Man of Wax by Robert Swartwood Page A

a thing without my glasses—but then I heard the dink! and ping! of something against the parked cars and then, an instant later, a window shattered and the men pushed me down and reached into their pockets and pulled out guns and returned fire at whoever was shooting at them.  
    The shooting wasn’t loud, not as loud as I thought it should be, and it took me another moment to realize that these men and the men they were shooting at had sound compressors so the gunshots sounded like nothing more than claps.  
    I was on the ground in a fetal position, my head ducked, my arms over my head, when suddenly there was a lull in the gunfire.  
    I risked a peek and saw one of my assailants heading for me but then the shooting started up again— clap! clap! clap! —and he turned away and dove into the van along with the other guy and the van’s tires screeched as it sped away into traffic. There was honking and shouting and then the van was gone and footsteps hurried toward me and someone else grabbed me, someone I couldn’t quite see.  
    “Are you okay?”  
    I nodded, thinking that this was the police, that Simon’s number one rule was not to speak to the police, not if I ever wanted to see my family again.  
    “Shit,” someone else said. “They got both the glasses and the phone.”  
    A car suddenly pulled up. The two men dragged me toward the car. One of them opened the back door and the other threw me inside and climbed in after me and the door closed and the front door opened and the other guy climbed in and then the car was moving again, picking up speed into traffic.  
    “What happened?” I said, looking at the man in the back with me, at the driver and passenger up front. “Who are you?”  
    “Relax, Ben. Everything is going to be fine.”  
    “How ... how do you know my name?”  
    The man touched his ear and said, “Yeah ... I know ... I figured they might try to make a play, too ... I think we should switch locations ... I understand ... I’ll let you know,” and the entire time I sat there, breathing heavy, shaking worse than ever. The man’s voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it, not then, not after everything that had just happened.  
    I said, “Simon?”  
    The man ignored me. He said to the driver, “Head back and we’ll drop him off. He wasn’t that beat up.”  
    The driver turned at the next intersection. The man looked back at me.  
    “Unfortunately all we have right now is an extra pair of glasses. We’ll have to get a new cell phone to you later.”  
    “Simon?”  
    The man ignored me again, reaching out and grabbing my chin and moving my head back and forth as he inspected my face.  
    “There really isn’t any bruising, so you’re lucky in that respect. Still, once you get inside, go to the restroom and clean up. Then go to the bar and order a Budweiser. Sit at the very end of the bar and wait. Got it?”  
    I nodded dumbly.  
    The man in the front passenger seat handed a black eyeglass case to the man in the back, who opened it and took out a new pair of glasses and handed them to me.  
    “See how they fit.”  
    I put them on. Just like the other pair, these felt awkward and pinched my nose, but at least I could see clearly now.  
    “Simon?” I said again.  
    “Would you shut the fuck up? Get your head in the game. If you want to save your wife and daughter, play by the rules and don’t try to mix things up again. Got it?”  
    I nodded dumbly again. The man’s voice was still familiar but I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Simon’s voice, though; I knew that for a fact. Still, how did I know this man?  
    The car slowed and stopped and the man opened his door and stepped out and motioned me to do the same. I got out, realized we were right in front of the Sundown Saloon. Two blocks down, a police cruiser sat with its roof lights flashing, two officers on the sidewalk talking to witnesses.  
    “Don’t even think about it,” the man