Odd Hours

magazine.
    Letting the door swing itself shut behind me, I took two steps and shoved the pistol in his face before the magazine fell out of his hands and slithered shut upon the deck.

 
    THIRTY-SIX
    JOEY, THE CRITIC OF YACHT NAMES, SAT AT THE shortwave radio. For a moment, staring into the muzzle of the gun, he looked as though he might make a toilet of his chair.
    When I saw that he regained control almost at once and that he began to calculate how to come after me, I lowered the pistol to his throat, the better to see his face and every nuance of expression.
    “Get me the Coast Guard,” I said. “Call them up.”
    “Me and them, we already had our chat.”
    “Call them or I’ll put a bullet in your leg.”
    “What’s the matter—you can’t use a shortwave?”
    The moment I took the gun off him, he would come for me.
    My mouth had flooded with saliva triggered by nausea, so I made use of it. I spat in his face.
    As he flinched, his eyes were briefly shut, which gave me a chance to whip him across the face with the pistol. The forward sight scored his cheek, and a thin line of blood sprang up.
    He put a hand to the hot laceration.
    Although the anger in his eyes had with unsettling swiftness distilled to bitter hatred, he had gained a new respect for me and might not be so quick to make a move.
    “Call them,” I repeated.
    “No.”
    He meant it. He would not be persuaded. The prospect of life in prison might have been worse than death to him.
    Glancing at the door and then quickly at me, Joey hoped to imply that someone had entered behind me, but I knew that he was scamming, hoping I would glance back.
    “Anyway,” he said, when I didn’t take the bait, “their nearest cutter is fifty nautical miles from here. We’re home free.”
    The idling engines of the nearby yacht sent vibrations through the hull of the tugboat, and all the other noises of the pending transfer left me with no concern that a shot would be heard above the racket. I put one round in his left foot.
    He cried out, I told him to be quiet, and I whipped him with the gun again to silence him.
    Inside myself, I had opened a door to ruthlessness that I wanted to close again as soon as possible. But the fate of a nation and the lives of millions were at stake, and whatever must be done, I must do it without hesitation.
    Pain had changed him. He was crying.
    “I believe you about the cutter, fifty miles. So here are your options, Joey. You tell me some things about this operation, then I kill you quick and painless.”
    He said a twelve-letter word that I won’t repeat, although I challenged him to repeat it.
    When he didn’t take up the challenge, I said, “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll wound you in ways so painful you can’t conceive of your suffering. Wounds that leave you dying slow, unable to move or speak. You’ll be hours here on the deck, in agony, more tears than all the babies you would have killed in those cities, so many tears you’ll die of dehydration before you bleed to death.”
    He wanted to sit on the deck and hold his wounded foot to damp the pain, but I would not allow it.
    “Where do the bombs come from?”
    I didn’t think he was ready to answer, but then in a voice shaken by pain and fear, he named a Middle Eastern country.
    “How did they get on the yacht?”
    “From a freighter.”
    “Transshipped? Where?”
    “Three hundred miles out.”
    “At sea?”
    “Yeah. Where the Coast Guard can’t monitor.” He inhaled with a hiss between clenched teeth. “This foot is killin’ me.”
    “It won’t be the foot. How many nukes?”
    “Four.”
    “How many?”
    “Four. I said. Four.”
    “You better not be lying. What cities?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What cities?” I demanded.
    “I don’t know. I don’t. I didn’t need to know.”
    “Who owns the yacht?”
    “Some billionaire. I don’t know his name.”
    “American?”
    “Shit, yeah.”
    “Why would an American want to do this?”
    “If he can, why not?”
    I hit him with the gun. An eyebrow ripped.
    “Why?”
    Pressing shut the torn skin with his fingers, his voice thin and higher pitched, as if time were running backward to his childhood, he said, “Hey, all right, hey, it’s like this—okay? truth? okay?—just before the bombs go off—okay?—there’ll be assassinations.”
    “What assassinations?”
    “President, vice president, lots of them.”
    “And then the bombs. And after that?”
    “They