There are two guys, presumably Krieger and Fortz, dressed in gimp masks and rubber aprons, dancing happy little jigs either side of a stool-mounted laptop. The floor is lined with plastic.
What happened to human beings? Once upon a time Marilyn Monroe holding an apple was the raciest thing on the planet. Now we gotta have middle-aged cops in gimp masks?
I cough a few times, which feels like it’s inflating my brain, then say:
“You know, guys. Whatever happens, at least we have our dignity.”
Denial. That’s what it is.
“Hey,” says Fortz, and I know it’s him not from the single syllable but from the inverted-cauldron shape of his head and the fact that his narrow-set eyes don’t quite line up with the eyeholes. “Look who’s awake.”
Krieger whistles. “Thank Christ for that. I thought the second dart might have killed him.”
Fortz punches his partner’s bare shoulder, which is matted with fuzz. “So why did you give him the second dart, moron?”
“I was angry with you, Dirk,” says Krieger, whose body language screams bitch. “You’ve been ragging me all week.”
Dirk Fortz does his eye-rolling thing. “Shit, Krieg. We’re partners. Ragging goes with the turf.” He turns to me. “That’s quite a ticker you got there. I never saw a guy still jabbering after getting sparked.”
I have crescents of pain behind my eyes and would really like a nap, but I figure keeping the conversation going will delay whatever shit storm is drifting my way.
“Depends on the weapon. I got hit with fifty thousand volts last year, knocked me out of my skin. What’ve you got there? Thirty?”
Fortz’s lip juts out through the hole in his gimp mask. “Nah, it’s fifty. Well, that’s what it says on the barrel. You never know with these fucking things, right? A bullet’s a bullet. But Tasers could be shooting fairy dust for all I know.”
“Feckin’ electricity,” I agree good naturedly, going for reverse Stockholm syndrome. “That’s some sneaky invisible shit.”
Krieger interrupts our bonding session. “Dirk, we’re at fifteen grand already,” he says, tapping the laptop’s screen. “We should get oiled.”
It’s a little difficult to understand what Krieger is saying because of the mask. I really hope he didn’t say oiled.
“Fifteen grand,” says Fortz, clapping his hands. “Twenty is our reserve, which you should feel very proud of. Five more and we’re good to go.”
Good to go? Nothing about this situation is good as far as I’m concerned. I have an idea what’s going on here, and half of me almost doesn’t want my suspicions confirmed. The other half of me blurts: “What the hell is happening, Fortz?”
The detective scratches his beer gut and ignores the question. “You probably guessed they make porn in this building, McEvoy. Friend of mine lets me use a room on occasion. Did you know that they shot the entire Twelve in a Bed series in that bed behind you? Sunny Daze made her debut in this very room.”
“No way,” says Krieger. “You never told me that. I love her flicks. Especially Good Daze and Bad Daze.”
“That was a classic,” says Fortz and is lost for a moment in fond reminiscence.
I try again. “Come on, guys. What am I doing here?”
Fortz picks a scalpel from the table. “Deacon said you were smarter than you look, so figure it out, why don’t you? Let’s look at the clues: You’re handcuffed to a chair in a porn studio. There are two guys in rubber watching pledges mount up on a laptop with a built-in webcam. Whaddya think’s going on? Poker night?”
It’s pretty conclusive stuff, but cops have been known to concoct elaborate scenarios to trick confessions out of suspects. My old army buddy, Tommy Fletcher, told me that two guards from Athlone once dressed up as al-Qaeda to try and get him to sell them a trash bin on wheels full of Stingers that they were convinced he kept in his yard.
I would have sold ’em the bin too, he admitted. But they had one whiskey too many in a hot bar and their beards melted off. Coupla red flags right there.
Tommy. What a fecking nutcase.
“Maybe, you’re trying to set me up,” I venture. “Trick me into confessing something.”
“You got something to confess?” asks Fortz.
“Nothing worth this much trouble.”
“Bang goes that theory,” says Krieger.
“So that’s it? You’re just gonna auction me online?”
“Yup,” says Fortz. “People gotta pay to log on and watch us torture you to death. You would be amazed at how many sickos are out there.”
Not today I wouldn’t.
This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I can honestly say that if Sofia wasn’t depending on me, I would prefer to be dead. They say that there are no noble ways to die, but a heart attack is looking pretty good right now. And the way my heart is thudding in my chest, a cardiac is definitely achievable if I let my fear run riot.
“Come on, guys. There must be something we can do here. I gotta be more valuable to you alive than dead. I got certain skills.”
Fortz laughs. “Listen to Liam fucking Neeson. Certain skills.”
Krieger pitches in. “He could tell us where the package is. That would be worth something.”
Package? How do they know about Mike’s envelope?
I go to standard first base. “What package?”
Fortz shrugs. “If you don’t know, then you don’t know and we ain’t got a use for you apart from the auction.”
I have no play here. All these morons have to do is search my clothes and they’re going to find the envelope. I can’t believe they didn’t do that already, too busy wiggling into their rubber aprons.
Maybe they are stupid enough for me to pull some sort of con.
“Detectives. You’re making twenty grand? That’s chump change compared to what I can offer you.”
The blues don’t even bother answering, returning their attention to the screen’s growing total.
I let my chin droop to my chest and make animal snuffles that are somewhere between chuckles and sobs.
Keep it together, soldier. You are not dead yet.
Fortz pinches his partner’s midriff. “Nineteen grand. Still rising.”
Krieger giggles and skips away. “Quit it, Dirk.”
“Okay,” I say, recovering a little. “Let’s do what we’re really here to do.”
“Which is?” asks Fortz, stepping closer.
We’re here because these two protect-and-serve motherfuckers are greedy and maybe I can appeal to that side of their nature.
“Negotiate,” I say.
Fortz waves the scalpel at me. “Negotiate? What are you gonna negotiate with, Irish? Who gets to slice off your balls?”
This casual questions hits me like a sock in the gut and I feel myself hyperventilating. I’ve been in tight spots before but this situation is so dark that I am a hair’s breadth from total panic.
Fortz taps me on the cheek with the scalpel. “Hey, Dan. Danny. Come on, now. Gimme some of that crackling banter you’re famous for. Let’s give the perverts their money’s worth.”
I suck the panic back down. “I got the package in my jacket pocket on the floor right over there.”
“You got the package in your jacket pocket?”
Fortz elbows Krieger. “Is this guy serious?”
“The boss said it was a long shot.”
“So he doesn’t have the package. Who cares? We’re getting paid on both ends.”
I am insulted that they doubt my integrity. “I do have that package. I was delivering it for Mike Madden. Why don’t you pull it out, see what we have?”
Krieger and Fortz go into a routine.
“Why don’t we do that?”
“Yeah, why don’t we do that?”
“Seems reasonable?”
“Totally reasonable.”
Fortz conducts with the scalpel as he speaks. “We would have to be total retardos not to go ahead and act on y
our suggestion.”
Krieger laughs at the word retardos, which is probably a new wrinkle in their double act.
“Do we look like retardos to you, McEvoy?” Krieger demands.
This seems like a trick question.
“No. Look, it’s in my pocket.”