“Red,” he said, “put his stuff in here. Dump it somewhere no one will find it.”
He handed the box of bags to the other goon. “Billy, there should be enough here to wrap up the parts.”
I said, “Ah, fuck, Myron.”
Bishop looked at me for a few silent seconds. “Sorry, Joe. The truth is that you fucked me over pretty good. You know how many days I’ve had diarrhea? My blood pressure could blow bolts out of plate steel. You ruined more than my business. You ruined me.”
“So let me make it right,” I said. “We’re not the Marshals. They’d hide you away in some Podunk town and make you live small. The DMS can give you a better life than clerking at a shoe store in East Galoshes, Iowa. I’m serious. We have some places on some islands. Palm trees, ocean views, the works. Like a resort.”
“I had that.”
“Have it again. Have it forever.”
“Even paradise would get boring if I could never leave.”
“Well, shit, man, what’s your plan now? Go on the run for the rest of your life? Defect to North Korea and live in some underground bunker until you stop being useful?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I have other plans.”
“What other plans? What other options do you have left? I’m offering you the best deal.”
“Sorry, Joe, I’ll pass.”
“Tell me why.”
He smiled. A thin, small, slightly weary smile. “This isn’t a James Bond movie, Joe. Guys like me don’t have confessional moments. You don’t get to know our plans. All you get to do is know that you fucked up and failed. Maybe that’ll give you a little taste of what I’ve been going through.”
He came over and stood right in front of me. If I hadn’t been taped to the chair I could have reached out and strangled him.
Without breaking eye contact with me, he spoke to his goons. “Make it last,” he said. “Ruin this motherfucker the way he ruined me.”
Bishop bent forward and patted my cheek.
“No offense, Joe.”
Chap. 7
Here’s the thing about duct tape.
It’s tough, we all know that.
Breaking it through sheer muscle power is pretty much not going to happen. Especially if it gets folded over while you’re struggling. That increases the breaking strength.
Here’s the other thing about duct tape.
People trust it way too much.
They tape you up and they think you’re good, they think you’re there to stay.
Try that shit on someone like, say, Houdini. Or a Vegas stage magician worth half a shit. Try it on some of the really smart street thugs. They’ll all slip out of it.
Like I slipped out of it.
The trick is to have them tape you while you’re struggling, and to make sure your wrists are flexed out and all your muscles are bulged. These assholes helped with that with their damn stun guns. They thought they were wrapping my wrists and binding me to the chair. Actually they were wrapping my muscles and bones while they were expanded. And, yes, you can expand the width of your wrist by splaying your fingers and tensing the muscles. It separates the radius and ulna. Look it up, this isn’t a science lesson.
Point is, I was not nearly as tightly bound as they thought I was.
All the time Bishop was talking shit to me, I was relaxing my muscles and easing my right out of the loop of tape. Same way magicians slip out of handcuffs.
When Bishop leaned close to pat me on the face, I whipped my hand out of the last strand of tape and punched him in the throat.
Not my best punch.
Probably the hardest punch he ever took, though. He wasn’t the physical type.
He made a horrible gagging-choking sound, and I stood up, spun him, and wrapped my left arm around him, my forearm pressed to his right carotid and laying on the windpipe, my bicep pressing the left carotid shut.
The goons, Red, Billy and Stanky — I never found out his real name — surged forward and I lifted Bishop onto tippy-toes and clamped my right hand behind his head to increase pressure and secure the lock.
“Stop right there,” I growled. “Anyone moves and he dies.”
They hesitated.
“Tell them to back off,” I ordered.
Bishop, whose face was turning a nice shade of puce, could only gurgle. I shook him a little bit and added another couple ounces of pressure.
“Tell them to stand down,” I ordered. My feet were still taped to the chair, so I wasn’t in any shape to fight these guys. Besides, they had guns and I had duct tape and my birthday suit. Not a good mix. “Tell them or I will kill you.”
He couldn’t exactly tell them, but he gesticulated with great enthusiasm.
The three goons towered over us. They looked so big and scary and mean that I was scared out of my goddamn mind. Talking trash does not actually make you brave. It doesn’t win you a fight. They knew it and I knew it.
My only weapon was Bishop.
I gave him another squeeze, careful not to bring him to the point where he choked out. If he suddenly went limp, they’d think he was dead, and then they’d tear me apart.
Bishop waved wildly, making shoving motions to order them back.
They took a step back.
“All the way to the wall,” I said. The office was about forty by twenty. They retreated about half that distance but no amount of threats, commands or wild gestures would get them to go all the way.
Shit.
I began shuffling backward. There was about two inches of play in the tape around my ankles, so I had to move in little retreating baby steps. I dragged Bishop with me all the way to the elevators.
That was a tricky moment. I had to release the restraining clamp on the back of his head in order to flap backward and unearth the button. Bishop gurgled out a plea. The goons surged forward. I punched the button and then clamped my fingers over his eyes.
“I’ll tear your eyes out and make you eat them before they can take me down. Do you believe me?”
“Yes! Oh, Christ…yes.”
“Tell them to back the fuck off.”
He did.
They only backed about half a fuck off, though. Not even as far as before.
Behind me the elevator went bing!
I shuffled us back. Naked guy ankle-tied to an office chair with a chunky business guy in a choke hold. Not a pretty picture.
The doors began to shut.
The goons started rushing forward before the doors closed completely.
Bishop screamed at them.
The doors closed.
Chap. 8
I used my right hand to slap the buttons for the twentieth floor.
I needed time to get my shit together, get armed, call for help. If I showed up in the lobby, Frick and Frack would gun me down. If I got off on a floor too close to the top, the goon squad would simply run down a few flights of stairs. To confuse things I hit all the buttons from twenty down to the lobby. Let them guess.
Then I choked Bishop unconscious. When you do it right, compressing both carotids, it takes eight seconds. Compress one and you double the time.
He went out right away, probably because his throat was already a mess.
I coveted his trousers. Big and baggy.
But as he sagged in my grip I smelled a bad smell.
I said, “Ahhh…shit.”
Which was accurate, because Bishop’s bowels failed him as he went out.
So much for a clean pair of pants.
Or, let’s face it, any pants.
Damn it.
I threw him into a corner of the elevator and went to work freeing my ankles.
We hit the twentieth floor before I was out, so we stayed on.
I got my right foot out on seventeen and the left out just as the doors were opening on sixteen. I kicked the chair out, grabbed Bishop by his hair and tried to drag him out.