Curtains by Scott Nicholson Page A

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