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"Shut up, ya little punkass, " George says, but he speaks with fond absentmindedness, reserving his real attention for finding the key he wants on a fat ring of them and then opening the door of the empty storefront. Callahan thinks, To him Le
"Yeah, Nort," Le
"Told you, no names," George/Nort says, but he speaks indulgently and Callahan knows why: he'll never be able to give any names to the police, not if things go the way these douchebags plan.
"Sorry Nort but you niggah-lovvahs you fuckin Jewboy intellectuals are the ones fuckin this country up, so I want you to think about that when I pull your fuckin balls right off your fuckin scrote - "
"The balls are the scrote, numbwit," George/Nort says in a weirdly scholarly voice, and then: "Bingo!"
The door opens. George/Nort shoves Callahan through it. The storefront is nothing but a dusty shadowbox smelling of bleach, soap, and starch. Thick wires and pipes stick out of two walls. He can see cleaner squares on the walls where coin-op washing machines and dryers once stood. On the floor is a sign he can just barely read in the dimness: TURTLE BAY WASHATERIA U WASH OR WE WASH EITHER WAY IT ALL COMES KLEEN!
All comes kleen, right, Callahan thinks. He turns toward them and isn't very surprised to see George/Nort pointing a gun at him. It's not Herma
"Putcha hands behind ya, niggah-reebop, " Le
Callahan doesn't.
George/Nort waggles the pistol at him. "Do it or I put one in your gut, Faddah. You ain't never felt pain like that, I promise you."
Callahan does it. He has no choice. Le
"Put em togetha, niggah-reebop, " Le
Callahan puts his wrists together. There comes a low snarling sound as Le
"Who hired you? " he asks George/Nort. "Was it the low men?"
George/Nort doesn't answer, but Callahan thinks he sees his eyes flicker. Outside, traffic passes in bursts. A few pedestrians stroll by. What would happen if he screamed? Well, he supposes he knows the-answer to that, doesn't he? The Bible says the priest and the Levite passed by the wounded man, and heard not his cries, "but a certain Samaritan... had compassion on him." Callahan needs a good Samaritan, but in New York they are in short supply.
"Did they have red eyes, Nort?"
Nort's own eyes flicker again, but the barrel of the gun remains pointed at Callahan's midsection, steady as a rock.
"Did they drive big fancy cars? They did, didn't they? And how much do you think your life and this little shitpoke's life will be worth, once - "
Le
"A
George/Nort brings a knapsack over from the corner. He opens it and rummages out a Polaroid One-Shot. He bends over Callahan and suddenly the world goes dazzle-bright. In the immediate aftermath, Callahan can see nothing but phantom shapes behind a hanging blue ball at the center of his vision. From it comes George/Nort's voice.
"Remind me to get another one, after. They wanted both."
"Yeah, Nort, yeah!" The little one sounds almost rabid with excitement now, and Callahan knows the real hurting's about to start. He remembers an old Dylan song called "A Hard Rain's A-Go
He's enveloped by a fog of garlic and tomatoes. Someone had Italian for di
"Fuck yourself, " Callahan says, and then the entire right side of his face explodes in agony. Le
"Nice talk," he hears Le
"No way," George/Nort says. "I do the forehead swastikas, you always fuck them up. You can do the ones on his hands, okay?"
"He's tied up! His hands re covered in thatfuckin - "
"After he's dead, " George/Nort explains with a terrible patience. "We'll unwrap his hands after he's dead and you can - "
"Nort, please/ I'll do that thing you like. And listen!" Le
"Well…" Callahan has heard this tone before, too. The indulgent father who can't deny a favorite, if mentally challenged, child. "Well, okay."
His vision is clearing. He wishes to God it wasn't. He sees Le
"Ain't this go
"Just don't fuck it up," George says.
Callahan thinks, If this was a movie, the cavalry would come just about now. Or the cops. Or fucking Sherlock Holmes in H. G. Wells's time machine.