By Bob Kaster

I had a rough night. My girlfriend Velma stood me up. I compensated by closing the Rex Club bar. I ran up a $200 tab. A jackhammer cut open a chunk of my head. My eyeballs will explode any minute.

It’s 3:00 AM. The doorbell rings. It takes a lifetime to get to the front door.

No one’s there. I look down the street but don’t see a living soul. It’s pitch dark. Disgusted, I start to shut the door. Something catches my eye. A plastic baggie on the porch step. I pick it up. My brain registers its contents. The nausea that had been building up erupts violently.

It’s a human finger … actually, a fingertip. I recognize the nail polish. Black Orchid. No one wears Black Orchid except Velma. Another nausea eruption. There’s something else in the baggie. A yellow folded up sticky note.

My hands shake violently. I can barely open the bag. Finally, I read the note. “If you want to see the rest of her, leave $10,000 in $100 bills in a brown envelope in mailbox number 14 in the alley next to the Rex at midnight tonight. Then leave immediately and don’t hang around. Don’t call the cops. We own the cops. We’ll know. If you fail to comply you will receive daily packages with larger parts of her.”

Another brutal nausea eruption. My physical state improves a little … head and eyeballs return back to normal … but my mental state is in the toilet. To focus, I light up a Camel.

It’s good to have friends in low places. Friends you can trust. I call Jimmy the Gut. The most honest crooked bookie I know. “Who would do this?” I ask.

“It’s gotta be the Etna boys,” says Jimmy. “I heard they was up to somethin’.”

“Where do they hang out?”

“Cabin up Rattlesnake Gulch. Third one up.”

I retrieve my two 1911 Army Colt 45 semiautomatics. I load four magazines. I go outside. I climb into my 1953 Hudson Hornet. One hundred miles an hour is a piece of cake for the Hornet. I make it to Rattlesnake Gulch before 5:00 AM. It’s still pitch black. That’s good and bad. I turn the headlights off. I can’t be seen, but I can’t see the dirt road. I can’t count the cabins. I get to what I think is the third one. I park fifty yards away. I walk closer. I see a light through a window. Both 45s are loaded and cocked. One in in my hand. The other in my front pocket. The two extra clips are in my back pocket.

I look in the window. I see a man sprawled on the couch. He’s sleeping. I see a woman, strapped to a chair. She looks asleep. It’s Velma. She’s dressed, but her shirt is ripped open exposing her gorgeous cleavage. Her head is slumped forward. It’s hard to see for sure. It looks like her face is bruised. The pinky finger of her right hand is bandaged. I tense. I feel the blood pulsating through my arteries. I’m ready to kill.

I walk around the cabin. I look in the other windows. It’s dark. I make out two bedrooms. A man is sleeping in each. A jeep is parked by the side of the cabin. A five-gallon jerry can is wired to the bumper. I remove the gas can. It’s full. The sky is beginning to lighten. I see that the cabin is surrounded by dried leaves. Perfect! I empty the gas can around the perimeter of the cabin.

I try the front door. It’s unlocked. I open it slowly. It squeaks. I’m inside. The guy on the couch opens his eyes. He looks right into the huge hole in the barrel of my Colt 45. “You make a sound, asshole, and you’re dead.”

I find a butcher knife in the kitchen. Velma is now wide awake. I cut her bonds. I say, “Be quiet. Let’s get you out of here,” My 45 is still pointed at the guy on the couch. I help her out of the chair. She’s wobbly, but stands up and moves.

Velma goes first. I back toward the front door. My 45 is still trained on the guy’s face. “If you step outside this cabin, you’re toast,” I say to him. I light another Camel. I take three drags on the cig. The end is burning bright red. Out on the porch I toss it onto the gas-soaked leaves. The result is satisfying.

“Run like hell,” I say to Velma. We head to the Hudson. We climb into the car. I see flames fifteen feet high.

We drive back to town. Velma is sobbing.  Her body is pressed tight against mine on the huge bench seat of the car. “I was so frightened,” she says. “How can I thank you?”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.”