After They Got The Word

The walls were three feet thick, the ceiling twelve feet high. The door though, wasn’t soundproof and I could hear them, not at all trying to hide the fact that they were there, waiting for the word. They paced, they whistled and hummed, they even greeted other guests, Alright darling? They’d knocked a couple of times, pretending to be room service, Your champagne, sir, they said, and laughed and fell around till they coughed and I heard them slapping each others’ backs. The door was locked. I’d locked it and jammed a chair under the knob, like how they do on TV. I felt better for having made some kind of effort but knew it wouldn’t stop them—not these guys—not once the word came.

Across the room to the window. I played peek-a-boo behind the curtain, watching the street and the others. A neon arrow flashed directly at the window, almost directly at my head. Not the optimal hiding place. Every quarter-hour or so one of them got out of the car, stretched, maybe even waved to me, to the window. One of them made a pistol with his finger and thumb, pointed up and let go an imaginary bullet. I breathed a sigh, not of relief or respite, more of contentment; soon this would be over. I’d been holed up for three days.

The phone rang, and again and again. Like it had all day. Less rings now than before, eight not twelve. I let it ring out; I wasn’t taking calls. I watched him hang up in the car below, then redial. I picked up. Silence. I hung up, it rang again. Yes. First the silence, then breathing in my ear, then they were coming through the door. I made it as far as the fire escape, the phone still in my hand. Tell them to back off, I screamed into the phone. They backed off, snarling, spitting, kicking furniture. Tell them to leave. They turned, they left, adjusting earpieces and speaking into their sleeves. Where is it? he said. Someplace, I said. Tell me where. He entered and lowered the phone, pulled up a chair and lit a Pall Mall. Sit. I walked to the window. So don’t sit. It takes me six minutes to smoke one of these and that’s as long as you have. Okay, boss? said one of them from the door. Just dandy, he said. This won’t take long, wait outside.

His ears resembled orange peel, a thing I hadn’t noticed until now. He sucked on the cigarette, examined the nails at the end of his bratwurst fingers and began the tirade. How could you, ...why, ...after all... Nothing original, and looking at him sitting there, that’s all I really wished for: something original, or at least something new, anyfuckingthing. Bratwurst number one jabbed holes in the air between us like a metronome, Cocksucker, prick, fucking-this-and-fucking-that. So I’d let the man down; point taken. So I’d cheated him; boo-hoo.

It will look like suicide, he said. Three floors, happens. He held the cigarette up and looked around for an ashtray. You quit? he said. Fuck me, wonder of wonders, cocksucker quit. He flicked the ash into his hand and shook his head. Wouldn’t want to make a mess. I reached for the drawer. Easy, he said, slipping his hand under his jacket. Easy. You want it or not? I said. It’s here? You want it? No fucking games, I’m warning you. I opened the drawer, slow. Don’t fuck with me, he said. Don’t make it worse. The last thing he said. One in the neck, one in the gut. I reached under his jacket and took his 38. I turned to the door and braced myself.