Curtains (11 page)

“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 dialled 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 dialled 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.

“Hey, switch it
up higher than that.”

“You didn’t say
how high it had to be when we made the agreement.” Hutson spoke
fast, relying on the mobster’s warped sense of fairness. “Just that
I had to keep it on for ten seconds.”

“It was
inferred it would be on the hottest.”

“I can put it
on low and still follow the deal to the letter.”

Little Louie
considered this, then nodded.

“You’re right.
You’re still following it to the letter. Leave it on low then.”

It didn’t
matter, because already the burner was fiery orange. Rocko leaned
over and spat on it, and the saliva didn’t even have a chance to
drip through the coils before sizzling away and evaporating.

“I think it’s
hot,” Rocko said.

Hutson stared
at the glowing burner. He held his trembling hand two inches above
it. The heat was excruciating. Hutson’s palm began to sweat and the
hair above his knuckles curled and he fought the little voice in
his brain that screamed get your hand away!

“Well, go
ahead.” Little Louie held up a gold pocket watch. “I’ll start when
you do. Ten whole seconds.”

“Sweet Jesus in
heaven help me,” thought Hutson.

He bit his lip
and slapped his hand down on to the burner.

There was an
immediate frying sound, like bacon in a pan. The pain was instant
and searing. Hutson screamed and screamed, the coils burning away
the skin on his palm, burning into the flesh, blistering and
bubbling, melting the muscle and fat, Hutson screaming louder now,
smoke starting to rise, Little Louie sounding off the seconds, a
smell like pork chops filling Hutson’s nostrils, pain beyond
intense, screaming so high there wasn’t any sound, can’t keep it
there anymore, Jesus no more no more and...

Hutson yanked
his hand from the burner, trembling, feeling faint, clutching his
right hand at the wrist and stumbling to the sink, turning on the
cold water, putting his charred hand under it, losing
consciousness, everything going black.

He woke up
lying on the floor, the pain in his hand a living thing, his mouth
bleeding from biting his lower lip. His face contorted and he
yelled from the anguish.

Little Louie
stood over him, holding the pocket watch. “That was only seven
seconds.”

Hutson’s scream
could have woken the dead. It was full of heart-wrenching agony and
fear and disgust and pity. It was the scream of the man being
interrogated by the Gestapo. The scream of the woman having a
Caesarean without anaesthetic. The scream of a father in a burning,
wrecked car turning to see his baby on fire.

The scream of a
man without hope.

“Don’t get
upset.” Little Louie offered him a big grin. “I’ll let you try it
again.”

The thugs
hauled Hutson to his feet, and he whimpered and passed out. He woke
up on the floor again, choking. Water had been thrown in his
face.

Little Louie
shook his head, sadly. “Come on Mr. Hutson. I haven’t got all day.
I’m a busy man. If you want to back out, the boys can do their job.
I want to warn you though, a thirty grand job means we’ll put your
face on one of these burners, and that would just be the beginning.
Make your decision.”

Hutson got to
his feet, knees barely able to support him, breath shallow, hand
hurting worse than any pain he had ever felt. He didn’t want to
look at it, found himself doing it anyway, and stared at the black,
inflamed flesh in a circular pattern on his palm. Hardly any blood.
Just raw, exposed, gooey cooked muscle where the skin had fried
away.

Hutson bent
over and threw up.

“Come on, Mr.
Hutson. You can do it. You came so close, I’d hate to have to
cripple you permanently.”

Hutson tried to
stagger to the door to get away, but was held back before he took
two steps.

“The stove is
over here, Mr. Hutson.” Little Louie’s black rat eyes sparkled like
polished onyx.

Rocko steered
Hutson back to the stove. Hutson stared down at the orange glowing
burner, blackened in several places where parts of his palm had
stuck and cooked to cinder. The pain was pounding. He was dazed and
on the verge of passing out again. He lifted his left hand over the
burner.

“Nope. Sorry
Mr. Hutson. I specifically said it had to be your right hand. You
have to use your right hand, please.”