"Randy Hawkins," the man says, but his accent definitely isn't From Around Here, especially if "around here" is meant to include, say, the entire North American continent. Maybe the man is German. Or Polish. Or from some other nebulous Eastern European country. Randy Hawkins does not know the term Eurotrash, but if he knew it, he'd use it. The man points and asks, "This is him?"

Randy tries to say something but can't, because his own bloody sock is stuffed in his mouth and sealed there with electrical tape.

Harriet nods. "I worked him over."

Ingersoll nods as if admiring a painting. He runs a spidery finger up Randy's jawline, through the crust of blood there, to the ear that's swollen like a cauliflower, and then across the forehead where a number of horizontal hash-marks (made with razor, not pen) line up.

He lifts Randy's head. Sees the chewed up skin on the back of his neck.

"This is interesting," the thin man says. He rubs his fingertip across the scabby, abraded flesh. Scritch, scritch. "A new technique?"

"New tool," Harriet explains. "I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond and picked up some items from the kitchen department. That's from a cheese grater. I also broke three of his fingers with a garlic press."

"Innovative. And culinary."

"Thank you."

Ingersoll looks Frankie up and down. "And what did you contribute?"

"Donuts."

Ingersoll gets a sour look on his face. "Of course." It is not an unfamiliar look.

"He's ready to talk," Harriet says. "I knew you wanted to be here for it."

"Yes. It's time I am involved fully. This has gone on too long."

Ingersoll pulls a small satchel from his pocket and kneels by Randy's feet. He presses his face against the beef slab hanging to the right, feeling the cool sensation against his forehead. Then Ingersoll opens the pouch and upends it onto the floor.

Little bones – most no bigger than marbles, some like long teeth – spill out. These are hand bones: carpals like driveway gravel, metacarpals like Lincoln Logs, phalanges like dog treats or the tips of umbrellas. All pale, bleached, clean.

Ingersoll does not touch them. His own finger drifts above them, as if he is following along with the text of a children's book or a Bible page. He nods and mumbles something in the affirmative. To everyone else, it's inscrutable, but to him, it's something as plain as day, no less clear than the big, white, fluffy letters of a sky-written message.

"Good," he says, obviously satisfied. He scoops the bones back up and places them in the pouch once more. He kisses the pouch the way he might kiss his mother.

He stands again, and looks in Randy's red, raw eyes.

"You stopped buying from us," Ingersoll says. He licks his lips, shaking his head. "That is a shame. I like to think we offer a solid product for reasonable prices. But you can save yourself here, you know. You will whisper in my ear all you can tell me of your new supplier. If I am satisfied, if you tell me what I want to know, then I will spare your life and instead take only one of your hands. Are we clear?"