Cold Fury

and had never spoken to. “What’s that all about?” he said.

“Maybe they just like you,” I said as we started walking.

“No one likes me.”

“Doug. .”

“I know, I know,” he said, shifting his laptop from one arm to the other. “You do. But I’ve been thinking about it-I can’t stop thinking about it-and it’s not enough to. .”

“Hey! Doug!”

I looked up at Max waiting across the street, hands on hips, angry and concerned, and I realized I’d forgotten to factor him into the plan. “Crap,” I mumbled.

“Crap what?” Doug said as we crossed the street. The mosh pit of kids crowding behind Bump ‘N’ Grind was impossible to miss. “What’s going on here?” he said.

“What the hell are you doing?” Max said, stepping in front of Doug.

“Just getting an espresso,” he said, taken aback. “Maybe a scone.”

“You’re going to fight Billy Shniper?” Max said.

“What?” Doug said, turning bright pink.

“You are?” I said innocently.

“No. No. . I would never. .”

“Hey, chunky!” Billy shouted. Apparently he’d been waiting behind Bump ‘N’ Grind doing calisthenics or something, warming up for the takedown, and now he came around the corner with his idiot crew in tow. A throng of kids followed, and then it was Billy and his friends on one side and Doug, me, and Max on the other. Billy strutted like a muscle-bound peacock, saying, “Bad-ass versus fat-ass! This is gonna be awesome!”

Doug said, “I don’t understand what’s happening, but I won’t fight you.”

Billy shrugged. “You don’t have to. Just stand there and I’ll beat your ass.”

Doug looked around at the crowd, processing it, and then back at Billy. “Aim for the head. It’ll save me from buying rat poison.”

“Huh?” Billy said.

“You’re gonna kill me, kill me. Get it over with,” Doug said calmly. “What are you, scared? I’m not.”

Billy’s smile drooped, he looked around at his guys, who were as confused as he was, and turned back to Doug. “What is this, like, some kind of mind game?”

“Hit me!” Doug roared, making Billy and his guys step back. “You effing loser! You effing freak!”

“Doug,” I hissed, grabbing his arm, “stop talking. Just. . wait.”

“Wait for what?” he bellowed, and turned on Billy. “Hit me! Kill me! Do it now, you. . you effing retard!”

Billy’s face fell when he heard that word. He made a hard red fist and said, “My pleasure,” through clenched teeth, but was interrupted by the gentle toot of a car horn. The crowd turned to the curb, where a Fiat older and smaller than my mom’s creaked to a halt. It was a tiny Italian car with a tiny Italianate man emerging from it. He was in black from head to toe-black suit, black shoes and shirt-except for his tie, which was white. His black- rimmed glasses magnified his eyes like two dark marbles and were worn beneath an impressive head of white hair. The tune he whistled was carefree and so was he, strolling toward the mosh pit with his tiny hands in his tiny pockets. Watching him approach, I thought, If this is Knuckles’s scariest guy, Doug is dead. He stopped a few feet away, took his time surveying the crowd, then raised his black eyebrows and grinned with a mouthful of white Chiclet teeth.

“Yo, Dougy,” he said with a dip of his head.

The crowd was silent, a train rumbled overhead, and Doug said, “Me?”

“How’s it hanging, buddy boy?”

“Uh. . fine, I suppose,” Doug said, confused. “Listen, I’m not. .”

The tiny man moved closer and looked up at Billy, inspecting him like he were in a petri dish. “Who’s this jag?” he said. “President of the Hitler Youth Club?”

“Something like that. Pardon me, but who are. .?”

He shook a box, popped a Tic-Tac, and said, “Listen up, everybody, and get the wax outta your ears. Dougy here is my man, my very best chum, amico mio numero uno, you get me? Anyone”-he paused, smiling at Billy-“and by anyone I mean you, Adolf Junior, bullies, teases, touches, taunts, screws with, or looks askance at him, you’re gonna have to deal with me.”

An empty plastic bag scratched past like a tumbleweed.

Someone coughed quietly.

Far away a siren moaned.

The tiny man raised his arms like a preacher. “Are we square?”

Billy snuffled stupidly and said, “I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s gonna take a lot more than some old midget to back me off of fatty-pants here. Hell, I’m just getting started!”

“Old midget,” the tiny man said, smiling. “Why are guys like you always so dumb? Can’t you see I’m a harbinger?”

“A what?” Billy said.

“Harbinger. . of doom,” Doug mumbled as a shreep of brakes sounded at the curb. It was an anonymous car, dark and unidentifiable, just like the three guys who slinked out of it. Billy and his well- muscled crew were twice the size of the small, wiry trio, who wore jeans and heavy boots and plain T-shirts, and had biceps like small round rocks under their yellowish skin. They said not a word, just fanned out behind the tiny man. One of them had a tattoo but I can’t remember what it was, and I think another wore a ball cap but I can’t be sure if it was Cubs or Sox. I would be hard-pressed to pick any of them out of a lineup except to say that they were not big and looked sort of bored, but they smelled dangerous. Violence crackled in the air, and the tiny man pointed at Billy and said, “Jigsaw puzzle. Small pieces.”

“Them”-Billy snorted and then gestured at his ’roid-rage crew-“versus us? Are you serious, midget man?”

I hated to agree with Billy but he seemed to have a point. The three guys looked like second-string ballet dancers, not even mean-looking, just standing there.

“So dumb,” the tiny man said, shaking his head. “Boys? You’re on the clock.”

The first guy moved slowly, like a thin, bored cat, but somehow Billy was on the ground holding his face and screaming while the other two were kicking him all over. There was movement, someone huffed, and one of Billy’s friends was in a pile weeping while another held a bloody nose and screamed for help until he got punched in the mouth. It was like a three-man tornado of ass kicking that whipped around Billy and his buddies with no sign of stopping, hypnotizing the crowd with its pure, poetic violence. I sidled up to the tiny man and whispered, “You were only supposed to scare him!”

He nodded politely. “You’re the Rispoli, huh?”

“Knuckles promised!”

“One thing you should know about Knuckles: he’s a liar,” he said, showing me white Chiclet teeth. “We all are. That’s why we’re in this business, right?”

I looked back at the whirlwind of violence I was responsible for-fists, blood, and teeth-and it made me want to puke. The spectators emitted a collective huh-huh-huh! howl, like a capacity crowd at a cow-butchering contest. I walked away quickly, hustling toward the Lincoln, and heard my name called as I rounded a corner.

“What did you do?” Doug said in a tone that was pure accusation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, and kept walking.

“Who are those guys? You were talking to the little one, I saw you!”

“Go away, Doug,” I said, anxious to be alone, away from the scene. “Go home and don’t kill yourself, okay?”

“Back there, before he showed up, you told me to wait!” Doug said, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. “You knew he was coming!”

I shot a finger in his face as fast as I throw a left and said, “At least you could say thank you!” The car keys were in my hand, and then I was in the car gunning the engine, and Doug threw himself in the passenger seat as I