business, I’d have to cultivate a love-hate relationship with a police officer right away.
The blackmailer crossed Broadway, then walked down to the corner of Second Street and disappeared. I waited a minute, shoved the camera in my pants pocket, then ran across the street. I hurried up to the corner and peered around the edge of the building, just in time to see him enter the municipal parking structure, where you get the first three hours free. This guy and I had at least one thing in common. If I had the choice, I would have saved the ten bucks and parked there, too, even if I knew I’d be coming back to the car with thirty thousand dollars.
I jogged up to the parking structure, and when I got there, he was just stepping into the elevator, leaving me with a split-second choice to make. I could either go in the elevator with him, or run up the stairs and somehow try to meet him at whatever floor he stopped at. It wasn’t that hard a choice to make.
I rushed into the elevator.
He grabbed me as I came in, threw me back against the wall, and slammed his fist into my stomach. I keeled over, grasping at his shirt as I went down, pulling it out of his pants. The packet of money hit the floor just before I did.
I ended up face-down on the floor, mouth open wide, unable to breathe, clutching my stomach, my body on top of his money. I was panicked. It wasn’t the pain as much as it was the shock and the inability to breathe.
That’s when he started kicking me in the ribs, again and again, screaming, “Get up! Get up you motherfucker!”
I wanted to say, “If you’ll stop kicking me, I will,” but I couldn’t breathe, much less form words. With each kick, I imagined bones shattering and internal organs bursting like water balloons. That’s what it felt like. He was killing me.
His foot must have finally got sore, or he got bored, because he stopped kicking me, grabbed me by my shirt, and rolled me over.
He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his money, scowling with disgust, holding it by its edges. The envelope was soiled with big, wet stains.
“Shit, you pissed all over my money!”
I wasn’t surprised. Somewhere between the punch and the third kick, I’d lost all control of my body. I was just a lump of pain and misery and I wanted to die.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” He kicked me sharply in the balls. I didn’t think I could hurt any more than I already did. I was wrong. It was a tsunami of pain that swamped my entire body, from my groin to the tips of the individual hairs on my head. “What am I supposed to do with money that smells like piss?”
I gagged and began to choke on my undigested pizza. I imagine Spenser would have had a wittier answer. He probably wouldn’t have started crying.
I did.
He glared at me with utter fury, breathing hard, his chin trembling. It’s hard work kicking a guy when he’s down.
“You can tell her this is what I’ll do to her face, if I ever see you or anybody else on my ass again.”
He lifted his foot back to give me a good kick in the face, one that would flatten my nose against the inside of my skull, and I closed my eyes, like that would actually give me any protection.
I heard a ding and felt nothing. I opened my eyes to blurrily see him shoving his way past a shocked family of six standing outside the elevator doors.
“The queer grabbed my balls,” he said by way of explanation.
“We’ll take the stairs, Martha,” the father told his family, hustling them away from me. I would have thanked them for their help if I’d been able to speak. Just by being there, they saved my face.
With the beating finished, I managed to suck in some air and cough out some puke. It cleared my vision enough for me to clearly see the number eight on a pillar outside, and to realize I was on the eighth floor. It would take the blackmailer some time to drive down to the street.
Now, this is when a very weird thing happened. My prehistoric monkey
The blackmailer crossed Broadway, then walked down to the corner of Second Street and disappeared. I waited a minute, shoved the camera in my pants pocket, then ran across the street. I hurried up to the corner and peered around the edge of the building, just in time to see him enter the municipal parking structure, where you get the first three hours free. This guy and I had at least one thing in common. If I had the choice, I would have saved the ten bucks and parked there, too, even if I knew I’d be coming back to the car with thirty thousand dollars.
I jogged up to the parking structure, and when I got there, he was just stepping into the elevator, leaving me with a split-second choice to make. I could either go in the elevator with him, or run up the stairs and somehow try to meet him at whatever floor he stopped at. It wasn’t that hard a choice to make.
I rushed into the elevator.
He grabbed me as I came in, threw me back against the wall, and slammed his fist into my stomach. I keeled over, grasping at his shirt as I went down, pulling it out of his pants. The packet of money hit the floor just before I did.
I ended up face-down on the floor, mouth open wide, unable to breathe, clutching my stomach, my body on top of his money. I was panicked. It wasn’t the pain as much as it was the shock and the inability to breathe.
That’s when he started kicking me in the ribs, again and again, screaming, “Get up! Get up you motherfucker!”
I wanted to say, “If you’ll stop kicking me, I will,” but I couldn’t breathe, much less form words. With each kick, I imagined bones shattering and internal organs bursting like water balloons. That’s what it felt like. He was killing me.
His foot must have finally got sore, or he got bored, because he stopped kicking me, grabbed me by my shirt, and rolled me over.
He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his money, scowling with disgust, holding it by its edges. The envelope was soiled with big, wet stains.
“Shit, you pissed all over my money!”
I wasn’t surprised. Somewhere between the punch and the third kick, I’d lost all control of my body. I was just a lump of pain and misery and I wanted to die.
“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” He kicked me sharply in the balls. I didn’t think I could hurt any more than I already did. I was wrong. It was a tsunami of pain that swamped my entire body, from my groin to the tips of the individual hairs on my head. “What am I supposed to do with money that smells like piss?”
I gagged and began to choke on my undigested pizza. I imagine Spenser would have had a wittier answer. He probably wouldn’t have started crying.
I did.
He glared at me with utter fury, breathing hard, his chin trembling. It’s hard work kicking a guy when he’s down.
“You can tell her this is what I’ll do to her face, if I ever see you or anybody else on my ass again.”
He lifted his foot back to give me a good kick in the face, one that would flatten my nose against the inside of my skull, and I closed my eyes, like that would actually give me any protection.
I heard a ding and felt nothing. I opened my eyes to blurrily see him shoving his way past a shocked family of six standing outside the elevator doors.
“The queer grabbed my balls,” he said by way of explanation.
“We’ll take the stairs, Martha,” the father told his family, hustling them away from me. I would have thanked them for their help if I’d been able to speak. Just by being there, they saved my face.
With the beating finished, I managed to suck in some air and cough out some puke. It cleared my vision enough for me to clearly see the number eight on a pillar outside, and to realize I was on the eighth floor. It would take the blackmailer some time to drive down to the street.
Now, this is when a very weird thing happened. My prehistoric monkey
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