‘I told you—’ Donovan begins.
‘He knows the whole thing, Tripp,’ Martinez says.
Billy turns to Hank. ‘What’s your last name?’
‘Flanagan.’
‘And the van out back, the Love Machine … that’s yours, right?’
‘Yes. But it’s broken down. The head gasket—’
‘Blew, I know. But it was running last week, yeah? You guys took Alice home in it after you were done with her?’
‘Don’t say anything!’ Donovan barks.
Hank ignores him. ‘What are you? Her boyfriend? Her brother? Oh boy.’
Billy says nothing.
Hank lets out a sigh. It sounds wet. ‘You know we didn’t take her home.’
‘What did you do with her?’
Donovan: ‘Don’t say anything!’ This seems to be his scripture.
‘Bad advice, Hank. Just say it and spare yourself a lot of grief.’
‘We dropped her off.’
‘Dropped her off? Is that what you want to call it?’
‘Okay, we dumped her,’ he says. ‘But man … she was talking, okay? And we knew she had her phone and money for an Uber. She was talking!’
‘And making perfect sense?’ Billy asks. ‘Holding a conversation? Tell me that if you fucking dare.’
Hank doesn’t tell him that. He starts to cry, which tells Billy something else.
Billy calls Alice. He doesn’t make Hank tell her he’s a worthless piece of shit, because the man’s tears make it clear he already knows that. He only asks Hank to say he’s sorry. Which he does and sounds like he means it. For whatever that’s worth.
Billy turns to Donovan. ‘That leaves you.’
11
The swinging roommates are cowed. No one’s going to run for the door because they know the intruder in the mask would clothesline them if they tried. Billy goes to his computer bag and takes out the Magic Wand hand mixer. It’s a slim stainless steel cylinder about eight inches long. Its electrical cord has been bound into a neat bow by two twist ties.
‘Here’s what I’ve been thinking about,’ Billy says. ‘That men don’t know what it’s like to be raped unless they’ve been raped themselves. You, Mr Donovan, are about to have a reasonable facsimile of that experience.’
Donovan tries to lunge up from the love-seat and Billy pushes him back. When he lands the cushion makes a farting sound. Martinez and Flanagan don’t move, only stare at the mixer with big eyes.
‘What I need you to do is stand up, push down your pants and undershorts, then lie on your stomach.’
‘No!’
Donovan has gone white. His eyes are even bigger than those of his roommates. Billy hardly expected instant compliance. He takes the Ruger from his belt. He remembers Pablo Lopez, one of the squad’s Funhouse casualties. Bigfoot Lopez had that Dirty Harry speech down pat, the one that ends with Harry saying You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well do you, punk? Billy can’t remember it all, but he has the gist.
‘This isn’t my gun,’ he says. ‘I borrowed it. I know it’s loaded, but I don’t know what the loads are. I didn’t check them. If you don’t drop trou and lie on your stomach, I’m going to shoot you in the ankle. Point blank. So you’ve got to ask yourself one question – ball or hollow point? If they’re hard point, you’ll probably walk again, but only after a lot of pain and therapy and you’ll limp for the rest of your life. If they’re softnose, most of your foot is going to say adios. So here’s the deal. Roll the dice on the bullet or get cornholed. Your choice.’
Donovan begins to blubber. His tears don’t make Billy feel pity; they make him want to hit the man in the mouth with the butt of the Ruger and see how many of those toothpaste-ad teeth he can knock out.
‘Let me put it to you another way. Either you can endure short-lived pain and humiliation or you can drag your left foot around for the rest of your life. Assuming the doctors don’t amputate. You have five seconds to decide. Five … four …’
On three, Tripp Donovan stands up and drops trou. His cock has shriveled to a noodle and his balls are barely visible at all.
‘Mister, do you have to—’ Martinez begins.
‘Shut up,’ Hank says. ‘He deserves it. Probably we all do.’ To Billy he says, ‘Just so you know, I didn’t put it in, just on her belly.’
‘Did you come?’ Billy knows the answer to that question.