“You all seem upset. Something I said?”
They both look to me, as if no one else saw my cue to speak.
“What did you say?”
“I don’t know. You guys are standing there like you want something — like you want to do something — I don’t know. You tell me.”
“What did you call me?”
“What, you’re here a day and you’re getting in my face?”
“I’m not in your face. I’m standing here asking you a simple question.”
“Simple — oh fuck you. Get the fuck out of here. Go eat, drink — whatever. Think about it, pal.”
I take one step at Feeney and he holds his ground. He’s conscious about not moving — not making himself any larger or smaller than he already is.
“Don’t get stupid, brother.”
I feel my head cock to one side. My neck pops. It feels right to look at him slanted so I leave it there.
“I just asked you a question.”
“I don’t care. Asshole.”
I hear KC suck his teeth again and I remember the scraper in my hand. I drop it at my feet and it lands with a muffled clang in the dust.
“That was your second mistake, fuck.” He curls his lip and slaps his thighs, then closes his hands into loose fists. Nancyboy grabs his shirt, but Feeney knocks his hand away with an exaggerated swipe. “Come on!” He waves me in with both hands. I go.
I want to see if I can still take a punch, so I let him hit me. A right. He’s surprised at the ease and so he stops his blow midway. It loses power, focus, and only grazes my cheekbone. Because he misses, he panics a bit, yanks his arm back crazily, and throws again, this time he lands squarely on my shoulder, forces me back, but I pivot on my right foot and square-up southpaw. A left goes past my ear. I counter right left. Nose and cheek. Blood and snot on him now and my knuckles. He throws a wild right off the top of my head, a weak left that bounces off my wrist to my ear. He doesn’t bring it back. I slide inside him. Right hook flush on the jaw. He whinnies and his legs buckle. Johnny wraps him up and walks him back. He’s too small and they both almost go down. Feeney finds his legs and tries to break free. Chris gets him from behind, then Dewey — now Feeney can start yelling.
“Son of a bitch! Fuck you cocksuckin’ bastard! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”
He keeps screaming, his voice on the point of breaking, until they get him to the elevator. I don’t know if it was there or if out of my sight he stops, but it’s quiet in the loft. KC slides up in front of me, nodding his head in agreement with every one of his thoughts.
“You a crazy man, you know?” He offers me his hand. I take it. He slaps my shoulder with his other hand and then inspects my face for damage. “I think you really fucked him up.” He stops his examination and turns to Bing Bing, who’s grinning broadly and nodding, too. “G’wan get de mon’s tings na.” Bing Bing rubs his hands together, turns his shuffle into a bounce, and starts looking for my bag. I let go of KC’s hand and get my bag myself, which prompts Bing Bing to skate over to the scaffold, get my loose tools and my belt, and rush them back to me.
KC’s by the window looking down on Greene.
“I don’t see ’em nowheres. I thought they’d take him to cool him out, maybe give you some room to get out, but they gone.” He presses his head against the glass. “I don’t even see that little fucker’s truck.” He turns, leans back against the window, folds his arms across his chest, and rocks his body at the shoulder from side to side — gathering momentum. A quick blast of air escapes from past his lips. He rocks his head with his body. He looks pained — but it’s a smile, trying to hold back laughter. “You really fucked him up.” He lets it go, bends forward at the waist, and wheezes silently. He straightens, shakes his head once more as though to dispel the feeling, and weakly points a long finger at the doorway.
“You better get going, man.”
Bing Bing tightens the straps on my bag. I shoulder it and start walking. Bing Bing gives me a light slap on the back. KC stays by the window.
“You gotta number man? You in the book?”
“Yeah, sure.” I walk out, stop and turn at the elevator. I knock the button with my knife handle. The light goes on. KC calls from inside.
“Like I said, I get jobs of my own. I call you next one na.”
“Thanks, KC.”
He finally moves out of my view so he doesn’t have to watch me wait.
Johnny is outside waiting for me with his hands in his pockets. He looks like a lost kid. He slouches when he sees me, drops his head, and then rolls his eyes up to look at me.
“Qué pasa, professor?”
“What’s up, Johnny?”
He tries to smile but stops at kind of a half-grimace. He takes his hands out of his pockets, then stuffs them back.
“Nothing, man, nothing. It’s cool. Here.” He pulls out a billfold.
“What’s this?”
“Tuesday, yesterday, and today. I owe you. Take it.” I open my hand and he places the bills in them. I put them in my pocket without looking. “I paid you for a full day today.” He looks down again. “I paid you like a lead guy. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I was just trying to get you back into it, you know.”
“Thanks, man.”
“It’s cool.”
“Where’s your friend?”
He snaps up, spitting. “That fucker ain’t my friend.” He checks himself. “Chris took him to St. Vincent’s.” He kicks at the curb. “You gotta watch out. He’s the type that’ll sue you.” He looks at me, perhaps waiting for me to acknowledge his warning, or say something he can understand — an apology, but when I look past him at the people entering and leaving the jeans store, I know that I don’t need to apologize for anything. And I feel a surge of adrenaline, greater than when Feeney’s fist grazed my face — so large that I feel if Nancyboy looks at me with the slightest bit of malice, I’ll backhand him into the street.
He flares his nostrils.
“I gotta go, man.” He points at my hand. “Nice hook.”
He heads north and I take out the money — seven-fifty. I haven’t had this much cash on me in years — maybe ever. My first feeling is that I’m rich. I start for the jeans store to get Claire a pair of pants.
The store isn’t as posh as I thought it would be — not posh at all, actually. The shelves are painted wood, the jeans are just — jeans. There are tributes to America, splashes of red, white, and blue paint, and actual flags, too, both painted and cloth on the wall, hanging from the ceiling. There’s dust, on the wide-plank floor, seemingly in the air. I don’t seem out of place here. A slim, pale-faced brunette is leaning against the shelves, looking lost, but not in thought. Her face is blank until she sees me, then she crosses her arms behind her, and smiles. She put on a lot of lipstick today along with low-cut jeans and a short, tight pink T-shirt that’s cut an inch above her navel. Her white skin looks a bit goosey.
“Hi, sir, can I help you?”
“I’d like to buy some pants — jeans.”
She tries to keep her smiley-faced sexy innocence going.
“Well, this is the place.”
“Perhaps a sweater as well.”
“We’ve got some great ones.” She puts her palms on her thighs and bends as though she’s about to address a child. “Would you like to see some things?”