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“No, clean the gunk out of your ears, man. I don’t work for them. They pay me. Sometimes.”
I shake my head because, of course, Hector uses tweakers to conduct business. It’s exactly why he couldn’t turn the Iron Kings into a respectable MC. They’re imposters in leather vests, not worth the ink printing on their patches.
“Then what could you possibly have for me? You know what I think? I think you’re drawing this out, hoping to avoid a beating from Preacher.”
“Think what you want, man.”
I nod. “Have at it, Preacher. Just leave him breathing.” I remove my gloves and toss them on the table.
Preacher steps front and center, slowly and deliberately. He takes his time, smoothing his straight black hair into the ponytail he wears most of the time. He cracks his knuckles, one by one, the sound loud as fuck inside the concrete room. “This way is better. Trust me.”
Weasel snorts. “Yeah? And why should I trust you?”
“Because I am a man of God.” Preacher’s words come out without any sarcasm, filled with a deadly serious tone that even Weasel seems to notice.
“I will give you what you deserve, no more, and God will forgive me.” He steps forward.
Weasel shakes his head. “Fuck that. I ain’t lettin’ no Jesus freak get close to me. I’ll tell you what I know,” he says directly to me.
I let out a huff of laughter and clap Preacher on the back. “Better luck next time.” I stand in front of Weasel and wait for the information.
“I know something about your shipment at the docks.”
Finally, fucking progress. “I’m listening.”
“It’s valuable information, you know. Some people would pay a pretty penny to know what’s in that crate of yours.” He flashes a smile filled with dirty teeth.
“Ah, I see. You want money?”
Weasel smiles. “Now you’re starting to get it.”
“How much?” Not that I would give this asshole anything other than a few nightmares.
“How much is the information worth?”
I shrug. “Depends on is the information. Tell me what you got, and I’ll name my price.”
“Fuck that,” he laughs and shakes his head. “You’re no different than Hector. I’ll tell you what you want to know, and you’ll throw me a couple twenties. I ain’t fallin’ for that again.”
“Smart man.” I return to the table and pick up the gloves to examine them before moving on and making a show of picking up the buck knife, the machete, the shiny silver pliers.
Sitting there, perched on the back edge of the table, is exactly what I’m looking for.
“Take off his shoes.” The command is loud and direct, and when I turn, Preacher and Nova stand behind a barefoot Weasel, still tied to the metal chair.
Weasel is finally scared, but it’s too late for that now. I pick up the cut wire and set it between his legs.
“What the fuck, man? Are you some kind of sicko?” He squirms, but it’s no use because he can’t get free unless we want him free.
“Some kind? Yes.” I turn toward the small utility sink in the corner and fill a bucket with water. “Now, Weasel, how much were you thinking?”
“Come on, dude! I’m just trying to make a little cash.”
I shake my head and back up about fifteen feet. Nova and Preacher are already standing beside the door.
“We have that in common, Weasel. I’m a capitalist too, and like a true capitalist, I don’t react well to anyone threatening my business.”
He shakes his head as I slowly tip the bucket. Water trickles to the floor. “Not threatening, just making you understand what my info is worth.”
I tip the bucket, and more water falls to the concrete floor, pushing the water toward his feet, but not yet.
“Nova,” I bark, and he flips the switch that sparks the exposed wire to life.
“Oh shit, man! Don’t do this.”
It’s too late for that, but hope is what will get him to talk. “What the fuck do you know about my crates?”
“Turn it off, and I’ll tell you.”
“It’s too late for that, Weasel. Start talking, fast, and tell me what I want to hear before the water and the wire meet.”
“Fuck! How am I supposed to remember anything sitting here like this?”
“If you’re telling the truth,” I add and increase the speed of the pour, “you don’t have to remember anything. Just tell me what you know.”
The water is close, less than two feet from Weasel. His panic is increasing, and the chair is wobbling all over the place in search of escape from the inevitable. Seconds later, the water meets the wire. The current travels up the metal chair, shaking Weasel’s body like he’s having a seizure.
Nova looks away, and Preacher looks up as if sending up a silent prayer.
“This will only kill you if I increase the voltage. Or let you keep twitching until your heart gives out. The choice is yours.”
