Deadly Lullaby Read Free Page A

carrot with, say, two sticks of celery. Wrap a flank steak around the entire concoction. Anchor it in a vise, then hold the top steady with one hand and perform the above procedure with your dominant hand—a forceful squeeze followed by a mighty twist. The carrot should be cleanly broken and the celery reduced to a juicy pulp when you unwrap them. If the latter two events do not occur, do not try to kill someone in this fashion—instead, go to the gym.
    Macky’s unconscious if not dead already, his pallid face turning reddish blue and streaked by white.
    At the other end of the spectrum is my son’s face, which is drained of all color. He lights the wrong end of a cigarette and takes a deep drag before his eyes go wide at the flaming tip. He nonetheless takes another drag, then stares at me and moves his mouth soundlessly, like a big fish that needs to jump back in the lake for a dose of oxygen.
    I have my son’s rapt attention.
    I allow Macky’s body to collapse to its knees, step gingerly behind it, cup the chin in the palm of my left hand and grab a hunk of hair with my right. In a rapid counterclockwise motion, I twist the head.
    The neck snaps.
    My son flinches.
    Try as I might, I have never figured out the right combination of inanimate materials that realistically simulate the sensation of snapping a human neck. You can, of course, practice on stray dogs that shit in your yard, the bigger they are, the better. But, if you are a kid, I do not recommend you do this to your father’s pet German shepherd he named Adolph who bites you one too many times. It will give your father yet another excuse to pummel you senseless, and the Department of Children and Family Services will take you away.
    I ease the carcass to the floor.
    My son’s elbows are propped on his knees and his head is in his hands. He uncovers his face, which is flushed from the neck up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”
    An odd sense of rejection hits me in the gut. I thought he would be impressed—won over, even—by the physical prowess and sheer cunning I just displayed, the élan. Stunned mute by his reaction, I step over Macky’s remains to retrieve the cigarette smoldering on the floor; it has burned a patch in the yellow carpet, and I fear the stink will alert the bodyguards outside. After extinguishing the smoke in the desk ashtray and stowing the butt in my pocket (fingerprints, fingerprints), I lean down to quietly address him. “Is this really something you would want to know about ahead of time? I mean, think about it.”
    “What? I—” He shakes his head, blinks, as if waking from a bad dream. “You used me. You claimed you wanted to help me just so you could burn Macky.”
    “Pull yourself together and lower your voice,” I say, giving the closed door a quick glance. “Listen to me. There wasn’t any other way to get to him.”
    He stares at me as if I am speaking in tongues.
    Try another tack: “He
slapped
you, for Christ sake.”
    No dice: “I was going to pay the fucker back someday but, god
damn,
I wasn’t—” Another shake of the head, another blink. “That was psycho
,
” he says. “Even coming from you, that was fuckin’ psycho,” and he runs both hands through his hair and looks away in disgust. “I don’t know what—” His expression of shock and anger quickly mutates to one of concern. He jerks his head at the door. “You got
any
idea how we’re supposed to get out of here alive?”
    “Oh, them. They will be no problem,” I say, and reveal my straightforward plan: I surprise the bodyguards outside with Macky’s pistol and tie them up with the cords from the window blinds and phones.
    “What about Godzilla downstairs?”
    “Chief? I will tell him what happened then offer him a job. Me and Chief are friends, plus now he needs work. He will present no problem.”
    He stands. “I want out of here
now.
”
    “Let’s go, then,” I say, and retrieve the revolver from