Jack Splat

The three veterans packed their weapons in their travel bags, along with a couple shirts, a bathing suit, looking like everyday tourists and headed down to the casino floor. Not five-minutes after, three phone calls were directed to the rooms of Clifford Polite, Mark Denton and Lazlo Pentavo in succession. An older gentleman left the most detailed message with Cliff’s voicemail.

“Uh… Clifford Po-leet, with a long “E”? Uh, my name is Carson… uh, you don’t need to know my last name right now, but I’m over in Pahrump. ‘Bout an hour to the west of Las Vegas. Uh… Mr. Po-leet, I got a message from your friend, Donnie… oh, shit… Donnie Abramovich or somethin’. But anyway, we’re sorta helpin’ him out. An’ if you get this message, you should call my home. Me or my wife, Babs. 775-535-4476. Uh… Mr. Po-leet, we’d like to be sure your friend’s tellin’ us the truth, so please call back. Ya see, if ya don’t know, he’s wanted for murder… an’, well, I just don’t see this man doin’ such a thing. Please call, Carson in Pahrump. Thank you, sir.”

It would be a couple days before Cliff would hear the message. After everything.

************************

They felt they were wasting time hanging around the Casino floor and the bar areas of the hotel, but it was decided, they would start their roll with a piece of meat, they the hungry jarheads.

Jack Smart’s workdays generally ended when he wanted, and if he stayed to a schedule, he would knock off about 9:00 am. The riff raff had all but settled and the pork and beans tourists would prowl the casino floors. It was life if you considered there was blood in the zombies’ veins, but it wasn’t Vegas life. AARP graduates playing on their social security checks, applauding those that hit a jackpot, while swearing them under their breath. Nope, his kind of fun was usually over, so he checked out as usual, and exited Treasure Island with only two ambitions… his apartment and sleep.

As he stepped off the curb heading to his car, someone firmly grabbed his arm and began walking with him.

“Hey Jack Sprat! Wondering if you can get me girls. You do that sort of thing?” This man’s grip was firm and guiding the smaller recruiter.

“I do that sort of thing on my working hours, but I done checked out. Why don’t you check with me on the floor later. I’m in about 8 or 9:00 at night.” It didn’t stop this guy with the crewcut from leaning into Jack and prying further.

“Well, me and my friends are horny fuckers, and we are just needing a hookup, ya know? I heard you’re the man.” Cliff was looking at Jack, and he wasn’t smiling. It was growing uncomfortable for Jack Shit. He stiffened and yanked his arm away from Cliff.

“Listen, jack, I don’t like getting hustled, so back the fuck off.” Cliff just laughed.

“You called me Jack. Now I’m all confused.” More chuckling.

“Alright, fucker, you leave me no choice.” He was pulling his cellphone out aiming to hit 9-1-1, and Cliff’s hand came down across the back of Jack’s hand, easily enveloping the small recruiter’s in his own.

“You don’t want to do that, now, do you Jack Sprat?” Cliff squeezed, and as every thought about his buddies being taken, for money, for fools, but who knows where or how bad… he kept squeezing. He threw his other arm around his shoulders and began guiding him again. Jack was groaning as his fingers were popping. “But I am glad you pulled your phone out. You mind?” Cliff snatched it, just at the time Art stepped right into stride with his sergeant and the weasel. Jack was now fully aware of trouble, but had to play it tough… how you survive sometimes, it’s not always running.

“You guys coming down heavy on me, ain’t gonna do much good for you, ‘cause I run an honest operation. You’re wasting your time. And I got friends. Big friends. Mean fucking people.”

Like the strangest non sequitur, Cliff just said, “How’s Clarence, by the way?”

Jack began answering, “He’s in the hospital…” and he stopped… and grew more nervous, trying to tug away from Cliff. Now those talons were biting into Jack’s bird-like arms.

“Easy, Jack Sprat, you’re not goin’ anywhere. Well, that’s not entirely true.” Johnny drove alongside in a crème colored Chevy Malibu. A ubiquitous automobile, fitting a price point that almost anyone could afford, so millions did. Be tough to identify – especially that they borrowed someone else’s license plates. “Sorry to hear about Clarence. You think he’ll ever be able to have children?”

It was the last thing they said before Art and Cliff threw Jack the Hooker Seller in the backseat, Artie jumping in on top of him, giving two hard fists to the jaw. Cliff jumped into the passenger seat and Johnny was off.

***********************

There wasn’t much left of Jack Sprat’s resolve… not much left of his lips and nose either. Pink slobber was running down Jack’s chin, into the little tuft of his “sexy hair” on his upper chest. Real, caking blood was filling his nose, and lips were unidentifiable. The left eye was nearly closed.

“Gloves are good for all kinds of troublemaking, ya know, Jack? And none better than when punching truth out of little pricks like you.”

“No mohr, pwease…” gasping, crying… “No mohr…”

“Well, we don’t want to do more, but you’re kind of forcing our hand, Jack. We know about Clarence, and thanks for your input, but we already had that one sized up. We left him alive, so kind of a measure of how we treat those who cooperate. So, tell me, Jack, you gonna fully cooperate?”

Arthur heaved into another blast across Jack’s chin, knocking it askew, probably broken.

“No mohr… pwease…” tears spilling faster than the blood.

“Only you can stop that, Jack Sprat. Now those numbers in your phone. Who are they?”

“Wrong nummers… dat’s all…” his head drooping.

“Don’t fade out yet, Jack. My boy Cliff’s got a game for ya.” Jack looked over at Cliff lifting two five-gallon jugs of drinking water, and he set them in the sand in obvious proximity to the beating victim.

“No, don’t… I’m gonna die… pwease…” he was shaking his head like that might thwart whatever was coming.

“Hey, Jack, consider it a long drink of water. You’ve heard of waterboarding, right?”

Immediately Johnny swung a wet bath towel around Jack’s upper torso while he was already secured, with hands behind his back, legs extended tied around the knees and ankles. Johnny threw his knee into Jack’s back and pulled the heavy towel to seize the man’s frantic squirming, a side effect of what was coming next. Cliff was soaking another hotel towel, feeling the strange tableau, out in a quiet place in the desert, two hotel towels, water jugs and a weeping weasel readying to tell them everything.

“No mohr… I tell ya… pwease… I tell ya.”

“Good fucker, and speak clearly. We’ve wasted enough time on you.”

Jack would tell them which was Big Sally’s phone; which was Clarence’s; which was the “financial director’s”, assuring them he didn’t know the name… and as much as he was letting out now, there was a high level of confidence it was truth. And they’d know soon enough on their own.

“Are there any other names we need to know? It can save your miserable life, Jack Sprat.”

“No… just girh’s numbers… a couple possibo cwients…” he was spitting copious amounts of blood, his eye dripping steadily, nose bubbling blood.

“Okay. You done good. But you still haven’t given us any confidence about our friends’ condition. What’s the scheme all about that we can’t get ahold of any of them. Our brothers. They wouldn’t blow us off over some hookers… for two days now? So, what’s the deal, Jack Sprat?”

Jack just moaned and cried, not wanting to answer because there wouldn’t be much hope for him if he did… he tried to cry his way out of answering… surely empathy would settle this last question.

“Art, pick up the water.” Johnny drove his knee into Jack’s back, pulling the towel tight, preventing any escape. Cliff threw a wet towel over Jack’s face, and he began muffled screaming… but Cliff would blow away any doubt whether they get the full story. “Pour, Art!”

Loud gurgling and shimmying against Johnny’s grip… then more water… coughing, gurgling… then Art pulled the jug back. Cliff after a couple more pained seconds he removed the towel, having at least washed his face, leaving some sotted blood in his nose and a pink patina over his face. And a full capitulation.

Through his reverberating coughing and spitting, Jack was able to tell them all he knew.

“I don’t know where dey are…” gulping back on something, and spitting out something, coughing what may have been his last good air. “I reawy don’t… but I know dose peopo, and…” he began crying, huffing, cheeks puffing like a bugle player…

“Fuck you, tell us you mutt! What did they do with our friends?”

“I don’t know… but I know dem peopo, and I don’t tink dey’re suppose to be awive.”

“You’re sayin’ you think our friends are dead?” Cliff was in his face with fists clenched.

Jack was crying through what would be his last words, “Yes… I tink so.”

The shovel came down on Jack Sprat’s head, and it rung like the Notre Dame bell. Weird. But no one laughed. There were no prat falls, no humor here. The shovel came down again. And again. Again.

“I didn’t bring any other pants.” Cliff delivered in businesslike terms. “We’re gonna have to stop and buy some shit. I wasn’t counting on smashing the fucker’s head.”

Art took the shovel from him and began digging the newest anonymous grave that no one would ever dig up. They were way the fuck out there.

Cliff started chuckling in a spooky serious way, “Jack Sprat… Jack Splat…” He started chuckling louder… Johnny gave him a hug… Art followed suit.

Jack should have run.

Next was Pahrump.

***************************