The Boys from Santa Cruz

6

It should have been easier to call 911-wasn’t the 9 button at the bottom right and the 1 at the top left? But Skip’s fingertips were so numb and clumsy and the buttons set so flush and close together he could hardly differentiate them from the faceplate, much less from each other.

After several failed attempts, it finally occurred to Skip that he didn’t actually have to call 911. Any number would do. Even better, somewhere toward the top of the faceplate there was a redial button that would reconnect him with the last number he’d called. And as far as he could remember, the last number he’d called was…Pender! Pender of the Eff Bee Fucking Eye.

Of course, finding the redial button with both hands tied behind your back was no walk in the park. He had to switch the phone on, try a button, switch it off, try another. Trial and error, trial and error, story of my life. If at first you don’t succeed-

Suddenly Skip heard the skreee of the rusty, off-track sliding door. Quickly he folded up the phone and hid it between his palms. He heard footsteps coming toward him.

“On your feet, Epstein.”

Skip sat up, the cell phone concealed between his bound hands. Luke, or Asmador, or whatever he was calling himself, untied Skip’s ankles. Skip got his feet under him and tried unsuccessfully to stand up; his legs felt like fat water balloons.

“I think I’m going to puke,” he said between clenched teeth, when suddenly the Clash started playing “Rock the Casbah” behind his back-it was, of course, the ring tone of his cell phone.

“What’s that?” The phone was snatched from Skip’s hands. He heard “Sorry, dude, you got the wrong number,” followed by a rending noise, followed by two hollow thuds he took to be the sound of his cell phone being snapped in half and thrown against a wooden wall a few feet away.