Farewell, Amethystine

31

I was still in a sour mood when climbing the stairs to Mr. Shadrach Tellman’s second-floor apartment.

Standing at his door, I could feel the wrong that Fearless had seen in me.

A roll of quarters clenched in my right fist; I pressed apartment 2L’s button with the point finger of my left hand. There was a faint buzzing sound beyond the heavy oak door. After a few seconds more I knocked — again with my left. Then suddenly the door swung inward. On the other side of the threshold stood a muscular and clean-shaven white man wearing a darkish dull-green bathrobe. He was holding the doorknob in one hand, with the other clutching a black-bodied semiautomatic pistol down at his side.

For some reason this deadly confrontation made me smile.

“What?” he barked.

“Shadrach Tellman?”

“What the fuck you want?”

“Sturdyman wants his money.”

“Sturdyman? I don’t owe him a goddamned dime.”

“That’s not what he told me.”

“Oh?” That word, in his mouth, had blood all over it.

“Yeah. He told me to tell you that the casino deal is going through and you need to pay him over that.”

Shadrach’s gaze was heavy upon me. He was trying to figure out the puzzle of my words.

I had no idea what the implied threat was. I mean, there was a casino on the auction block, a man named Sturdyman who’d been cut out of that transaction, and also there was Curt working on the sale before he was murdered. But whatever challenge I presented was wholly in Shadrach’s mind.

I remember thinking that the smartest thing for me was not to be there.

“What’s your name?” Shadrach asked.

“Morell. Pete Morell.”

“How’d you get my address, Pete?”

“Curt Fields.”

“He don’t know where I live. Hell, he don’t even know my real last name.”

“He knows people that know you.”

This last made-up claim caused Tellman to open his eyes just a bit wider. A sly look stole across his face, and he said, “Maybe you should come in, Pete.”

I had the urge to drop to the floor but then remembered that Vu Von Lihn was no longer backing me up.

“Sure,” I agreed jauntily.

What happened next might have been a second-tier last-ditch plan in Mouse’s playbook of desperate acts.

I walked past Shadrach and, for maybe a second, he turned his attention to pushing the door closed. With my left I grabbed the wrist of his gun hand. Then, with a good deal of torque, I swung the clenched thumb and forefinger of my right fist, hitting him directly on the temple with the roll of quarters.

I hit him three more times before taking the pistol and shutting the door.

Shadrach was a beefy guy, but I managed to drag his deadweight into a dining room that was just beyond the foyer of the stylish apartment. The dining room table was surrounded by four strong maple chairs — replete with heavy armrests.

That’s when I took the second-greatest risk of my ill-advised incursion. I looked around for the kitchen and went through drawers until I found what I needed — a roll of electrical tape, a purple pad of paper, and a yellow No. 2 pencil.

When I got back to the dining room Shadrach was moaning but not yet conscious. I hit him one more time and then pulled him up into one of the chairs. Once he was there, I lashed his wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs of the throne-like seat.

He was out but I couldn’t rely on that lasting for long, so I found the bathroom, located a washcloth in a hamper, and brought it back to the dining room.

(Only when I was in the bathroom did I realize my greatest mistake: I hadn’t searched the apartment for any other inhabitants. Luckily, we were alone in there.)

I shoved the washcloth into Shad’s mouth and wrapped black electrical tape around his head to hold the gag in place. Then I went to the front door and affixed the chain.

After maybe a quarter hour my prisoner started regaining consciousness. When he realized what was happening, a frightened look came into his expressive eyes. He tried screaming but that was muffled by the washcloth. Then he began wrestling with the tape. This was also hopeless. He was bound and muzzled like a mad dog.

I pulled up a chair to face him and he calmed down enough to glower at me.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Mr. Tellman,” I said. “But I will if I have to.”

Glare turned to stare in his eyes.

“I need you to answer some questions,” I continued. “So, I’m gonna free your right hand, put a pencil in it, and some paper from the kitchen that you can write on. That way we can have a conversation without me having to stab you for screamin’. You understand me?”

His nod came across like a plea.

I used a kitchen knife to cut the tape around his right wrist. Then I put down the purple pad of paper and put the yellow pencil between his fingers.

Immediately he started scribbling.

Cant breathe. My nose is stuffed up.

“You answer my questions quick enough and you might not suffocate.”

He looked as if he was about to cry. I’m ashamed to remember how good his suffering made me feel.

“What was Curt Fields doing for Ron Purlo?”

Research, forensic stuff on the Exeter Casino.

“What was the money trouble Curt got Amethystine out of?”

I can’t breathe!!!

“Then stop wasting time and answer my questions.”

She borrowed money for to get her brother a operation.

“What kind of operation?”

I don’t know. Appendix or gut or something.

“Why’d you sell her debt to Purlo?

Purlo had asked Curt to work on the casino thing and he said no. When Ron bought Amy’s bill, she talked him into doing it.

His breathing was becoming labored.

“Was Harrison Fields involved in any of the Curt, Amethystine, or casino transactions?”

Didn’t he already tell you that?

“No. Why would you say that?”

Because Sturdyman is Harrison. That’s what Purlo called him.

“Answer my question.”

Shadrach hesitated a moment and then wrote, Harrison put some money in and was going to be a stockholder. He helped Purlo get to Curt. Please. I can’t breathe!

“Who killed Curt Fields?”

That put a temporary damper on my prisoner’s moaning. He looked into my eyes for a very long moment, then wrote, He’s dead?

I knew when to be quiet.

I don’t know. I swear. I didn’t even know he was dead. There wasn’t any reason to kill him unless he was fool enough to talk about Purlo’s syndicate’s bid. And he couldn’t have done that anyway because he was locked up in the 2120 Tower.

I went over all the possible questions I could ask but decided against each one because Shadrach was probably going to survive the interrogation and I didn’t want him knowing too much through any intelligence he might glean from those questions.

I grabbed his wrist and taped the hand back to the armrest. Then I dragged his chair into a bedroom where there was a closet just big enough to hold him.

The whole time he was trying to holler and struggle. I slapped him pretty hard once he was ensconced within the closet.

“Shut up and be quiet,” I said sternly. “I’m going to make a call. After that I’m’a come back and take the washrag outta your mouth. If you stay quiet I won’t have to slit your throat.”

In the kitchen I dialed a number that was becoming a part of my memory.

“Captain McCourt,” he answered.

“You remember that guy lives in Hawthorne?”

“I do.”

“I heard that somebody hog-tied him and left him in the bedroom closet.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure he’d be grateful if somebody pulled him outta there.”

After that I went back to my temporary prisoner and removed the tape and gag from his mouth. Gasping for air, he seemed a little out of it.

I left him like that, proud of myself for not having killed him.