Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“I’m a busy man, so you’d better be thinking of who you need to call. I’m going to have a sandwich. I’m sending Mouse in with your cell phone—he’ll make the calls for you. If you try to signal someone or get the police involved, your sister is as good as dead.” He walked closer. “Here’s a little incentive.”
The Carver grabbed Wesley’s arm and with a twist of his wrist, sliced a two-inch letter C into Wesley’s forearm.
The pain was intense. Wesley gasped as his blood dripped onto the floor to mix with the other stains. Since his hands were still cuffed, he pressed his arm to his chest to stem the bleeding. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.
“With every phone call, you get another letter,” The Carver said, his voice deadly calm. “So unless you want my entire name tattooed on your arm, you’d better make them count.”
The man strode out of the room and nodded to someone. Mouse walked in holding Wesley’s cell phone, all business. “Who do you want me to call?”
Wesley’s mind raced.
“You don’t want to keep the boss waiting,” Mouse advised.
“Chance Hollander.”
“Is the number in your phone?”
“Yeah.” His arm was throbbing. “Can you uncuff me, man? My hands are numb.”
“No can do.” Mouse operated the phone with his fat fingers, then held it to Wesley’s ear. “The volume is turned up so that I can hear everything. No funny stuff, got it?”
“I lost my sense of humor on the floor,” Wesley said. “Watch your step.”
He prayed that Chance would pick up. After two rings, he did. “Wes?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Where the fuck are you, man? Your sister is worried sick. She came over with some pierced chick and they kicked my ass—”
“Dude, listen. I’m in a bind and I need twenty-five grand. Can you help me out?”
“Twenty-five grand, are you nuts? Have you been kidnapped or something?”
“Or something. Can you get it?”
“Yeah, sure. But it’ll take me a couple of days.”
“I don’t have a couple of days. What can you scrape together in a couple of hours?”
“Bad timing, dude. I just paid my carriers, and my girls, and I bought a new hot tub—”
“How much?”
“It was a steal—a ten-thousand-dollar model, but I got it for five.”
Mouse rolled his eyes and Wesley grimaced. “Not the hot tub! How much can you get together?”
“I could probably find a grand in the couch cushions, but that’s about it.”
Wesley swallowed against his disappointment. “Okay, thanks anyway.”
“Dude, where are you—”
Mouse closed the phone. “You know what this means.”
“Come on, man,” Wesley pleaded. “Give me a mulligan.”
Mouse frowned. “What’s a mulligan?”
Note to self: Don’t use golf terms when negotiating with street criminals. “A freebie. No one has to know.”
“No can do.” The big man went to the door, opened it and shook his head.
The Carver came in still chewing his sandwich, and sighed heavily, as if Wesley were causing him to miss his favorite TV show. He opened the switchblade. “Hold him, Mouse.”
Wesley resisted, but could only look away. It took more strokes to carve an A into his skin, more finesse, more blood. He screamed like a girl.
The Carver used a white handkerchief to wipe the blood off his knife. “I hope for your sake your next call is more productive.” He retracted the blade and left the room.
Mouse held up the phone. “Who now?”
Wesley couldn’t think for the pain. His blood was everywhere.
“Come on, kid. We all want to go home. Give me a name.”
“Liz Fischer. The number is in there.”
Mouse dialed it, then held the phone up to Wesley’s mouth.
Liz had been his father’s attorney and had gotten Wesley off on probation when he’d been busted for hacking into the courthouse database. Recently they’d started banging—everything that Chance had told him about older chicks was true. Carlotta would have an aneurysm if she knew.
Liz answered on the first ring. “Wes? Are you okay? Jack Terry called me asking if I’d seen you.”
So Carlotta was beating the bushes. “Uh, I’m fine … for now. But I have a situation here and I need some cash. A lot of it.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five grand.”
She gasped. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
“The expensive kind.”
“Wesley, you know I adore you. But I can’t get involved in whatever mess you’re in. I have my career and reputation to think about.”
He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t help you. Maybe you should call the police—”
Mouse flipped the phone shut, then sighed. “I should’ve worn a dark suit.” He went to the door, opened it and shook his head.
The Carver reappeared, a paper napkin tucked in his collar like a bib. Wesley considered making a run for it, but he was having trouble even holding his head up. Besides, he was still wearing only one shoe. And he wouldn’t get far with his hands cuffed. Mouse held him for the next carving, but Wesley didn’t put up much resistance as an R was engraved on his arm. He didn’t even have the strength to squeal. The Carver left with no conversation.
Wesley was on the verge of passing out.
“You’re killing me, kid,” Mouse said. “Give me a name—a good one.”
With what little strength he had left, Wesley considered his options—all of them bad, but one of them viable. Objectionable, but viable.
He gave Mouse the name and hoped for the best.
