The Widow's Walk had gonged Leonard's cranium with the pot pan while Leonard was two pelvic thrusts short of ejaculating into The Boss' wife. Only this seemed a bit more severe.
These men weren't pissed off restaurant owners.
They were loan sharks. Gangsters.
And it was then that these gangsters crouched down. Words floated like big wobbly bubbles in a fish tank. "Tough luck, kid. Ain't got time to fuck around with small-timers. We gotta kill ya..."
Leonard, then, mercifully passed out.
««—»»
More words wobbled amid the fuzzy, stygian scape of what Leonard presumed was heaven, hell, or some manner of afterlife. It was not Rocco nor Knuckles who'd spoken the words (it was a man named Leon Askin, in case you're interested). The words recounted in a high, squeaky German accent, and the words were this:
"Klink. Shut up."
But when Leonard awoke in a moment or two, he wasn't dead. "Why didn't I think of that? Shit, Knucks, you gotta sliver of brain." Rocco was commenting and hanging up the phone. "Yeah," Knuckles said. "I gotta good idea every now and then."
"Now all I see is a colonel about to became corporal!"
Leonard's eyes opened, roved, looked at them. The TV was on, and Knuckles was watching Hogan's Heroes. "Klink, I'll have you court martialed, shot, and sent to the Russian Front!"
"Hey, kid," Rocco said upon noticing Leonard's return to consciousness. "You lucked out."
"Yuh-yuh-yuh—yes, General Berkhalter!"
"I'm...not dead," Leonard mouthed.
Rocco snickered. "Kid, you were one dick-hair short of checking out but just before Knuckles was gonna crack your neck, he got an idea. So I called Vinch."
"Vinch," Leonard mouthed.
"Yeah, Vinchetti, as in Vinchetti ‘The Eye.' He's district boss at headquarters in Jersey. Me and Knuckles are on his crew. And Vinch loved Knuckles' idea. See, kid, we had this joker up at one of our joints shooting flicks but he, like, fucked up real bad so Knuckles and I had to do the job on him. That's why we ain't killed ya."
Leonard stared through a headache like lasers drilling his brain. He didn't know what Rocco was talking about.
"See, kid. Instead of killin' ya, you're gonna work for us for a while. Vinch says do a good job for a year and the dough you owe'll be paid off."
Only now did some semblance of sentience return to Leonard. "You're...offering me a job? "
"That's right, kid." Rocco inspected his fingernails. "You're gonna work for us doing what you do best. Making movies."
Leonard's head craned up off the floor. "Movies?" It sounded absurd but then Leonard wasn't going to complain or ask any burdensome questions. He was alive.
Rocco's lip twisted, and a brow arched. "That's the good news. The bad news is Vinch wants a nut."
A nut. Leonard reflected. A hazelnut? Planter's?
"You know, to keep ya in line. Punishment for going bad on your marker," Rocco said.
A nut.
"A... nut? "
Then he knew when Knuckles pulled down Leonard's pants and snapped open the angel-blade.
"Don't sweat it, kid. We're only taking one. Why do ya think God gave ya two?"
Rocco and Knuckles busted out laughter.
And Leonard screamed—
"I see nothing, nothing!" Sergeant Schultz assured.
««—»»
Leonard groped the single testicle a moment more, as if to verify that it was an aspect of reality. Then he zipped up his fly, flushed the toilet, and finished the final edit of Dog Day Afternoon.
««—»»
More exposition. The night that Leonard had been divorced from his left testicle, Rocco and Knuckles loaded up the car with Leonard's film-making gear and then, with somewhat more difficulty, loaded a shock-eyed, puff-faced Leonard into the same car. The car was a '69 Cadillac Deville, gray. Nice leather seats. "Knuckles, give the kid a rag so he don't bleed on the leather."
Later, Leonard would discover that it was not a terribly savage job that Knuckles the Bill-Brundige-sized gangster had done on half of his reproductive potential. The giant, peninsula-jawed man had
These men weren't pissed off restaurant owners.
They were loan sharks. Gangsters.
And it was then that these gangsters crouched down. Words floated like big wobbly bubbles in a fish tank. "Tough luck, kid. Ain't got time to fuck around with small-timers. We gotta kill ya..."
Leonard, then, mercifully passed out.
««—»»
More words wobbled amid the fuzzy, stygian scape of what Leonard presumed was heaven, hell, or some manner of afterlife. It was not Rocco nor Knuckles who'd spoken the words (it was a man named Leon Askin, in case you're interested). The words recounted in a high, squeaky German accent, and the words were this:
"Klink. Shut up."
But when Leonard awoke in a moment or two, he wasn't dead. "Why didn't I think of that? Shit, Knucks, you gotta sliver of brain." Rocco was commenting and hanging up the phone. "Yeah," Knuckles said. "I gotta good idea every now and then."
"Now all I see is a colonel about to became corporal!"
Leonard's eyes opened, roved, looked at them. The TV was on, and Knuckles was watching Hogan's Heroes. "Klink, I'll have you court martialed, shot, and sent to the Russian Front!"
"Hey, kid," Rocco said upon noticing Leonard's return to consciousness. "You lucked out."
"Yuh-yuh-yuh—yes, General Berkhalter!"
"I'm...not dead," Leonard mouthed.
Rocco snickered. "Kid, you were one dick-hair short of checking out but just before Knuckles was gonna crack your neck, he got an idea. So I called Vinch."
"Vinch," Leonard mouthed.
"Yeah, Vinchetti, as in Vinchetti ‘The Eye.' He's district boss at headquarters in Jersey. Me and Knuckles are on his crew. And Vinch loved Knuckles' idea. See, kid, we had this joker up at one of our joints shooting flicks but he, like, fucked up real bad so Knuckles and I had to do the job on him. That's why we ain't killed ya."
Leonard stared through a headache like lasers drilling his brain. He didn't know what Rocco was talking about.
"See, kid. Instead of killin' ya, you're gonna work for us for a while. Vinch says do a good job for a year and the dough you owe'll be paid off."
Only now did some semblance of sentience return to Leonard. "You're...offering me a job? "
"That's right, kid." Rocco inspected his fingernails. "You're gonna work for us doing what you do best. Making movies."
Leonard's head craned up off the floor. "Movies?" It sounded absurd but then Leonard wasn't going to complain or ask any burdensome questions. He was alive.
Rocco's lip twisted, and a brow arched. "That's the good news. The bad news is Vinch wants a nut."
A nut. Leonard reflected. A hazelnut? Planter's?
"You know, to keep ya in line. Punishment for going bad on your marker," Rocco said.
A nut.
"A... nut? "
Then he knew when Knuckles pulled down Leonard's pants and snapped open the angel-blade.
"Don't sweat it, kid. We're only taking one. Why do ya think God gave ya two?"
Rocco and Knuckles busted out laughter.
And Leonard screamed—
"I see nothing, nothing!" Sergeant Schultz assured.
««—»»
Leonard groped the single testicle a moment more, as if to verify that it was an aspect of reality. Then he zipped up his fly, flushed the toilet, and finished the final edit of Dog Day Afternoon.
««—»»
More exposition. The night that Leonard had been divorced from his left testicle, Rocco and Knuckles loaded up the car with Leonard's film-making gear and then, with somewhat more difficulty, loaded a shock-eyed, puff-faced Leonard into the same car. The car was a '69 Cadillac Deville, gray. Nice leather seats. "Knuckles, give the kid a rag so he don't bleed on the leather."
Later, Leonard would discover that it was not a terribly savage job that Knuckles the Bill-Brundige-sized gangster had done on half of his reproductive potential. The giant, peninsula-jawed man had
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