The Chair (34 page)

W
hen A. C. got Corin’s text he was three minutes from the store. Maybe two if traffic was light. He made it in one minute and forty-nine seconds.

Twenty seconds later he peered through the front window of Corin’s store.

Three men stood in front of Corin, who was tied to a chair. One was an oversized gorilla, but the other two looked average height and weight.

He turned away from the window and punched in 911 on his cell phone.

“This is 911, what is your emergency?”

“The owner of Artifications is being held hostage inside his own store. The address is 16906 West Francis Street. Send a car; I need to get in there.”

“Why do you think he’s being held hostage?”

“He’s tied to a chair!” A. C. bounced on one leg, staring at Corin. “You need to send a car
now
.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Look, don’t be an idiot. I’m going inside to—”

“Sir, we need you to stay outside. And we need to know your name.”

“A. C. Avena. Why do I have to stay outside?”

“You know why, sir. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. They could have weapons.”

A. C. pressed his fist into the side of his face. Yes, he’d thought of that. If there wasn’t that possibility, he’d already be inside the store thrashing the men surrounding Corin. “How soon are you sending a car?”

“We’ve already dispatched a unit.”

“How long!”

The phone hummed.
C’mon!

“Police officers should arrive at the scene within seven minutes.”

Great. Corin might not have five minutes. Maybe not even three.

“It’s gotta be faster than that.”

“They’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Fine. But they better be breaking speed records to get here.”

“Can you see what is happening inside the store and describe it for us?”

A. C. peered back through the window into the store. The man in the middle was talking to Corin, who glared back with seething eyes. A. C. almost laughed. Corin couldn’t fight a Barbie doll even with all his kung fu training, but he didn’t lack courage.

The man in the middle who looked like the professor from that ancient show
Gilligan’s Island
said something to Corin . . . Corin responded . . . from the look on the man’s face he didn’t like it . . . the man nodded to the big bald guy. Baldy backhanded Corin, whose head snapped back like a spring.

“They just hit him.” A. C. growled into his phone. “I’m going in.”

“Sir, you need to—”

“Get that car here now!” He ended the call and took a deep breath.

As he strode around the building toward the back door, A. C. tensed his chest involuntarily. This would be an excellent workout. But before he started to roar, he had to assess the situation and make an educated guess if they had guns or not. If they did, he’d back off and try to figure out a way to keep them from inflicting any more damage on Corin. A distraction, something.

If they didn’t, then it was rumble time. He flexed his biceps. Voluntarily this time. He stepped through the store’s back door and strode toward the front.

After five steps his cell phone lit up to the sound of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Caller ID was
Unknown
. Probably 911. They’d tell him to stay outside and he’d tell them off and later regret it. A waste of time. He turned off the ringer and shoved his phone into his front pants pocket.

A shout from the front echoed through the store. “We have company! Go find them.”

A. C. burst into the front of the store before any of them could move. Corin looked up at him through an eye already starting to swell.

“How are ya doing, Corin?”

“Wonderful. My new friends and I are discussing terms on a piece of furniture they’re interested in acquiring.”

The bald gorilla said, “My guess is we’re gazing at the illustrious A. C. Am I right? Is that who you are?”

A. C.’s face morphed into granite. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

“Excellent. Good to have you join us.” A man with dagger tattoos on his neck and a ponytail clapped his hands. “Well done coming to the rescue of your bosom friend. What can we do for you?”

A. C. studied each guy. If they carried heat it wasn’t obvious. So it was Las Vegas time. Time to gamble whether they had guns or not. If they didn’t, he would make the next two or three minutes look like a UFC ultimate match, but if they did have guns . . .

But even if A. C. had seen bulges in the men’s clothing, he wouldn’t have stayed outside. Not when Corin was inside taking championship shots to the head. “I’d like you to leave if you don’t mind.”

“We do mind.”

“In that case, if you don’t get out of this store immediately, I’ll escort you out. And not gently.”

Ponytail wiggled his fingers, grinned, and opened his mouth wide to reveal a studded tongue. “Three of us. Two of you. And one of you”—the man motioned to Corin—“won’t be of great assistance. We would make the floor shiny with you, big boy.”

“I don’t think so.” A. C. smiled his sideways grin.

Baldy returned the smile and clenched and unclenched his fists. “So you want to make a little thunder, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“These guys are serious, A. C.” Corin strained against the ropes binding his hands. “Get out of here.”

“Nah, I missed my workout yesterday so this will make up for it.”

“A. C., don’t.”

“These guys? Piece of cake, piece of pie, and some tiramisu.” He looked back at the three thugs. “Ready?”

They nodded and strode toward A. C., splitting apart like synchronized dancers when they were six feet away. Ponytail lunged at A. C. from his left, then pulled back while Baldy came at him from the right and spun silky smooth to deliver a roundhouse kick to A. C.’s side.

A. C. wasn’t fooled by Ponytail’s feint. He stuttered forward, feinted to the left as if to take on Ponytail, then spun and caught Baldy’s leg in midkick with his iron-grip hands. He twisted the leg hard, then slammed the man to the ground, making sure his head was the major body part that cushioned his fall. If he wasn’t out cold, he still wouldn’t be moving quickly anytime soon. One down, two to go.

One of the others jumped him from behind—had to be Ponytail—threw his arm around A. C.’s neck, and squeezed. A. C. slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs, loosing his grip around A. C.’s neck. Another blow to the man’s rib cage and he dropped to the ground.

The professor came at him from straight ahead.

Feint right. Hand to the throat. Block. Parry. Strike.

This guy had skill.

A. C. took a hard blow to the jaw and staggered backward. In the next instant Ponytail slammed his fist into A. C.’s kidney from behind.

“Uhhh!”

“Want another?”

“Bring it,” A. C. said as he spun and backed up, glancing between the professor and Ponytail.

Ponytail lunged forward first. The guy was quick, but A. C. sidestepped the attack and used Ponytail’s momentum to toss him head first into an oak dresser. Ponytail lay on the ground and moaned. Out cold. Two down.

“A. C., look out!”

He spun around in time to see the flash of a shot rocketing out of a gun held by the professor.

The bullet struck him and it felt like a bee had stung him just below his rib cage. His hand went to his stomach, and a few seconds later blood seeped through his shirt onto his fingers. He tottered for a moment, then slumped to the floor.

“I told you I could take them.” He coughed and blood spilled onto the floor. “But bullets always hold the trump card.”

CORIN FELT HOT, then cold, then hot again. This couldn’t be happening. He screamed and yanked on the cords holding his wrists so hard it felt like they had sliced off his hands.

Blood seeped through A. C.’s fingers and dripped onto the floor like a melting early spring snow. Little blood bubbles pinged out of his mouth as he took ragged breaths.

“Don’t let him die!” Corin strained against the rope. “You have to get him to a doctor.”

“Now why would I want to do that? I just shot him. I want him to die,” Mr. 1950s said.

“No. Please. Not A. C.”

“Why don’t you get your precious little chair to save him?” The man smiled and glanced at Ponytail, who had just gained consciousness.

“If you’d simply given it to us in the first place, by the way, he wouldn’t be in this conundrum. We would have been gone before he got here. But now, you’re going to be saying good-bye very soon. And I’m guessing that will weigh on your soul, well, forever.”

Corin screamed at them with every swear word he knew and again strained against the twine with all his strength. “I will kill you.”

“No. You won’t.” Mr. 1950s lit a cigarette. “You’ll give us the chair and we’ll wave good-bye.” He pulled a shiny penny from his pocket and massaged it between his thumb and forefinger. “Heads, I shoot A. C. again; tails, I shoot A. C. again.” He smiled a thin, condescending smile. “Unless you want to tell me where the chair is.”

“Who sent you?”

“That’s not the response I was looking for.”

Corin dropped his head and closed his eyes as the penny clattered to the floor and rang in his ears like a rock-concert cymbal. Idiot! What had he been thinking to text A. C.?

Mr. 1950s picked up the penny. “Ah, shucks. It’s tails.” He lifted his gun.

At the same moment Baldy’s cell phone rang. He answered and seconds later shoved the phone in his pocket. “We’re outta time; we gotta roll, now.”

The three men sprinted out of the store without a glance at Corin.

He didn’t think about why they left. His entire focus was on A. C. The floor in front of him grew darker—blood continuing to seep out of his wound and into the tiny cracks and crevasses of the oak hardwood floor A. C. lay on.

“A. C.!”

No response. No movement.

“Wake up!”

He had to get to his friend’s cell phone. Where did A. C. stash it? Front right pocket? Always his front pocket.

Corin clumped his chair toward his friend in stuttered hops, each time he moved the twine cutting deep into his wrists. He ignored the pain.
Don’t tip. Stay in control. Ten more feet. Move!

When he reached A. C. he realized he couldn’t get to his cell phone unless he lay on his side with his back to A. C. so he could try to reach it with his hands through the wood slats of his chair.

He would have to tip himself over. He rocked the chair once. Twice. And he fell.

No. He’d misjudged. He was too close to the footstool next to A. C.

Corin tucked his head to his chest but it wasn’t enough. The crack of his skull against the footstool exploded in his head and he flopped onto the floor like a rotten pumpkin.

As the swirling blackness surrounded him one thought pinged through Corin’s mind:
A. C. is going to die and it’s my fault once again.

AS CORIN STAGGERED up out of blackness the sound of sirens filled his world. And he was moving. Ambulance? Did that mean A. C. was okay?

His eyes fluttered open. Mistake. The light seemed to puncture his skull and turned up the throbbing in his brain exponentially. Was an elephant doing jumping jacks on his head?

“He’s coming around.”

The voiced sounded muffled and he couldn’t tell if it was male or female.

“A. Zee okay?” Corin’s head felt like it had been on the rinse and spin cycle for the past twenty-four hours. “My fend, izh zee okay?”

“Try not to talk. You’re on your way to the hospital. You smacked your head in the wrong spot. You probably have a concussion. Another quarter inch over and there’s a good chance you’d be riding in a different kind of car.”

Corin opened his eyes a millimeter and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. He tried to push up on his elbows and blackness rushed at him.

“Whoa, cowboy, you’re not ready for that horse for a little while longer.” The man—it sounded like a man now—put his hand on Corin’s shoulder and gently pressed him back down onto the gurney.

“I halve to know ehf hez okay.”

“Your friend lost a lot of blood, but we stabilized him before we put him in the ambulance.”

“Iz zhee?”

“I don’t know. From what I saw I’m guessing he’ll make it.”

“Mhy fahlt, muine.” Corin fumbled for his pocket. Had to get to his cell phone. Had to call A. C. to see if he was okay. “Godda scall himm.”

“You have to stay still, sir.”

“Havs to scall A. C.!” Corin opened and shut his eyes repeatedly, trying to get used to the lights in the ambulance blazing into his retinas.

“Relax. He’s going make it.”

“You’re shure?”

“Positive.”

A moment later he slipped back into the darkness.

CORIN WOKE TO the sound of the ESPN Sport Center theme song coming from a TV to his left. Where was he? He rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. In a hospital room, but why?

And why was his head pounding like he’d gone through four of Tori’s demonstrations as the class punching bag?

A moment later the scene from the night before rushed into his mind.

A. C. He had to find out if A. C. was okay.

Corin glanced to his right and then left, scanning for a call button. There. On the railing of his bed. He pressed it once. A low pitched hmm filled his ears. Then again.
Ennnnnnh.

“It might be a while.”

Corin looked up. Through the curtain to his left Corin saw the outline of what looked like a man lying in the bed in front of the TV screen.

“What?”

“Let me put it this way. If the nurses around here were in the Olympics, they wouldn’t be sprinters.”

“Don’t they come when you hit the button?”

“Always. But ‘coming to assist’ might mean within a few minutes to you. It might mean within a few days to them.”

Corin glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock in the morning. “What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

He glanced at the clock again. Unbelievable. He’d been out for over twenty-nine hours.

Corin studied the IV worming its way into his arm. “I have to get out of here.”

“Hey there, what do you think you’re doing?” A tall, slender man with a postsurgery Michael Jackson nose traipsed into the room.