The Burglar on the Prowl - By Lawrence Block Page 0,40

to work.

Fifteen

Whoever they were, I guess they must have stocked up on duct tape when some genius in Washington suggested you could seal your windows with it in the event of a terrorist attack. They’d evidently got to Kmart before the supply ran out, so they had plenty, and they weren’t stingy with it when it came time to immobilize Edgardo, who was unfortunate enough to be on duty when they came calling.

They’d taped his wrists behind his back, and then they’d sat him down in a straight-backed wooden chair and taped each of his ankles to the chair’s front legs. Then they’d wound tape around his middle, fastening him to the back of the chair, and somewhere along the way they’d slapped a piece of tape over his mouth. But they’d left his nose uncovered, thank heavens, and he was still alive.

But that was about as much as you could say for him. He’d made a valiant effort to free himself, rocking to and fro on the chair until he managed to tip it over, but all that did was make his position that much more uncomfortable. He’d wound up more or less on his side, with his feet in the air and his head tilted downward. That way the blood could rush to his head, but it didn’t have to rush, it could take its time, because Edgardo wasn’t going anywhere.

He was so positioned that he could see a patch of floor and not much else, and when I opened the door he had no way of knowing who it was—someone come to rescue him, or the same guys coming back to finish the job. But it was somebody, so he made as much noise as he could, issuing a string of nasal grunts that were eloquent enough in their own way. If nothing else they let me know he was alive, and I matched his eloquence with a sigh of relief and rolled him over so we could get a look at each other, and so that I could set about getting him loose.

I picked at a corner of the tape covering his mouth, got enough of it free to get a grip on it, and told him to brace himself. “This is going to hurt,” I said, and I was right about that. I gave a yank and got the tape off, and I swear the poor bastard’s eyes popped halfway out of his head, but he didn’t make a sound.

I don’t know how he held it in. He’s short and slim, with a boyish face, and I suppose he grew the mustache to make himself look older. It was a sparse and tentative mustache, and thus had the opposite effect, making him look like somebody who was trying to look older. And now it was all at once considerably sparser and more tentative, because a substantial percentage of it had come off along with the duct tape, and how he kept from screaming in agony is beyond me.

What he did do, when he had the chance, was rattle off a long frenzied speech as fast as he could talk. It was in Spanish, so I didn’t understand a word of it, but I could tell it was heartfelt.

“Easy,” I said. “You’re okay. They’re not coming back. You’ll be all right now, Edgardo.”

“Edgar.”

“I thought your name was Edgardo.”

He shook his head. “No more. Now is Edgar. Is more American.”

“Fair enough. Hold still and I’ll cut you loose.”

There was far too much tape to try ripping it off, and I’d thought I would have to run upstairs for my Swiss Army knife, but I remembered that we were in the parcel room, and of course there was a box-cutter on the desk. It gave me a turn to see it there, as box-cutters don’t seem nearly as innocent as they did a few years ago, but it was just what the job demanded, and I managed to cut the tape without cutting Edgardo—I’m sorry, make that Edgar—and before too long I had the chair standing up and him sitting in it.

“Now,” I said, “just sit tight, okay?”

“Tight? How I sit tight?”

“It’s an expression,” I said. “Un idioma. Never mind. Just stay here, and I’ll get you a glass of water. You want a glass of water?”

“Hokay.”

“I’ll be right back with it. I’ll get the water and I’ll call the cops, and—”

“No!”

“No? Look, Edgar, you could have been killed, and the guys who did this to you already