Wish List Page 10

  I recognized him the instant he removed his ski mask.

  In a few minutes I’ll be in a cage with him, and I will do everything in my power to kill him.

  Chapter 32

  At first, seeing him in my bedroom in the dark with my wife, I thought it had to be Pete Rossman, and figured he was getting me back for sleeping with his wife.

  But it wasn’t Pete Rossman.

  It was my best friend Mike.

  Mike, the guy who started the whole Wish List disaster, the guy who filled out his choices first, and told me his dream date was Katrina Bowden, the receptionist from 30 Rock.

  “Mike’s first wish was to fuck my wife,” I say to Rudy.

  “Yeah, I asked him about that.”

  I stop crying long enough to look at Rudy’s face. “What did he say?”

  Rudy shrugs. “Said you’re a sap who doesn’t appreciate what you’ve got.”

  I nod. “Anything else?”

  “You sure you want to hear it?”

  I feel my jaw tighten. I release it, but it tightens again. “Yeah, I want to hear it.”

  “He said he’s wanted to fuck her for years.”

  I nod.

  “He also said she’s a helluva fuck.”

  I know Rudy’s pushing my buttons. I want to say something to him, curse him, kill him. But I deserve all this and more. And anyway, there’s nothing he can say to make me feel any worse than I already do.

  Except for this:

  “Oh, Mike also wanted me to thank you for making it so easy. Said he loves the way you dressed her up, drugged her, and left her all alone, helpless, on your marital bed. And…”

  I nod.

  …“he said he can’t wait to fuck her again.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Rudy says, “I don’t want to rush you, Champ, but that sound you hear outside means they’re ready for you.”

  I look at him and realize there’s something he hasn’t told me yet, something he’s saving.

  “What haven’t you told me about Mike?” I say.

  “I’ll tell you when you get in the cage, just before the bell sounds.”

  Chapter 33

  I’m in an iron cage, glaring at Mike. He’s meeting my stare, and has a strangely determined look on his face. We’re surrounded by forty men in various stages of inebriation. The cage is small, maybe twelve feet by twelve, and is completely enclosed. There are no announcements, no introductions. The referee tells the crowd what to expect:

  “Each round is three minutes, with a one-minute break. There will be as many rounds as needed until one man is pronounced dead. Can I have the corner men, please?”

  The two bouncers enter the cage and stand at opposite ends. They are barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only shorts, and looking very mixed martial artsy. The referee continues:

  “If at any time the action stops for fifteen seconds, the corner men will get involved. And you know what that means!”

  I have no idea what it means, but the “crowd” obviously knows, because they’re cheering wildly.

  As the referee directs us to our corners, I see Rudy standing just outside the cage behind my stool. The crowd noise is growing.

  “Here’s the thing,” Rudy says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mike’s fourth wish.”

  “What about it?”

  “We haven’t granted it yet. He has to kill you to get it.”

  The crowd noise is almost deafening. They smell blood and want the carnage to start.

  “Tell me!”

  Rudy looks at me in a way I could never forget, and yells, “We didn’t let him do what he wanted.”

  “What are you saying?”

  As the bell sounds to begin the first round I hear Rudy shouting above the crowd noise.

  “He wants to chain her to his basement wall for the rest of her life!”

  I turn to look at Rudy and feel a fist crash into the back of my skull.

  The blow sends me reeling, and I’m knocked stiff-legged into the side of the cage. Mike jumps on my back and starts raining blows on the top of my head. Between his weight, my being off balance, and his furious attack, I go down. Had Mike ridden me to the floor it might have been over before I landed the first punch. But Mike’s left leg gets hooked under my hip, and when I hit the canvas, his leg takes the brunt of my weight. When I roll over, he grabs his knee in agony. I quickly jump on him and start flailing away until I can barely breathe. Mike’s arms were pinned under my knees throughout the assault, which means I landed at least forty clean shots to his face and head. But when I stop swinging to inspect the damage, I’m shocked to see I haven’t even drawn blood.

  I can’t believe I’m this exhausted. Meanwhile, Mike is re-energized. He flips me off him and gets to his feet. He’s favoring his left leg, but it’s not keeping him from coming after me. Just as I’m about to stand, he tackles me and bites the back of my upper thigh. I let out a yelp and try to get away, but he’s got his legs wrapped around mine and I can’t get out from under him. He continues to bite my leg and I’m almost delirious with pain, but before he can do any more damage, the bell rings to end round number one.

  One of the bouncers pulls Mike off me and pushes him to his stool. The other one drags me to mine, and Gus starts working on my thigh wound.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m a great cut man.”

  “Good thing.”

  “Never had to work on an ass cut before, though.”

  From behind me I hear Rudy say, “You guys fight like old people fuck.”

  I have no idea what that means, but his next comment makes a lot of sense: “It takes time to beat a man to death. Save your energy. Make every shot count.”

  I wonder if he has any specific advice. He does: “Kick his bum knee.”

  For the next three rounds I let Mike use up his energy trying to rush in and paste me with his fists. Most of the time his punches miss me, and when they connect, they don’t have much power. I don’t land a single punch in rounds two, three and four, but I do manage to kick his knee several times in each round.

  Now we’re in the fifth round and he sees it coming, and when I fake the kick, he moves away, but straight back, and I’m able to land a blow to his cheek, just hard enough to make him stumble on his bad leg, exposing his right knee, which I kick with all my might. When he goes down I don’t bother trying to hurt him with my fists like I did in the first round. I’ve come to realize that neither of us has any real punching power. But my kicks are working, so I start kicking him while he’s down. He tries to catch my foot with his hands, but I’m keeping my kicks low and fast, and they’re not doing much damage, but they’re doing some, and just as the bell rings, I manage to kick his wrist and when he screams, I get the feeling things are going my way.

  In round six we’re both so weary the action lags and the referee calls time out and announces we’re involving the corner men. He explains what that means:

  “For the balance of the round, each fighter gets a free punch. After both fighters land ten punches, the round ends. Red corner goes first.”

  Our bouncers bring us to the center of the ring. Mine pins my arms behind me and holds me as Mike lands a solid punch. I catch the full force of the blow on my upper cheek, just below my left eye, and this one causes serious damage. I go all wobbly and nearly fall down. My eyes are glazed, and when I look down at the canvas, I see spots of blood dripping on it. I focus on Mike’s face. He’s sneering at me. He knows he’s stronger than I am, and knows I can’t win this type of fight.

  He’s right. My punches have virtually no power. I can’t even make him bleed.

  But I have an idea.

  As his corner man pins his arms, I wind up with my right hand. But instead of launching it, I kick his right knee with every ounce of strength I’ve got. He howls with pain and shifts his weight to his left leg, which proves to be too much, and, but for his corner man holding him up, Mike would have crashed to the canv
as.

  The damage I inflicted with that perfect kick is evident. Mike can barely stand up, and his next punch comes in at less than half power. On my turn I kick him again. He makes a pathetic attempt to kick me on his next turn, but he loses his balance and his foot barely grazes me.

  My turn.

  I fake the kick and Mike is so worried about it landing, he tries to jump out of the way. But his corner man holds him steady, and Mike’s face drops into perfect position and I strike his nose with all my might. And this time I draw blood.

  When Mike’s bouncer releases his arms, Mike touches his nose. He’s got tears in his eyes and when he realizes his nose is broken, most of the fight in him has gone. He winds up and launches a roundhouse punch that takes so long to reach me, I’m able to duck my head, which means his punch lands on my skull. He screams in pain and I think his right hand might be broken. I try to land my final punch on his broken nose, but he gets it out of the way. I do manage to hit his eye flush, and figure that’s going to start swelling up before long.

  In the corner, Gus finally has the opportunity to work on my eye. The referee announces the next round will be fought the normal way unless the action stops for fifteen seconds. I hear Rudy urging me to keep kicking Mike’s knees.

  But I have a better idea.

  Since I can’t punch hard enough to hurt him, and since my legs are in good shape and Mike’s are not, I decide to rush him. Not like he rushed me earlier, when trying to get in close enough to hit me, but to rush him and push him down. Mike attempts to land a big right hand, but I jump back in time to avoid it, and push him squarely in the chest with both hands. His bad knees give way and he falls to the floor. With his face an open target, I kick it until he brings his hands up to protect it, which leaves his ribs unprotected. I kick them until he brings his hands down, and then I kick his face again. Mike’s in bad shape and getting worse. I get myself in a zone and keep kicking him wherever I find an opening. I’m thinking about how Mike is fighting to win my wife, while I’m fighting to keep her. He’s got everything to gain, and I’ve got everything to lose. But while I cheated on Lissie, he raped her. And, like Perkins said, Lissie deserves better.

  Chapter 34

  I’m lying on the couch in the ladies’ room, while Gus patches me up. My ears are ringing and I’ve got double vision. Every part of my body is aching and sore, and I realize I’ve taken a much harder beating than I thought.

  “Where’s Rudy?” I say.

  “Collecting his money, I think.”

  It’s just me and Gus in the dressing room.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Can I ask a favor?”

  “You can ask. Don’t mean I’ll grant it.”

  “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

  He thinks about it. “Twenty bucks.”

  “In my bag,” I say.

  He hands me his cell phone and crosses the room to get my bag. I dial the number my sister made me memorize a year ago, and silently pray it’s still in service.

  It rings several times, and finally he answers, saying, “Creed.”

  “Mr. Creed, this is Buddy Pancake. I’m in trouble.”

  I hear Creed say to someone, “Wait. You lost an earring.” Then I hear a woman scream. Then Creed says, “Buddy, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Creed.”

  He pauses a moment, then says, “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Buddy?”

  “The worst kind.”

  He sighs. “Where are you?”

  Part Two:

  DONOVAN CREED

  Chapter 1

  Buddy Pancake was in Louisville, Kentucky, in an abandoned warehouse behind Standiford Airport, claiming he’d just beaten a man to death in a boxing match.

  I said, “Get real.”

  He said, “No, I’m serious.”

  “No offense, Buddy,” I said, “but my jock strap could kick your ass.”

  “Swear to God, Mr. Creed. They’re forcing me to kill people.”

  “Who is?”

  “There’s a website, Wishlist.bz. They grant wishes.”

  “To dying children?”

  “No, not like that. You get four wishes, anything you want. But then they start making you pay them back by digging graves and killing people.”

  I frowned. “Buddy, your bullshit call ruined my perfect evening.”

  Buddy lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can pay you a half million dollars to protect Lissie.”

  “Who’s Lissie?”

  “My wife.”

  I didn’t need the money, but half a million dollars was a staggering amount to a guy like Buddy Pancake.

  “I forgot where you work,” I said.

  To someone on his end, Buddy said, “You can have all the money in my bag if you’ll give me two minutes alone.” There was a short pause, and then to me he said, “I’m a loan officer at Midwest Commercial Savings and Loan, here in town.”

  “You embezzled how much altogether?”

  “It’s not like that. The Wish List people gave me the money.”

  “That was one of your wishes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, I swear.”

  “Buddy, I’m not in the mood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one wishes for a half million dollars. You probably asked for a million.”

  He paused before saying, “I was hoping to keep some of it.”

  “Who are we dealing with?”

  “You mean in the company? The Wish List people?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I only know a guy named Rudy, and a limo driver named Perkins. But this is an extremely powerful group of people, Mr. Creed.”

  “Yeah, Perkins the limo driver sounds terrifying.”

  “I’m serious, God damn it!”

  He couldn’t be. “Give me a for instance, besides the money.”

  “One of my wishes was to have sex with Jinny Kidwell.”

  “The actress?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No shit?”

  “I swear. But then they made me kill this bastard ex-friend of mine in a fight tonight. He raped my wife and I killed him. They say I still owe them another payment for the wishes they granted. And they threatened my wife. You’re the only one I can turn to. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Are you willing to part with the full million?”

  He sighed. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Is your life in danger?”

  “I’m pretty sure it is.”

  “You had sex with Jinny Kidwell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where can we meet?”

  “They’ve got cameras in my house, wiretaps on my phones.”

  “The phone you’re using is tapped?”

  “No. I’m using a stranger’s phone. But they’ll be back any minute.”

  “I’ll be at your place by six a.m.”

  “Let me give you my address.”

  “Save your breath. I’ve got people. What were your other wishes?”

  “They’re coming. I gotta go.”

  Chapter 2

  I try not to judge people. I really do try.

  But if you’re recruiting a loser army, Buddy Pancake is the first guy you want. Still, I’m willing to protect him and his wife for two reasons:

  The first is Buddy’s sister, Lauren.

  Lauren Jeter had been a close friend for many years. She was an extraordinary hooker, whose client list included half of Cincinnati’s movers and shakers. When Governor Eliot Spitzer’s prostitution scandal broke in New York, certain Cincinnati lawmakers worried for their reputations. A few went so far as to threaten Lauren to keep her mouth shut in the event local news reporters decided to investigate the prostitution situation in Cincinnati. Concerned for her safety, Lauren
told Buddy if anything ever happened to her, he should contact me.

  Something did happen.

  She got murdered.

  Knowing the Cincinnati cops wouldn’t dig too deeply into her case, I took it upon myself to track down her killer. It took me less than two days to find him: not a paranoid politician, as I’d suspected, but a sniveling real estate salesman with anger issues. I devoted two full days to the task of making him pay for what he’d done.

  For the bulk of my life, my closest female friends have been hookers and killers, and if you want to judge me by that, go for it.

  But don’t judge them.

  And especially don’t judge Lauren Jeter.

  Lauren had been a terrific provider. She was always happy to see me, always made me feel wanted. She was a gifted listener, an excellent therapist who tried her best to understand me. At one point, Lauren endured a great deal of pain on my behalf, in order to help me convince my ex-wife to break off her engagement to a guy who was all wrong for her. Like the finest women who’ve touched my life, Lauren was so much more than a caring companion, great conversationalist, or good lay. She excelled at not judging me, and making our time together memorable. She was one of the highlights of my life, and I miss her terribly.

  All that’s left of her is her kid brother, Buddy Pancake.

  Doesn’t hardly seem fair, does it?

  The second reason I’m willing to help Buddy: my girlfriend, Rachel Case, lives in Louisville, and I haven’t seen her in months. It would be nice to spend some time with her, and see how she’s doing.

  It was nine-thirty. I was in Chicago, with access to a number of private jets that could get me to Louisville in under an hour, so I had a world of time before our six a.m. meeting.

  I fired up my laptop and typed wishlist.bz in the address bar. Once on the website, I read the promos and comments but decided not to make any wishes. Instead, I called my old friend, Lou Kelly. When he answered I said, “Where’s Jinny Kidwell?”

  “The actress?”