The Promise of Bucktooth Bill

   The man – tall, thin, and dressed in a well-fitting suit – picked up the tea kettle, testing the temperature on his wrist like a baby bottle. Satisfied, he poured steaming water over a teabag in a delicate china cup before setting it in its saucer with a clatter.     

    A bodyguard – the huge one, who had so roughly dragged Margot to this warehouse in the middle of nowhere – had briefed her on her captor. His name was Bucktooth Bill. But as she sat across the cold metal table from the legend, his teeth were pristine – pearly white and straight. Who would be the one with buckteeth? she wondered. She swallowed hard.

    Bucktooth Bill dunked his tea bag in and out of the darkening water. He plopped a sugar cube into the cup with his long, thin fingers, then stirred with a tiny silver spoon. He offered none to her.

   His eyes glinted an icy shade of steel blue. His lips hardened into a stiff line, and without looking down, he picked up an ornate fountain pen lying next to a stack of thick, cream-colored stationery. Margot had been given only one instruction – do not talk. She glanced down at the single sheet of college ruled paper that sat before her, roughly torn from a notebook with the perforated edge still attached. Next to it lay a cheap ballpoint pen made of blue plastic.

   How much information does he think I have? she thought to herself. She was aware that she didn’t know enough about Bucktooth Bill. She was also aware that he seemed to know entirely too much about her.

    She sat, motionless, as Bucktooth Bill took his time, the sharp tip of his pen scratching across the textured paper as he shaped his thin strokes. Looking up, he folded the paper over and over into a small, stiff rectangle. She pictured middle school children and the way they folded notes to a friend or crush. In this situation, Margot was neither.

    He slurped a sip of his tea, then slid the note across the table. Reaching forward, Margot picked up the smooth cardstock, the raw edges sharp on the pads of her fingers. She unfolded each crease, straightening the page in front of her. She read his short statements, stacked in their forward-leaning script:

"We are all trapped by the concept of ‘must.’

My only son must receive a new liver.

The liver must be from Paul.

I must know where he is.

You must tell me."

The script skipped down several lines, then continued,

“Or else I must kill you.”

    She swallowed bitter, acidic bile as it rose from her belly into her throat. Bucktooth Bill straightened his stack of stationery while Margot fingered the thin edge of her sheet of notebook paper. It was clear that she only had one shot. She cast her eyes down, clearing her mind. The tinny scent of ink filled her nostrils as he refilled his pen’s cartridge. The simple clock on the wall, which was stained with rust from the leaking ceiling, ticked and tocked, counting down her fate.

  If only Paul hadn’t gotten into that debt, she thought. He would never have sold his kidney, and I wouldn’t be here, forced to make these impossible decisions. She’d already been offered $50,000 for information about Paul, with news of his recently discovered rare blood type spreading far and wide on the black market. She had turned it down. I have no idea what to do. She decided to shoot for the moon.

   Picking up her cheap, throwaway pen, she snaked her arm around her notepaper, blocking his view as she scribbled one symbol and seven digits across the header. Without folding it, she flipped the page over and slid it across the cold surface of the table. She pulled her hand back in one fluid motion.

  Bucktooth Bill flipped it over quickly, desperately. "$1,000,000," the message read in her looped print. His eyes traced over the proposition before smiling with only half his mouth. He bent down, struggling to retrieve one of two suitcases that sat beside him. The bodyguard, leaning against the white concrete-block wall, stepped forward to help him lift its heavy weight.

    Once the metal case was resting on the table, Bucktooth Bill opened its lid and spun it towards Margot. Stacks of bundles of $100 bills met her wide-eyed gaze. He picked one up, fanning it with the tip of his thumb. The bodyguard stepped back against the wall, crossing his massive arms.

   Her breath caught in her throat. Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. Her eyes scanned the crisp bills. There were so many of them. Images of Paul flashed before her. Their first date. Their laughter ringing through their first house together. Their simple, sweet wedding. Their deep conversations about hopes for the future. The future… she longed.

    As alluring as the cash was, Margot knew she could never tell. She hoped Paul would still love her after Bucktooth Bill made good promise of his name. She sat back, the cheap padding at the top of the chair giving way beneath her weight. She crossed her arms in front of her and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head – right, then left. She had no paper left to explain why.

   Bucktooth Bill snapped the suitcase closed with a sharp clang. He took one more sip from the china cup before scooting back his wooden throne, dragging its thick, heavy feet across the pitted tile with a screech. A single drop of water dripped from the pipe in the corner. He stood, glancing at his bodyguard, who nodded curtly and cracked his knuckles. Turning back to Margot, Bucktooth Bill bared his perfect teeth.

    Margot wound up her body, full of fear and desperation, and darted toward the door, but she was too slow. She closed her eyes, imploring the Universe that she would see Paul again. She knew Bucktooth Bill needed her alive more than she needed a million dollars. It was his bluff against hers.