mustache. He's wearing a fanny-pack, only around in front so it's actually a belly-pack. Callahan names this
one George.
Callahan turns around, planning to flee down Second Avenue if he's got the light or if it looks like he can
beat the traffic. If that's impossible, he'll go down Forty-sixth to the U.N. Plaza Hotel and duck into their lob
—
The big one, George, grabs him by the shirt and yanks him back by his collar. The collar rips, but
unfortunately not enough to set him free.
"No you don't doc, " the little one says. "No you don't. " Then bustles forward, quick as an insect, and before
Callahan's clear on what's happening, Lennie has reached between his legs, seized his testicles, and
squeezed them violently together. The pain is immediate and enormous, a swelling sickness like liquid lead.
"Like-at, niggah-lovvah?" Lennie asks him in a tone that seems to convey genuine concern, that seems to say
"We want this to mean as much to you as it does to us." Then he yanks Callahan's testicles forward and the
pain trebles. Enormous rusty saw-teeth sink into Callahan's belly and he thinks, He'll rip them off, he's
already turned them to jelly and now he's going to rip them right off, there's nothing holding them on but a
little loose skin and he's going to—
He begins to scream and George clamps a hand over his mouth. "Quit it!" he snarls at his partner. "We're on
the fucking street, did you forget that?"
Even while the pain is eating him alive, Callahan is mulling the situation's queerly inverted quality: George
is the Hitler Brother in charge, not Lennie. George is the smart Hitler Brother. It's certainly not the way
Steinbeck would have written it.
Then, from his right, a humming sound arises. At first he thinks it's the chimes, but the humming is sweet. It's
strong, as well. George and Lennie feel it. And they don't like it.
"Whazzat ? " Lennie asks. "Did you hear sumpun?"
"I don't know. Let's get him back to the place. And keep your hands off his balls. Later you can yank em all
you want, but for now just help me."
One on either side of him, and all at once he is being propelled back up Second Avenue. The high board
fence runs past on their right. That sweet, powerful humming sound is coming from behind it. If I could get
over that fence, I'd be all right, Callahan thinks. There's something in there, something powerful and good.
They wouldn't dare go near it.
Perhaps this is so, but he doubts he could scramble over a board fence ten feet high even if his balls weren't
blasting out enormous bursts of their own painful Morse Code, even if he couldn't feel them swelling in his
underwear. All at once his head lolls forward and he vomits a hot load of half-digested food down the front of
his shirt and pants. He can feel it soaking through to his skin, warm as piss.
Two young couples, obviously together, are headed the other way. The young men are big, they could
probably mop up the street with Lennie and perhaps even give George a run for his money if they ganged up
on him, but right now they are looking disgusted and clearly want nothing more than to get their dates out of
Callahan's general vicinity as quickly as they possibly can.
"He just had a little too much to drink," George says, smiling sympathetically, "and then whoopsy-daisy.
Happens to the best of us from time to time."
They're the Hitler Brothers! Callahan tries to scream. These guys are the Hitler Brothers! They killed my
friend and now they're going to kill me! Get the police! But of course nothing comes out, in nightmares like
this it never does, and soon the couples are headed the other way. George and Lennie continue to move
Callahan briskly along the block of Second Avenue between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh. His feet are
barely touching the concrete. His Chew Chew Mama Swissburger is now steaming on his shirt. Oh boy, he
can even smell the mustard he put on it.
"Lemme see his hand, " George says as they near the next intersection, and when Lennie grabs Callahan's
left hand, Rowan says, "No, dipstick, the other one."
Lennie holds out Callahan's right hand. Callahan couldn't stop him if he tried. His lower belly has been
filled with hot, wet cement. His stomach, meanwhile, seems to be quivering at the back of his throat like a
small, frightened animal.
George looks at the scar on Callahan's right hand and nods. "Yuh, it's him, all right. Never hurts to be sure.
Come on, let's go, Faddah. Double-time, hup-hup!"
When they get to Forty-seventh, Callahan is swept off the main thoroughfare. Down the hill on the left is a
pool of bright white light: Home. He can even see a few slope-shouldered silhouettes, men standing on the
corner, talking Program and smoking. I might even know some of them, he thinks confusedly. Hell, probably
do.
But they don't go that far. Less than a quarter of the way down the block between Second Avenue and First,
George drags Callahan into the doorway of a deserted storefront with a FOR SALE OR LEASE sign in both
of its soaped-over windows. Lennie just kind of circles them, like a yapping terrier around a couple of slow-
moving cows.
"Gonna fuck you up, niggah-lovvah!" he's chanting. "We done a thousand just like you, gonna do a million
before we're through, we can cut down any niggah, even when the niggah's biggah, that's from a song I'm
writin, it's a song called 'Kill All Niggah-Lovin Fags,' I'm gonna send it to Merle Haggard when I'm done,
he's the best, he's the one told all those hippies to squat n shit in their hats, fuckin Merle's for America, I got
a Mustang 380 and I got Hermann Goering's Luger, you know that, niggah-lovvah?"
"Shut up, ya little punkass, " George says, but he speaks with fond absentmindedness, reserving his real
attention for finding the key he wants on a fat ring of them and then opening the door of the empty storefront.
Callahan thinks, To him Lennie's like the radio that's always playing in an auto repair shop or the kitchen of a
fast-food restaurant, he doesn't even hear him anymore, he's just part of the background noise.
"Yeah, Nort," Lennie says, and then goes right on. "Fuckin Goering's fuckin Luger, that's right, and I might
blow your fuckin balls off with it, because we know the truth about what niggah-lovvahs like you are doin to
this country, right, Nort?"
"Told you, no names," George/Nort says, but he speaks indulgently and Callahan knows why: he'll never be
able to give any names to the police, not if things go the way these douchebags plan.
"Sorry Nort but you niggah-lovvahs you fuckin Jewboy intellectuals are the ones fuckin this country up, so I
want you to think about that when I pull your fuckin balls right off your fuckin scrote— "
"The balls are the scrote, numbwit," George/Nort says in a weirdly scholarly voice, and then: "Bingo!"
The door opens. George/Nort shoves Callahan through it. The storefront is nothing but a dusty shadowbox
smelling of bleach, soap, and starch. Thick wires and pipes stick out of two walls. He can see cleaner squares
on the walls where coin-op washing machines and dryers once stood. On the floor is a sign he can just
barely read in the dimness: TURTLE BAY WASHATERIA U WASH OR WE WASH EITHER WAY IT ALL
COMES KLEEN!
All comes kleen, right, Callahan thinks. He turns toward them and isn't very surprised to see George/Nort
pointing a gun at him. It's not Hermann Goering's Luger, looks more to Callahan like the sort of cheap .32
you'd buy for sixty dollars in a bar uptown, but he's sure it would do the job. George/Nort unzips his belly-
pack without taking his eyes from Callahan —he's done this before, both of them have, they are old hands,
old wolves who have had a good long run for themselves— and pulls out a roll of duct tape. Callahan
remembers Lupe's once saying America would collapse in a week without duct tape. "The secret weapon," he
called it. George/Nort hands the roll to Lennie, who takes it and scurries forward to Callahan with that same
insectile speed.
"Putcha hands behind ya, niggah-reebop, " Lennie says.
Callahan doesn't.
George/Nort waggles the pistol at him. "Do it or I put one in your gut, Faddah. You ain't never felt pain like
that, I promise you."
Callahan does it. He has no choice. Lennie darts behind him.
"Put em togetha, niggah-reebop, " Lennie says. "Don 'tchoo know how this is done? Ain'tchoo ever been to
the movies'?" He laughs like a loon.
Callahan puts his wrists together. There comes a low snarling sound as Lennie pulls duct-tape off the roll
and begins taping Callahan's arms behind his back. He stands taking deep breaths of dust and bleach and
the comforting, somehow childlike perfume of fabric softener.
"Who hired you ? " he asks George/Nort. "Was it the low men?"
George/Nort doesn't answer, but Callahan thinks he sees his eyes flicker. Outside, traffic passes in bursts. A
few pedestrians stroll by. What would happen if he screamed? Well, he supposes he knows the-answer to that,
doesn't he? The Bible says the priest and the Levite passed by the wounded man, and heard not his cries,
"but a certain Samaritan . . . had compassion on him." Callahan needs a good Samaritan, but in New York
they are in short supply.
"Did they have red eyes, Nort?"
Nort's own eyes flicker again, but the barrel of the gun remains pointed at Callahan's midsection, steady as a
rock.
"Did they drive big fancy cars? They did, didn't they? And how much do you think your life and this little
shitpoke's life will be worth, once— "
Lennie grabs his balls again, squeezes them, twists them, pulls them down like windowshades. Callahan
screams and the world goes gray. The strength runs out of his legs and his knees come totally unbuckled.
"Annnd hee's DOWN!" Lennie cries gleefully. "Mo-Hammerhead A-Lee is DOWN! THE GREAT WHITE
HOPE HAS PULLED THE TRIGGAH ON THAT LOUDMOUTH NIG-GAH AND PUT 'IM ON THE
CANVAS! I DON'T BE-LEEEEVE IT!" It's a Howard Cosell imitation, and so good that even in his agony
Callahan feels like laughing. He hears another wild purring sound and now it's his ankles that are being
taped together.
George/Nort brings a knapsack over from the corner. He opens it and rummages out a Polaroid One-Shot.
He bends over Callahan and suddenly the world goes dazzle-bright. In the immediate aftermath, Callahan
can see nothing but phantom shapes behind a hanging blue ball at the center of his vision. From it comes
George/Nort's voice.
"Remind me to get another one, after. They wanted both."
"Yeah, Nort, yeah!" The little one sounds almost rabid with excitement now, and Callahan knows the real
hurting's about to start. He remembers an old Dylan song called "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" and thinks, It
fits. Better than "Someone Saved My Life Tonight," that's for sure.
He's enveloped by a fog of garlic and tomatoes. Someone had Italian for dinner, possibly while Callahan was
getting his face slapped in the hospital. A shape looms out of the dazzle. The big guy. "Doesn't matter to you
who hired us," says George/Nort. "Thing is, we were hired, and as far as anyone's ever gonna be concerned,
Faddah, you're just another niggah-lovvah like that guy Magruder and the Hitler Brothers done cleaned
your clock. Mostly we're dedicated, but we will work for a dollar, like any good American." He pauses, and
then comes the ultimate, existential absurdity: "We're popular in Queens, you know."
"Fuck yourself, " Callahan says, and then the entire right side of his face explodes in agony. Lennie has
kicked him with a steel-toed work-boot, breaking his jaw in what will turn out to be a total of four places.
"Nice talk," he hears Lennie say dimly from the insane universe where God has clearly died and lies stinking
on the floor of a pillaged heaven. "Nice talk for a Faddah." Then his voice goes up, becomes the excited,
begging whine of a child: "Let me, Nort! C'mon, let me! I wanna do it!"
"No way," George/Nort says. "I do the forehead swastikas, you always fuck them up. You can do the ones on
his hands, okay?"
"He's tied up! His hands re covered in thatfuckin— "
"After he's dead, " George/Nort explains with a terrible patience. "We'll unwrap his hands after he's dead
and you can— "
"Nort, please/ I'll do that thing you like. And listen!" Lennie's voice brightens. "Tell you what! If I start to
fuck up, you tell me and I'll stop! Please, Nort ? Please?"
"Well…" Callahan has heard this tone before, too. The indulgent father who can't deny a favorite, if mentally
challenged, child. "Well, okay."
His vision is clearing. He wishes to God it wasn't. He sees Lennie remove a flashlight from the backpack.
George has pulled a folded scalpel from his fanny-pack. They exchange tools. George trains the flashlight on
Callahan's rapidly swelling face. Callahan winces and slits his eyes. He has just enough vision to see Lennie
swing the scalpel out with his tiny yet dexterous fingers.
"Ain't this gonna be good/" Lennie cries. He is rapturous with excitement. "Ain't this gonna be so good /"
"Just don't fuck it up," George says.
Callahan thinks, If this was a movie, the cavalry would come just about now. Or the cops. Or fucking
Sherlock Holmes in H. G. Wells's time machine.
