The finger was still there, still arching out of the sink in that stiff curve that reminded Howard of a New Year’s Eve party, the kind that makes a honking sound and then unfurls toward the unsuspecting bystander when you blow it. He had killed one of Howard’s loafers. He would pick up the shoe and tap it sadly on the tiles again and again. From the look of the scattered towels, Howard guessed that the finger had tried to kill several of them before finding the shoe.
“You better break it,” said Mrs. Javier. “I heard him up to the seventh floor.”
‘Come back whenever I’m here, I’m waiting for you’
Are you sure you want to trust your life to a pair of electric clippers you bought on sale?
The policeman was young and Irish—O’Bannon was his name. By the time he finally reached the closed door of the Mitla apartment, several tenants were standing behind him in a small knot. With the exception of Dennis Feeney, who wore an expression of intense indignation, everyone looked worried.
He slowly looked around the bathroom. It was a mess. Pools of blood and two pieces of finger lay on the floor. Another leaned sideways into the pelvis. Fine sprays of blood went over the walls and hit the bathroom mirror. The pelvis was streaked with it.
“You better break it,” said Mrs. Javier. “I heard him up to the seventh floor.”
The policeman was young and Irish—O’Bannon was his name. By the time he finally reached the closed door of the Mitla apartment, several tenants were standing behind him in a small knot. With the exception of Dennis Feeney, who wore an expression of intense indignation, everyone looked worried.
Are you sure you want to trust your life to a pair of electric clippers you bought on sale?
“No,” said Mrs. Duttlebaum. “I saw her leave this morning, as always.”
He ran for the sink, slipped in a pool of blood, nearly fell, then caught his balance. The finger blurred back into the drain, joint after joint, like a freight train going into a tunnel. Howard grabbed it, tried to hold it and couldn’t – it slipped through his hand like an oiled and burning length of laundry. Nevertheless, he slashed forward again and managed to cut off the last three feet of the thing just above where it was hissing through his fist.
“No,” said Mrs. Duttlebaum. “I saw her leave this morning, as always.”
“It’s Mitla,” said Mrs. Duttlebaum. “With a l.”
“You better break it,” said Mrs. Javier. “I heard him up to the seventh floor.”
The finger flew at him. Howard bent down and walked over his head. It was blind, of course. That was his advantage. Catching his ear like that was just a lucky shot. He swung the clipper, a gesture almost like a fencing thrust, and cut off two more legs of the finger. He hit the tiles and lay there, wincing.
Now the rest were trying to pull back.
“It doesn’t mean he didn’t come back again, does it?” Mr. Feeney asked sadly, and Mrs. Duttlebaum backed away.
He leaned over the sink (holding his breath this time) and looked down into the blackness of the drain. Again he caught a glimpse of the receding white.
Are you sure you want to trust your life to a pair of electric clippers you bought on sale?
“No you don’t,” Howard whispered. ‘No you don’t, not at all’
“It doesn’t mean he didn’t come back again, does it?” Mr. Feeney asked sadly, and Mrs. Duttlebaum backed away.
Now the rest were trying to pull back.
“It’s Mitla,” said Mrs. Duttlebaum. “With a l.”
The burnt, blistered tip of the finger waved in front of his face, the torn nail weaving back and forth mystically. Howard hurt it. The finger faked to the left and slipped around his left ear. The pain was amazing. Howard felt and heard a horrible sound at the same time as the finger tried to tear his ear from the side of his head. He lunged forward, caught the finger in his left fist and clipped it. The clippers dragged down as the blades hit the bone, the loud hum of the engine becoming a rough growl, but it was built to cut through small, tough branches and it really wasn’t a problem. No problem. This was the second round, this was Double Jeopardy, where the scores could really change, and Howard Mitla was packing a pack. Blood flew in a thin mist and then the log was pulled back. Howard faltered after that, the last four inches of his finger dangling from his ear like a coat hanger for a moment before he left.
