“Everything off.”
“Look, come on, chaps. Please.”
Gint took out his gun and pointed it at him.
“We want nekkid, Dores,” Freeborn said.
Henderson took off his shoes and socks. The floorboards were surprisingly cold; he worried vaguely about getting splinters in his soft pink soles, the risk of verrucas…The chill rose swiftly up through his body and reached the top of his skull in seconds. Goose pimples covered his body. He stripped off his underpants, threw them on the chair and held his trembling hands modestly in front of him.
“It’s not that cold, is it?” Sereno laughed.
Henderson looked away.
Gint gathered up his clothes and took them out of the office, then came back, snapping a pair of pliers in his hands.
“What’s that for?” Freeborn asked.
“You get a piece of skin in these, it’s like tearing paper.”
Henderson heard the blood leaving his head. He staggered a bit.
“Come on, Peter. Ben said I could go first,” Freeborn complained.
“Aw, here, Ben, you always let me go first.”
“Hold on there,” Freeborn said. “I mean, whose house was he in? Mine.”
“Yeah, but he’s in our office now.”
“But you wouldn’t have got him if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Yeah, but I had to—”
“Boys, boys,” Sereno said. “Relax. You got five minutes, Freeborn. Come on, Peter, give him the gun.”
Sulkily Gint handed over his gun, then he and Sereno left. Henderson heard the noise of the lift.
Freeborn wandered over. He pressed the revolver barrel against Henderson’s forehead.
“I ain’t gonna kill you yet, fuck, but I am gonna shoot your fuckin’ foot off of your leg in ten seconds if you don’t tell me what you’ve done with the paintings.” He pointed the gun at Henderson’s white twitching right foot. He looked down at his toes. The nails could do with a cut. He thought warmly of his foot’s hundreds of tiny fragile bones, its callouses, its one dear persistent corn. Finally he could speak.
“You don’t…You mean, you don’t know that—”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be here, mofo.”
“—that Duane burnt them all.”
Freeborn grabbed Henderson’s throat and tried to push the blunt barrel of the gun up his left nostril.
“Lying. Lying, you bastard!”
His big face and his glistening cusped and trefoiled beard was very close.
“It’s true,” Henderson croaked. “Last night. I saw him. I caught him at it. He said your father ordered him. Before he died. Last words.”
Freeborn stepped back, ran his fingers through his springy black hair. He looked over his shoulder, then aimed the gun at Henderson’s groin.
“It’s true,” Henderson wept softly. “How could I have stolen the paintings? Think about it. Duane burnt them. Ask anyone to check at the bottom of the back garden.”
Freeborn was prodding and tugging at his plump cheeks, as if trying to force his features to change from increasingly troubled credulity.
“Say you’re lying, Dores.”
“It’s the truth. I swear.”
“Oh Jesus, no. That dumb…that iron-brain, that fuckin’ air-head moron…” The gun dropped. Freeborn began visibly to tremble. “Oh Jesus.” He sank down on his haunches. Henderson told him the story again, in great and convincing detail, Freeborn’s terror relaxing him somewhat.
“I gotta check it out.” He stood up again. “You could be lying, Dores. Shittin’ me.” Doubt registered in his voice and eyes. “I gotta be careful. Very careful.”
He approached Henderson again. “I don’t know if you’re telling the truth, but, whatever you do don’t tell Sereno or Gint, man, or we’re dead. Both dead. D, E, D, you know?”
“I don’t see why I—”
“They’ll kill me, boy. They’ll kill you too, sure as shit.”
Freeborn paced around the room. “I’m gonna check this out. If you’re right, if you’re right, then I’ve got to fix up some way…” He paused. “I need some time.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Time,” he repeated. “Look, I know, we’ll say you hid them in Luxora someplace. Yeah. Let’s say, uh, you rented a garage off of…of, um, Ed Beak, yeah. And—”
“Just a second. Why the hell should I go along with you, for God’s sake?”
“‘Cause those mean mothers’ll blow us both away for sure, numbnuts!” he shouted in shrill panic. “I’m tryin’ to save your ass as well as my own!” He paced around some more.
Henderson kept quiet, though he sensed profound unease at being inveigled into this alliance.
“OK,” Freeborn said. “We go back to Luxora. That’ll take time. Good, good.” He stopped. He seemed suddenly on the verge of tears. He clenched his fist, and pounded it on his hip. “That pea-brain! That asshole! Why did he do that? I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna roast his balls!” Henderson assumed Duane was the object of his venom. “Stay cool,” Freeborn advised himself. “Stay calm. Take it easy.”
“Listen, you’re not going to leave me here like this?” Henderson spread his arms.
“Got to, man. No other way. It’s got to look right. Can’t you see? If they suspect…” He focused blankly on the middle distance rubbing his beard. Henderson sensed his terror, like a gas; blood turned to soda in his veins.
“What have those two guys got on you?” Henderson asked.
“I owe them, man,” Freeborn said in a small voice. “Owe. You know? I owe them all kinds of shit. From way back, for a long time.” His face slumped. “It would’ve been all right. ‘Cept you came along.” He paused, then his voice became a harsh whisper. “They got me by the balls. One in each hand.” He held his hands out in illustration. He came over. “Play along with me, Henderson. We’ll get out of this. But don’t say nothing about that fuckwit Duane. That’s all.”
Henderson smelt his antiseptic breath.
“Yeah, and where’s Shanda?” Freeborn asked. “She’s with you, right?”
“At my apartment. Look, she asked. I didn’t—”
“Hey, that’s cool. No sweat. Done me a favour there, boy.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sorry. But I gotta do this.”
Freeborn punched Henderson in the nose, quite hard. Henderson heard a noise in his head like a walnut being crushed and everything went white and calm for a moment. When he opened his eyes it was as though he were swimming under water. He was on his knees. Blood surged steadily from his nose, splashing over his chest and belly.
“Sorry, Henderson. Had to do it. Wow, it looks bad.”
Henderson spat gouts of salty blood out of his mouth.
“Ben! Peter!” Freeborn called.
“Clodes,” Henderson said, a knuckle up each oozing nostril.
“Sorry.” Freeborn went out, returned with Henderson’s shoes. “Best I can do.”
Sereno and Gint came in.
“What you do?” Sereno said, wrinkling his nose at the blood-boltered sight.
“Says they’re in a garage in Luxora. I’ll check it out.”
“We’ll check it out,” Sereno said.
Gint still had the pliers in his hand. “Shit. I was going to tear his nipples off. Always works.”
Henderson, who was getting up, slumped back at this. His nipples throbbed spontaneously.
“Let him sweat it out,” Freeborn said. “Case he ain’t telling the truth.”
“I’ll be back,” Gint said, clicking his pliers.
They left. Henderson heard the bolt being slid to.
He sat on the chair while the last drops of blood plopped from his nose. Judging from the puddle on the floor and his encarnadined torso he must have lost a couple of pints. He stretched his legs out, let his head hang over the back of the chair. Gently, he touched his nose. It had sounded as if every bone and cartilage had been pulverized. He sat up and put on his shoes, his old black Oxfords, with shiny toe-caps. He looked around the room. There was nothing he could use to cover his nudity. It was completely empty. He crossed his legs. His hands were covered in blood and left palm prints all over his body. The blood on his chest and belly was beginning to dry, matting the hairs. He wondered what he looked like: some pallid aborigine involved in an unspeakable rite or ritual. Except the black shoes rather spoilt the image.