“Don’t much care for the way Dillard’s treating Linda and Abigail,” Chet said, speaking to the General.
“Why, what’d he do?”
“Bloodied Linda up a bit.”
“That so?” the General said.
“Yanking that little girl around by the hair.”
“I guess them girls is his business now.”
“Don’t make it right,” Chet growled.
“There’s a lot not right around here,” the General said and set eyes on Jesse. “A lot of shit needs getting to the bottom of.” He pulled a shop stool over and took a seat in front of Jesse. “Jesse you’re already dead. You know that and I know that. So you’re probably asking yourself why you should bother answering any of my questions. I think your answer depends on how bad a death you wanna have.” He pulled a silver snub-nose revolver out of his belt, leveled it at Jesse. “You answer my questions straight up, then I’ll take this here gun and shoot you in the head and it’ll all be over. You have my word on it. And you know I’m good for my word.” He sat the gun down on top of the tool cart, leaned over, and tugged something out from the bottom shelf. He held it up and Jesse found himself staring into the milky, dead eyes of the severed cow head. The General dropped it on Jesse’s lap; the cold wetness soaked into his pants, the stink saturating his nostrils.
The General flipped off his hat and the overhead fluorescent gleamed off his bald scalp. He set the hat on the tool cart and picked up the nail gun. Held it in front of Jesse’s face. “Now, on the other hand, if you give me the runaround, lie to me even once, then things are gonna get real ugly, real fast.” The General pointed the nail gun at the floor and hit the trigger. A nail blasted out of the front and bounced off the concrete floor with a spark and a loud ting.
The General pressed the nail gun against Jesse’s kneecap. “Now, tell me, Jesse Walker. Just how did that there cow head come to find its way into my safe?”
Jesse closed his eyes, tried to prepare himself for the pain, because he knew whatever he said would be the wrong thing, that he’d never be able to convince them of the truth, and there was no lie he could possibly come up with that would make any sense. There was no way out, and no one to hear his screams, not out here, and if they did, they’d know better than to call the police about it. I’m fucked and that’s all there is to it.
“I got twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the General said. “I watched the tapes, and from the time I left till the time I came in the next morning, weren’t no one anywhere near this place, let alone in my office. That safe weren’t broke into and nobody knows that combination but me. So tell me Jesse . . . tell me how you done it?”
Jesse opened his mouth, tried to come up with something, anything.
The General tapped the nail gun against his knee. “Now think real hard before you answer, because you want to get this right the first time. Trust me on that.”
“I used the Santa sack.”
The bay fell dead quiet.
Chet let out a snort.
“Come again,” the General said.
“The sack. The fucking Santa sack. The one in my truck.” Jesse’s voice kept rising. “I used it to empty your safe. It’s magic, all right? All right!” he yelled. “You can fucking believe me or fucking not!”
The nail gun hissed. Jesse felt the kick as the piston drove the nail deep into his kneecap. A half-second later the pain hit. “Fuck!” Jesse cried. “Fuck!” The General bounced the nail gun up Jesse’s thigh, hit the trigger again, and again, and again, driving three more nails into Jesse’s leg. Jesse screamed, bucked, would’ve knocked the chair over backward had Chet not caught him and set him up straight.
The General grabbed the cow’s head by the ear, tossed it aside, shoved the nail gun hard into Jesse’s crotch. Jesse groaned.
“Jesse, do you really want to spend the entire evening doing this? I know I don’t. I just want some answers. Want to know about this gang you been running with. Who they are? Where they live? So here’s the place where I give you one more chance. You work with me here, and this can all be over. I can go home and watch some TV and you can be dead. Now tell me Jesse. How’d you get into my safe?”
“Look . . .” Jesse said, barely able to get the words out. “Just . . . bring me the sack. I . . . can show you.”
The General shook his head, pulled the trigger. Jesse felt the nail tear into his groin. “No!” Jesse screamed as the General punched two more into his gut, the nails penetrating deep into his lower abdomen.
“Oh, God!” Jesse screamed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop! Stop it!” He swooned, almost blacked out. “Listen,” he gasped, trying to get the words out between sobs. “Listen . . . hear me out. You want your fucking money back, right?” He gritted his teeth, tried to focus through the pain. “I can . . . get it back. Your drugs . . . all of it. Right now. But you gotta hear me out. God, what the fuck you got to lose? Just hear me out.”
No one spoke; the only sound in the bay was Jesse’s groans. Jesse watched the blood darkening his pants along his leg and crotch. Tried not to think of the nails inside his gut, the holes they’d punched into his lower intestines. He’d always heard a gut wound was the worst way to go, slow and painful, he could certainly attest to the pain.
“Okay, son. Shoot.”
Jesse raised his head, tried to blink away the tears, tried to hold the General’s gaze. “Your drugs . . . are still under . . . fuck . . . under the front seat of my truck. Exactly where your dumbass nephew . . . left them. I can get your money back . . . but I’ll need the sack. I know you think I’m full of shit. Look . . . look at me. Do I look like I’m fucking around?” Sharp pain made Jesse squeeze his eyes shut, he let out a deep grunt, opened them again. “What the hell do you have to lose? Just bring me the goddamn sack and I’ll show you.”
The General paused, seemed to mull it over, and Jesse dared to hope that he just might have a chance. The sack was open to the church, the money was there, but more important, so was the rest of the General’s guns.
“Chet, go get that stupid sack.”
“What? Really, I mean how the fuck can a sack—”
“Shut up and just go get the damn sack.”
“Ash,” Chet said. “Go get that damn sack.”
“No, Chet,” the General said. “I told you to get it. I’m the one that gives the orders around here.”
Chet gave Jesse a dark look, then headed toward the side door.
“And the drugs,” the General called. “See if the drugs are there.”
The men waited, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking at the tools, at the overhead fluorescents, at the flickering Christmas lights over on the stairs, anywhere but at Jesse, at the nails protruding out of his leg and gut.
Jesse fixed on the sack, trying to push the pain from his mind by thinking about what he’d do if he could just get a hold of one of those guns. God, if you were to grant me a last wish. Please, give me the chance to send as many of these motherfuckers to Hell as I can.
“Praying ain’t gonna save you, son,” the General said.
Jesse started, wondered for a second if he’d been thinking out loud.
The General sat the nail gun down. “The truth. That’s your only salvation.”
Chet came in, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the packet wrapped in duct tape. “Well, I’ll be damned. He weren’t lying about the drugs. Here they are.”