High Country Nocturne

Chapter Twenty-three

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, Cartwright’s prisoner jerked at his restraints knowing we were in the RV. It sounded like a show from a horror house but he wasn’t going anywhere. The shackles allowed his legs to move an inch at the most. His hands cuffed behind him were useless. A seat belt completed his imprisonment.

Ed motioned for me to sit on the opposite bench, then he approached the man and slipped off the hood, revealing a black blindfold tight around his head. Next, he ripped open the man’s shirt, sending a little hailstorm of buttons onto the yellowing linoleum floor.

He was muscled up and his sunburned skin was about seventy percent tattoos. Prominent among them was a scroll with Cyrillic letters, two skulls with crowns and, running down his abdomen, an enormous onion-domed cathedral.

This was not the kind of thing you found on the average ASU student.

Or perhaps it was-I was out of it on the contemporary culture front.

In any event, the abundance of tats had overpowered a wider assessment of the man. He was in his thirties with short blond hair, a rawboned face, and thin lips. An X of duct tape covered his mouth.

“Ain’t he pretty?”

I said nothing. He looked hideous. If he wasn’t Russian mafia, he had paid thousands to a local ink-slinger to get the same effect.

Cartwright reached toward the man’s right ear and pulled off the duct tape in a slow sawing sound. The results showed the downside of wearing designed stubble. Scores of little hair follicles violated by the tape started bleeding.

The man flinched but made no sound.

Cartwright leaned close. “We had a deal. I get your diamonds and you pay me a hundred fifty grand. Now the diamonds are gone and the Mexican tried to kill me. You fucked me, Bogdan, and you’re gonna make it right.”

The head tilted up. “How do you know my name?”

This brought an open-handed slap across the man’s jaw.

Cartwright demanded, “Where are my stones?”

I suppressed a shiver.

“You’re a dead man, red savage.” His voice was a baritone with only hints of a Slavic accent. “When my people…”

Another slap, harder. The Russian fell sideways and Cartwright sat him back up. My black eye began throbbing in sympathy pain.

“Your people are dead.” Cartwright said the words matter of factly. “You won the lottery, Bogdan. You’re alive because you get to give me answers.”

The Russian coughed up some phlegm and was about ready to spit when Cartwright snapped his fist against the bottom of the man’s jaw. The move was so quick it caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

This time silence was not possible. Bogdan screamed.

“Don’t you bleed on my stuff, you commie bastard.” Cartwright used both hands to tip the man’s head up. “Swallow it all, blood and spit. How’d that work out for you, genius?”

Three minutes.

Five minutes.

I watched the time pass on a wall clock that needed to be straightened. Housekeeping was not the strong point of Ed’s RV. The heat increased and the air was stagnant.

The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving like a rickety elevator.

Cartwright reached back into a cabinet and brought out a flimsy dirty brown something. He pushed it against the Russian’s face until he gagged.

“You know what that is, smart guy? That’s the scalp I took of a Russian adviser behind the lines in North Vietnam. Sliced it off with my Ka-Bar while he was still alive. Then I gave him an Indian lobotomy. Might have been your daddy or uncle.”

I caught a whiff of rotting meat and suppressed a dry heave of my own.

Cartwright tossed the scalp aside and leaned in, “Why did you send the Mexican to rip me off?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Russian’s answer was slurred by the damage to his tongue.

“Yes, you do. We had a deal that I would pick up the shipment from the jeweler at Sky Harbor on Friday morning. When I got there, the Mexican had been hired as a second courier. Nobody told me. Why’d you do that?”

Bogdan shook his head.

“Here’s my theory,” Cartwright said. “You brought him in to take the rough for less money, cut me out of my commission. Too bad he was a crappy shot.”

“Fuck you.”

Crack. Ed’s open hand knocked the Russian nearly off the bench. He pushed him back into place and cinched up the seatbelt.

Another long silence, before Cartwright spoke again. “The only way out is for you to tell me the truth, Bogdan. You knew the diamonds were coming in. You knew they were hidden in the suitcase.”

The tattoos on Bogdan’s chest rippled and his face reddened but he said nothing.

“Enough of this.” Cartwright reached into a cabinet behind him and held up a black cylinder with holes in the sides and heavy multi-sided top and bottom. It was about the size of a travel container of shaving cream. But the shaving cream didn’t have two safety rings on the top.

My un-muscled-up abdomen tightened and I looked longingly at the door.

Cartwright ran the device across the Russian’s face.

“You know what this is, Mister Badass Russkie Criminal? An M-84 stun grenade. A flash bang. It’s a non-lethal weapon. Unless…”

He slipped on evidence gloves, deftly passing the grenade from one hand to another. My eyes were fixed on the pins, making sure they were still there.

“What are you doing, you goddamned faggot!?” It was Bogdan’s voice and he was not happy.

Cartwright had unbuckled the Russian’s pants and dug a hand down in his crotch.

“I wanted to see what you had down there, little guy. Here’s the deal, this is a non-lethal weapon unless I set it off between your legs.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Now open your mouth.”

“Fuck mmmfff…”

Cartwright pulled the secondary safety pin and slipped it in Bogdan’s mouth as he started to curse.

Next Cartwright rattled off a long sentence in Russian-the only word I could make out was “Apache”-and Bogdan’s shoulders stiffened. He frantically struggled against the shackles, getting nowhere.

“Yeah,” Cartwright said in English, “You cocksuckers didn’t know the red savage could speak Russian.” He looked at me. “I told him he’s about to get some high-tech Apache justice. When I let go of the safety, we’ll have enough time to leave and then Bogdan’s manhood is going to be turned into pudding.”

This was not the Reid interrogation technique. A very long half-minute passed in silence. Bogdan’s face shone with a layer of sweat.

“Go to hell.”

He spat out the little metal triangle.

I looked at Cartwright and mouthed, What are you doing? He ignored me and pulled the primary pin.

It hit the floor, making a sound reminiscent of a tuning fork. Cartwright used one hand to hold the Russian back against the seat, while the other, slipping out of the blue sling, inserted the grenade between his legs.

“That’s it, Bogdan. It’s live. Look on the bright side. You’ll never have to worry about prostate cancer.”

To me: “Take down that poster. I wouldn’t want to lose it when this thing burns down and the gas tank blows up. Do it!”

I pulled the poster down and rolled it up. Loudly.

Cartwright said, “Time’s up,” and started to flex back his arm, letting go of the grenade.

“Stop, stop!” This from Bogdan.

“Why?” Cartwright said.

“I’ll tell you. Get that thing away from me. I want to have children! Get it away.”

He slowly pulled out the grenade.

I picked up the primary pin and handed it to Cartwright, who inserted it. He smiled and tossed the thing at me.

I caught it.

The grenade was wet with Bogdan’s urine.