He lunges for the gun then even though it’s useless.
I extend my leg and trip him. He goes down hard, slamming his face into the low wooden footboard of the bed.
“Fuck!”
“Idiot.” I walk to him, get on one knee and turn him over, straddling him, but leaving his arms free. I want him to fight. I want this to last. I want his death to be a slow one.
The first punch sends his head to the side, blood spurting from his nose or mouth. I don’t know, or care, which.
“Does it turn you on to hold them down, is that it?” I ask, hitting him again. The girls here are rented by the hour. “Tell me, bastard.” I hit him again. “Can’t get it up if they’re willing?”
“Fuck you!” He stretches to his right and a moment later, I take a hit to my temple with the butt of the emptied gun.
“That was my bad,” I tell him as the room spins like the fucking cherries on a slot machine. He scrambles out from under me trying to get to the nightstand.
I reach him as he opens the drawer. I can see why he went there and not the door. Bullets. Fucker.
“Afraid to use your fists?” I ask him smashing his skull into the wall, pulling him back and doing it again before I release him.
He slides to the floor looking dazed, arms at his sides.
This isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. It just feels sick.
“Tell me what you said,” I say, taking him by the hair and pulling him up to stand.
“How’s your girlfriend? Or is it wife by now? You like dipping your dick in my sloppy seconds?”
I smash my fist into his gut.
I have to remember why I’m here. I have to stay focused. If I get distracted, if I kill him before he tells me, I’ll never know.
“Tell me what you said to my mother before you killed her.”
“You know, you did me a favor. I never wanted that whore. Turned my stomach to look at her. At the lot of those fucking Mexicans.”
I’m tempted to smash his head in again, but I don’t want to cause further brain damage before I get what I came for. Instead, I hold him upright, put my foot on his knee and push. Just a little. Just enough to get his attention.
“You’re dying tonight, Marcus. It can be a very painful death. Or it can be slightly less painful. You know what hurts like a mother fucker?” Not that I know from experience. I’ve never felt it, but I have a pretty decent imagination for these things. I put a little more pressure on his knee and his eyes go wider. “You know your knees don’t bend that way, right?”
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t want to do it,” he starts blubbering like the fucking coward he is. “I fucking swear, man!”
I pull back a little, something cold running down my spine.
“Tell me what you said to her.”
“He told me to do it. He said I had to make her watch. He told me who to kill first. Michael. He’s the strongest.”
“Was. He was the strongest.”
“Make her husband watch. Make the bastards watch.”
My hands are fisting, one in his hair, one at my side.
“Who? Felix? Was it Felix?”
He looks confused for a minute, then one corner of his mouth curves upward. “No, man. I don’t fucking take orders from the fucking Mexicans.”
“Then who?”
He studies me, his eyes seeming to clear a little. One corner of his mouth curves upward. He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “You were supposed to die. You weren’t supposed to live.”
I put my foot back on his knee. “What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?”
“You want to know what I said to mommy?” he asks.
It’s taking all I have not to kill him, but I push harder on his knee.
His eyes go wide. “You’ll make it quick then? You swear?”
“I swear.” Lie.
“I passed along his message. Just like he wanted.”
The cold that just found its way down my spine fills my veins. “What. Message?”
“I told her David sends his regards.”
The room goes silent. Or maybe it’s the ringing in my ears that has drowned out all the noise. Whatever it is, I’m paralyzed. And it costs me because I hear the click first. I recognize what it is an instant before I feel the tear at my side, feel the cold of the blade as it cuts through skin and muscle as I hear what he said. As I make sense of it. As I understand.
Marcus grins.
I stumble backward, hand on my side, blood warm through my fingers.
“Back pocket,” he says. “Always check the back pocket. That’s a tip for you.” He picks up his gun, loads some bullets. “Not that you’ll need it.”