The Retirement Plan

Chapter 27

Reggie fixed the ski mask in place before taking the key from his pocket and unlocking the door. Stepping inside the room, the strong whiff of stale sweat hit hard. The man ripe, not having showered in days. And the stifling heat not helping matters, they ought to stick the fan in the corner on. Reggie would have too, but for the man's wife playing games with them. No, it was imperative the hostage suffer an ordeal. Focus his mind on doing everything in his power to get their money.

Vic pushed his body up in the bed using his feet, his hands bound behind his back, trembling from the effort. The bag rustling as his head turned underneath.

Reggie paused, listening to the sound of Vic's heavy breathing. Didn't move a muscle for a time. Let Vic get good and scared. Not knowing what was going down, that black sack taking his eyes out of commission, leaving him disorientated. How they worked them prisoners in Fallujah.

He pulled the sack off, watching Vic wriggle and blink.

He walked over to the espresso finished wooden dresser, grabbed the cushioned stool from underneath. Placed it near the head of the bed and sat down. Reggie looking at Vic, not saying anything.

Vic attempted to hold his stare but could not prevent the blinks. "You here to help me go pee-pee again?"

"You funny," Reggie said, grinning. "Yo tied-up ass giving me attitude, trying to show me how you ain't scared of nuthin'. Trying to wrestle back the power. When we both know it's impossible to wrestle with your hands tied behind yo back."

"So in the words of a recently departed English colleague of mine," Reggie said, watching Vic's eyes widen, Adopting a cockney voice, he continued, "Don't let's piss about, mate."

Reggie took the knife from the leg pocket of his khaki's. "When it comes to kitchen knives, there are just two choices. German, or Japanese."

"Didn't do them much good in the war, did they?" Vic said, attitude coming back to the fore.

"Wars're won with tanks and bombs, and you've got neither." Reggie held the knife up and said, "Now, see this thick blade, that's German craftsmanship, right there. Shit'll cut through bone, like cheese-wire through brie." Perspiration beads broke out on Vic's creased brow.

"Imagine what it would do to an eyeball?" Vic's face turned so pale, Reggie half-expected to see that tuna and pasta he had brought down earlier come back up. "I ain't never had cause to stab no man in the eye, so I can't say as I've had any first-hand experience. But about twenty years ago I hooked up with this chick—she in art-college—like herself all these boring-ass subtitled films. She don't call 'em movies, apparently, there's a difference. She explained it to me too, real slow, like I'm some kid straight off the short-bus. But, y'know, brother's tryna get him some, so I gotta humor her—you know how that be. Anyway, one night, we're up in her loft, and she has me look at this flick by some old Spanish dude—Luis something or other. You being cultured and all, you probably heard of it. Un Chien Andalou?"

Vic retched violently, sweat streaming down his ashen face.

"Now, way my girl tell it," Reggie said in a breezy tone. "That's a calf-eyeball they use for the slicing scene."

In a weak voice, Vic said: "What do you want me to do?"

"See, I knew you was smart. I want what every man want—money. And the quicker I get it, the quicker you get outta here. Get to watch the sunset with those lovely emerald eyes of yours."

"What do you know about Bit-coin?"

Miley flexed her toes against the metal frame of the sun-lounger. Every muscle in her body relaxed and looser than when she was born. Her head, swimming with warm thoughts. Ricky. His name, singing through her mind. Hair finger-combed and rakishly tousled. And those well-defined, Christ-like abs. Reminded her of back in RE class when she'd flick to the back of her syllabus book to that rendition of the Savior, shredded and wrapped in flimsy loincloth. That led to an awakening, with little to do with religion.

Ricky, with that brogue, made for making drawers drop. Her criminal Heathcliff. He wanted her, bad. She could tell. The way his hands had touched her. A shiver ran along Miley's spine.

She twisted around. The sky tinged tangerine and gold, with a subtle hint of purple, the sun getting ready to set. Miley sat up, leaned down to her side, and plucked her white bikini top from off the ground. Plenty of time for dreaming, later. Time to get inside before the blue hour brought with it the cool chill.

Sandals in hand, Miley walked barefoot across the blue paving. Approaching the verandah, she heard voices coming from inside the house.

Smiled to herself as she heard her Ricky say: "Bitcoin? What the fuck do we know about bitcoin?" And heard Reggie reply: "I know that asshole downstairs can transfer three million into an untraceable account for us. With a touch of a smart-phone screen."

Intuition telling her not to interrupt, Miley stood on the stone steps and listened. "Right on," Ricky said, excitement palpable in his tone.

"Thing is," Reggie said. "We'll need a legit bank account to transfer it to, soas we can get our hands on the cash at the end of the bitcoin rainbow." Huh, Miley thought, Reggie might not be well-versed in crypto currencies, but he was a quick learner.

Ricky, now, words sweating sarcasm, said: "Oh, is that all. How's about we send out an e-mail, like the old Nigerian Prince hustle. Hi, I'm an Irish kidnapper. Currently, I have three million in an account I can't access, but, if you don't mind risking incarceration, then—"

Reggie cut across him in his smooth tone, saying: "Could be we already know somebody with a clean account. Somebody whose heart go boom-boom, every time she hear that lilting Irish brogue."

Miley's muscles tensed, waiting to hear what Ricky would say. "What?"

"Come on, don't play dumb with me dawg." Miley could almost hear the smile in Reggie's voice.

"Ah, man, I can't ask her to do that." A smile broke out on Miley's features.

"Man, you thinking with yo ding-a-ling. And no man ever made no fortune thinking with his disco-stick."

"What about Dirk Diggler?" Miley had to snuffle her laugh with a hand over her mouth. Well played, Ricky.

"Man, you never watch Boogie Nights?" Reggie. back at it again. Chiseling away. "Motherfucker ended up so broke he take to sucking dick, just soas he can eat." A beat. "Maybe, that don't bother you so much, huh. I see the way you playing with little miss crying game out there in the yard."

"I see what you're doing."

"Okay, look it, I like her. Girl's a trip. But this be three million we's talkin' about. Three million bones, know what I'm sayin'. Ricky I know would do what he had to do get his hands on that chunk of change."

"What about our original plan?" Miley could hear the fight slipping from Ricky's tone. He was choosing sides, still unsure what side he'd pick.

"The wife ain't lying. Vic just told me she's only got access to an account with three hundred grand in it."

"Well, she can withdraw that first thing in the morning."

"And what about the rest?"

"I'll talk to her, tonight." Miley's heart sank. She did an about turn, descending the wooden steps in her bare feet, as Reggie was telling Ricky, "Trust me, a'ight. It's gonna be all good, brother." Well, at least she knew. Bros before hoes. It didn't make the pain any easier to bear.

DeShawn sat up in the bed watching TV, hand digging into a bag of Campesina chips. Spanish chips with a savory flavor, like ranch dressing, he had gotten addicted to. A bunch of garlic, onions, herbs, and tomatoes on there, hitting the tongue just right. He'd likely crush the entire bag while he chilled watching a Lost re-run.

The ring tone on his cell started up. DeShawn muttered a curse, looking around for somewhere to wipe his greasy, chip-dust-covered fingers. Had to settle for the end of his tee. Barked, "Yeah," and listened to the unfamiliar voice on the other end demanding to know if his name was DeShawn. "You ringing my cell, and you don't know who you calling? The fuck are you?"

Vic's shaky voice came on after the kidnapper had warned him not to try any funny business.