The First Cut (5 page)

I had thought about telling Clark what an idiot he had been, that he had brought this on himself. But this was my first time, and I knew the quicker I did this, the better it would be. Clark wasn’t interested in moving up in the organization, but I was. Managers make good bread; hitmen make more.

I went back into the Sun, the sound of the train fading as the door shut behind me, headed to the payphone and dialed.

“Hey, ma. It’s me,” I said. “No, there’s nothing wrong. Just wanted to know how things are going.”

Not so Calm, Not so Bright

I dragged the tree across the yard and up the steps, careful not to slip in the darkness. As I shouldered the door open and pulled it inside, I vowed that Tommy was going to have a good Christmas.

Now mind you, the bar is pretty low. The kid is seven, and Christmas has been more about the cycle of anticipation and disappointment than comfort and joy. Last year we were living in a rusted out 25-year-old LTD; the year before that it was a shelter. So this year, with our Section 8 finally approved, we were in a shotgun shack between the tracks and the river. It was nothing special, but at least he finally had a home for Santa to visit. Problem was, Tommy wasn't there to come running in to see presents under the tree.

It was warm earlier this week, so when Tommy was getting in my hair after I got home from work, I told him to go out and play. Sure, it was dark, but he's a good kid – knows not to disobey his mama, knows to stay in the yard. Thing is, the neighbor's cat doesn't, and Tommy loves to chase that thing. Thinks he's gonna catch it, and the cat, I swear, it taunts him, slowing down just enough to hook his interest, then bolts through the hedges or across the street.

I heard the screech of tires and the tiny thump at the same moment, and I ran out in my bare feet and into the street to see my boy in a heap in front of the grill of an SUV. As I dropped to my knees to take a look, a man got out of the truck with a cell phone in his hand already calling an ambulance.

Concussion, broken arm, three broken ribs and a sprained ankle. He's been in the hospital for five days. They called tonight to say he had recovered enough from the concussion to come home. Translation: You don't have insurance, and our good will toward men is all used up. I kicked up a fuss and they gave him one more night.

I was sitting in my chair by the window, wondering how we were gonna cover the bills, let alone have the Christmas I'd never gotten around to planning. With my shifts at the restaurant and visits to the hospital, the day itself passed without my really having noticed. That's when I saw the tree. Our neighbor two houses down already had theirs out at the curb, tinsel still wrapped around it in silver and gold loops. It was Dec. 26. To them Christmas was over. For Tommy, it hadn't started yet.

I waited until the lights in the neighborhood went out, then threw on my boots and coat and went out to get the tree. Once I had it inside, I propped it in the corner by the front window, and then went around the house looking for things to use to decorate it. I wrapped some boxes and put them under the tree so it would look festive. There weren't any presents inside, but Tommy would understand.

Without realizing it, I had spent all night getting everything just right. The hospital told me I had to pick Tommy up by eight, so I had to leave soon. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, probably fifteen for the checkout process. That should be just enough time for that candle to burn down, hit that paper and spread to the tree. If we stop for pancakes on the way home, the firemen will probably have things under control by the time we get here, and the Red Cross will be on site, ready to give us a hot meal, a warm place to sleep, and a bunch of presents to replace the one's surely lost in the fire.

Merry Christmas, Tommy.

238

He settled on an old oak door he’d found in the basement. It was heavy and thick. With four straps made from a leather belt bolted in with metal clamps two to a side, and a base made from a couple of sawhorses, it was a solid table on which he would restrain the man. He assembled it quickly but with attention; this was the most important part of the plan. If the table failed, the plan would fail. After pounding the final nail, he climbed onto what he had made and laid back. He thrashed around a bit and found it to be sturdy.

***

238 days. That’s what they took – 238 days of his life, gone. At first, he figured it must be a mistake. He’d been in American jails before. Each time the officers talked tough, and most of the time he served a few days or, twice, was sent back. After the second day turned to night and he still hadn’t seen or heard anyone, he realized this was different. If that hadn’t tipped him off, the dank canvas hood placed on his head before he was driven for what seemed like several hours and then flown somewhere, certainly did.

***

The room was special, secure, with a door like that of a safe. Everything seemed to be controlled by a panel inside the door. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, just a couple of chairs, a couch and a small table. Canned food and gallon jugs of water lined one wall. He wasn’t sure if there would be enough, so he rolled two barrels in from the back yard that were used to burn yard waste, ran a hose in from outside and filled them to the top. The swirling water dislodged flakes of rust that spun lazily on the surface. He coiled the hose and erased any trace of his efforts.

***

The real rub? He’s not even Arab. He’s a Mexican, for Christ’s sake, and anyone with an ounce of sense could see that. Now, he was a bad guy, he’d give them that. But his was the kind of bad that got you sent to prison. Drugs. Armed robbery. A carjacking once. He could do that kind of time, had done it. But this, this was something else, and no matter how much he protested that it must be a misunderstanding, they ignored him. If this was a jail, there were no other inmates. There was no time in the yard.

***

On the day, everything was set. He was too full of energy to sit, so he stood just inside the door of the room, a cell phone in his hand. As he had been assured, the car arrived around 5 a.m. He heard the old man before he saw him, his shadow cutting across the morning light that streamed through the open front door, a shine bouncing off his bald head. The man yelled back over his shoulder that he had to use the can and that they should wait outside. There would be two waiting, according to what he had been told.

***

After working on a fishing boat for several months, he’d made the mistake of trying to cross the border from Canada instead of coming up through southern California like all the unlucky pendejos who are just grabbed and sent back. He regretted that decision each of the 238 days. He could have found a way to make ends meet in Canada; but the lure beyond the border was too great. The man who offered him a ride and forged papers was using him to get through a roadblock, figuring an Arab and a Mexican wouldn’t look so suspicious. He was wrong, which was why they had both been labeled “enemy combatants” and shipped to the island.

***

He took a step back into the shadows of the room and punched a number on his phone. When he heard Carlos answer, he pushed a button and held it for five seconds. He then hung up. This was the diciest part of the plan, but the old man had to need to be in the room if he was to have time to do what he wanted to do. Plus, he knew the man was dangerous with guns around, even when he didn’t mean to be. With the guns outside and the man inside, he liked the odds much better.

***

He couldn’t ever answer their questions because he wasn’t who or what they thought he was. He told them several times: “my name is Jesus Gutierrez. I am from Nogales. I don’t know anything about the Taliban.” It was as if they couldn’t hear him. They asked the same questions again and again, only occasionally bothering to rephrase them in the hope of tripping him up. It never differed: “What is the plan?” “What are your targets?” “Who is leading your cell?” “Where does your money come from?”

***

A minute later, just as the man was coming back through the house, something smacked the front with a metallic clang. Carlos had done it. Two beefy men in dark suits rushed in and grabbed the old man. “Some sort of flying object just hit the house, sir. We need to get you into the safe room,” one said calmly. They pushed the old man beyond the threshold and pulled the door shut, one saying, “We’ll go investigate.”

***

On the island, they kept him cold and dark and alone, 24 hours a day. And that was the good part. The bad? Being laid out on a board and having water poured on your face until you think that this is the time they’re never going to stop. Being kept naked. Being beaten. Being naked and beaten and left huddled in a corner with other men while snarling dogs snapped at any appendage unlucky enough to stick out of the pile. Alone, he couldn’t have kept track of the days, but together, it was their ritual. Some men had prayers. Some remained silent most of the day. But each man had a different number, and he recited it each day.

***

Jesus stepped over to the glowing control panel and pushed a button that sealed the door, making it impenetrable from the outside. A light automatically turned on as the airlock engaged. He turned and looked at the man, gesturing with a handgun that he had pulled from his waistband. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” he said. “Now, take off your clothes.” The old man started to object, so Jesus fired a bullet into his foot. The man howled, but Jesus knew the soundproof room would muffle it. “After you are naked, climb up onto that table.”

***

His count stopped at 238, the day they came without a word and threw someone else’s clothes into his cell. A burly guard grabbed him once he’d changed and pushed him out the door. He was taken to a plane that flew him to Matamoros. The officer who discharged him told him two things: never talk about what had happened, and never try to come back into the U.S. Of course, he did both almost immediately. It was so much easier to get across from here than it had been from Canada. Wall? Fence? It didn't matter. The coyotes were motivated by greed.

***

The old man needed help getting up onto the board, but soon Jesus had him on his back and strapped in. He removed the man’s glasses, dropped them to the floor and crushed them under his boot. “Let’s talk about enhanced interrogation techniques,” he said, going over to one of the rusty barrels. He grabbed a two gallon bucket from the floor and dipped it in to fill it. He walked back to the old man and hit him hard in the mouth. “Tell me, do you know where Osama bin Laden is?” he said as he poured the water over the man’s face, causing him to sputter and choke.

***

He’d worked his way around Texas, doing odd jobs here and there. He told his story to some fellow workers over a beer after a day of repairing fence on a ranch. “Hey, one of those old dudes that used to be in Washington has a place around here,” one said. “He stops by on hunting trips. Not the dumb one. You know,” he said, sneering with a growl. “That guy. We do work there sometimes.” A day later, while watching as his friend, Carlos, used a remote control to steer a small plane through the sky, Jesus had an idea.

***

He had been told that it would take even the old man’s guards at least four hours to break into the room once they realized something was wrong. There was no override for fear they could be tortured into revealing it. Jesus found that funny. The torture was going to happen inside the door, not outside it. All he wanted was 238 minutes. He hoped the old man’s heart would hold out. It wasn’t a fair trade, but he was going to do everything he could to make each of those minutes feel like a day of hell.

Gutshot

Either Frank didn’t know the gutshot was a death sentence or he simply didn’t care. All I knew was he was the only one who could tell me where Marla was, so I was going to humor him until he gave it up.

“When you and me get this sorted out, me ’n Marla are gonna go to Florida,” he said weakly. “Maybe we’ll open a restaurant.”

I wanted to ask him if he was really that clueless, if he thought my sister would really have anything to do with the scum who had broken into her apartment and taken her by force. He’d already given me the tired line about how he’d always really been in love with Marla, not my mom, how he couldn’t hide his passion any more. Instead, I tried to draw him out.

“I’m sure the cops will be here soon, and we’ll just explain that it was a big misunderstanding,” I said, hoping he didn’t fixate too much on the gun I had leveled at his head to match the one he had pointed at mine. “We’ll clear things up and move on. You can go get Marla…” I let the sentence drag, hoping he’d finish with “at Duke’s pad” or “at the Super 8 on Rockland.”

Nope. He just nodded, as if responding to another conversation. Then, his eyes seemed to focus on me.

“Why’d you shoot me, Ricky?”

I had always hated that. I hadn’t been Ricky since I was 12 and he knew it, but he also knew he could use it like salt in a wound when he needed it. Good old Uncle Frank, who, thank God, was no blood relation He had been my father’s best friend, the guy who moved in on my mom when the old man kicked it four years ago.

“I told you, I didn’t realize it was you, Frank,” I lied again. “I thought maybe you were in trouble. I was looking for Marla and thought she might be here. When I came in all I saw was the gun and I panicked.” Really, rage pulled the trigger, overpowering my desire to learn where Marla was. I was glad rage had bad aim.