Nathan's Run (1996) (13 page)

Either Pointer knew in advance where Mark was sitting, or his eyes adjusted awfully quickly to the change in lighting. Either way, he walked without hesitating directly over to Mark's table in the corner and took the seat immediately next to his host, not across from him as Mark had expected. It was the seating arrangement typical of a date, not of a business meeting. But then, Mark had no way of knowing just how intimate an act of true intimidation could be. In Pointer's presence, the fat bartender moved almost gracefully, bringing his new guest a drink-could it be water?-without even being asked.

For a long moment, Pointer stared at Mark, twice making him break eye contact. At length, he said, "You broke your promise to me." His voice had an odd quality to it, simultaneously quiet and angry. The effect was thoroughly frightening. "You promised me that you could handle this thing, and then you flicked it up."

Sweat beaded on Mark's forehead. He could feel perspiration soak his armpits and his back. He'd come to the meeting armed with excuses and explanations for Ricky's failure to perform, but he had suddenly lost the nerve to say anything. Instead, he just stared at his second empty beer bottle, spinning it slowly with his fingers in its own puddle of sweat.

"Look at me, Bailey," Pointer commanded softly.

Mark raised his eyes.

"I talked to Mr. Slater this morning, and he wasn't pleased. And do you know who he wasn't pleased with?"

Mark shook his head silently.

Pointer slammed the table with his fist, making the empty beer bottle jump almost as high as Mark. "Goddammit, you fucking answer me!"

For an instant, Mark forgot the question, then his mind cleared and he stammered, "N-no, I d-don't. Me, I suppose. I guess he's not pleased with me."

Pointer leaned forward, close enough for Mark to smell his chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. "No, Bailey, you're wrong again," he said measuredly, his voice once again menacingly smooth. "He wasn't mad at you. He was mad at me. Because I was stupid enough to believe that you could pull off a fool-proof plan to kill a kid inside a concrete fucking room." His voice boomed at the end, prompting Mark to glance nervously at the others seated in the tavern. None of them moved, though certainly all of them were listening. Clearly, that didn't matter to Pointer.

"Look, Pointer, I can explain," Mark attempted to say.

Pointer cut him off. "I don't want an explanation from you. Obviously, you weren't there. Let me guess. You poured yourself inside a bottle last night, didn't you?"

Mark looked away again.

"Didn't you!"

He nodded.

Pointer took a deep breath and let it out noisily. "So that's the thanks I get, huh? I go to bat for you, keep you from getting your throat cut, and the best you can do is subcontract your work to some incompetent prison guard so you can drown yourself in booze. Does that seem fair to you, Mark?"

Mark said, "No." What he didn't say, they both knew already. The only reason that Pointer had gone to bat for him was to protect the two hundred thousand dollars he stood to make in the deal, unbeknownst to the angry Mr. Slater.

"Well, Mark, we finally agree on something. It doesn't seem fair to me, either. But you know what? I did it for you again. Mr. Slater's first solution to this little problem was for me to cut out your liver and stuff it down your throat."

Mark felt his heart rate double, knowing without question that Pointer was reporting fact. He sweated like a marathon runner now. His hands trembled.

"But I talked him out of that for the time being. I told him that there was too much money in play just to kill you without at least another try. And you know what he said to me?"

Mark was looking away again. Pointer grabbed his face in the vise of his left hand and pulled him around so they were face-to-face, only inches separating them.

"He told me that he didn't care about the money. Imagine that. Imagine getting to that point in life where five hundred thousand dollars just doesn't mean anything any more. He told me that the honor and dignity of his name were at stake now, and that the only thing that mattered was killing you."

Mark's hangover flooded back into his brain. His stomach churned. It was entirely possible that he would barf on Pointer's shiny leather jacket.

Pointer let go of Mark's face and leaned back into his chair. "But I talked him out of it. I talked him into one more try. So here's where it stands, asshole. If your nephew dies and we get our money, you live. Otherwise, you're dead."

Mark saw a distant light on his horizon, the faintest glimmer of hope. "That's good, Pointer. Give me one more chance-"

Pointer cut him off again. "What, do I look crazy? You're not getting a second chance at anything but living. I'll take care of whacking the kid. Your job is to wait for the papers from your lawyer."

In the long pause that followed, Mark knew there was something else coming, but he chose to wait rather than asking.

"There's one more matter we need to discuss-two, actually.

First, you're a minority shareholder in your inheritance now. Mr. Slater's share went up to two million. That's the price of a fuckup these days. Plus, I'm gonna add another three hundred thousand to let you live. Add to that another two hundred thou that you already owe me personally, and that makes your total bill about two million five. What's left is yours."

An objection formed in Mark's throat, but he swallowed it quickly, before it could do any damage. The price of staying alive had suddenly become awfully steep. "I can live with that:' he said, wincing at the unintentional pun.

Pointer laughed. "I bet you can. Now, that leaves us with one more bit of business."

Sensing, incorrectly, that the worst was over for now, Mark sighed deeply and leaned forward to listen.

"You see, Mark," Pointer explained, "I have a reputation to consider, too. And the simple fact of the matter is that I can't afford to let you go on out of here without fucking you up." He smoothly and slowly withdrew a pistol from a holster somewhere beneath the slick leather jacket, thumbed the hammer back, and placed the muzzle an inch from Mark's right eye. He stood and pushed his chair back with his foot, giving himself some room to move around. Once standing, he shifted the gun from his right hand to his left, never moving the barrel from its perfect line to Mark's brain. "Are you right-handed or left-handed?" he asked.

"L-left," Mark stammered, in a whimpering tone that made Pointer feel sick to his stomach.

Pointer pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from an inside pocket and handed them over to Mark. "Here," he said. "Let me see your signature here."

Mark's shoulders sagged visibly as he realized that his lie was transparent. There were real tears in his eyes now, to go along with the very real fear. "I'm sorry, Pointer," he pleaded. "I made a mistake. Actually, I-I'm right-handed."

"Put your right hand on the table," Pointer commanded. As he spoke, something changed behind his eyes. Even in the darkness of the tavern Mark could see it. It was a chilling, calculating coldness. They were the eyes of evil.

Mark was vaguely aware that he had just pissed all over himself, adding yet another odor to the offensive bouquet that greeted him when he entered. He shook his head pitifully, not in defiance, but as a plea for leniency.

"Don't make me ask more than once," Pointer advised. "You need to remember that Mr. Slater and I don't need your money. The money's only important because it hurts you. And we owe you a lot of pain. Now, you make the choice. I can put a bullet in your eye right now, or you can put your hand on the table like I asked."

Mark's hand shook violently, out of control, as he complied with the orders and placed his hand on the table. His entire world consisted only of the huge circular void that was the muzzle of the cannon pointed at his face. He wondered morbidly if he'd actually be able to see the nose of the bullet as it cleared the opening on its way to kill him.

"These are the rules:' Pointer explained. "If you make a sound, I'll pull the trigger. No matter how bad it hurts, you just sit there quietly for once in your life and be a man. You understand?"

Mark was openly sobbing now, his. Facial features contorted like a small child's as tears cascaded down his cheeks. But there was no sound.

A look of amusement settled into Pointer's face as he wrapped his fist around the forefinger on Mark's right hand and pressed his thumb firmly at the digit's base, halfway between the second and third knuckle. Amusement turned to a wide grin as he steadily added more pressure with his thumb and leveraged upwards with the fingertip. His other hand remained firmly wrapped around the grip of his pistol.

After about five seconds, Mark's second knuckle dislocated with a soft pop, like the sound you'd get pinching bubble wrap. Lights danced before his eyes, and he felt his gorge rise in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. And he didn't make a sound. Ten seconds later, the finger broke midshaft, under Pointer's thumb. Mark's whole body jumped as pain shot like a spike all the way to his shoulder, causing him to bite through his lower lip.

When Pointer let go, Mark's finger stuck straight up at the break, like a fleshy flagpole. Proud that he had made no noise, and that he was still alive as a result, he recovered his mangled hand and cradled it like a baby in the crook of his left elbow. Then he noticed that the gun hadn't moved.

"I'm sorry, Mark," Pointer said, the grin still there, "but we're not done yet. The first finger was for fucking up. Now we've got to break one for telling me you were left-handed. We have to discover a basis for trust in our relationship. Now, put your hand back on the table:'

Mark's hand had already swollen to twice its normal size as blood poured internally from ruptured vessels. Movement of any sort was excruciating, but the mental agony of going through this one more time was almost more than he could bear. Without the gentle support of his other hand, the broken finger wobbled back and forth at the break line, grinding bone ends against each other. He hoped he would pass out, giving Pointer the option of ending this while he was unconscious. But of course, no such thing happened.

This time, Pointer made it easy, grabbing Mark's pinky even as he rested it on the table and wrenching it quickly backwards and sideways, nearly severing the finger at its root. This time Mark howled in agony, unable to control his voice, and he slipped from his chair down onto the filthy floor. Pointer considered shooting him on principle, but decided to ignore it. The son of a bitch had held out longer than he would have thought, anyway. He eased the hammer down and reholstered the Magnum. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Bailey. Write when you can. I'll call you when we need you."

As deliberately as he'd entered, Pointer strolled to the exit, telling the bartender as he passed, "My friend over there will pick up the tab. Be patient with him, though. Might take a few minutes for him to get the money out of his pocket."

In reply, the bartender nodded politely and studiously avoided making any eye contact. No one in the Hillbilly Tavern had seen a thing.

Chapter
14

Nathan licked the last of the pizza sauce off his thumb and forefinger and slumped backwards into the soft leather cushions of the sofa, thoroughly satisfied. Where a family-size frozen pizza had once resided on a cardboard tray, there were now only crumbs and a single orphaned pepperoni, which he quickly dispatched with one bite. He launched an enormous belch, and laughed aloud as the sound reverberated off the walls of the family room.

After hanging up with The Bitch, he'd listened for another hour or so in the bedroom as callers branded him either innocent and cute-Jeeze!--or guilty and vicious. There seemed to be no middle ground. He thought it was pretty cool that The Bitch was supportive. The more he listened, the more he became convinced that she was on his side.

A guy could only ignore his stomach for so long, though. He was getting bored with the radio anyway, so he switched it off with an hour still left in The Bitch's time slot and headed downstairs, where he launched a search-and-destroy mission looking for something to eat. The pantry proved to be as empty as the refrigerator had been the night before, but a quick look in the mud room revealed a freezer full of his favorite foods. Once he realized that the pizza was too big for the microwave, he followed the directions on the back of the box and cooked it in the oven. While he waited the required twelve to sixteen minutes, he mixed a vat of orange juice from frozen concentrate. He couldn't find a pitcher, so he used a stew pot.

Once lunch was ready, Nathan camped out on the floor of the family room, in front of a round coffee table. The remote control he found for the entertainment center looked like something invented. by NASA, with blue, green, red and yellow buttons. He pushed buttons at random until the big screen popped to life. None of the cable cartoons he liked were on, so he settled for a Star Trek rerun. Those guys were so lame. By, the time the twenty-third century came around, you'd think people would wear something more hip than high-heeled boots and skin-tight polyester. Captain Kirk was in the process of being beaten up-with his shirt off, of course, while everyone else was fully clothed. Nathan wondered with mild amusement why anyone would agree to be the guest star. Sure as hell, when you got beamed down with the regulars, you were doomed.