What's Your Name?

“What’s your name?” He asked in his thick Russian, don’t-fuck-with-me accent.

I obviously didn’t answer as promptly as he would have liked because the next second his hammer collides with my little finger. Endorphins rush from my brain into my blood. It’s a colorful rush, a cold wave sweeping over my body. No drug could give a man this kind of high. I could sit here all night and let this continue except that I kind of needed the hand he’s pureeing into baby food. And, of course, I know that in the next ten minutes he’s going to leave me in the cold, damp warehouse--right beneath the drip coming in through the leaky patch of roof--to feel the full extent of my injuries. That’s the bad thing about adrenaline highs: they’re pretty damn short.

The hammer connects with my ring finger this time. “Norman, you fucker,” I wince, “Tom Norman.” I don’t have a choice but to tell him. His next target is my middle digit. Being the cocky, mouthy bastard I am, I’m rather fond of it and hope to keep it.

The six and a half foot, 300-pound commie claps my cheek and fumbles around in his blazer pocket for another cigarette. He chuckles as he lights it, the gray smoke filtering through his nostrils.

“Can I get one of those?” I ask, only to be rewarded with his bowling ball-sized fist connecting with my face. The only thing more painful than being tortured was being without my cigarettes. Igor wipes the blood from my mouth off his hand with a silk kerchief and reaches for his cell phone. Time to make his phone call.

As I look around the rusting Oakland warehouse, I think about the circumstances that have led me here, tied to a metal chair and in nothing but my skivvies in the middle of January, listening to that damn Russian’s droning echo off the walls of what is now a toxic waste site. It was actually a funny story. Too bad the ending was looking pretty damn bleak.

This all started back in November 2007--the day before Thanksgiving. It was my last job of the week. Believe it or not, there’s a high influx of hits around the holidays. This last job as supposed to be a cakewalk--knocking off the six-timing wife of a self-important investment banker. Now normally, I don’t take jobs on dames, but this piece of work was a real bitch.