Disclaimer: I don't own anything associated with Red Eye. As you're about to see, that's probably a very good thing.
THE "L" WORD
A hit. Finally.
Jackson Rippner smiled coldly at the screen of his laptop. Ask a question long enough, and you'll see the answer that was there all along. Or a piece of software will see it for you and bring it to you like a dog fetching a slobbery tennis ball. Wefindemdotcom, panting and wagging its binary tail, dumbly dropped at his feet "L. Reisert, somewhere somewhere Florida." Jackson wrote out the details of the somewheres and started packing. All these months later, all this searching, all the pain pills and recovery time, all the embarrassing explanations to bosses who'd only just rescued him from a federal prison sentence and made him invisible again, who had, in fact, only just allowed him to live, and finally he and Lisa would have their little date. It was a drivable distance, the somewheres-Florida, so he didn't need to limit his choice of accessories to what airport security was least likely to spot.
He let his smile morph momentarily to a grin. Oh, so evil--! Maybe they'd pop popcorn and watch a couple of those dead-boring black-and-white ancient movies she loved so much. Then again, maybe not. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face. Shock and revulsion would be there, sure, and fear as well. And something else. He tingled at the thought of that something. She'd hated him; she'd wanted him, too. He'd felt it even in their last, most violent moments together. It would be a most interesting meeting.
Of course, "L. Reisert" could easily be another "L. Reisert" entirely. Jackson reminded himself of that as he stood one evening later at the apartment door the address known as somewhere-Florida represented. If that were true, he'd simply apologize for his mistake and leave. He put on his best congenially neutral expression and rang the bell.
Sounds of movement from within. The door opened, and there stood a young man. A very large young man. He looked to be in his early twenties; he looked also to be about six-three and built like the "after" picture in a Bowflex ad. Short dark hair, hazel eyes. He grinned at Jackson. His dimples seemed familiar.
"Well, look who's here!"
Before Jackson could properly react, before he could offer his practiced apology and back away, he had what you might call an Armageddon epiphany: a fist the size of a meteor appeared in his right-hand peripheral vision, and his consciousness exploded like the top of the Chrysler Building.
Voices in the darkness, two or three, male, youngish:
"Man, are you sure it's him?"
"Was he carrying a pizza?"
"No."
"Then it's him."
"Thanks, George. You're majoring in philosophy, right--?"
Jackson's mind stumbled from the rubble of unconsciousness. He opened his eyes and found himself in a land of giants. The young man from the door was there, and three twenty-something others, all massive. Two of them were sprawled easily on a huge ramshackle sofa; the kid from the door and the fourth guy were standing near Jackson. Jackson was tied to a wooden chair. Whoever had tied him had known what he was doing. His jacket and shoes were gone. So, by the feel of things, were all his personal weapons. Something wide and sticky was covering his mouth.
"Hey, he's up."
"Hey, man. Hi." One of the guys on the sofa waved.
The guy standing with door-boy asked, "Who'd you say she said he looked like?"
"Billy Crudup, only prettier."
"Who's Billy Crudup?"
Door-boy looked patiently exasperated. "See, that's why I never tell you anybody looks like anybody. You never know who anybody is."
The sofa's non-waver nodded. "She was right. He does. Sure he's not Billy Crudup?"
The waver asked, "Was he carrying a pizza?"
"Oh, for-- George, it'll get here. Jeez." Door-boy looked at Jackson apologetically. "Sorry, man. Being rude. I'm Larry Reisert. Lisa's little brother. Nice to meet you."
Jackson's eyes widened.
"I think you scared him, Lar," said George.
"Oh, man, I'm sorry." Larry smiled. If he meant to look sinister, he wasn't succeeding. "I just--See, I just changed my phone listing. Bet you found it on the 'net, huh? Usually I go by 'Larry,' but this time I listed with just the 'L.' After what happened to Lise, after what she told me about you--"
"--about you being very pretty and all--" added the titan standing beside him.
"--I thought I'd try a bit of fishing. And, wow, look what I caught!"
"So, what do we do with him, now we got him?" asked he who had not waved.
Larry frowned, considering. After ten seconds of intense thought, he said, "We play poker, Bob. We play poker and wait for the pizza. Have a couple of beers while we decide. Howie, let's get him out to the kitchen."
Howie, Larry's right-hand titan, snorted. "Man, it's not gonna take both of us. I'll get him."
Lifted chair and all, carried like a box of Kleenex, and parked at a kitchen table, Jackson sat mulling his options. At the moment, they seemed to consist of "fury" and "humiliation." "Escape" was nowhere in sight. Bob, it had turned out, was avidly into sailing, and had the knots to prove it.
"You wanna play, man?" asked George.
"How's he supposed to play?" Howie countered.
"I'll help him."
"Okay," said Larry. "What's he got in his wallet?" Bob rose, left the room, returned a moment later with Jackson's jacket. Larry winked at Jackson. "Don't worry, man. We're playing low stakes."
Bob dug Jackson's wallet from his jacket pocket, opened it. "Aw, look, man, it's all credit cards and hundreds. No way we can break a hundred."
"No way." Larry chewed his lip. Then he smiled. "Tell you what, Jack. You can play strip poker. Me and the rest of the guys'll play regular stakes. Work for you?"
"Mmff--" Jackson began.
Bob's laugh cut him off. "Check it out, man. It's his license. Check out the picture--"
Larry looked and sniggered. "They give licenses to twelve-year-olds? Someone asks for ID, man, you show 'em this?"
"And he's lying about his weight." Howie smacked Jackson playfully in the head with a hand like half a baked ham. "He's one-forty, tops."
The terrors of poker night. With George's help, Jackson was soon sockless. "Escape" was still ignoring its beeper. Still, things could have been worse. Turned out Larry the giant and his gang of behemoths played college baseball together. Jackson might have been captured by the school's football team.
"Oh, man, sorry," said George. "Bad hand."
"Sorry, Jack." Larry smiled apologetically. "'Fraid we gotta take your shirt."
Howie looked confused. "How we supposed to do that with him tied up?"
"He had about a dozen knives on him," Bob said. "I'll go get one."
Larry shook his head. "No way."
"I'm not gonna stab him or anything--"
"No way, Bob. I'll get the scissors, and we'll cut his shirt off him like civilized people."
The sheer power of tanlessness. At first the titans simply stared in awe. Then they all spoke at once:
"Look at him. He's so white. There's, like, glare coming off him."
"Man, be nice." (That was George.) "Maybe he can't help it."
"Lisa thought this guy was hot?"
"No, moron." (Quite likely Larry.) "He tried to kill her, he blew up her job, and she beat the shit out of him."
"Yeah. So I thought you meant they were going out."
(Definitely Larry:) "Man, were you going out with my sister?"
"Look. I think he's trying to do some kind of death stare."
"Is he? I can't tell. There's too much glare coming off of him."
"There. There, man. See it?"
"Oh, yeah. Man, that's scary."
"Guys." (George, the protector.) "Maybe you hadn't oughtta taunt Lisa's boyfriend, huh?"
"Didn't I just say he's not her boyfriend?"
"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Can we toss a blanket over him or something? My retinas are starting to burn."
And the power of beer. The pizza arrived. It was purchased and consumed and the delivery guy had taken his money and his tip and left before Jackson could grunt for help. All of forty seconds separated the doorchime and "done." The titans drank beer and belched. George tipped his bottle amiably at Jackson.
"Hey, man, you want a beer?"
"How's he supposed to drink a beer?" Howie asked.
"Oh, right. Hey, gimme that one knife. That one little nasty one."
Larry put down his bottle. "George, what're you gonna do?"
"Nothing. Only what Vin Diesel did in Pitch Black, y'know, when he got the thing offa--"
"You are not gonna stab him. Not in my apartment."
"No, no, no; I'm just--" Bob, who seemed to have Jackson's things a little too near at hand, passed George the knife. George flicked it open, nearly nicking Jackson's nose. "Thanks, man. Hoo-EEY, this sucker is sharp. Just gonna cut a little hole right--You gotta sit still, little buddy, okay? There you go. Larry, get him a-- What we got again?"
"Summit, Leinie's, Killian's, and Bass."
"He twitched when you said 'Killian's.' Make it a Killy's and a straw, okay?"
Poli-sci.
"So this guy is a terrorist?" asked Howie.
Larry studied his cards. "Think Lisa said he manages terrorists."
"They got classes for that? Terrorist management?"
"Sure."
"Wow."
"I feel bad," said George.
"Didn't I say anchovies and pineapple'd be a suck combination?" Larry countered.
"No, I mean for ganging up on him." George looked at Jackson with springer spaniel eyes. Jackson wondered if he could kill himself by turning his death stare inward. "Jeez, he's such a scrawny little guy. Lisa took him out all on her own, didn't she?"
"Man, Lisa'd take you out all on her own," said Howie.
"No, man, remember? I kept asking, she kept turning me down."
Howie looked at Larry. "So what's up with that, man?"
"What's up with what?"
"Lisa. She a lesbian?"
With admirable accuracy, Larry sprayed a mouthful of beer into Jackson's face. "No!"
"How do you know?"
Larry mopped Jackson's nose and cheeks with a paper towel. "'Cause she isn't."
"How do you--"
"We got a third party here; let's ask." Larry stopped daubing, looked Jackson in the eye. "Just once, when you were hitting on Lisa in Dallas, just once did she say to you, 'Please stop hitting on me, little scrawny guy. I'm a lesbian.'?"
Die, thought Jackson. "O," he grunted, past the duct tape over his mouth.
"See," said Larry.
"And you believe him, man?"
"I think he's got an honest face."
From bad to worse. "Escape" had left the country, and Jackson, even with George's expert help, was having dismal success at the poker table.
"'Fraid we gotta take your pants, man," said Bob, wielding the scissors.
"Leave his BVDs. Leave 'em. Ooh--" said Larry.
"Oops," said Bob.
"I ONNA UCKING ILL OU!" Jackson shouted.
"What'd he say?" asked Howie. He leaned over for a better look. "Oh, that's just sad."
"Get the duct tape," said Bob. "I can fix this."
"I think he said he wanted another Killian's." George patted Jackson's shoulder. "Sorry, little buddy, but it sounds like somebody's a mean drunk. Think we're cutting you off."
"Bad choice of words, man," said Larry.
Finally, the end.
A blanket. More rope. More duct tape. George tousled Jackson's hair.
"Don't be scared, little fella. We're just gonna take a little ride."
"George--"
"Sorry, Lar."
Larry went to the kitchen counter, got something out of a drawer. "We're gonna do just one eensy-weensy thing first. Hold him down, guys."
Beyond the end. Jackson Rippner hobbled along a lonely road through a heavy black Florida night. He was largely undressed and vaguely bruised, a result not so much of being hit (the titans had stopped pounding him when they'd agreed amongst their eight collective brain cells that yes, it was like beating up on someone's kid sister) but of being trussed into a blanket and stuffed into a trunk and driven to the end of the swampy earth. He wondered if the mosquitoes would have his blood drained before he was dead of humiliation.
Headlights ahead. Jackson steeled himself, made sure his shredded boxers were at least covering something and waved his right arm. The headlights became headlights and lights flashing blue.
A visit with Florida's finest.
What the dispatcher heard: "Central, I have a male white--make that very white--approximate age twenty-five to thirty, found walkin' up Route 13 dressed in nothin' but boxer shorts and duct tape. Unarmed, apparently unharmed. Strong odor of alcoholic beverage about his person. Somebody's done written all over him with paint or magic marker. Proceeding to barracks."
The interview, a partial transcription:
"What's your name, son?"
"Walter Sickert."
"Spell that, please."
"Ess eye see kay ee are tee."
"Thank you. You say you were robbed?"
"Yes, sir."
"You sure you weren't drinking and soliciting?"
Pause. The pause may have contained a death stare. It may not have. The transcript does not indicate one way or the other.
"See, son, I only ask because-- Well, the thing on your chest, that makes no sense. 'Skinny terrorist asshole.' That makes no sense. Sounds like maybe you got a mad girlfriend. But the thing on your back: Why would someone write--and it looks like they used permanent marker, too--Why would robbers write 'I'm Jack, fly me' on your back?"
"I honestly couldn't tell you, sir."
Three weeks, two misdemeanor charges (public drunkenness and indecent exposure), and one large bottle of Calamine lotion later, Jackson got a call from the Florida police.
"Good news, son. One, we found your car. Soon's they get the gators drained out of it, you can come claim it. Two, someone's turned in your wallet. Looks pretty intact."
Jackson's black Beemer Three-Series was a write-off: someone had parked it in a swamp, in about three-and-a-half feet of mossy green water. The wallet, at least to the police, was a mystery. Nothing was missing: no money, no credit cards, not even the license issued to a twelve-year-old. Jackson, alone in his hotel room, removed the wallet's contents, examined them, examined the wallet itself. He found a miniscule bulge inside the spare key pocket: a tiny piece of paper, folded. He unfolded it, found a hand-printed note:
Looks even better on video.
L
PS--Nice boxers, Jack
One week earlier, on another coast, in another hotel, a phone rang in a private office.
"Terra Pacifica Resort, Kathy Thalberg speaking."
"May I speak to Isalay Eisertray?"
"Larry?"
"Hiya, sis! Happy birthday!"
"Thank you."
"Did you get your present?"
"I did; I haven't opened it yet."
"Oh, you have to open it. You'll love it."
"It's not alive, is it?"
"Nope. You have to watch it."
"Tell me it's not porn."
"Lise, I'm shocked."
"Or you idiots belching 'Happy Birthday.'"
"Sorry, no. But you've gotta see it. We spent hours stitching it together. You watch it; you let me know what you think. Let you get back to work. Talk to you later, okay?"
"Okay. Thanks for calling, Lar."
"Love ya, Leeker. Bye!"
Five hours later, Lisa Reisert went home to her San Diego apartment and opened her birthday gift from her brother Larry. Inside the USPS Express Mail box, she found, wrapped in Sponge Bob Square Pants birthday paper, two things: a DVD and a wallet. Inside the wallet she found money, credit cards, and a driver's license.
THE END