Soccer suspense novel "The Churning" - Chapter 3

The old guys at my parents’ café used to call me the pride of Seattle. They were fooling with me. But when I got signed to the Chicago Fire out of UDub, we celebrated with a big private party. That was fun. We must’ve had 200 people come through that night, Queen Anne district customers who came from all over the world. It was cool.

Yes, I deserved it. In college, I proved I could score from anywhere within forty yards. I could get the ball past ninety percent of the players I faced. A few hat tricks, a couple four-goal nights. Some brilliant assists to my mates, including late-game winners and a volley to Andrews that became the goal of last season.

Where is the pride of Seattle now?

Where is the pride of all Persian-Americans?

Somewhere. Someplace where he doesn’t know anybody. Someplace where he’s going to keep quiet, or bargain, or grovel for his life. Somewhere that a sadistic Neanderthal is in control and won’t even let a man piss in a bucket.

How did I get here?

It must be something I did. We topped Man-U at their place a month ago. I won it on a penalty kick in the eighty-eighth minute. I’d had a dream the night before about having to take a penalty kick for victory, except it was on a hillside from a two-foot divot in the turf. I’d failed. In real life, Thomason hauled me to the ground just inside the box. That idiot. The Red can blame the loss on him.

I had four against Norwich in January. It was an incredible night. Bloody cold. How does a Premiership game go seven-two? Afterwards, when the lads weren’t jumping on me, they kept asking Julio why he gave up the second goal (their first had been a beauty of a free kick). He said he couldn’t stop it because he was laughing too hard at the Arman-Andrews circus up there, seven legit strikes off triangular passing. The fans were falling over themselves. God, we partied hard that night!

But this can’t be about a football match, can it? Seriously? If it was about Champions or a cup, that would make a little more sense. I’ve heard there’s a lot of money riding on those games. Is gambling here dominated by the mob? Or the Russians? I don’t have a clue. None of these guys have Russian accents, not that I’ve heard.

It must be something I did, my millions of pounds or millions of fans. It better not have anything to do with my family. I’d tear these assholes limb from limb.

Uh oh, a visitor.

“Jesus, Wizard, you’re stinking up the place.”

“Hmm,” I grunt in return.

The high-pitched hissing sound must be an air-freshener spray.

“What are you gonna say to that hot little wife back home?”

Maybe I should try being civil. “What hot little wife?” Man, I’ve got a free pass to the roller coaster, and I’m enjoying the ride.

“Aw, ain’t you got no sweet-spot bimbo waiting for you to get home and tag her? Or, uh, one of them belly dancers with the crazy bangles and jewelry? I could go for one of them meself,” he says, sniffing.

“I can have one when I want. The ladies know how to find me.”

“Oh, they do, do they? And aren’t you just the willing gentleman with the golden cock? I’m surprised you make it through the door with a head that big.” He scoffs. “Oh, right. I almost forgot. You’re the next Maradona. Or Messi, tha’s it. Scoring goals for lowly Culverhouse, bringing the whole team up. Shall we knight you now? Make ya ‘Sir Hessabi’ and all?”

“Hey, we’re in second place. We’re going to make Champions this year!”

“And won’t that just be bloody fuckin’ dandy? Me and Huck, we could make some scratch on you guys. I might even purchase one of the jerseys. I’d look good in orange with them black castle crosses down the sides. Very fashionable. I could even root for you up there. ‘Don’ let that wanker LaPierre take it from you, Wiz. He picks his nose and eats the findings!’ Something like that?”

“You sound like a true fan,” I tell him.

Scratch, he said. Winnings. Gambling money. Maybe I can bribe my way out of here. He doesn’t sound like a wealthy fellow. Most people, I’m told, get pretty sensible when it comes to money. As in, a big pile of cash placed in front of them.

“Hey, uh, what do say to, uh, you know, an exchange?”

“Ooh, precious,” Fat Man says. “Exchange what for what?”

Is he playing stupid? Be strong, Arman.

“I, uh, I mean me. You know . . . releasing me. In exchange for, say, half-a-million quid. What do you think about that?”

My stomach is tight with excitement. Could he be thinking about it? Is he going to go for it?

His feet move. He comes around to my right, pretty close. Then a pause.

Maybe he’s contemplating it. Come on, Crazy Fucker, go for it!

Right by my face, a loud bark of air.

An acrid stench shoots up my nose and makes my eyes burn. The demented child just farted in my face. I hear his footsteps retreating as I shake my head, trying to get out of the rancid cloud from his arse.

God, what a beast. Kamran used to sucker-punch me and get me down on the floor, and then he’d sit on my head and fart on me. But that’s when I was five and he was twelve. This guy . . .

Turning left, I suck in gulps of non-polluted air. The room I’m in smells old, but it’s better than that man’s rancid gas. Who is he? Who would hire such a sicko to do his dirty work?

* * *

Arman, if they wanted you dead, they would’ve just shot your ass in the hotel. Bang-bang.

Words of comfort, Brother.

You know it’s true.

Why should I believe Kamran? What the hell does he know?

Damn, it tracks, though. If someone wanted to kill me, it would’ve been easiest there in the hotel room. I was out. I had no defense. I was a piece of meat at that point.

The pretty purple lady could’ve carved me up like a pig. She could’ve set me on fire, rolled up in the bedsheets. I’ve seen the movies. She or Fat Man could’ve used a sofa cushion as a silencer—if they didn’t have one already—and emptied bullets into my skull.

Kamran has shown me X-rays of fatal head shots, where the cranium breaks into several pieces along predictable lines.

So why didn’t they? How does this make sense?

I am so thirsty. My nose itches. I try to scratch it with my arm, the way we learn as kids. Quick and efficient.

Not even close, now. I jerk on my hands. This is torture. I move them about, trying to unhook them from whatever has them tied up. Nothing. I lean forwards. How far is it from my nose to my knee? Fifteen inches?

Steffi’s here, smiling. She holds out a hand towel and giggles, letting me itch my nose in her toweled hand. She was never cruel. A music therapy major (whatever that meant). Probably one of the best things that ever happened to me, in fact. But she and her perfect teeth and laughter are not here. She is wherever she is, gone from my life.

And I’m here and I can’t even scratch my fucking nose. And that stench—that’s from my piss. This is torture!

Steps. Fat Man’s coming. I relax and pretend to be asleep.

For a second, maybe, it works. The footfalls pause. Then they walk around behind me.

“Nah, you ain’t asleep. Little faker.”

I’m so tired of this.

“Fuck you, Fat Man.”

Pain.

Searing pain like a gash. He’s grabbed my left ear through the hood and is pulling. It’s coming off. He’s pulling my ear off.

Arman, you khar.

A dog’s got my ear and is not letting go.

“How’s that feel, Wiz? That tickle your fancy?”

He lets go. My world tries to settle from spinning.

Footfalls as he walks around to the front of me.

“You stink, man. You dead already?” He pauses. “Nah. Guess you would’ve shat yourself, too. A pity.”

Something is on my forehead. Probably his hand. This time, I don’t try to pull away or shrug it off. My burning ear tells me to keep perfectly still and obedient. The pain.

“You remember that story, Wiz, from a couple years ago? A keeper in Brazil cut his girlfriend up into little pieces and fed her to dogs? Remember that? Can’t remember if they proved it—or if he bought off the judge. Doesn’t matter. Dogs’ll eat anything. They’re like pigs. D’ya know pigs’ll eat a ham sandwich if you put it in front of them? Those dogs, to them that girl was probably just bites of steak. A lot of it, o’ course.” He laughs. “God, what a fucking mess! All that blood. How the fuck would you hope to get away with it? That’s a lot of steak. Even for a pack of dogs, ten or fifteen pounds each? Make ’em sick, the poor bastards.”

He pauses. Am I shaking?

“Christ, where would you do that? Cut someone up into little pieces with an axe? I suspect you’d find some out-of-the-way place, like out in the woods. Like this place. Pick a rainy day to help with the cleanup. Whack her once to put her out. Maybe lift that sundress and give her a quickie before she’s—”

“Hey, let it go!”

The other voice from before.

Huck?

Did he say “Let it go” or “Let him go”?

Please tell me he said “Let him go.”

“Just having a little fun. Don’t worry about it.”

The hand pulls away and footsteps follow. Fat Man is leaving.

Hushed tones from Huck. “We don’t need you antagonizing him all the time.”

“What’s the fucking difference? It’s not like any of it matters.”

“Can you act mature for once in your life?”

Laughter. Fat Man’s laughing again. “Mature? Oh, that’s a choice word. And how long is your list of offenses, Huck? Don’t you got any kiddie porn on your sheet?”

Kiddie porn? Goddammit, what kind of fucking perverts am I dealing with?!

Footsteps shuffle off.

I close my eyes. I’m sick of having them closed. But it’s harder, I’ve realized, to keep them open underneath the hood.

Fuck this hood. I want to see!

But I can’t. Not now. Not yet. Maybe I should try to sleep. I’m very tired; I know that.

This is like one of those times that Drosh, the team trainer, ran me hard late at night. Being exhausted and up at the same time. Knowing you’ve got to sleep, but your legs are still popping from the exertion.

Goddammit!

I can’t sleep on planes, either, not in coach. It’s the sitting-up part, it gives me those wretched headaches.

What if I don’t sit up? What if I just tip myself backwards? How close am I to a wall? Fat Man moved around behind me, so I can’t be that close.

How hard is this floor? Am I going to hit my head?

Fuck, do I care anymore?

I guess backwards would be better than sideways. Right?

Could I sleep on my side like that? On my ear? Not the one that asshole nearly ripped off, but the other one?

I cringe and try it. I push off with my toes.

Oh no. I expected a kind of trial run, a little lift to see how much bounce I’d need to get the job done, but I’m going over now. I try to brace myself—instead, the double impact of my chair and my head on the floor.

Ah, my finger. Pain. What did I do?

My hands are pinned beneath me. Things hurt. Stone floor.

Twist, something, free your finger, you idiot!

Oh, that’s better. But now I’m half-sitting with my back and head on the floor. The chair has an opening in the back—where Fat Man struck me earlier—and it must slope forwards a little. Yes, my hands are not under the metal back. I’ve flattened them so they fit, more or less, into the chair’s opening. I banged one of my fingers under the metal—it’s throbbing now, probably broken.

Good one, Arman. You should’ve thought about it first.

My hands—now they’re okay and they can be still. I can ignore the banged one. Fat Man forced me to do it.

That smell—my urine. I’m probably close to the drying puddle of it, too. Though I can’t really care about that now.

My head’s not so bad.

I’ve gotten worse from Kamran before.

I slow my breathing. This is the world I’m in, on my back. It will get better. It has to.

Soon, the throbbing goes away.

Beneath me is a grubby brick floor. So that means it’s been here a while, decades or something. No problem. Just like lying down on the bricks in Red Square talking to those girls, trying to stargaze at one a.m. Now it’s the same, and I feel the creases in the bricks. They are smooth and rounded off. What’s happened on this floor? What nasty fluids have been leaked on this floor and maybe not cleaned up? That time I was visiting Kamran and Soheila was busy scrubbing a carpet upstairs. One of the boys had shit on it. Crying. Didn’t mean to. Still, she was exasperated. I didn’t know a thing about carpet, but I knew that not all of that shit would come out. It would stay there. She could scrub and put different chemicals on it, but it wouldn’t all come out. Right there, child excrement, forever. It wouldn’t smell. It would look fine. It would be “clean.” But it’d be there forever, a permanent stain.

Whatever is on this floor doesn’t matter, Arman. You might not ever get a shower again, so relax. This test is over.

The voice is right.

And the brick isn’t that uncomfortable at all.

So I drift off.