Man of Wax by Robert Swartwood

years,” he said, “give or take.”  
    “Do you like it?”  
    “It has its moments. What do you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
    “I’m a painter.”  
    “Like an art gallery painter or house painter?”  
    “House painter.”  
    There was another moment of silence as we passed the buildings and cars in the city, the few people on the street, the area not quite looking like it was the best place to be at midnight.  
    I asked, “So where are you taking me?”  
    The smile in the rearview mirror again. “Sorry, you know I can’t tell you.”
    “Sure you can.”  
    “I can’t. But it’s actually not that far now anyway.”  
    “How much farther?”  
    “Maybe ten blocks.”  
    Eight blocks later I said, “Can you stop the car?”  
    “What?”  
    “Just let me out here.”  
    “Uh ...”  
    “You’re not going to get in trouble. In fact”—I dug into my pocket, pulled out a twenty—“this will be an extra tip for your trouble. I’m sure you and your wife are already saving for your daughters’ college tuitions, right? This could help.”  
    We were stopped at a traffic light, and Gerald was turned, glancing back at me, still uncertain.  
    “Come on, take it,” I said. “It’ll be fine. I just hate surprises, so this way I can prepare myself.”  
    Gerald didn’t do anything for a couple long seconds, and then he took the twenty and said, “It’s the Sundown Saloon, just two blocks up.”  
    I thanked him, opened my door, stepped outside. The light changed and he moved forward, went down another block, turned and was gone.  
    I just stood there for another minute or so before I realized I had begun to shake. Whatever Simon had next in store for me, it was at the Sundown Saloon. Even from where I stood I could see the neon sign—an orange setting sun—but I didn’t want to move. Not yet.  
    In my pocket, the cell phone vibrated.  
    I closed my eyes, cursed myself, pulled the phone out and answered it.  
    Simon said, “What do you think you’re doing?”  
    “I needed some air. It was getting stuffy in the car.”  
    “That wasn’t what I told you to do.”  
    “You really didn’t tell me anything.”  
    “Oh, I see. So we’re playing semantics again, are we?”  
    I started walking forward. “I’m going, all right?”  
    There was a silence, and then Simon said, “O Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?” before he clicked off.  
    I paused, staring down at the screen, not sure what to make of this latest development. Whatever it was, it made me dread going into the Sundown Saloon even more. But I knew I had no choice, not if I ever wanted to see my family again, so I slipped the phone into my pocket and kept walking.  
    I hadn’t even gone another ten steps before they came for me.

 
     
     
    19

    They came at me from behind. They were strong and they were quick and one second I was on the sidewalk, headed toward whatever awaited me at the Sundown Saloon, the next second I was shoved forward and went sprawling down onto the pavement.  
    I reached out just in time so I didn’t land right on my face but still I scraped my hands pretty bad on the sidewalk. Before I could get up one of them grabbed the glasses off my face and pressed my face against the sidewalk, keeping me down while someone else searched my pockets. I thought they were going for my money but it was the phone they grabbed and took away and I may have said, “Hey, don’t,” or something like that, I can’t remember, but I said something and then one of them said, “This is for your own good,” and before I knew it both of them grabbed me and lifted me to my feet just as a black utility van screeched up beside us. The side door opened and one of my assailants—there were two of them, one black, one white—said, “Come on, let’s go,” and they pushed me toward the van.  
    Suddenly they stopped and I didn’t realize why at first—I could barely see