“Where’s the necklace?” He leans so close, you can smell his fetid breath. Someone didn’t brush his teeth this morning—maybe ever. If you purse your lips, you could spit in his face. Not that you ever would. Your grandmother taught you that a gentleman never spits.
“I told your hench people, Angelini’s daughter took it.” You study the face that has haunted your dreams for over ten years—the face of an enemy who was once a mentor and friend. Over the years he’s had you beaten, whipped, buried—that’s another story—and shot. And then there was that time in the desert with the honey and the ants, and the night he caught you in bed with his sister . . . although to be fair, you’d just pushed him over a waterfall and thought he was dead. But you digress. There is a word for men like Mr. X: nemesis.
Mr. X has aged since your last encounter. His facial hair is graying and he has crow’s feet at the corners of his soulless black eyes. His gray suit has lost the fight against business casual, with a baggy eighties silhouette minus a sense of purpose. His pants are pleated for comfort and wide down the leg, pooling around box-toed shoes. A double-width Mickey Mouse tie is attached to a billowing silky mauve dress shirt, and his belt has a shiny gold buckle engraved with a big X to mark the spot. Villainy might pay, but it can’t buy a sense of fashion.
“That necklace was a fake,” Mr. X says.
“No. Really?” You feign as much shock and surprise as your frozen face can muster, although your primary concern is down below. Your balls are so cold, you can’t feel them. Your only chance of continuing the family line is soon going to be limited to special snowflakes and talking snowmen in funny hats.
“You knew that.” Mr. X sips coffee from a cup with the name Susan scrawled across it in black pen. He’s never told you his real name, and you are excited at the little glimpse into his true self. He doesn’t look like a “Susan” to you, but you don’t like to judge.
“How’s that trenta double-blended extra-hot mocha . . .” You read off the cup. “Twelve pumps sugar-free pumpkin spice, twelve pumps sugar-free hazelnut, twelve pumps sugar-free caramel, twelve pumps sugar-free vanilla, five pumps toffee nut, two heaping scoops of matcha, a splash of soy, coffee to the star on the siren’s head, two raw sugars, extra whip, a sprinkle of cinnamon, a drizzle of caramel, and . . . just move your thumb so I can read the rest . . .”
“No foam,” he offers.
“I’ll bet that’s what all the girls say.”
Mr. X isn’t amused. “This is entirely unnecessary.”
“I must agree. Why do you need fifty-three pumps when it only takes one if you do it right? I’ll bet the girls say that, too.”
“I think he needs an incentive.” Mr. X gestures over his shoulder, and one of his hench people—every good villain needs a solid half dozen—walks into the freezer. He is nondescript as hench people usually are. Medium height. Medium build. Brown hair of medium length cut into a cringeworthy eighties mullet, although he is slightly better dressed than his boss. Skinny black jeans and a black mesh tank never go out of style if you weigh barely 130 pounds and are covered in ink from your high school rocker days. His straight nose and unscarred skin tell you everything you need to know even before he slaps you across the face. Were you ever that green?
“Your newb doesn’t seem to understand how an incentive works.” You explain slowly and simply so everyone can understand. Also, you are so cold, it’s hard to talk. “I would have to know where the necklace is to be incentivized to give up its location. Torture me all you want. I can’t give you information I don’t have.”
Mr. X shrugs. “Torture it is.”
The newb is wearing brass knuckles a few sizes too big for his skinny little fingers. Still, he has a good right for someone so small and thin. Pain explodes through your body. You double over, struggling to keep your feet.
“To be honest, I’d call that a disincentive . . .”
He throws three more punches, aiming not for your stomach but for the crown jewels. Nausea rises in your gut and blackness claws at your vision. Forget the snowflakes. You’ll be lucky if it rains.
You lift your legs and awkwardly kick at his chest. Not your finest moment but you can’t give up the fight.
Another hench person joins the party. He moves in with a length of rope, grabbing your feet and tying them together. He is blond and built like a linebacker with muscles so thick he has to wear a shirt with the sleeves torn off and shorts with an elastic waist.
“That’s not playing fair,” you say. “Four against one? I’m not even using my hands.”
“Give me that chain.” Mr. X holds his hand out and the newb scurries to do his bidding. You’ve always wanted a henchman or two. It would make the work that much easier.
“I’ve never been into the whole whips and chains thing,” you say. “But to each his own.”
“Where’s the fucking necklace?”
“Can I be blindfolded for this part?”
Mr. X raises the chain and swings with all his might.
You black out. Again. You have to stop making it a habit.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?Cold seeps through your skin and into your bones. Your eyes close and your mind flickers in and out of consciousness. You are outside in the snow banging on a door that won’t open. Fire sears your skin as your home explodes into flames. Then you are in a garden pruning the lavender before the first frost. Your grandmother gives you a quarter for every bundle. She sews them into sachets for the Christmas craft fair and always splits the money with you. Your dog, Bob, licks your face. A bee buzzes overhead. You try to swat it away, but your hands won’t move. You look for the light and see Simi in a garden of hellebore, crushing the delicate leaves with her huge feet. She smiles and your heart pounds, sending a rush of warmth through your frozen body. There is something you need to tell her—a feeling you have whenever you see her that doesn’t go away.
Thunder roars in the distance. A storm, bringing with it a rush of warm air. Simi fades into the distance. Water trickles down your face.
“Jack! Jack! Get him down!”
You are drawn to the woman’s voice. It pulls you out of the mist and back into the light. You see shadowy figures around you, sense panic in the air. Bob keeps licking your face, your lips. For once he doesn’t have horrendous doggy breath. His tongue is soft, and he smells like tacos.
You are flying, drifting. You wake to the most horrible sight a man could see. Two eyes in a black wooly ski mask. You ask the obvious question through swollen lips. “Are you the Grim Reaper?”
“It’s me. Simi.” She pulls off the mask and her beautiful face warms you inside. Too bad she’s frowning. “You have hypothermia,” she says. “I’ll get some blankets to warm you.”
“Best cure for hypothermia is skin-to-skin contact.” Your words come stronger now because Simi is here, and she’s real and her tears are deliciously hot and they remind you of other places that can be hot and hopefully she’ll take you to bed so you can hold her and make the cold go away. “I think you should take off our clothes and lie on top of me.”