Fussels walked meekly toward the screen door.
“Whatever you do, don’t drop it!”
“What?”
“Don’t drop it!”
He dropped it.
The gang screamed. They ran over to the box.
“Maybe it’s all right,” said Bud. “It’s a pretty tough box.”
They opened the flaps. Sop Choppy pulled out a handful of broken toothpicks.
Bob held up a snapped crow’s nest. “We’re fucked.”
“He’s gotta go back and get that ransom note!” said Bud.
“That’s right. You have to get the note!”
Fussels was frozen with fear. The gang picked him up by the arms and rushed him out the screen door.
“Go get the note!”
30
THE COCAINE USE was clearly out of control. He’d called the crew together for a late-night staff meeting, then forgot what he wanted to say. But it didn’t stop him. A torrent of disjointed, random thoughts, punctuated by lines of coke and Scarface surfing through chapters of his favorite movie on the big screen.
The crew stood nervously on the other side of the desk, silent, hands behind their backs. They’d already had that big gun pulled on them four times. Scarface was currently nose down on his desk again for another line. He sat up and scratched his head with the gun barrel, trying to figure out why his desk looked so much more spacious.
“Hey, where’d the ship go?” He reached and grabbed a scrap of paper sitting where the model had been. “Who the fuck is Gaskin Fussels?” He tossed the note back, got out some more coke and turned up the television.
When the blow was gone, Scarface stood and pulled a large molded plastic case from behind his chair and set it on top of the desk. He flipped open the latches and nodded toward the TV. “This is my favorite scene!” He opened the case and removed a giant assault rifle complete with rocket launcher under the barrel, identical to the one Pacino now had on the screen. The crew ducked as the weapon swept across them. “You’re not watching the movie!”
The crew, anxiously glancing back and forth from the TV to their leader, who stood in the ready position with the weapon, repeating dialogue with Pacino:
Scarface inadvertently pressed something.
A rocket fired.
“Oh, gee,” said Scarface. “I’m awfully sorry.”
The crew member in the middle had a half second to look down in surprise at the hole in his chest, before the projectile’s explosive charge blew him apart, knocking the other two crew members over in opposite directions like Scarface had picked up a spare in the tenth frame.
He leaned over the desk, looking for the survivors. “You guys okay?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you get up?”
“We don’t want to.”
“Come on, get up! I got it pointed in the air. The safety’s on.”
The remaining two crew members peeked over the edge of the desk.
A second rocket took off toward the ceiling, blowing a massive hole in the roof of the stilt house. The crew ducked again as debris fell. Scarface looked up at open sky. “How’d that happen?” He shrugged and dumped out more coke.
Finally, Scarface told the two remaining crew members to go get something to clean up the mess.
“No, wait. Except you,” said Scarface. “I want you to stay behind.”
The pair turned around to see which of them he meant. The one Scarface was looking at pointed reluctantly at his own chest. “M-m-me?”
“Yes, you.”
“W-w-what do you want?”
“Relax. You didn’t do anything. I just want to talk.”
The selected crew member gulped and walked back across the room. Scarface got up from his butterfly chair and came around the front of the desk. Both turned and watched until the other crew member had left and closed the door. They faced each other again. Scarface broke into a wicked grin.
The other man reached back and slapped Scarface as hard as he could.
“Ow!” Scarface grabbed his cheek. “Why’d you do that?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind!”
“What” — pointing at the ceiling — “the rocket launcher?”
“All of it! You’re out of control!”
Scarface continued rubbing his cheek. “But I thought this is what you wanted. You told me to pose as the head of your organization. To draw attention away from you.”
“Draw attention, not go on a publicity tour. You cut Billy’s head off, then posed it in front of a mirror!”
“That was wrong?”
Slap.
“Do you have any idea how much media that’s getting? I tell you to take care of a guy, and I expect two in the back of the head. Instead you give me a horror show.”
“You told me I was doing a good job.”
“Five years ago! Before the coke started eating through your brain like termites. Your judgment’s fucked. Like the upside-down crucifixion at the bat tower. What the hell was that about?”
“I was sending a message,” said Scarface.
“What kind of message?”
“I don’t remember the message code, but it was a strong one. Especially the upside-down part. That’s never good.”
Slap.
