Callum slaps him so fast the lollipop flies out and sticks to the wall. “Do not bring mothers into this, Adam. That’s rude.”
I sigh, pull on leather gloves. “We’re gonna need a bigger swear.”
First knuckle on his left pinky goes bye-bye with the bolt cutters. Clean snap. The scream is operatic.
“Only Dmitry!” he howls, snot and blood mixing like a craft project.
Callum retrieves his lollipop from the wall, inspects it, shrugs, puts it back in his mouth. “Huh. Still cherry-flavored.”
I hold up the severed finger. “You sure? We’ve got nine more. I’m thinking we make a necklace.”
He’s shaking so hard the chair rattles. “I’m nobody. Dmitry handles everything. Oksana doesn’t even use my name. She calls me ‘the accountant’ like I’m a fucking Uber driver.”
Callum tilts his head. “That’s… actually kind of insulting. I feel bad for you now.” He pauses. “No, wait, feeling’s gone.”
Callum takes two teeth next.
Pliers. Easy. They ping on the concrete like Chiclets.
Beige Boy is a blubbering mess, blood pouring down his chin. “Please… I’m telling the truth… I’m nothing… I’m nothing…”
I study him for a long second.
Pupils blown, pulse rabbiting in his throat, sweat like a monsoon. Classic truth-face.
I nod once.
Callum actually pouts. “Already? We didn’t even get to the blowtorch.”
“Next time,” I say.
Callum draws a suppressed pistol.
Beige Boy’s eyes go wide. “Wait, wait.”
Two in the forehead. Quick. Clean.
He slumps forward, very dead.
Callum kicks the chair lightly. “You’re no fun anymore. I wanted to see if he’d start speaking Russian from the pain.”
“Buy a lottery ticket,” I tell him, holstering the gun. “Same odds we got anything useful tonight.”
Callum peels the lollipop off his tongue, inspects the corpse, and shrugs. “Eh. At least Mr. Bubbles gets to live.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go hose down the plastic and lie to our girlfriend about how gentle we were. She’ll see through it in seconds, but I like watching her pretend to believe us.”
I look at the body one last time.
Only Dmitry.
Fucking great.
Back to square one, minus one accountant and plus one slightly used finger in a Ziploc in the fridge next to Elliot’s pretentious goat cheese.
Callum’s already humming on the way out, lollipop back in place.
Some nights you get answers.
