The man who opens the door is olive-skinned and at least six inches taller than Billy. Alice Maxwell is five-four at most, and the thought of this big man hulking over her infuriates Billy.
‘What—’ The guy’s face goes slack as he beholds a man in a Melania Trump mask with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Get them panties down.’ Billy says, and sprays him in the eyes with Easy-Off.
8
Jack or Hank, whichever one it is, stumbles backward, pawing at his eyes. Foam drips off his cheeks and plops from his jaws. He stumbles over a hassock in front of a wicker chair with a hood – what Billy thinks is called a ‘bungalow chair’ – and goes sprawling. It’s a swinging singles living room for sure, with a curving two-person couch – Billy knows that one, it’s a ‘love-seat’ – facing a big-screen TV. There’s a round table with a laptop on it and a bar in front of a wide window that looks toward the airport. Billy can see a plane taking off, and he’s sure if the fuckwit could see it, he’d wish he was on it. Billy slams the hall door shut. The guy is yelling that he’s blind.
‘No, but you will be if you don’t get your eyes rinsed out pretty fast, so pay attention. Hold out your hands.’
‘Hold out your hands and I’ll take care of you.’
Jack or Hank is rolling around on the wall-to-wall carpet. He’s not holding out his hands, he’s trying to sit up, and this guy is too big to fool with. Billy drops the laptop bag and kicks him in the stomach. He lets out a whoof of air. Splatters of foam fly and land on the carpet.
‘Did I stutter? Hold out your hands.’
He does it, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks and forehead bright red. Billy kneels, holds his wrists together, and secures him with one of the zip-ties before the man on the floor knows what’s happening.
‘Who else is here?’ Billy’s pretty sure there’s no one. If there was, this man’s bellowing would have brought them in a hurry.
‘Nobody! Ah Christ, my eyes! They
‘Get up.’
Jack or Hank blunders to his feet. Billy grabs him by the shoulders and turns him toward the passthrough that gives on the kitchen. ‘March.’
Jack or Hank doesn’t march, but he stumbles forward, waving his arms in front of him for obstacles. He’s breathing fast and hard but not whooping for breath the way Alice was; there’s no need to teach him the first verse of ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’ Billy shoves him until the buckle of his pants hits the front of the sink. The faucet has a sprayer attachment. Billy turns on the water and points the spray at Jack or Hank’s face. He also gets wet in the process, but that’s all right. It’s actually refreshing.
‘It’ll go away,’ Billy says, and it will, but hopefully not too soon. He’s betting Alice’s works burned plenty. Maybe still do. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What do you want?’ Now he’s crying. Got to be in his mid to late twenties, tall and at least two-twenty, but he’s crying like a baby.
Billy jams the Ruger into the small of the guy’s back. ‘That’s a gun, so don’t make me ask you again. What’s your name?’
‘
‘Let’s go in the living room, Jack.’ Billy pushes Jack ahead of him. ‘Sit in the wicker seat. Can you see it?’
‘A little,’ Jack weeps. ‘It’s all fucking
‘Sit down.’
‘You can have my wallet. There’s not much but Tripp keeps a couple of hundred in his bedroom, in the top drawer of the desk, just take it and go!’
‘Sit down.’
He takes Martinez by the shoulders, turns him, and pushes him into the bungalow chair. It’s suspended on a hook-and-rope combo from the ceiling and starts a mild rocking motion when the man’s weight hits it. Martinez peers at Billy through bloodshot eyes.
‘Just sit there a minute and get yourself together.’
There are napkins on the bar next to the ice bucket. Cloth ones, not paper, very nice. Billy takes one and goes to Martinez.
‘Don’t move.’
Martinez sits still and Billy wipes his face, getting rid of the last runnels of foam. Then he steps back. ‘Where are the other two?’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t ask, Jack. I do. Your job is to answer, unless you want another shot of foam. Or a bullet in the knee if you really irritate me. Understand?’
‘Yes!’ The crotch of Martinez’s chinos has gone dark.
‘Where are they?’
‘Tripp went to RBCC to see his advisor. Hank’s at work. He’s a salesman at JossBank.’
‘What’s JossBank?’
‘Joseph A. Bank, it’s a men’s—’
‘Okay, I know what it is. What’s RBCC?’
‘Red Bluff Community College. Tripp’s a graduate student. Part time. History. He’s writing a paper on the Australian and Hungarian War.’
Billy thinks of telling this idiot that Australia had nothing to do with the Hungarian revolution of 1848, but why would he? He’s here to teach a different lesson.
‘When will he be back?’
‘I don’t know. I think he said his meeting was at two. He might stop for coffee after, sometimes he does that.’
