They don’t talk. The SUV jerks around a corner, taking a left. Another quick left, and another. And one more for good measure. Then some more of the same. Jesus, they got most of the snatch right, but this is just embarrassing.
I can tell you’re driving in circles.
Another left.
I mean, if you’re trying to disorient me, you might want to throw in a right turn every now and then.
Another left.
See, like right now, we’re on the south side of that same block you grabbed me off of.
Another left.
East side.
Another left.
If you don’t want to change it up, you can also try giving a guy a whack over the head or something so it’s harder for him to know his left from his right.
WHACK!
I shut up and let them do it their way.
The boys are young. The woman is old.
What did he have?
One of the black leather jacketed muscle boys hands her a Ziploc bag full of my stuff. She unzips it. She opens the cylinder on the revolver, ejects the shells, sees the one spent round and sniffs the barrel. She empties the smokes into a bowl and hands it to one of the boys, who grinds them up and sifts the tobacco and paper through his fingers. She pulls the inner workings of the Zippo out of the scratched chrome sleeve. She undoes the little screw at the bottom and shakes the lighter ’til the flint drops out. She uses her fingernails to pinch out the piece of cotton at the bottom and unravels the long, Ronsonol-soaked wick inside. She places the gutted lighter beside the gun. She gives my keys and the change that was in my pocket a quick glance. She pops the switchblade open and squints into the slot the blade folds into. She taps the handle against the table and hears that it’s hollow. She hands it to the boy who ruined all my smokes. He sets it on the floor and stomps on it and the plastic grips shatter. She bends and looks through the pieces. She looks at me.
His clothes?
One of the boys who grabbed me shakes his head.
She frowns.
Do it now.
One of them pulls wire-cutters from his pocket and snips my hands free and they strip me to my skivvies. They run their fingers over seams and inside pockets. They tap the heels of my boots. She passes my jacket through her hands, finding flakes of tobacco in the pockets along with a couple movie ticket stubs and a poker chip I got at a bar as the marker for my second drink during a two-for-one happy hour. She flexes the chip between her thumbs and forefingers, it snaps in half.
I scratch my balls.
That was good for a drink at HiFi.
She doesn’t look up, her fingers probing at an irregularity in the collar of my jacket. She picks up the switchblade with the broken handle.
There’s nothing in the jacket.
She presses the tip of the blade against the collar.
Ma’am, I’d really prefer if you didn’t do anything to that jacket.
She shoves the point through the leather and jerks it to the side, tearing a small hole in the collar. She puts the knife down, works her fingers into the hole, gets a grip, and rips the collar wide open. She looks at the filleted leather. She throws the jacket on top of the rest of my clothes.
He can dress.
I dress. I look at the ruined collar. I remember the day Evie gave me the jacket. It was my birthday. The day she thinks is my birthday, anyway. I look at the old lady and put the jacket back on.
Can I have my poker chip back? They might still accept it.
She picks up the two halves of the poker chip and hands them to one of the boys.
Make him eat it.
They don’t really make me eat it. What they do is, they get me on my knees and stick the barrel of one of those guns in my neck and I open my mouth and they shove the jagged edged pieces of plastic inside and force it closed and punch my face a few times and the broken chip cuts up my tongue and gums and the soft insides of my cheeks. But, no, I don’t actually eat the chip. When they’re done I look at the old woman, still seated on her couch, wearing that very practical sweater and slacks combo and equally practical walking shoes, gray hair back in a bun, reading glasses dangling from a neck strap, machine pistol-armed boys arrayed around her. I open my mouth and the broken chip and some bits of skin and a large quantity of blood falls onto the parquet floor.
I don’t suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?
She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I don’t like it.
She lowers the glasses.
If Dexter Predo were my child, I’d cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.
I wipe blood from my lips.
Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.
One lump or two.
I scratch my cheek.
If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?
She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.
Excuse me?
Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.
Milk?
Black is fine.
She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff. Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.
She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.
Tell me, Mr. Pitt.
Yeah?
What is it about the manner in which you’ve been treated here that makes you think we’d resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?
I take a sip.
Nothing. Habit.
She nods.
One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.
If one wanted to, sure.
I look over my shoulder at the window.
It makes you nervous?
I look back at her.
A big, east-facing picture window with nothing covering it but a drape? Yeah, I’m a little itchy about it.
It’s a very heavy drape.
Imagine my relief.
And we certainly wouldn’t consider throwing it open on you while we are all here together enjoying our tea.
I look at the four boys standing about the room. They’re taking their tea in shifts; two of them sipping while the others keep their guns on me.
Sure. But you never know when someone on the street might shoot out that window and tear that rag to shreds. You should nail up some plywood at least.
The corners of her mouth drop.
Plywood. It would ruin the room.
She stands and walks toward the window.
And I would lose my view.
She fingers a fold in the burgundy drapes.
True, I cannot enjoy it during the day. But at night it is still quite spectacular.
She stares at the curtain, looking beyond it to the sprawl of the Hood below Morningside Park.
Even if it does remind one of what is out there.
She turns back to me.
Of what is living in homes that were once ours. On land that we rightfully own.
She spreads her arms wide.
No, Mr. Pitt, I keep this window so thinly covered for a reason. So that I might open it that much more quickly when the time comes to watch the things down there being burned out of their nests.
She returns to the couch.
That day will come soon enough. I can bear waiting for it a little longer. Just now, we should talk about you. And what is going to be done with you.
I swirl the last of my tea around the bottom of the cup.
She points at the cup.
Anything of use to you in there?
I look at the tea leaves. They don’t tell me the future. They don’t tell me anything at all. But I don’t really need them, I already have a pretty good idea of what’s going to be done with me.
Nothing I can see.
She holds out her hand.
May I?
I hand her the cup.
She gazes into it.
Hmm.
’M I gonna hit the lotto?
She sets the cup on the tea tray.
No, just as you said, nothing. But I can tell you your future nonetheless.
That would be a relief about now.
She arches an eyebrow.
A relief? Well then, allow me to relieve you. I will soon call Dexter Predo and inform him that we have you in our custody. He will immediately make arrangements for your rendition, which will most likely take place as soon as the sun has gone down. You will be transferred to Coalition territory proper, and Predo will begin a lengthy interrogation. When he has extracted every last scrap of useful information you possess, you will be executed. In the traditional fashion. Having not seen the sun in…many years, I could almost envy you the view you will have.
I cross my legs.
But not really.
She shakes her head.
No, not really.
I play with the frayed hem of my jeans.
So what’s holding up you making this call?
She slips her glasses on and studies me again.
Dexter Predo will do what is best for the Coalition at large. Or rather, what is best for the Secretariat and for his chances of advancing to that body. I, on the other hand, will do what is best for our settlement here. This final scrap of our great northern territory, which is all Predo retained for us when he negotiated that abominable treaty with the animals on those streets.
She gives it a rest for a second.
I have nothing to say. So I don’t.
She picks it back up.
Seeing as you have just come from our occupied territories, I am very curious to hear about what you have seen there.
Another rest.
Me, I still got nothing to interject.
Predo will offer as little of this information to me as possible, keeping the most useful details for himself.
I look at the mixing bowl at the edge of the table, the one still filled with the remains of those cigarettes.
And I intend to extract as many of those details as possible before I must call him and report your capture. Using the same tactics he will use.