Bob said, without even turning away from the TV, "Hello, kids. Did you have fun getting here?"
Dan said, "No."
And Bob said, "Now ain't that a shame."
And Dan said, "It is a shame."
And Bob said, "Yeah, a crying shame."
And one of Bob's goons said, "Yeah, Dan, a crying shame."
Something funny was going on, but I couldn't tell what. Everyone was smiling, apart from me and Dan's sister, with the goon still clutching her by the arm and pointing his gun at us.
Bob switched the TV off and got up. He took the gun from the goon and pointed it at us himself. And smiling, he said, "The day is short, huh, Dan?"
Dan said, "Yeah, the day is short."
"And the work is tough?" said Bob.
"The work is tough," said Dan.
"And the workers are fucking lazy, aren't they, Dan," said Bob.
Dan agreed that the workers were lazy. What workers?
"Ah," said Bob, "but the reward is, shall we say, substantial."
"Yes, substantial," said Dan.
I said, "Pardon me?" I had no idea what the hell was going on. I don't like it when people point guns at me and tell me riddles.
Bob ignored me. He continued: "And the boss, ah, the boss is pretty damn insistent."
"That's right," said Dan.
And one of the goons echoed, "Damn insistent."
And the other also echoed, "Damn right."
I was looking from Dan to Bob to goon and back. I was not getting the joke. I was going to say something, but Dan's sister caught my eye and shook her head.
Then all of a sudden Bob lost his smile, and he began to scream: "Nobody asked you to finish the fucking job, and nobody fucking gave you permission to quit in the middle! You study your fucking assignment, you do your fucking job, you get your fucking pay! You trust your fucking boss, you trust your fucking boss, because your fucking boss is going to make it worth your fucking while, eventually! You understand me?"
I couldn't take this anymore. I said, "Please, Mr. Bob. I don't know what all this is about, but--we have information, okay?"
Bob looked interested. "You have information?" he said.
Dan said, "He doesn't have any information."
Bob said (to Dan), "Shut up," and (to me), "What do you have?"
"Well," I said, and was trying to think of something, "we know where it's hidden."
"It?" said Bob. "What's hidden?"
"The money," I said. "We know where the money is hidden."
"What money?" said Bob.
"The prize money," I said. I'm pretty good, as you can see, at making stuff up as I go along.
But then Bob, for some reason, lost interest in my hidden prize money. He said, "Who the fuck are you?" To Dan: "Where is she?"
"Who?" I said.
Again he said, "Who are you?"
"That's Zelda's brother," said Dan.
"Zelda's brother?" said Bob. He got up, grabbed one of the goons' guns, and pressed its barrel against my forehead. "Where's your fucking sister! You tell me where your fucking sister is or I'll fucking blow your head off!"
I was petrified. I was in a state of mortal terror.
Bob insisted: "Do you want me to blow your fucking head right off?"
I babbled: "Bbbabba...bbbaabbbaaaa...babbbaabbahh!"
Bob: "Where is she?" He pressed the gun harder against my temple.
I: "Babbbaabbahh...bbbaabbbaaaa...bbbabba!"
Bob: "Where the fuck is she?"
I continued to babble, and Bob finally put the gun down and let go of me.
"Okay," he said. "Calm down. Take a deep breath. I'm not going to hurt you. Just tell me where your sister is or I'll fucking blow your head off."
Trembling all over, I reached for Zelda's patched-up letter and handed it to Bob. He read it, and handed it back. Instantly, he was a different man, no longer furious or sarcastic. He told the goon to let go of Dan's sister. He told the other goon to go and fetch me a glass of water because I looked like I was ready to collapse. He told me not to worry about my sister; she wasn't dead, he was certain of it, and he would help me find her. I wanted to ask him why he was looking for Zelda, but something told me not to.
Dan's sister, not the goon, came back with a glass of lemonade. I drank it. It was delicious. It was the best lemonade I had ever drunk. I don't know what she put in it, but it was amazing. Or perhaps it was my relief from mortal terror that did it. In any case, I felt immediately refreshed.
Bob said he wanted to talk to Dan in private, and they went into the other room.
The sister and I were left alone, and there was an awkward moment, silence. Then I said, "That was great lemonade. Thank you." I had forgotten her name. I introduced myself and figured she would do the same. I put my hand out for a handshake, but she didn't take it; I thought maybe it was against her religion, like Dan not getting in a cab. She didn't tell me her name either. I said, "And you are...?"
"Hannah," she said, only she pronounced it funny, as if she were summoning up phlegm: Khkhkhaaannnah. Nevertheless, for some strange reason, I found her at that instant intensely, but intensely, attractive. I don't know what it was. She was not a pretty woman, on the face of things. She had a crooked nose and big teeth, and her skin was blotchy, and her hair was trapped in a weird, big mop, and she was wrapped in a plain brown dress that covered almost every inch of her body. But I could hardly take my eyes off her. She was checking me out too. Our eyes met on several occasions, and eventually they locked, and there we were, almost perfect strangers staring into each other's eyes.
She said, "Would you like another glass of lemonade?"
I nodded.
She said, "Take a seat," and went into the kitchen.
I was going to take a seat, but I heard someone call my name from the other room--I thought it was Dan, but I couldn't tell for sure--and went to see what he wanted. The door was ajar and I peeped in. Bob had his hand stretched out in front of Dan's face, and Dan was snorting a line of cocaine off of what looked like an iPhone in Bob's palm. The goons were bobbing their heads. Bob saw me and beckoned me to join them, but I declined (politely: I said I was allergic) and returned to the living room.
My glass of lemonade was on the coffee table and Hannah on the sofa. I drank it all in one gulp. It was delicious, and I told her so. I took a seat.
I'm not the least bit shy, but in the company of someone I am attracted to, I go dumb. I seriously don't know what it was about Dan's sister. As I said, she was pretty ugly, with her big crooked nose and hanging lower lip. Maybe that's what attracted me, her crookedness. In the absence of words, we made eye contact again, and again, we didn't take our eyes off each other, until it became unbearable. We did this several times. Eventually I sat down beside her. I took her hand in mine and held it.
She did not pull it away, but she said, "I'm not allowed."
"Why not?" I said.
"It's not allowed," she said.
"Who says?" I said.
"We're not allowed," she said.
"Why not?" I said.
"The Torah says," she said.
"Who?" I said.
"The Torah," she said.
I had no idea who or what this Torah was, but with Bob on my side, in the other room with his guns and his goons, I didn't think I had anything to fear. I said, "Don't worry. Nothing's going to happen." She said nothing more, and she let me hold her hand. And all at once, I don't know why, I felt a sinking feeling, I thought I was getting sick. I was flooded with memories, from infancy to now, and I was convinced, I was absolutely certain, that I was about to die, because that's what happens when you face your final moment; you see your whole life flash before your eyes, and I thought that perhaps she had poisoned me with her delicious lemonade, but it wasn't that kind of sickness; it was a feeling rather, a suspicion, because of all the memories, and it was curious, I thought, that I had time to think, with all those memories pouring in, for instance this one. I was only nineteen years old when my parents died. They died in a car crash, on their way home from an amateur production of The Pirates of Penzance (I read a review of the production years later, in an old newspaper; it said this was "the worst production of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta ever staged"). It was the summer vacation between my freshman and sophomore year of college. I was babysitting. Zelda was nine. I was the one who had to tell her, and this was how she reacted: she shut her eyes tight and would not open them for anything in the world, until the following morning; and then she never mentioned our parents again, for years after that. She had erased them. The memories were pouring in and I held on to Hannah's hand, and all at once I understood why, why the sudden flood of memories, and the sick feeling. It wasn't my life that was in danger; it was Zelda's. It was a premonition--that was the feeling. She was dead, or she was dying--that was the feeling. I held onto her hand. I clung to it for dear life. She asked me what was the matter. I said my sister, my sister was dying, was dead, I knew it, I could feel it. She squeezed my hand. She held on tight. She told me not to worry, it was all right, it would be all right, she knew her, Dan had told her everything, she was a tease, she just wanted attention, she would be found, I shouldn't worry. And she squeezed my hand, tight, tighter. It hurt. She had long fingernails. She said again that I shouldn't worry, and I thanked her for being there, for comforting me. And now our hands began to tear at each other like elks locking horns, our fingers snapping and crunching and twisting and pinching and prodding and intertwining, until--don't ask me how this happened--the nail on her right forefinger broke. It came right off in fact, and there was blood, and she was screaming. I was mortified. I got up, I ran to the bathroom to look for a Band-Aid and an antiseptic. I found neither. I came back. She was still screaming. I ripped off a strip of my shirt and tried to use it as a bandage, but she pushed me away. She was bellowing like a cow. I told her I was so sorry--
The door swung open, and a tall bearded man burst in. He didn't look like one of them though. He looked, I thought, a little bit like Rasputin. He said, "Who are you? What are you doing?"
I said, "Who are you? What are you doing?"
The last thing I remember is the bearded guy lunging at me and Hannah crying, "No! Finnegan! No!" I don't know how long I've been here. I don't even know where I am. The place is pitch dark. I think it may be a lounge of some sort, or somebody's living room. I'm lying on a sofa, that much I know. There's a humming sound above me, maybe a ceiling fan. I feel dull and heavy. I can barely move. My head hurts. I'm tired. I'll try again. I can't get up. I'm alone, I think. I already asked, when I came to, if there was anybody in here. Then I heard a noise, like someone trying to get in, and I cried out, or I think I did. Then the noise stopped. I think I'll go back to sleep. I don't feel well. There's that noise again. Someone's trying to get in. I won't say anything this time. I hear a click, a tap, a clink, like a lock being picked. Someone is definitely trying to get in. There it is, there it is. I can't see anything, but I hear a door open.
