The Love You Crave

35.

George isn’t just crying, he’s sobbing. He buries his head in his arms on the table, convulsing with each sob. It strikes me this could take a while. I check my watch and wonder if I should have eaten something on the way over.

George is sitting directly across from me, but all I see are his arms and the top of his head. He’s mid forties, appears to have a nice head of hair. He’s wearing a flannel shirt, which makes me wonder how many tears it could absorb if he was sitting up instead of allowing them to leak all over my table. Of course, I can’t complain about the table. I just put a flippin’ staple in the center of it. I pick up the staple gun and inspect it, take a minute to wonder how far it can shoot, and try to guess whether it would have the ability to penetrate over distance.

George continues to sob.

I wonder what Dr. Phyllis Willis would say if she saw this beautiful table with a staple in it. In truth, I was surprised the staple “took.” I’m not a wood expert, but I thought the table top was some sort of laminate. I figured the staple would make a loud sound, maybe crack the laminate or something, but had no idea it would actually penetrate the wood. Seeing George fall apart so easily, I’m starting to think I put a hole in a perfectly good table for nothing. Then again, it felt incredibly satisfying to pull the trigger and see the result. I find myself wanting to put another staple in the table.

George is still sobbing. There’s something in his crying that doesn’t sound quite right. I focus on the staple in the table, and wonder what the best way would be to remove it.

When George stops crying I look up at him and notice he’s pointing a gun at the center of my chest.

Good thing his gun’s a semi-automatic. Unless there’s a round already in the chamber, he can’t just pull the trigger and shoot me. He’s got to manually load the first round by racking the slide mechanism.

“Helluva gun you’ve got there,” I say.

“You think?”

“K11 Slovak. You didn’t buy that at Wal-Mart. Your arms dealer must’ve given it to you as a gift.”

“That’s right.”

“I would’ve held out for a K100 Whisper with a threaded barrel and silencer. Of course I’d never try to use either of these guns.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“Arms dealers are notorious bastards. Your gun is probably rigged to blow up in your face.”

“You’re not going to trick me into giving up my gun.”

“Fine. Let me ask you this: what’s your arms dealer’s name?”

“Boris.”

I chuckle.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Okay, so I’m guessing at some point Boris asked what else you have that might be for sale, right?”

“So?”

“And I’m guessing you said this is all you’ve got, right?”

George frowns again.

I say, “So we’ve got an arms dealer using a fake name who’s negotiating with a rookie on a one-shot deal. And he gives you a K11 Slovak?” I chuckle again. “Did he provide the ammunition, too?”

George says, “Whatever you’re up to, it won’t work.”

“I’m on your side here, Gumby.”

“ My side? You ripped the ears off my friend. You held us captive in this very room. You’re trying to force us to manufacture t-shirts with a stripper! We take our business very seriously, Mr. Creed.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know I talked Mrs. Peters into selling her shares back to the company.”

“For how much?”

“Eight hundred thousand.”

“Bullshit. They’re worth at least four times that much.”

“Quick sale. Certified check. She’ll make t-shirts, you guys do whatever you want.”

“You both know too much.”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Of course. Knowing what you mean is a natural extension of knowing too much.”

“You’re half as funny as you think.”

“The eight hundred buys Gwen’s shares and her silence.”

“What about you?”

“I still want to meet Boris.”

“He’s threatening to kill my family.”

“I figured as much. That’s how they roll. Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No.”

I angle the staple gun slightly upward and pull the trigger. The staple hits his hand and makes him lose his grip on the gun. I jump across the table and knock it to the floor. George tries to reach beneath him to pick it up, but before his hand can find it, I’ve struck him with enough force to knock him out.

Like tearing off an ear, delivering a one-punch knockout blow requires a great deal of technique. The human brain is suspended in liquid, so a blow must be hard enough to force the brain to move through the liquid and strike the interior of the skull. The harder the brain hits the skull, the longer the victim remains unconscious. Boxers aim for the chin for several reasons. One, the mandibular nerve is located behind the hinge of the jaw, and the biomechanical response to a sudden impact is overload. Two, the jaw is the most muscular part of the face, and provides the most cushion for your fist, which allows for greater impact. Three, the chin is the furthest facial point from the brain, and affords your blow the most leverage. It makes the top of the head move faster in the opposite direction of the blow, which in turn causes the brain to pass through the liquid and hit the skull.

When George wakes up he finds himself on his back, on the conference table, unable to move. I’ve stapled the sleeves and sides of his shirt, and his pants, to the table. There’s no pain involved, but he’s understandably nervous.

“Wh-what are you going to do?” he says.

“I’m going to stop the terrorists.”

“How?”

“I’ve got a plan, but it requires some answers. Ready?”

“Yes.”