Just Evans was morbidly fixated on the shit stains in the toilet bowl.
I brushed him aside, shut the lid, and sat atop it. I looked up at Jimmy and told him: “You might want to undress for this.”
Jimmy stripped down to his boxers. His feet made sticky sounds as he stepped into his dreggy, never-once-cleaned bathtub.
Shivering, he asked: “Y-you got any pills... to bite back the pain?”
I pulled the plastic toilet paper bar off the holder and offered it to Jimmy. Said: “Bite this.”
After taking the bar, Jimmy lowered to his knees, trying not to brush his legs and arms against the mildewy basin.
“All the way, Jimmy” I told him. “Don’t want ya to slip and bang yer head on somethin’.”
Jimmy reluctantly parked his ass into the sludge.
I reached across the tub and clenched the tip of his ear. “Just this much,” I said, eyes fixed on my protégé. “See?”
Just Evans gulped. Nodded: yessir.
“Alright then,” I said, retracting my hand. “Let’s get this man clipped.”
The two watched anxiously as I unpocketed my switchblade. I held it up to Just Evans.
“Sure you can’t phone a friend?” Just Evans asked our client. “Get a payday loan?”
Jimmy lethargically shook his head: No.
Just Evans looked from Jimmy’s pouring eyes to my switchblade.
“Having second thoughts?” I asked, wagging the handle under his chin.
All I had to do was thumb the switch. We both understood that.
Just Evans guardedly took the knife. “I got this.”
Jimmy winced when the blade flicked out of the handle. Wincing turned to convulsing when he felt cold steel touch his ear.
Another gulp arose in Just Evans’s throat. His hand trembled.
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” I coached him. “It’s no different than cutting a piece of steak.”
“Except my steak is watching me.”
I couldn’t hold back the laugh. “Thought Pops took you elk-hunting. This is no different.”
“They was already dead by the time --”
I unholstered my Ruger and planted the end of the barrel to Jimmy’s veiny forehead.
Jimmy squealed like a mouse stuck to a glue trap.
Just Evans took two large steps back.
“Would this help?” I challenged him. “Just gimme the word.”
Just Evans collected himself. Replied: “Put that away… please.”
I resheathed the Ruger with a grin.
Jimmy sighed in relief as he relieved himself (again). Dark yellow urine pooled about him.
“I’m gunna do it, Jimmy” Just Evans said. “On three.”
“C-can y-y-you count to five?” Jimmy revised.
“Fine.”
Jimmy bit into the makeshift mouthpiece, steeling his resolve.
“One… two… three… four --”
Then came the moment I was waiting for. After taking a deep breath of courage, my protégé rushed forward, yanked Jimmy by the ear, and sawed into his lobe.
Jimmy’s eyes rolled into the back of their sockets. Nothing but whites.
Blood raced down the left side of his body. Swirled in his piss like ink in a glass of water.
Just Evans withdrew from the bathtub, holding the tip of Jimmy’s ear as far as his arm could stretch. Jimmy slid into the corner of the bathtub, hyperventilating and clutching onto what remained of his ear.
I pulled out a Ziploc bag and opened it for Just Evans to deposit the proof. “Here.”
Just Evans dropped the ear tip inside. Went to the sink to rinse the blood off his gloves.
I could feel his gaze - a mixture of disgust and wonder - when I Sharpied the letters JIMMY on the Ziploc bag.
I pocketed the proof, rose to my shoes, and flew back the toilet lid.
I removed my slap-ons and dropped them into the disgusting bowl. I gestured for Just Evans to do the same.
Fluuuuuuuuush. Just Evans watched the surgical gloves spiral down the drain.
I moved to the door. “All done.”
Just Evans gloomed on our client. After a while, I heard him say: “Sorry, man.”
“Not as sorry as he is!” I shouted from the living room.
When we were walking back to my "boogie ride" outside Jimmy’s dump, I turned to my protégé and told him: “Not every stop’s like this one. Next client’s legit -- never misses a payment.”
My protege looked me dead in the eyes. Guess he was searching for a lie.
He nodded. Said: “OK.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
I shut the door on my protégé’s bewildered face and started crossing the parking lot.
Just Evans caught up with me as I swung back the door leading inside the Senior Living and Memory Care Center.
I scribbled my nom de plume on the sign-in sheet and took a chair in the lobby.
Just Evans loomed over me, still waiting for an answer.
“The juice never stops. We’ve had this fella on the books since the 90s.”
“Yo, that’s…”
“Debt follows us to our graves. So does the Agency.”
Just Evans put his hands inside his coat pockets. Asked: “What happens when he croaks?”
I squinted up at him. “Everyone has a merry Christmas.”
“Nah, I mean what happens to his debt?”
“Well,” I said, crossing one leg over the other. “It can be a complicated process, but usually debt trickles down the family tree.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That’s business.”
The receptionist called us up and we were ushered to Rico’s room.
Just Evans watched the shriveled-up viejo move his walker to a Rubbermaid closet. I went to relieve myself in his oversized restroom (I remember there being handlebars everywhere).
When I returned, Rico was sitting in his walker, extending a check my way.
“Pagarle en cambio,” I told Rico, zipping up my fly.
Rico looked my protégé up and down.
“Él se ve como un gilipollas,” Rico assessed with a toothless grin.
I busted up at that.
“Yo, what’d he say?” Just Evans asked cagedly.
“That you look like an asshole.”
Just Evans glared at Rico. He snatched the check and then stomped out of the room.
“¡Nos vemos, gilipollas!” Rico called out to Just Evans.
Rico and I shared another round of laughter at my protégé’s expense.
The cashier barked out our meal ticket number.
I looked from Just Evans to our order steaming on the counter. Then back to Just Evans. A deer in headlights, this guy.
“What, do I gotta nod twice and kick my heels?” I groused. “Go get our chow.”
My protégé grunted out a sigh, but he abided.
“And get me extra dressing!” I shouted, gaining the attention of a toddler playing with his food.
I made a silly face, but he wasn’t having it.
Cute kid, though. Reminded me of my Quinny.
Just Evans returned and plopped our food tray on the table.
I watched in amazement as he unwrapped a double cheeseburger and wolfed it down in two chomps.
“What happens…” he spluttered, chewing on fries. “If a client refuses to pay… and we run out of ears and fingers to chop off?”
Just Evans rinsed his mouth out with soda. “What then?” he asked.
I popped open the lid to my Caesar salad. Said: “You’re about to show me.”
I parked the Range Rover in front of a rundown trailer in the Downs. Car parts and lawn mower guts littered the weedy yard.
A pitbull growled at us from behind a wobbly chain-link fence, while Just Evans stared at me with disbelief.
“You know where we are?” I asked him.
“Fuck you, man.”
“He’s six months unpunctual. This is unacceptable.”
“You can’t expect me to --”
“You’re wearin’ the suit, partner.”
His voice broke. “No. I won’t.”
That’s when I drew out my Ruger and began screwing on a suppressor. “Ya sure?”
I pointed the death-end of the gun at Just Evans.
He shuddered beside himself.
I placed the Ruger in his lap. Said: ”I told you it’s all one big test. Consider this your thesis.”
“But --” Just Evans started, lip fidgeting. “He’s my dad.”
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