The Strong-Arm Man

Hillary Lyon

“I have something I want to show you,” Wallace said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. “Follow me.”

Bryson hesitated. Wallace had a reputation for strong-arm tactics, especially where money owed him was concerned. And Bryson owed him big.

Wallace flicked his cigarette away. It flashed in an arc through the stale air in the warehouse of his used-car dealership, hissing when it landed in a small puddle of water. Wallace looked up; must be a leak in the roof.

“C’mon,” Wallace ordered. He turned and walked away without looking back at Bryson. Sheepishly, Bryson followed. In silence, they walked the length of the warehouse, past neat rows of gleaming late model cars, until they reached the storage room.

Wallace pushed the door open, and waved Bryson in. Waiting for them inside was Carrigan, the semi-pro boxer turned mechanic turned Wallace’s right-hand man. More like his strong-arm man, Bryson noted to himself. He began to panic.

Carrigan held a crow bar. Something evil dripped from the curved end. Something red, dark, and pooling on the concrete floor. He caught Bryson’s eye and grinned. Seated in a chair beside him was a figure covered in a sheet. Splotches of something dark and red bloomed on the sheet, spreading as Bryson looked.

“I want you to meet Rose,” Wallace said, scratching a match against his thumbnail. He lit a cigarette and nodded to Carrigan.

With a flourish, Carrigan grabbed the back of the sheet and yanked it off, revealing a badly beaten blonde woman tied to a metal folding chair. She sat slumped and motionless; blood matted her hair, bruises covered her face and bare arms. The sheet fell in a wrinkled pile on the floor. Carrigan nudged the woman with his crowbar. Her head rolled to one side. She didn’t speak or open her eyes.

Bryson clenched his eyes tight, trying his best not to gag. He failed. Carrigan snickered.

Wallace grunted. “Like you, Rose owed me money.”

Bryson turned and vomited in the shadows cast by the single lightbulb dangling overhead.

“Like you,” Wallace continued, “Rose fell behind in her payments.” He took a drag off his cigarette, and blew smoke in Bryson’s face. Bryson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed hard.

“Like you, Rose was chock-full of sad-sack excuses,” Wallace leaned in close to Bryson’s paling face, “instead of giving me my money.” He ground out the cigarette on Bryson’s cheek. Bryson didn’t flinch, but a tear leaked from the corner of his eye.

“Do you want to join Rose?” Wallace asked, pointing to the apparently dead woman. “Or do you want to pay me what you owe me?”

“I’ll get you your money,” Bryson whispered, backing out of the room. “Every last cent.”

“Plus interest, cabron,” Wallace squinted. “Compounded interest.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bryson said weakly. “Count on it.” He turned and ran out the door. His footsteps echoed through the warehouse, and didn’t stop until he reached his car. Wallace and Carrigan listened for the frantic growl of Bryson’s car’s engine; they didn’t have to wait long.

“Is he gone?” The woman softly asked.

“Yeah, Marie,” Wallace replied with a crooked smile, turning to look at the woman in the chair. “But he’ll be back, cash in hand.”

“Then untie me. My arm’s going to sleep,” she said, looking at Carrigan. He dropped the crowbar with a loud clang, and loosened the woman’s bindings.

Marie stood up and stretched. She then pulled off the blonde wig, and shook out her long brown hair. She held the wig aloft. “Goodbye Rose,” she laughed. “You did good.”

Wallace walked over to her. “Even with all that awful make up, you’re still a beauty,” he said pulling Marie close to him. He nuzzled her neck. “We make such a great team. A dream team.”

Looking over Wallace’s shoulder, Marie met Carrigan’s eye. She winked.

* * *

“Is he in?”

Marie looked up from the paperwork stacked on the desk before her. In the office doorway stood a wild-eyed, disheveled man. It was Bryson.

“Excuse me? Is who in?” Marie asked knowing full well who he meant.

Bryson stared at her for several heartbeats before answering flatly. “Wallace.” With her brown hair in a bun, black plastic framed glasses perched on her nose, and clean flawless skin, he didn’t recognize Marie as Rose, Wallace’s mangled victim from the night before.

“Is he expecting you?”

“Yeah.” Bryson took a deep shivering breath. “I have something for him.”

“And you are?” Marie innocently asked, taking pleasure in watching this mark squirm.

“Bryson … Smith.”

Marie pressed the talk button the ancient intercom on her desk. “Mr. Desmond, there’s a Mr. Bryson Smith here to see you. Says he has something for you.”

Wallace’s reply was a fuzzy “Okay. Be right out.”

“Why don’ you have a seat,” Marie said, motioning to the two comfy chairs beside the water cooler. Without answering, Bryson continued to stand. He swayed slightly. She returned her attention to the paperwork before her.

“Say, Marie,” Wallace said from the doorway to his inner office. “Go get us a couple of coffees.”

On her way out the door, she bumped into Carrigan. He was dressed in his work clothes: oil-stained coveralls and sneakers.

“You’re here early,” she purred.

“Gotta see the boss man,” he grinned, “about a job I have to do.”

“Marie!” Wallace shouted. “Coffee!”

She sashayed her way to the coffee machine in the main lobby. With a grin betraying great appreciation, Carrigan watched her walk away.

Bryson ignored this exchange behind him; he was too nervous, too focused on what he intended to do. “What you did to that poor woman,” Bryson stuttered. “You gotta be stopped!” His hand trembled as he reached for the gun stashed in his belt behind his back.

“Nuh uh,” Carrigan said, quickly grabbing the gun from Bryson’s shaky hand. “I don’t think so. Hey boss,” Carrigan giggled, waving the gun, “look what he brought you.”

“Where the hell’s my mon—” Wallace began through clenched teeth, but he was interrupted by a single gunshot to the chest. Now dead weight, he fell back through the doorway and hit the dirty linoleum floor with a heavy thud.

Bryson spun around, gaping at Carrigan. “What have you done?”

“What have I done? What have you done.” He laughed. “It’s your gun.”

“But I was just gonna threaten—I wasn’t really gonna—”

Quick as a wink, Carrigan’s right hook connected with Bryson’s jaw. Knocked out, the man crumpled to the floor. Carrigan carefully wiped his prints from the gun before wrapping both of Bryson’s hands around the still-warm piece.

“Why’re you doing that?” Marie asked from behind him. She wasn’t holding coffee, but she was holding her cell phone.

“Cause I don’t know if he’s right or left handed,” Bryson shrugged.

“How’d you know he’d have a gun?”

“I didn’t,” Carrigan said, reaching into a deep pocket of his coveralls. He pulled out a switchblade, and clicked it open. “I took advantage of the situation. Glad I didn’t have to use this after all.”

He closed the knife and slipped it back into his pocket. “You call the cops?”

“Just did,” she said, moving in close to him. He wrapped his arms around her. Their kiss lasted until they heard the police sirens arriving outside.