Free Darkman by Randall Boyll

dropping the phone. That made Durant feel good. “Put it down, Doc. We have some business to discuss. Pauly, stop guzzling that chalk water and introduce us.”
    Pauly stepped forward, jamming the bottle in a back pocket. “Name’s Pauly. Hi.”
    He punched Peyton in the face, knocking him across a lab table. Glassware shattered on the floor. Peyton flipped over the table and landed hard on his back. Pauly hauled him upright and slammed him against a wall.
    Nervous Rick, still in the doorway, watched this with huge eyes, began feeding himself Valium.
    Durant put a cigar between his teeth and pulled out his trimmer. It glittered savagely on a bright ingot of sunlight shafting through a window. He raised it and expertly snipped a bit off the end, then licked the whole cigar before reversing it. “Havana,” he said, feeling tough because he was tough. “Castro’s grandma rolled it.”
    His men laughed, except Rick and Martinez. Rick was draining a bottle of Ten High whiskey; Martinez was stuffing the Jap’s head into a clear plastic bag, much to the Jap’s discomfort and despite his protests.
    Peyton had slumped to his knees after the wall banging. Durant made a motion, and Pauly grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head back.
    “No foolish heroics, Dr. Westlake,” Durant said. “Smiley has Skip’s leg pointed directly at your heart.”
    Peyton’s eyes, full of fright, shifted to Smiley, who was indeed smiling and indeed did have a leg in his hands. Skip was holding on to his arm for balance, his empty pant leg swinging.
    “Now,” Durant said, “we have come only for a single document. Tell us where to find the Bellasarious memorandum and we shall disappear like a nightmare before the breaking day.” He smiled, full of congratulations for himself at having phrased that so beautifully. “Well?” he asked after a bit. “Who has it?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peyton croaked.
    Durant made another motion. Rick came in and attacked the lab’s sole filing cabinet, tossing papers over his shoulder, sluicing them across the floor. He looked at Durant and shrugged. He seemed immensely relieved, anxious to get out of there.
    “Time’s running out,” Durant murmured. “Pauly, entertain the good doctor.”
    Pauly grinned. He lifted Peyton and threw him through a rack of glass shelves that almost touched the ceiling. They broke and rained down in shards on Peyton’s back. Blood appeared in multiple pinpoints on the back of his white lab coat.
    Durant walked over to him. “This is very sad, Doc, but one less Jap in this world will not influence the price of eggs in China. Or Japan. You never can be sure, huh? Martinez!”
    Martinez hauled Yakky in front of Peyton. The plastic bag over his head was inflating and deflating as he tried to breathe. It was cinched around his neck with a huge rubber band. Martinez held his arms pinned behind his back.
    “If your houseboy appears to be in agony,” Durant said sweetly, “it is because he is. Where is the document?”
    “I don’t have any goddamn documents,” Peyton shouted as Pauly jerked him to his feet. “Yak’s only a lab assistant. For God’s sake, let him breathe!”
    Durant smiled. “Rick, old boy, be so kind as to ventilate the young slant-eyes. The good doctor ordered it.”
    Rick jerked, looking positively green, but his hand went inside his belt and he pulled out a small nickel-plated pistol. Peyton tried to surge forward, but Pauly gave him a vicious backhand that sent him reeling. Rick shot Yakky in the mouth. He died instantly. Martinez dropped him to the floor. Peyton seemed to be on the verge of fainting. Durant laughed.
    “Better than John Wayne,” he said, giving Rick a wink. “You’re coming along nicely.”
    Rick turned his head and threw up on the floor. When he was done, he fumbled with his prescription bottle, managing to drop it. It rolled to Durant, Rick staggering after it. Durant crushed it with one