into the back where Fat Boy was still out.
Ignoring the smell, I patted him down. He had the comic, two cell phones, a brass-handled Buck knife with a quick-release thumb switch soldered onto the blade, a wallet with a Visa card, and sixty-seven dollars in bills and coins. The van interior had been to turn it into a cargo carrier, but taped to one bare wall was an Easton Connexion aluminum bat spray-painted black. I pulled it free and used it as a lever to help me dislocate Fat Boy’s right arm at the ball joint in his shoulder.
That woke him up and he screamed into his socks, which I’d knotted around his head to keep him quiet. When he stopped screaming I patted his cheek. “Hi! My name is Montgomery Uller Haaviko. Did your boss tell you about me?”
His eyes blinked repeatedly in the dim light from a nearby street.
“Can you understand me?”
He nodded.
“Do I have your undivided attention?”
He nodded again.
“Good.”
I opened his knife one handed and cut the socks free so he could speak. The knife attracted his attention; knives are good for generating visceral fear. Fat Boy’s first words were plaintive and whiny. “Jeeze, you didn’t have to do that.”
His face was grey-green and his eyes were pinpoints from the shock but I waved his comment away with the knife and said gently, “Let me tell you something about torture. If you are getting tortured, just give up the information as fast as you can. It’s actually expected by professionals. Everyone breaks in time, so break quickly and keep your health intact.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m torturing you. Right now.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause and then he added, “Oh.”
“So are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
“I don’t know …”
He shut up when I held his Buck knife before his eyes. Then I corrected him, “Wrong answer. The right answer is, yes. Or I’ll cut off one testicle. I’ll let you choose which one.”
Fat Boy pissed his pants again and started to hyperventilate. When he calmed down I asked him again, “So are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a very, very good answer.”
#15
F at Boy was extremely helpful and for the next two hours he directed me around the city in the van and told me about the organization he worked for. To the best of his knowledge Sam owned two houses and he showed them both to me, one in the West End and one across the river in Saint Boniface. From there she ran eleven low-rent, tire-biter hookers (his term for a prostitute who worked in the back seats of cars only). She also dealt drugs to lower-level dealers and addicts and did a little bit of fencing. In total there were six guys employed as muscle, including Fat Boy. Samantha Ritchot was the boss but she did have a boyfriend who helped.
He told me all sorts of other stuff too, most of which I ignored.
The rest of the night sucked, mostly. I parked in another shopping mall lot and waited for the stores to open and every few hours Fat Boy would come out of shock and whine a little and then drift away again.
On the plus side, I got to read The League of Extraordinary
Gentlemen and found it to be very, very cool. Who knew comics could be smart?
At ten the next morning the stores opened and I tied Fat Boy up with his belt and shoe laces, stuffed his socks back in his mouth and covered his head with his jacket. When he complained I opened the knife again and he changed his mind. I made my first stop at the Fishing Hole tackle shop and bought a tan-coloured, multi-pocketed fish-killing vest. Then I went to the Cellar Dweller hobby shop for some radio-controlled car supplies and extra wire and finally to the European Sausage Experience, where I bought all the marzipan they had, two kilos of the sugar-and-almond paste.
In a parking lot for the Forks shopping centre in the middle of town, I cut the marzipan into slices about a centimetre thick, blotted them dry with
Ignoring the smell, I patted him down. He had the comic, two cell phones, a brass-handled Buck knife with a quick-release thumb switch soldered onto the blade, a wallet with a Visa card, and sixty-seven dollars in bills and coins. The van interior had been to turn it into a cargo carrier, but taped to one bare wall was an Easton Connexion aluminum bat spray-painted black. I pulled it free and used it as a lever to help me dislocate Fat Boy’s right arm at the ball joint in his shoulder.
That woke him up and he screamed into his socks, which I’d knotted around his head to keep him quiet. When he stopped screaming I patted his cheek. “Hi! My name is Montgomery Uller Haaviko. Did your boss tell you about me?”
His eyes blinked repeatedly in the dim light from a nearby street.
“Can you understand me?”
He nodded.
“Do I have your undivided attention?”
He nodded again.
“Good.”
I opened his knife one handed and cut the socks free so he could speak. The knife attracted his attention; knives are good for generating visceral fear. Fat Boy’s first words were plaintive and whiny. “Jeeze, you didn’t have to do that.”
His face was grey-green and his eyes were pinpoints from the shock but I waved his comment away with the knife and said gently, “Let me tell you something about torture. If you are getting tortured, just give up the information as fast as you can. It’s actually expected by professionals. Everyone breaks in time, so break quickly and keep your health intact.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m torturing you. Right now.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause and then he added, “Oh.”
“So are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
“I don’t know …”
He shut up when I held his Buck knife before his eyes. Then I corrected him, “Wrong answer. The right answer is, yes. Or I’ll cut off one testicle. I’ll let you choose which one.”
Fat Boy pissed his pants again and started to hyperventilate. When he calmed down I asked him again, “So are you going to tell me what I want to know?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a very, very good answer.”
#15
F at Boy was extremely helpful and for the next two hours he directed me around the city in the van and told me about the organization he worked for. To the best of his knowledge Sam owned two houses and he showed them both to me, one in the West End and one across the river in Saint Boniface. From there she ran eleven low-rent, tire-biter hookers (his term for a prostitute who worked in the back seats of cars only). She also dealt drugs to lower-level dealers and addicts and did a little bit of fencing. In total there were six guys employed as muscle, including Fat Boy. Samantha Ritchot was the boss but she did have a boyfriend who helped.
He told me all sorts of other stuff too, most of which I ignored.
The rest of the night sucked, mostly. I parked in another shopping mall lot and waited for the stores to open and every few hours Fat Boy would come out of shock and whine a little and then drift away again.
On the plus side, I got to read The League of Extraordinary
Gentlemen and found it to be very, very cool. Who knew comics could be smart?
At ten the next morning the stores opened and I tied Fat Boy up with his belt and shoe laces, stuffed his socks back in his mouth and covered his head with his jacket. When he complained I opened the knife again and he changed his mind. I made my first stop at the Fishing Hole tackle shop and bought a tan-coloured, multi-pocketed fish-killing vest. Then I went to the Cellar Dweller hobby shop for some radio-controlled car supplies and extra wire and finally to the European Sausage Experience, where I bought all the marzipan they had, two kilos of the sugar-and-almond paste.
In a parking lot for the Forks shopping centre in the middle of town, I cut the marzipan into slices about a centimetre thick, blotted them dry with
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