Horses were his passion, always had been. A family fortune founded on whiskey and tobacco and augmented in later years by shrewd real estate investments had allowed him to indulge himself in every way possible. Horses were a major part of that. So were women. Although born a little too late to fully enjoy the droit du seigneur style of abuse practiced by southern gentlemen back in the day, he had still managed to get more than his fair share.

  And that had been his downfall. It was also the reason he had spent the last half hour sitting on a dirty bench outside the fat greaseball’s office. At least today he didn’t have to share it with the usual assortment of scum and lowlifes that Tony D’Amato did business with. Forrest Snr thought of him as the Fat Tomato, or FT for short, not just because it rhymed but because of his round, perpetually florid face. He often imagined burying his fist in it and watching it explode just like an over-ripe tomato dropped from a high window.

  He wasn’t stupid—he knew very well that the meetings were scheduled solely for the purpose of humiliating him and keeping him in line. As a result, he never let the fat slob get to him. He thought about his farm and his horses and the nice life he lived for the rest of the time and let the torrent of abuse wash over him. He’d enjoyed what had gotten him into this mess in the first place and now he was paying the price. Such is life. Shit happens. Luckily Forrest Jnr took care of most of it.

  FT was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and although it was still only ten in the morning he had large sweat rings under his arms. Even on a good day he wouldn’t win any prizes for personal hygiene. Forrest Snr was almost glad that FT was in a bad mood—at least today he wouldn’t be subjected to a large, hairy arm clamped round his shoulders in a man-to-man sort of way, his nose mere inches from the exposed armpit. He had a very acute sense of smell and the slightest hint of it twitching, let alone crinkling in disgust, would result in a slap.

  ‘Forrest, have a seat. How’s Mrs St John?’

  He always started the same way. It was his idea of a subtle hint. Did the fat tub of lard really think that Forrest had forgotten what would happen if he didn’t play ball?

  She says to tell you you’re a fat pig, FT.

  ‘Good, thank you, Tony. And Mrs D?’

  FT nodded absently. ‘Good, good.’

  ‘How about Tony Junior?’

  FT shrugged. ‘What can I say? The boy’s a retard. He couldn’t win a game of checkers against a bowl of over-cooked spaghetti.’

  Like father, like son went through Forrest’s mind but he kept it to himself.

  ‘He gets it from his mother,’ FT added.

  One of the knuckleheads on the other side of the room coughed. Forrest Snr thought it sounded as if it had started out as something else, hastily covered up. He waited patiently for FT to get to the damn point, his face neutral and his hands folded lightly in his lap.

  FT hoisted himself out of his faux leather executive chair and walked around the desk. He sat on the corner, one monstrous buttock on the desk, one hanging off the side like a flabby saddlebag, his massive bulk over-shadowing Forrest Snr like an evil, black cloud.

  Forrest Snr swallowed drily. Something was different today and different was usually bad. He had the unpleasant feeling that FT had nothing to say to him today, no stupid instructions or unreasonable demands—that he was only here so that FT could unleash his pent-up frustrations. He experienced an unwelcome shift in his bowels. He needed to use the bathroom. Badly. He’d be damned if he embarrassed himself in front of this inbred, guinea moron.

  ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ he said, getting up.

  FT backhanded him across the mouth faster than Forrest would have believed possible for such a large man. His head snapped sideways and he dropped back onto the chair. The heavy gold ring on FT’s little finger had split his lip open. A trickle of blood ran down his chin and dripped onto his shirt. FT hadn’t said a word.

  ‘What the—’ Forrest started to say.

  FT punched him full in the face, putting his considerable weight behind it. Forrest’s nose exploded with a sickening crack. White light flooded his brain and his light body flew off the chair and across the room, his too-long hair billowing around his head. His skull hit the sharp corner of the filing cabinet at an impossible angle and his seventy-something-year-old neck snapped like a dry twig.

  Chapter 27

  FORREST’S BODY TWITCHED BRIEFLY and then was still. There was a moment’s silence in the room, but not out of respect.

  ‘Merda,’ D’Amato spat. He peered at Forrest Snr’s unmoving body. ‘I hardly touched the stupid old fool. Is he dead?’

  One of his men, Seppe, crouched down next to the limp body and tried to find a pulse. He gave a small shrug. ‘Can’t feel anything.’

  ‘Merda,’ D’Amato said again.

  He pulled a grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood off his ring before using it to mop his brow. It left a smear of blood on his forehead. Nobody in the room pointed it out to him. He put the handkerchief away again and pinched the skin between his eyes and the bridge of his nose.

  ‘He must have had a bad heart,’ D’Amato said eventually.

  Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. It was obvious when you thought about it. A little tap like that wouldn’t have hurt a healthy person.

  ‘Better than ending your days sitting in a wheelchair, soiling your pants and eating through a straw,’ somebody said.

  More solemn nods all round.

  ‘What do you want us to do, Tony?’ Seppe asked now they were all feeling a whole lot better about the unfortunate situation.

  ‘Just get him out of here.’ D’Amato waved a hand vaguely at the old man’s lifeless body. ‘I got to think this through. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when his idiot of a son finds out.’

  Two of the other guys picked up the corpse and headed for the door.

  ‘Someone go and get his car,’ D’Amato said. ‘Take him out on the back roads, make it look like he crashed into a tree or something. Old fools like him shouldn’t be driving anyhow. Things like that are bound to happen. Especially if it’s been raining.’

  Nobody mentioned it hadn’t rained in a week. They jumped to it, glad to get out the room. D’Amato had been in a foul mood all morning. It started when he’d got a call from Samantha, the head tramp at the club, telling him they’d caught someone nosing around—a guy they’d rolled for thirty grand. It had been Forrest Snr’s bad luck that he’d been the first person to cross D’Amato’s path afterwards.

  ‘You stay here, Seppe, we got to go to the club.’

  D’Amato sat at his desk cracking his knuckles and wondering if he’d just killed the goose that lays the golden eggs. But, first things first, he needed to deal with the nosey son of a bitch at the club. He needed to find out how much he knew, and what he planned to do about it.

  He got up and headed for the door, Seppe falling into step beside him. He already had a plan for dealing with their nosey visitor. It was similar to most of his plans. He’d read a self-help management book once. Ever since then he’d been a firm believer in the hedgehog concept—you found something that worked for you and you stuck with it. And D’Amato had found something that worked a very long time ago. He’d scare the ever-loving shit out of the guy, maybe break a bone or two.

  Chapter 28

  JESSE DIDN’T KNOW HOW long he sat shivering in his wet clothes on the cold, hard floor of the small room. The useless watch he’d paid thousands of dollars for had stopped working when they’d hosed him down.

  Despite the discomfort, he’d dozed off once or twice and he had no idea whether it was day or night. He was cold, wet and hungry and things were only likely to get worse. It was just a question of how much.

  Then he heard the two bouncers coming back down the stairs and a minute later the lights went on dazzling him and the door opened.

  ‘Brought you some dry clothes,’ Emerson said and threw a Chi Chi’s T-shirt at him. ‘Hope I got the right size.’

  Jesse sat staring stupidly at it.

  ‘What? You need your momma to help you get dressed? Wrong color?’

  Jesse didn’t move so the guy kicked him gently. Jesse didn’t need reminding what happened when you made the guy ask twice. He stood up and stripped his shirt off and threw it in the corner.

  ‘Pants and shoes too,’ Emerson said. ‘And underwear.’

  Jesse stared at him, picked up the T-shirt.

  ‘So where’s the dry pants?’

  Emerson’s face split in two, his eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘You won’t need any.’

  Jesse stood in front of him, not moving.

  Emerson’s grin faded a little. ‘You want me to help? I know I ain’t your momma—far too good looking for that.’

  He took a step towards Jesse.

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Jesse kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. He dropped his pants and boxers and kicked them into a pile in the corner with his shirt. Then he pulled on the T-shirt. It was too big for him but not long enough to cover his ass or his tackle hanging down.

  ‘There, that’s much better,’ Emerson said. ‘You’re ready to meet the man. His name’s Tony D’Amato, but you can call him Mr D’Amato.’

  He shoved Jesse into the corridor and the other bouncer, Jerry, led the way. Jesse felt ridiculous dressed in just the T-shirt, his tackle swinging free as he walked. They went along the corridor without meeting anyone else and then into another bigger room where a bunch of people were waiting for them. There was a big, fat, Italian-looking guy who must be D’Amato, another tightly muscled greaseball in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, the hard-faced woman called Samantha and the stripper he’d scared outside.

  Emerson closed the door behind them and snapped the lock. Jesse felt that snap vibrate from his fingers down to his toes. He looked around the room. It was some kind of a storeroom with tables and chairs stacked up against the walls. A space had been cleared in the middle of the room and a chair placed there with a table next to it. It was just a normal looking wooden chair except for the fact that someone had removed the seat pad—there was just the wooden rim left to sit on.

  Jesse froze and his insides went cold. The last time he’d seen a chair like that James Bond was tied to it in the movie Casino Royale. He stepped back slightly. The two bouncers took hold of an arm each and walked him towards it.

  ‘See, I said you didn’t need any pants,’ Emerson said.

  Jesse looked across at the fat guy but he wasn’t paying any attention. He was busy digging through Jesse’s wallet. Jesse’s cell phone was sticking out of his shirt pocket. He looked like he was in charge. Jesse thought that was how it worked with these people, the fatter you were, the higher up the tree you were likely to be.

  Emerson and Jerry got him to the chair and pushed him down onto it, his tackle swinging low and free through the hole where the seat pad should have been. They taped his legs to the chair legs and his arms behind his back and stepped away again.

  D’Amato finally looked up at Jesse. He waddled across and stood in front of him. ‘What’s your name?’

  Jesse thought it was a pretty stupid question since he’d just finished going through his wallet.

  ‘There’s been some mistake here.’

  ‘That’s kind of a long name, don’t you think, Seppe?’ D’Amato said to the other dark-haired guy. He looked up at all the other people in the room, making sure everybody got the joke.

  ‘Must make filling out forms a bitch.’

  ‘Jesse Springer,’ Jesse said.

  If he hadn’t been the one tied to the chair, he’d have found it funny too.

  D’Amato leaned in and pinched Jesse’s cheek like a favorite aunt might do. ‘Jesse, Jesse, Jesse, what are we going to do with you?’

  He took Jesse’s phone out of his pocket and looked at it. ‘Nice phone. I don’t know how to use the things. Fingers are too big.’ He tossed it across the room to Seppe. ‘Take a few snaps, Seppe. You know the sort of thing. Jesse with his balls how they’re meant to be, Jesse with squashed balls, Jesse with no balls at all. Maybe even a video. How long do you think it would be before YouTube took it down?’

  He turned back and looked down at Jesse. ‘Only kidding, Jesse. Not embarrassed in front of the ladies, I hope. Don’t worry, they’ve seen it all before. I think they might even have seen yours before.’

  He looked over at the two women and raised his eyebrows in a question.

  ‘Yes,’ the younger one said, ‘I remember now. It’s like a penis, only smaller.’

  They all howled again at that. Not Jesse of course. What a fun place this must be to work at. He wondered if the pay was good too.

  ‘Good, good,’ the jolly, fat guy said, rubbing his hands together, a rank odor coming off him, overpowering the smell of Jesse’s own fear.

  ‘Have you ever been to Holland?’ D’Amato said.

  Jesse stared at him dumbly and cocked his head like he didn’t understand the question.

  ‘No, me neither,’ D’Amato carried on, not really expecting an answer. ‘Why do I ask, you’re thinking?’

  Jesse didn’t know if he was supposed to say anything or not. He got the impression this guy was used to doing all the talking while everyone else—those with any sense anyway—just laughed in all the right places.

  ‘It’s just that they call this’—he waved his arm taking in Jesse and the chair he was tied to—‘Dutch scratching.’ He shook his head at the strange ways of the world. ‘What a stupid name, eh?’

  Jesse’s throat was so tight he couldn’t have said anything if he wanted to. He swallowed a lump the size of his fist. He gave D’Amato a helpless, hopeless look, his lips moving slightly as he tried to find some words, any words.

  ‘Take water boarding,’ D’Amato went on. ‘That makes sense. They’re on a board, you’ve got the water. Even a child could work it out. But Dutch scratching?’

  He shrugged as if at one of life’s great mysteries. ‘Hey, Seppe, get over here and take a close-up. The before photo.’

  ‘Just tell me what you want,’ Jesse said trying to keep his voice steady.

  D’Amato gave him a head-cocked look. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘What do I want Seppe?’

  Seppe handed something to him.

  ‘What have we got here?’ D’Amato said. He turned to Jesse and held out his hand. Jesse looked in horror at the surgical scalpel lying across the sweaty palm. D’Amato picked it up and pricked his thumb with it.

  ‘Ow! That’s sharp.’

  A bright bead of blood appeared on his skin. He placed the scalpel carefully on the table and put his thumb in his mouth and sucked. He clicked his fingers again as he did it and Seppe walked behind Jesse to get something else. Jesse twisted but couldn’t see what it was.

  ‘There you go, Tony.’ Seppe handed him a pair of bolt cutters. ‘Careful, they’re heavy.’

  D’Amato tossed the heavy tool on the ground. It landed on Jesse’s bare foot. He winced but didn’t make a sound. He didn’t think he’d be so brave once they got going on him.

  His eyes flicked nervously back and forth between the scalpel and the bolt cutters. The scalpel was bright and shiny but the blades on the bolt cutters were stained and dirty. He looked up into D’Amato’s face. He wasn’t smiling any more. His eyes were dark pinpricks in his doughy face. He leaned in close, close enough that he could have kissed him.

  ‘I hope you’ve done your business this morning, Jesse. I don’t want you making a mess on my floor when things get unpleasant.’ He jabbed a chubby finger at the floor to make sure Jesse knew where the floor was, knew where to keep the mess away from.

  Jesse wanted to scream at him: What about blood you fat bastard? Doesn’t that count as mess?

  D’Amato looked across at the bouncers. Emerson shook his head sadly.

  ‘He didn’t ask.’

  ‘I hope you can keep it in,’ D’Amato said to Jesse, ‘or I’m going to be really pissed.’

  He picked up the bolt cutters and put them on the table next to the scalpel. Jesse shifted in the chair, trying to distance himself from the table, the sweat running down his back, down the crack of his ass and dripping onto the floor.

  ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,’ D’Amato started, pointing first to the scalpel, then the bolt cutters. Jesse’s mind raced ahead, the rhyme playing through his head, trying to predict where it would settle, ‘catch a—’ He stopped and looked at Jesse, hands fisted on his massive hips. ‘Hey Jesse, remember when we used to be able to say catch a nigger, before all this political correctness crap. What are we supposed to say now?’

  Jesse stared at him, unable to speak.

  ‘I think it’s tiger,’ Seppe volunteered.

  ‘Catch a tiger by the toe? Jeez, I ask you. Doesn’t make any sense at all. Unless you live in Africa.’

  ‘I don’t think you get tigers in Africa,’ Seppe said.

  ‘Really?’ D’Amato shook his head in amazement. ‘You learn something new every day.’

  He turned back to the table and ran through the complete rhyme, only he said nigger instead of tiger and winked at Jesse as he said it. Two regular guys sharing a harmless joke now denied them by all the lefty, vegetarian faggots that made up the government.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that the rhyme’s got twenty words whatever version you choose, which meant it ended on the bolt cutters. D’Amato looked at Jesse and raised his eyebrows as if to say Well what d’ya know, you okay with that?

  Jesse stared at the bolt cutters and felt everything from the waist down contract. D’Amato gripped the handle.

  ‘Excuse me, Tony,’ Seppe said. ‘I think you miscounted.’

  ‘You sure?’ D’Amato asked, his eyes wide.

  ‘I think so.’

  D’Amato nodded. No flies on Seppe.

 

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