Lunatics (8 page)

CHAPTER 15

Philip

I eventually walked
through the emergency room and had one foot out the sliding doors when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a commanding voice say, “Gnoofnggh!” I spun around and saw that the hand was actually a big furry paw worn by a person dressed in a costume with the head of a grinning, big-eared character that was the spitting image, I'm sorry to say, of my son Trace—who, for reasons that still baffle every dentist we've ever taken him to, has only one front tooth, which is very wide and has a line down its middle making it look like he has two front teeth. Like Chuck E. Cheese.

So whether it was because this character resembled my son or because I reminded myself that I was posing as a doctor and there were sickly children in the emergency room who I was sure needed a good laugh, I grabbed this creature's paws and started dancing with him around the emergency room. And though the children did indeed laugh (I do this funny high kick that always makes my own children giggle and never fails to delight adults as well), I sensed resistance on the part of my partner. As if a jaunty cha-cha-cha was not what he had in mind despite his jolly getup. And my hunch that he may have had a different agenda was confirmed when I spun the two of us around and saw two mean-looking men nonchalantly opening their sport jackets, revealing guns tucked in their waistbands, standing next to that idiot Peckerman, who was pointing at me, saying, “That's him! That's him! That's my boss!”

And though I was curious what this was all about, I had a sneaky feeling that a post-dance Q&A session was probably not in the offing. So when I completed our revolution around the emergency room and was once again about a step away from the automatic sliding doors, I released Chuck E.'s grip (his faux paws absolutely no match for my mightier pet shop owner thumbs), dashed out of the hospital shouting “Help me!” opened the back doors to an EMS vehicle as it was slowly pulling away, and rode in it for a half block while a paramedic asked, “Is something wrong, Doctor?” to which I cried, “Yes, something is horribly wrong!” prompting the driver (who believed I was talking about “medically” wrong as opposed to “in danger of being killed by a foreign man dressed like a restaurant logo” wrong) turned on the siren, shifted into reverse, and sped backward to the emergency room entrance and into the awaiting arms of my captors.

“Why weren't we told about this attack?”

I was now sitting on a rock. A real big rock in the middle of a fenced-in area of the Central Park Zoo. I knew it was the Central Park Zoo because after the EMS guys were gone, the two mean-looking men put a bag over my head, threw me into the back of a van, drove crosstown, and removed the bag just in time for me to see the sign that said
WELCOME TO THE CENTRAL PARK ZOO
. Then after the goons forced me onto the top of the rock, one of them kept his gun trained on me while the other acted as interpreter for the Chuck E. Cheese guy, who was grunting words devoid of both vowels and consonants.

“I don't know anything about any attacks,” I said.

“He's lying! He's the one who told
me
about it!” shouted Peckerman, who was now tied to a tree. “Now, let me go! Come on, I did what you asked! I took you to him! So let me go!”

“How did he know where I was?” I asked.

“You wife telled him,” said the gun-toting goon.

“My wife?”

“He borrowed my phone and you wife said you just called from the hospital and that we should also go there because we sounded as drunk as you.”

“That's my boss's wife,” said Peckerman, shaking his head, laughing. “Always with the jokes!”

“I am not his boss,” I pleaded. “And I am also not a terrorist.”

“Of course he is!” yelled Peckerman. “Just look at his fucking ID! If that isn't a ragheaded jihad name, I don't know what is!”

The interpreter goon looked at my doctor's badge and read the name on it.

“Jahangir Shahrestaani,” he pronounced with frightening ease.

“That's not my name,” I told him.

“Sure it is,” Peckerman shouted. “That's what
I
always call him!”

“He doesn't call me anything! I didn't even know this guy existed until a few regrettable days ago!”

“Are you related to the Shahrestaanis in Habbaniya?” the goon asked in a whisper.

“I'm not related to any Shahrestaanis anywhere! That's not my name!”

“This picture is you,” said the goon.

I said, “Look, my name is Philip Horkman, but I stole this guy's ID and put my picture on it so people wouldn't know who I really am.”

“And why don't you want them to know this?”

“Because they think I tried to blow up the George Washington Bridge and that I shot a helicopter pilot in the scrotum.”

“We think that also.”

“But I didn't. Look in my wallet. Look at the pictures. You'll see I'm just a simple family man who owns a pet shop in Fort Lee, New Jersey.”

“Ask him the name of his pet shop!” shouted Peckerman.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I shouted back.

“It's important!” yelled Peckerman, though I wasn't sure if he was answering me or simply saying this to the goon.

“And why is it important?” the goon asked Peckerman.

“It's
not
important,” I insisted.

“We have a lot of our terrorism meetings there,” said Peckerman.

“We what?!”

This tidbit was of obvious interest to these guys.

“And what is the name of this pet shop?” asked the goon.

“It's not important,” I answered.

“I'm going to ask you again,” he said, suddenly angry. “What is the name of this pet shop?”

“The Wine Shop.”

“I'm going to ask you again,” he said, suddenly angrier. “What is the name of this pet shop?”

“The Wine Shop.”

This time he turned toward Peckerman and asked the same question.

“What is the name of his pet shop?”

“Jahangir Shahrestaani from Habbaniya's Pet World.”

At this point, the goon turned to Fook and brought him up to speed about this conversation. And though they were speaking in a language I couldn't understand, you didn't have to be a linguist to tell that Fook was less than pleased. His Chuck E. Cheese head now spinning atop his gray velvet shoulders. The interpreter goon then shouted something to the gun goon, who then approached Peckerman and started untying the rope that bound him to that tree.

“It's about time,” said Peckerman, massaging his wrists where the skin was red from rope burn.

Then Peckerman looked at those guys and said, “Take care, fellas,” then looked at me and said, “So long, asshole,” then took about two steps toward the exit before the goon stepped in front of him blocking his path, told him to turn around, then marched him at gunpoint to the top of the big rock that I'd been sitting on. They then made us lie down on top of each other, and tied us together.

“Whether or not you are terrorists is no longer of our concern,” said the interpreter, who I suspect was translating what Fook was saying. “We have our own mission, and so do these big black bears,” whereupon the goon with the gun inserted a big key into the locks on two iron doors at the lower end of the fenced-in area we were in and swung them both open. The three of them then exited through a gate and disappeared into the night about the same time the first black bear emerged from the lair.

CHAPTER 16

Jeffrey

This was my plan:

 

1. Untie myself from Horkman.

2. Keep Horkman between me and the bear, so that if it started chewing on anybody, it would be Horkman.

3. Get the fuck out of there.

You think I'm a coward? Let me ask you something: Have you ever been in a situation where a bear was about to eat you? No? Okay, then I don't give a shit what you think.

The problem was, I couldn't get free from the rope. Fook's crew did a really good job of tying us up, so Horkman and I were pressed together tight. My arms were pinned to my sides, and my hands were tied in front of me, but I couldn't move anything enough to get at the knots. The worst part was, Horkman was on top of me, his front facing my back, doggy-style. My face was pressed into the rock. His mouth was breathing in my left ear. It was disgusting.

“Get
off
me!” I said.

“I'm trying!” he said.

“Stop pushing on my butt, homo,” I said.

“That is offensive,” he said.

“Tell that to your boner,” I said.

“Shh!”
he whispered. “Don't move!”

The bear had reached the rock. It was down on all fours, sniffing the air. Then it stood up. The thing was the size of a UPS truck. It was leaning over us, still sniffing.

“Hold perfectly still,” Horkman whispered. “You must not move.”

“Fuck that,” I said, and rolled hard away from the bear.

We fell off the rock. The good news was, we fell Horkman-side down, so he broke my fall; his head hit the ground with a sound like
THWOCK
. The bad news was, now that I was on top, I was the one closest to the bear. And it was coming around the rock.

“Get up!” I said, trying to get my feet under me.

Underneath me, Horkman was moaning.

“Come on!” I said. “GET UP!”

Nothing from Horkman. Asshole.

I don't know how I did it—adrenaline, I guess—but somehow I got the two of us onto our feet, Horkman still moaning, hanging off me like some kind of giant douchebag backpack. The bear was still coming toward me. It was maybe five feet away.

“Stay!” I said.

Believe it or not, the bear stopped. It was looking at me with this expression of
What the fuck?
Very slowly, I turned around, presenting my Horkman side to the bear. Ahead of me I could see the gate where Fook and the other bastards went out. I started moving that way. I had to do it by making little hops, because my knees and Horkman's were tied together.

I turned my head around to see how close the bear was.

Jesus. Now there were
two
bears. One to the left, one to the right. There was no way I could point Horkman at both of them.

By hopping like a bastard, I made it to the gate. Thank God Fook left it unlocked. I pushed it open and hopped through, dragging Horkman. I was sweating and breathing hard. I could hear the bears right behind me. Up ahead, through the trees, I could see lights and hear cars on Fifth Avenue.

I heard scuffling and growling off to the right. The bears had found a garbage can and were rooting around in it. This was my chance. I started hopping into the woods, toward the traffic.

Suddenly there were people in front of me. The light wasn't good, and for a second I thought it was Fook and his crew. But then I saw it was some young punks, four of them, with those pants they wear so low, you can see the entire ass of their boxer shorts.

“Hey,” I said. “I need some help here.”

One of them stepped close.

“Why you got that man tied to you?” he said.

“It's a long story,” I said. “How about you untie us, and I'll tell you, okay?”

“You got any money?” he said.

“I'll give you some money if you untie us, okay?”

The lead punk turned to the others and said, “Man gonna pay us to untie him.” They all thought that was pretty funny. The lead punk started going through my pockets.

“Hey,” I said, which I admit was stupid, but that's what I came up with.

The punk found my wallet. Then he searched Horkman and came up with his wallet and phone.

“Okay,” I said. “Now you got our money. So if you could just . . .”

“What else you got?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

He frowned.

“Where you got your phone?” he said.

“I don't have it with me,” I said.

He reached down to his pants pocket, which was down around his knees, and pulled out a gun. He showed it to me. This was my night for having assholes show me their guns.

“Everybody got a phone,” he said.

“I swear I don't have it with me.”

He jammed the gun barrel between my hands, into my gut. I would have pissed my pants, except I already had. The punk was about to say something—I'm guessing it involved my phone—but I never found out, because that was when the bears showed up. They must have finished the garbage.

You always hear that if you see a bear, you shouldn't try to run away. I'm here to tell you that this is good advice. Because all four punks took off, and both bears took off after them. Which left me standing there with Horkman still on my back.

I started hopping again. I reached Fifth Avenue and somehow, I still don't know how, I heaved Horkman and me over the wall, onto the sidewalk. I did it so we landed Horkman-side down again, my feeling being that I did all the work getting us there, and he needed to pull his weight.

We were lying on the sidewalk, me on top. People were walking past, and I was like, “Hey! Can you give us a hand here?” In Des Moines, if people saw two guys tied up on the sidewalk, they'd stop and help out, but this was New York, so nobody slowed down. Most of them didn't even look up from texting.

After a few minutes, I managed to get us back up onto all four of our feet, and hopped over to the curb. There was a cab right there, stopped at a light. I hopped to it and managed to get a pinky on the latch and open the door. I turned around and pushed hard, shoving Horkman in, me falling backward on top of him.

It turned out the cab was occupied, so now both of us were on top of the occupant, a guy in a suit.

“What the
hell
?” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “If you could just . . .”

“Get the hell out!” he said. “This is my cab!”

The driver was also shouting at me, but he was a New York City taxi driver, so I had no idea what language he was speaking.

I shifted Horkman around so I could sort of sit up and face them.

“Listen,” I said. But before I could say anything else, the suit opened the door on his side and bailed out. While I was trying to figure that out, the driver, who suddenly could speak English, said, “Please. No trouble. Please.”

He was staring at my stomach. I looked down, and all of a sudden I understood what was happening.

I was holding the punk's gun.

“Please,” said the driver again. He was scared shitless.

“Take me to New Jersey,” I said, “or I'll shoot you in the balls.”