the ones who think dey can cheat the casino. Dem smart-ass dealers who try and palm a part o’ the drop, thinkin’ nobody ain’t lookin’. People, dey greedy, dey gotta be reminded it not der money. We got the right ta be greedy, not those suckers. We bring dem ta this nice cellar Westside, where nobody can hear dem screaming and pleadin’, leastways no white folks. Niggers hear, and it good dey hear, den dey know what happen if dey step outa line.’ He paused, using the back of his hand to wipe away the fine line of white spittle that had formed around his mouth. ‘Now ya gonna do me some pleadin’, Piano Prick? Maybe we gonna listen, maybe we not.’ He turned to Chicken Shit. ‘But I don’t think we in no listenin’ mood tonight, hey, Rufus?’

‘I don’t think we doing no listenin’ tonight, Boss,’ Sammy’s minder agreed, shaking his head melodramatically. It was the first time I had ever heard his first name.

Sammy turned to the bundle of bandages. ‘Hey, Groucho, ask yer mama if she in a listenin’ mood. She wanna hear da Piano Prick pleadin’?’

A gargling sound came from the bundle of bandages I now knew went by the name of Groucho.

‘Yeah, seems der ain’t no one here wanna listen, Piano Prick. Ain’t none of yer tough-guy war hero buddies gonna help you now, ya piece a’ Canuck shit.’

‘Canuck shit!’ This with a sycophantic chuckle.

Sammy was obviously on Benzedrine or perhaps something even stronger, no doubt supplied by Chicken Shit, and was sweating like a pig, working himself up into more of a frenzy. He bent over me, his mangled face an inch or so from my own, spraying spittle as he spoke, his breath rancid. ‘All ya fuckin’ war heroes, laughing at poor Sammy. Poor Sammy, only a kitchen hand in the fuckin’ US air force while dem dumb fuckers are jumpin’ outa the back o’ planes to get demself killed. Who da dumb ass now, hey?’ It was a rhetorical question and he raved on in his squeaky broken voice. ‘Yer asshole buddy hit me when I wasn’t lookin’. I coulda taken him out but he hit me when I wasn’t lookin’. Dumb fuck coward prick, he hit me when I wasn’t lookin’ . . .’ he paused, perhaps remembering. ‘Ya all standin’ roun’ laughing at me when I bin hit blind.’ His voice had become an hysterical shriek by now. ‘Who’s laughin’ now, Mr War Hero Piano Prick tough guy?’

I had the sense to keep quiet this time.

‘Ya allowed ta answer!’ he prompted.

I felt so sick with fear that if the ropes around my chest and ankles hadn’t held me to the chair, I’d have fallen to my knees. As it was, I could feel myself quaking. ‘Untie his hand,’ Sammy commanded. ‘That one,’ he pointed at my left hand. ‘Then hold him tight, Rufus. You too, Groucho – both of ya.’

Bandages rose from his box, his lips slobbering, but he walked steadily enough. He grabbed me by the upper arms. I couldn’t believe how strong he was. They say the insane gain strength but his hand felt like a steel clamp. Chicken Shit held a small filleting knife, which they probably used to threaten their debtor victims, and began sawing through the rope tying my left wrist to the chair. Once the rope was severed, Chicken Shit dropped the knife and grabbed my arm just above the wrist. ‘Put his fuckin’ hand down flat on’a table,’ Sammy screamed.

I was straining every muscle in my body to resist but it was useless. Bandages seemed to possess the strength of five men. He had stopped calling for his mama and had his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the task of holding me; mucus drained from the bottom of the bandage covering his nose and into the damp, dirty bandage around his chin. They lifted my arm and slapped my palm against the table.

‘Move it forward, and hold his wrist on’a table,’ Sammy commanded, then walked around behind me as they pinned my forearm down on the rough surface of the wooden table.

When Sammy reappeared he was carrying a hammer and stood directly in front of me, with the narrow bench between us. I curled my hand into a fist and Sammy tapped it not too hard with the hammer. ‘Stretch it or maybe ya never gonna open it again, shit f’ brains!’

I opened my hand, fingers spread.

Sammy tapped the hammer head down on the edge of the bench. ‘See dis, piano player? Dis a five-pound ball-peen hammer.’ He weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. ‘When I’ve finish wid you, you ain’t gonna be playing the piano no more for all dem rich ladies who wanna fuck ya.’

‘Please, Sammy, I beg you, don’t! Please, please! I’ll give you anything!’ I cried.

‘What ya gonna give me, Piano Prick? Hey, ya piece’a dog shit. Tell Sammy what ya got dat gonna rub out da insultin’ way ya treated me.’

‘My apartment! I’ve got ten grand in the bank, you can have it all!’ I blubbered.

‘What’s dat, maybe fifteen grand tops?’ He seemed to consider the offer. ‘Dat’s a lot of money for a hand ya use to jerk yerself off.’

‘Please!’ I begged, sobbing.

‘I got enough dough and I ain’t stayin’ in this shit hole no longer.’ He suddenly bent close over the table so I could smell his foul breath and screamed into my face. ‘No fuckin’ deal! Ya hear? NO FUCKIN’ DEAL!’ Then, suddenly, he pulled back, fingering the hammer, seemingly in control again.

There comes a moment, I discovered, when fear leaves you. ‘Sammy, kill me! Go on, do it now, please.’ I was quite calm. With my hands gone, what was the point of living?

‘Kill you? Why dat murder, man! Besides, how you gonna suffer when ya dead, dumb ass! Dat ain’t no Sammy Schischka-style revenge, ya hear?’ He turned to the two goons. ‘Hold tight, boys.’

I saw the hammer rise and I thought for a second, watching it, that this was some sort of a nightmare and wasn’t – couldn’t – be happening to me. I tried to look away but found I couldn’t. I was like a bird in front of a snake, frozen with fear.

The hammer swung down and I was thrown into hell. Pain washed over me like a black wave. My eyes were screwed shut as more blows thudded into my flesh, but I was still overwhelmed by that first fierce wave of pain. I could hear myself grunting, then screaming, as my body struggled to cope with the shock. Somewhere above it all, I was aware of Sammy’s shrieking giggles as he continued to pound my hand. Then, mercifully, I was gone. My mind must have given up.

I must have been out of it for only a short time, because when I came to, they had my right hand in position. Only Rufus was holding it down while Bandages lurched around the room whimpering, ‘Mama! Mama!’

Sammy’s face appeared, checking that I’d regained consciousness. I’m a big guy but I shall never know where I found the strength for what happened next. Rufus was no match for me – I brushed him off like a fly and sent him tumbling to the cement floor, then grabbed Sammy by the throat and I squeezed, at the same time pulling him across the narrow table so his legs were off the ground. I was still tied to the chair by the ropes around my chest, my left hand a mess of bloody meat in my lap. I tightened my grip, shaking him like a dog.
Squeeze, Jack, squeeze. Kill him,
was all I could hear in my mind.

Rufus scrambled to his feet and must have reached for his pistol. I think I saw all this, but I can never be sure. I had Sammy on his stomach on the bench, his head straining backwards as I throttled him, and I must have turned him just as the gun went off, and the bullet that had been meant for me went straight through Sammy’s back. He dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the bench with his head in my lap. Bandages suddenly stopped his wandering and, with a fierce gargling cough, ran at Rufus, who was about to take a second shot, certain to hit me in the head this time. Weeping ‘Mama! Mama!’, he cannoned into Rufus, who lost his grip on the pistol, which clattered into a corner. Rufus recovered quickly, scrambled to his feet and made a run for the entrance just as the door crashed open, and he ran straight into some guy’s arms. That’s all I remember before I passed out a second time.

After who knows how much time, I sensed a bright light shining directly at my eyes. ‘Mr Spayd? Mr Spayd?’ It was a female voice. Female. What did that mean? I had a terrible pain in my left hand.

‘Are you awake? You’re in hospital, Mr Spayd. We don’t like giving you morphine until you’re conscious.’

The light moved away and I cautiously opened my eyes.

My mouth felt like it was full of cottonwool. I tried to lick my lips.

A cool, wet cloth was wiped over my face. I sucked desperately at the cloth to moisten my lips and mouth, until a hand dropped a single small ice cube into it. ‘Mr Spayd, are you awake?’

A woman’s face swam into focus, looking down at me. Behind her was a white ceiling. I felt sure white ceilings had nothing to do with the hereafter. I was alive.

‘How . . . how?’ My voice was a croak.

‘You’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours, Mr Spayd. How do you feel?’

I tried to look down at the bed covers. I could feel my left arm lying next to me. Raising my head slightly I could see a huge mound of bandages. I looked over at where I thought my right hand should be and there it was, unharmed. I moved my fingers slightly. It was intact. There were bruises from the ropes on my forearm and wrist, but nothing worse than that.

‘They didn’t cut my left hand off did they, nurse?’

‘No, Mr Spayd. Your hand is badly injured. Now you’re conscious, we’ll . . . the doctor will administer a painkiller immediately. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’ At that moment, a man in a white coat – a doctor, I guess – entered with a second nurse, carrying a tray with phial, syringe and swabs.

‘My name is Dr Freeman, Mr Spayd. Good to see you awake.’

I felt totally exhausted, hazy and confused, but managed a nod.

‘I’m going to give you a jab, then we’ll administer morphine by intravenous drip.’

I still felt very groggy but tried to concentrate. ‘Sure, doc . . . medical orderly . . . the war,’ I managed to slur.