He leered at me. It was hard to be scary while stemming a bloody nose with one hand.
“Henry, you want to introduce us?” I said.
“Yeah, this is Moe, Larry, and Fuckface.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” I said. “Especially you, Fuckface. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Walleye said. His thick neck melted into his leather jacket.
“How much are you guys getting paid for the shakeup?” I asked. “Because it’s really not worth it.”
“Fuck off.”
“Bad language is scary,” Z said. “You scared?”
There were guns there. There were always guns. But no one made a play for the guns, because once they made that move, there was no going back. So we stood around at awkward angles under the portico, three against three, no one wanting to move. A lot of noise of crashing surf and buffeting ocean wind. I shifted my weight from one leg to another. I’d recently purchased a pair of steel-toed Red Wings for such an occasion and my feet felt solid and confident in them. Beside me, Z loosened his shoulders and rolled his neck from side to side. Henry stood beside him and spit on the ground between us and the jolly trio.
“Walk away,” I said. “And don’t come back.”
The black man was nearly as tall as me and had spent a lot of time in the weight room. His biceps tightened and flexed in a black denim jacket. His mouth curled into a smile, showing off a couple gold teeth as he rubbed his patchy beard. “How about we just fuck all y’all up? Don’t make no difference to me.”
“Doesn’t make any,” I said. “You should be more careful about letting double negatives slip into everyday conversation.”
“Fuck your momma,” he said.
“Much better,” I said.
“Oh, yeah?” Henry said, sliding into a fighter’s stance. “How’d you like me to turn your ass into a hat?”
Z looked to me from the corner of his eye. He was relaxed and ready.
Walleye made the first move, tackling me around the chest and driving me back into a thick column, knocking the wind from me. He pounded sloppy, short punches into my ribs until I finally head-butted him and drove him backward. Z was into a scuffle with the black gentleman, landing a solid, bone-shaking right into the man’s temple. Walleye took another run at me as my hands instinctively lifted up to protect my face and I jabbed him twice, landing the second one. A third jab set up a perfect right, and the right rolled into a hook, with all that space under the portico giving me a nice pivot on the back foot to knock Walleye sideways. I turned to Z, who was holding the man’s collar with his right hand as he punched him with his left. Walleye gathered his feet and made another attempt. My feet ached to try out the boots, and within a few feet, I kicked his legs out from him, an audible crack coming from his shin as he lost his balance and fell to the concrete. There was a lot of blood. My right hand was swelling but my breathing was cool and controlled as I pulled a .45 auto from Walleye’s belt. Z’s black hair had loosened and fallen in his face as he turned to me and grinned, the black man at his feet, Z’s foot on his neck, and the man’s face scraped and bloody from the rough concrete.
Z searched the man and pulled a Glock from his jacket pocket.
Somewhere in the fight, the man Henry had hit had run away.
There was blood all over Henry’s white satin workout jacket. But he was smiling until he noticed the blood and said, “Holy Christ. Someone is paying for my damn dry cleaning.”
“I have a terrific deal for you guys,” I said.
“Fuck you,” Walleye said.
Z looked at me with disgust.
“He can’t fight,” Z said. “Lacks verbal skills.”
“Here it is,” I said. “Tell me who hired you and I won’t call the police.”
“You fucking assaulted us,” Walleye said, curled in a ball and holding his busted shin. The black man looked up from the ground and closed his eyes. He wasn’t buying it, either.
“Okay,” I said, reaching for my cell phone, dialing 911. I rattled off the address to the condo.
“Okay,” Walleye said. “Screw it. Okay.”
“Does this mean you wish to cooperate?”
“Don’t call the cops,” he said. “I’m on parole.”
“Maybe you should seek other job opportunities,” Z said.
“And not fight like such a goddamn pussy,” Henry said.
“That, too.”
“Go to hell,” Walleye said.
“Careful, you’re bleeding on my new boots,” I said.
Walleye got to his feet slowly. His eyes flicked from Z to me. Z would not relinquish his foot from his pal’s neck.
“Let him go,” Walleye said. “And give our fucking guns back.”
“Name?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“I want my fucking guns back.”
“Nope,” I said. “You got two seconds to give me a name or I’ll see you at your arraignment.”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Her?” I said.
“Yeah, a woman. Nice body. Big tits.”
“Oh, her,” Z said.
“She should’ve come herself,” Henry said. “She could’ve done better.”
“I just got word about a job,” Walleye said. “My cousin told me to meet this broad at the HoJo at Fenway. At that Chinese restaurant. You know the Hong Kong Café?”
“Name?”
“I don’t remember,” Walleye said. “I was too busy staring at her bazooms and counting the money.”
“How’d you keep in touch?”
“She wrote her cell number on a napkin. Told me not to use it unless it was an emergency.”
Z smiled and shook his head. He helped the bleeding man to his feet, smoothing down the man’s denim jacket and brushing his shoulders as if he were a tailor. I reached into Walleye’s back pocket and lifted his wallet. I handed it to him, and after a few seconds, he extracted a folded napkin and handed it to me. I read it and neatly placed it into my jacket.
“A pleasure doing business with you guys,” I said.
They limped unhappily back to a beaten Chevy sedan, Rust-Oleum polka-dotting the doors and hood. The windshield was cracked and the muffler sagged from the rear end, catching the condo’s drive and sparking for a moment before the car turned south on Beach Boulevard and into the night.
“Now you pissed ’em off,” Henry said. “Whoever this is won’t waste the effort on amateur hour next time.”
I shrugged. Z grinned in expectation.
5
“SO YOU JUST called her?” Z said.
“Yep.”
“And she’s coming?”
“Yep.”
We shut the doors to my Explorer and walked toward the Hong Kong Café attached to the HoJo. The cracked asphalt glowed dully under the streetlamps. “I guess this couldn’t have waited or she’d be onto us?”
“The contact point was a Chinese restaurant,” I said. “I happened to be hungry and like Chinese food.”
“And it didn’t hurt that the woman was described as having a nice body and large breasts.”
“I only have eyes for a cold Tsingtao.”
“I’ll sit at the bar,” Z said, and made his way through the restaurant.
I decided on the moo shu pork along with an order of spareribs and an egg roll. No need to be gluttonous. The waiter quickly brought me a cold Tsingtao. Z lifted his identical bottle from the bar and gave a slight nod.
As I drank, I was ever vigilant for a gorgeous woman blessed with ample bosom. Although no woman compared to Susan Silverman, it was important to remain vigilant. I had years of experience at detail work. A keen, appraising eye. Of course, I wasn’t sure if the woman would come or not. For all I knew, Walleye might have dialed her up right after our chat and told her what happened. But guys like Walleye are seldom proficient at explaining why their asses were just handed to them, and, more often than not, pretend it never happened. It wasn’t great for business.