XLV: Lawyers, Guns, and Money

Once his brain started working again, Sawyer was aware at first of the cheesy decorations in the Pollo Tropical. Honeycomb palm trees, a glossy-paper margarita glass on the far wall. He stared at them for a long moment, the colors bright, the margarita glass making him thirsty. His mouth was dry because he was thirsty. That was it. It couldn't possibly be because right now, he had three people staring at him, one in recognition and the other two in disbelief and then disgust. He didn't dare turn his head and look at them. He felt his temples throb, raised a hand to rub at them. That didn't help. He would have to face them. He summoned the nerve as best he could do and turned his head towards Jeannie. He stopped there. He couldn't look at the marks.

"Jimmy Ford," Jeannie continued, "How's it going? You look…" she trailed off, smiling a smile that he knew was more conciliatory than genuine, "… different. Older."

"I am older. So are you. Twenty-three, right?" He was being generous by underestimating, and he knew it.

"Twenty-four. Almost twenty-five, if you can believe it. So you have to be about twenty, twenty-one yourself, right?" Jeannie seemed to realize then that he was not her only customer. She looked past him to the redheaded businessman and his girlfriend, but Sawyer didn't dare look that way as well. "And you folks are friends of Jimmy's."

"You bet." Sawyer heard the smile in the businessman's voice, and that made his shoulders tense so much that when the businessman laid a hand on his shoulder, he flinched and then inwardly kicked himself for it. "Smoking section, please."

As Jeannie turned away, getting the menus, Sawyer fought the urge to break free of the grip on his shoulder, even as it grew tighter. The redheaded man's voice was closer to his ear than he had expected. "We need to have a little talk – Jimmy Ford, is it? Hell of a name. Sounds like an outlaw or a cowboy. Shame it isn't the name you gave us."

He could not answer. His mouth was too dry. When Jeannie turned around, the businessman dropped his hand from Sawyer's shoulder and said, "Lead the way." So this is what the Bataan death march felt like, Sawyer thought wryly as he set foot for the booth in which Jeannie had decided to place them.

He could not speak. There was no way he could say anything to the businessman that would explain things. He had relied on the con of his brother having the jewelry, and if he had not been honest about his name, they knew that there was no brother now, either. He had blown it, and not just the failure, but the threat of what could happen next hung over his head. All the possibilities he could consider wound up with a scene from Scarface playing itself out in his mind. There was no way out that he could see.

He sat down at the booth, sliding in. The girlfriend sat next to him, but from what he could feel of her shoulder against his, her leg next to his, there was a hardness to her body that suggested she didn't want him to do anything for her anymore. She had trapped him in the booth, and he gave the other man a weak smile.

The redheaded man lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it as if he normally wore glasses. He leaned in close, and Sawyer could see the pressure on his face, the way his jaw ground down on itself, the way the skin stretched around his temples as he thrust his face forward. "So, Mr. Ford. I'll make this simple. Why did you lie to us? And how much of what you said was a lie?"

This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

–––

The gun feels too heavy, and he tries to straighten his aim, puts all of the muscle in his arm he can into the weapon, tries to make it an extension of his arm. They've got guns on him too, and he gets off one round, then two, three, four… six. He shoots as mechanically as he can, his arm not jerking with each shot, but staying eerily steady, as if held up by wires. He can do it when he focuses. He's done it once before.

Are they down? He doesn't dare look and check. He hasn't got the time. He springs to his feet and would take off, get out through whatever means necessary, even run straight through the glass if he has to, but he's not going anywhere, because there, looking very disappointed in him, is Colonel Klink, Kelvin, and he recognizes him now, in the red hair, the way the clothes don't fit. The mark in Florida. They were onto him even then.

He stares for a moment, maybe gapes a little although he'd never admit it, and he squares his shoulders. He can take the guy. He's bigger and he knows how to fight, and after the immediacy of the gunshot, the rapid sobering that's brought upon him, he doesn't feel drunk anymore. Mano a mano, this guy would be no trouble.

"Think about what you're doing, Mr. Ford." The man's voice is honeyed. He'd be a good con man in his own right, for at the dulcet tones Sawyer almost gives in on impulse, only managing to hold back through force of willpower. "Where are you going to go? There's nowhere for you to go. What, are you going to go back and tell your friends about us? You folks won't be able to do anything." Kelvin extends his hand for the gun. "Give me the gun, please, and we promise this will go much easier for you."

"Have the damn gun, then," Sawyer shoots back, and then he tries to literally do the same. He brings the gun around, levels it on Kelvin, pulls the trigger, and fires, the gun kicking back in his hand. There's nothing, though. The bullet does not hit. Kelvin only smiles, a crooked expression that doesn't help Sawyer's nerves any.

"Six bullets in there. You already used them. Once more, please think about what you're doing. You have a history of not doing that. You said before that you wanted to be a good candidate for the upload, and that you wanted us to help you." Kelvin's face is innocent. It sends chills down Sawyer's spine. "How can we help you if you can't help yourself?"

And then, before he can think enough to whack the guy with the weight of the gun itself, it's fished from his hand. He doesn't know how; all he knows is that one moment, he's got it, and the next moment, it's gone. How the hell…? He stares and clenches his fist, clutching uselessly at air.

"Don't make us drag you because you're being uncooperative. All we've asked for is cooperation from you. You could at least give us that. Start walking."

–––

At least the food was good, even if the conversation was not. He did his best to stammer out an explanation, about how he was just a con man and that was all, and this was his first job, and he hadn't expected anything like this to happen. He smoked three cigarettes over an hour, more out of nerves than out of any real urge for them, inhaling and exhaling as rapidly as he could do. The whole time, the couple stared at him, and he could not only see the disbelief on their faces, but could feel it issuing from them, sparking from them like something electric.

If this is my last meal, it's a good thing they're paying for it, he thought. He'd ordered the most expensive thing on the menu just to irritate them, and as he cut into the Caribbean-glazed steak, he felt at least a little bit of triumph at that. Even that victory, slim as it was, made him happy. He chewed slowly, watched the redheaded man's face change again. He had stopped telling them his story, and the carrot-topped man was staring at him with disbelief. His face was soft as he considered, and then it grew firm as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. We can't believe you. You aren't telling us the truth. You aren't as naive about this con job as you want us to believe." The redheaded man reached out for the steak knife, taking it quite casually. Sawyer felt himself grow tense. The knife drove into the steak rapidly, a definite threat. Plates rattled. Juice oozed out of the meat, and splattered around the table a bit.

Sawyer felt himself jump. However, the hooker girlfriend did not flinch. Her posture remained still and taut right next to him. He envied her for her coolness.

"I won't belabor the point, Mr. Ford. James. Jimmy. Sawyer. Whatever you call yourself. By trying to do what you tried to do, you put yourself in a very dangerous position." The redhead's voice was flat. His eyes were dead. "You are on thin ice. See to it that you don't fall through."

Sawyer tried to smile and failed. He looked down at his steak, the handle of the knife sticking up before him, the meat split around the blade like a slaughter in miniature. He swallowed, glanced back up at the redhead, couldn't look into those lifeless eyes. He had to change the subject. "Back at the casino, your girlfriend wanted to screw me. Ain't she gettin' any, Bonaduce?"

–––

As they walk down the hall, those same deadened eyes stare at him now, with the same unfriendly expression in them. Sawyer wants to tell the other man, I know who you are now, you bastard. I know you. I almost conned you out of ten thousand dollars, when, really, you and Jeannie were the ones conning me. He can't say that, though. Kelvin won't care, and he's not sure that he really cares, either.

"Hey, Bonaduce – what are you lookin' at?"

Kelvin smiles. "The other shoe drops. I was wondering how long it would take you to put it together. You know, you're bright, we always thought, but I was surprised at how long it took. You kept on calling me after Hogan's Heroes for so long I thought you honestly didn't remember. Smart, though, for finally putting it together." At least the man's voice holds the slightest approval. Sawyer doubts that will help matters, but he feels glad he was finally able to piece something together. "Of course," Kelvin continues, "being drunk and drugged probably didn't help your comprehension, but that was intentional, and you're used to being a lousy drunk, aren't you?"

He has the perfect answer for that. "Go fu – "

"You're not in a position to be giving me advice." The appreciation at Sawyer's figuring is gone from the voice, now. Kelvin escorts him down the hall, pushes open a door, takes him down another hall to the left, then another one to the right. Sawyer tries to keep the rabbit-warren paths straight, but they're disorienting. He wouldn't put it past them to deliberately do this so that he can't find his way out of the place. At length, they must be at some central place, because one of the guys traveling with them moves ahead of them a few steps to open the door.

Inside, he can see something – hospital-ish. A long cavernous machine that he figures is the MRI, and a computer that, unlike the one in the Hatch, is up-to-date, and tons of things that, if he were a science brain, he's sure he'd figure out. He hasn't got the education, though, so he doesn't know what – The hell with it, he decides. This looks bad. And no amount of education's gonna tell me anything else.

As he stands there for at least a few split-seconds, staring, aghast, lights start to flash. An alarm starts to screech. The guard is distracted, but Kelvin, unfortunately, is not. He starts walking back the way he came, and Sawyer winces at that. He'll be expected to follow, and they've got a long walk ahead of them. He isn't looking forward to it.

"Move." Kelvin's voice is steel.

Sawyer double-times it, the graze on his ankle starting to hurt now, too. I get shot way too much, he thinks, but he manages to keep pace. What choice does he have? They wanted him shot, and they want his brain, and the only thing keeping him alive is how alert he is, how much he participates. He knows that, and he follows after Kelvin, only needing to extend an arm to the wall for balance once or twice, the twinge in his ankle painful, sure, but he's had worse, even on Mystery Island. "Where are we goin'?"

The reply is brusque, choppy, as if the alerts have distracted the speaker. "Back. To see them."

"Who?"

"We're off to see the Wizard of Oz," Kelvin snaps. "Who do you think? Whomever managed to breach security, Ford. And you're coming with us. If it's someone come looking for you, then you could be quite valuable indeed. You'll get us them."

"I ain't doin' anything like that," Sawyer responds, but he receives no answer for that, and so he keeps walking. If they're taking him outside, he's got a chance. He just hopes that, whomever's out there, they can figure out what's going on and respond well, because he won't have the time to think this through in any great detail. If he can trust whomever's out there, though, then he stands a chance of getting free, getting away with nothing more than a bit of a nick in the ankle, and with his shoulder fixed as well. He hopes he can trust them. It would be nice to be able to rely on someone for once. Maybe he should try it. He follows Kelvin through the maze of hallways again, sees the sun glint through the glass where he had gotten shot, and can hear a commotion arise from the outside. It's not good for the guys here, and that's a good thing indeed.

He would smile. He doesn't dare. But he feels almost happy now. Awesome, the cavalry came to the rescue. Now all he has to do is think quickly, and he's good at that. Isn't he? He thought he was, but… Doubt later. Act now. And he clears his mind as best he can. He intends to do just that.