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“Can You Help Me Out Here?” showcases an ability to mix humor with suspense and a knack for creating villains that make us smile even as they send chills down our spine. No doubt Robert has met people like this somewhere in his travels. The rest of us will be happy to meet them through his words.
CAN YOU HELP ME OUT HERE?
“How much farther?” said Briggs.
The accountant tripped over a tree root, almost fell. Sweat rolled down his face, his hands duct-taped together behind his back. “Soon.”
Briggs grabbed the accountant by the hair and gave his head a shake. “How soon?” He jammed the barrel of the .357 Magnum against the man’s nasal septum. “You may like tramping around in the great outdoors, but me, I just want to shoot you and get into some air-conditioning.”
“I…I appreciate your discomfort,” said the accountant, blood trickling from his nose, “but Junior wants my ledger detailing his financial transactions for the last eight years, so…” He dripped blood onto his gray suit, a soft, pale man with calm eyes. “So you better treat me nice, and keep your part of the bargain.”
“Nice?” Briggs glowered at him, a beefy, middle-aged thug in a red tracksuit. “Maybe I fuck nice and just start blowing off body parts until you come up with it?”
“That would be a mistake on your part.” The accountant held his head high. “I have a…refined and delicate nature. I’m already experiencing heart palpitations from your rough treatment. You torture me…you could send me into shock. I might die before I give up the journal.” He sniffed back blood. “What do you think Junior will do to you then?”
“You didn’t tell me…” Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes hovering around him with the revolver. “You didn’t tell me we were going to be slogging through a swamp.”
“That’s where I hid it,” said the accountant. “And it’s not a swamp. It’s a wetlands.”
“Swamp, wetlands, who cares? It smells like an old outhouse,” said the other killer, Sean, a tall beach-bum with bad acne and a Save the Salmon, Eat More Pussy T-shirt. “What matters, mister, is that we’re going to keep our part of the bargain. You lead us to the journal, you get a double-tap to the back of the head, no muss, no fuss.”
“I abhor pain,” said the accountant.
“Trust me,” said Sean, “you won’t feel a thing.”
The accountant glanced at Briggs, then back at Sean. “Do I have your word on that?”
Sean gave him a thumbs-up. “Scout’s honor.”
“That’s not the goddamned Scout’s sign.” Briggs raised the index and middle finger of his right hand in a V. “This is Scout’s honor, dumb-ass.”
“That’s the peace sign,” said Sean, “and don’t call me dumb-ass.”
“It’s the peace sign and the sign for Scout’s honor,” said the accountant.
“What’s this then?” said Sean, giving the thumbs-up.
“Keep walking,” Briggs ordered the accountant, “and stay out of the poison ivy.”
The accountant started back down the narrow path, brush on all sides, trees overhanging the trail.
“Fine,” said Sean, hurrying to catch up to them, “don’t answer me.”
Five minutes later, the accountant turned to Briggs. “Are you saving your money?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Briggs.
“A simple interrogatory,” said the accountant, his yellow necktie crusted with blood. “I wanted to know if you saved a portion of your money or lived paycheck to paycheck.”
Briggs swatted at the mosquitoes darting around him. “I do okay.”
“I could give you some suggestions,” said the accountant. “Something that would allow you to defer taxes and put your money to work for you—”
“Taxes?” Briggs laughed.
“You don’t pay taxes?” said the accountant.
Sean shook his head. “Me, neither.”
“Big mistake,” said the accountant. “You don’t want to fool with the IRS.”
“How much farther?” demanded Briggs.
“I kind of like the idea of my money working for me,” Sean said quietly. “Like having a maid. Or a slave.” He made a motion like he was cracking a whip.
“Good for you, Sean.” The accountant tried to scratch his nose with his shoulder. “Now you’re thinking. I can give you some tips—”
“You think this is a fucking seminar?” said Briggs. “Move!”
“Is that how you got this place?” Sean said to the accountant. “Making your money work for you?”
“Absolutely,” said the accountant. “I’ve got forty-five acres here, owned free and clear. Practically surrounded by national forest. I enjoy privacy…up until now.”
“We should listen to this guy before we pop him, Briggs,” said Sean. “Maybe take some notes.”
Briggs slapped a mosquito that had landed on his cheek, his face flushed and as red as the tracksuit now.
The accountant stopped.
“This it?” said Briggs. “Are we there?”
“Can you help me out here?” said the accountant. “I…I have to urinate.”
“You’re only going to have to hold it for a little while more,” said Briggs.
“I have been holding it,” said the accountant.
“What do you expect us to do about it?” said Briggs.
“I expect you to cut my hands loose,” said the accountant.
“I got nothing to cut the tape with and not sure I would if I could,” said Briggs. “We might not be able to find you if you take off ru
“I have no intention, Mr. Briggs, of wetting my pants,” said the accountant.
“If it puts your mind at ease, sir,” said Sean, “you’re going to piss yourself anyway when I give you the double-tap. It’s a natural reaction…loss of control, you know? A real mess, too. I seen it plenty times.”
“Yes, Sean, but I’ll be dead then, so it won’t matter to me,” said the accountant. “Now, being presently alive, it does matter.”
“Oh.” Sean nodded. “I get it.”
The accountant wiggled his fingers behind his back. “Do you mind?”
Sean bent over the accountant’s hands, tearing at the tape, while the accountant shifted from one foot to the other.
“Please hurry, Sean,” said the accountant.
“Tapes all tangled up,” said Sean. “I…I can’t do it.”
“Told you, dumb-ass,” said Briggs. “That’s why I use that kind of tape, ’cause you can’t get it off.”
“Then one of you is going to have to unzip my trousers and hold my penis while I urinate,” said the accountant.
Both Sean and Briggs burst out laughing.
“I’m quite serious, gentlemen,” said the accountant.
“Pal, if you want someone to hold your joint, you’re out of luck,” said Briggs, still laughing. “Now, I had a partner ten years ago…he might have accommodated you.”
“If you force me to wet myself, Mr. Briggs, I can promise you with absolute certainty, that I will not lead you to the ledger, no matter what you do to me,” said the accountant.
Briggs punched the accountant in the side of the head, knocked him onto the ground. “You sure about that?” He kicked the man in the chest, then grabbed the accountant’s bound hands, jerked him to his feet, bones popping. “You sure?”
The accountant didn’t say a word.
Briggs lifted the accountant’s hands higher and higher, the man bent forward, silent, tears rolling from his eyes onto the dirt. Still silent. Briggs finally released him, out of breath.
“Damn, Briggs,” said Sean. “I believe him.”
“Yeah,” panted Briggs. “So do I.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “So grab his joint and help him take a piss.”
“Me?” said Sean.
Briggs shrugged. “I cleaned up after the two software geeks. They must have had the combo platter at El Jaliscos but you never heard me complain. While you were ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ over their fancy laptops, I was mopping out the car.”
“I’m not doing it,” said Sean.
“You were the one who forgot the handcuffs,” said Briggs. “That’s why I had to use the tape.”
“I don’t care,” said Sean.”
“Gentlemen,” said the accountant. “Decide.”