He turns and walks at a steady pace. I stay close, smiling casually at the few guys who look over. But I’m guessing they know my good friend Hector pretty well by now. They probably implicitly understand that he’s a lowlife piece of shit and anything he does is inherently trouble. Nobody sticks their neck out for him, despite the terror on his face.
We reach the bathroom. I kick the door shut and lock it. There’s a single toilet and some fancy soap on the sink. Hector whirls on me, hands raised.
“Stellan, bro, I know what this is about, bro, but we don’t gotta be like this. I’m at work, bro.”
“I noticed. Dishwasher? Really?”
“Don’t disrespect a working man, bro.”
“You sell meth.”
“I need steady employment for my parole officer, okay?”
I sigh and shake my head. “You’re such a piece of shit, you know that?”
If I were anyone else, there’s no doubt in my mind Hector would take serious offense to that. Instead, he only grins stupidly. “Yeah, bro, I know. You’re right. I’m a piece of shit, right?”
I tap the knife against my palm, considering. Here’s a guy doing his best. He’s waking up, clocking in, earning a check. Sure, he hits the street at night, slings drugs, beats prostitutes, but even still. A guy’s gotta get his kicks, right?
“Thirty-five hundred,” I tell him simply.
He scoffs a laugh. “What the fuck?”
“You owe me thirty-five hundred dollars. Three thousand five hundred, in case you weren’t sure.”
“I know what that is, but I mean, bro, I don’t got that much. Are you crazy?”
“Thirty-five hundred. That’s two thousand for the drugs you shorted me, plus a thousand for selling on my territory, and another five hundred for my time today. Thirty-five hundred.”
“I can’t, I mean, bro, look at me, you think I got that much lying around?” He sputters, gesturing at his dirty clothes. “I wash fuckin’ dishes and sell gram bags of meth. Come on, give me a break. I’ll work it off, whatever you want, but?—”
I move forward. Hector probably knows it’s coming but he’s too slow and too stupid to stop me. I grab one of his flailing hands, turn my body so his elbow is tucked into my armpit, and slam his palm down flat on the vanity. I lock my grip, using my body as leverage, and stomp one foot down to pin his left shoe in place.
“Fuck! Oh, shit, Stellan, what the fuck!”
“Last chance.” I get the knife ready.
“Bro, I don’t have it, I swear, I’m sorry, I’ll do everything, please don’t, just please don’t—” He’s blubbering now. It’s pathetic.
“Five hundred discount for every finger.” I stab the knife down. His pinky pops off like the cork from a bottle of prosecco. Blood spurts out and he screams in agony. “Now it’s three thousand.”
“Oh my god, my finger, my fucking finger!”
“Pay me.”
“Please, Stellan, please?—”
I move on to the ring finger. It takes a little more work or maybe I’m just bored. The bone cracks and the finger tumbles into the sink. More blood pours out. “Twenty-five hundred.”
“Fuck! Fuck! Oh my god!”
“Can you pay me now?”
Hector stares at me in the mirror, eyes wild and wide?—
And he shakes his head, pale and sweating.
“One more,” he whimpers.
