delivery route gave me the pocket money to spend on treats. Sometimes I wonder if the books taught me about the horrors of our world, while the superheroes taught me how to deal with them. Whatever, they did give me a fertile imagination.
Probably explained why I envisioned myself as the Incredible Hulk when I erupted through the wall. The Hulk had an extraordinary strength he used against his enemies, but I didn't have that luxury. I came out shooting in a spray of dust and plaster particles.
I didn't aim to hit anyone and fired above their heads. Combined with my Hulk act, it was enough to startle everyone into immobility. Only the dogs responded with panic, circling and ensnaring their handlers with their leashes as they spun.
'No one move or the next bullet will kill you,' I shouted. In reality, if all of them had turned on me at once, I wouldn't have stood a chance. The thing was, without exception, everyone thought I was shouting directly at him. No one wants to be a dead hero.
'Guns on the floor,' I shouted as I took a half-dozen paces into the room. The three men nearest me weren't armed. They thrust their hands toward the ceiling.
The dog handlers were too busy trying to untangle themselves to pay me immediate attention. Stuck between me and Rink, who approached the opposite door at a gallop, the five guards at the far end quickly dropped their weapons and kicked them away.
'Inside the room, boys,' I heard Rink shout. His voice jostled them like bowling pins.
My unorthodox entrance, not to mention the demanding muzzle of my SIG, commanded compliance. The three men by the fighting arena moved quickly toward the plastic-shrouded wall, their hands seeking heaven.
A shadow in the doorway morphed into Rink. It was good to see the big guy again. He shot me a wink as he ushered the five goons before him.
'Get your butts in the ring and sit on your hands,' Rink told them. They crowded into the center of the fighting area. Space was at a premium as they jostled to be farthest away from the 12-gauge. Rink turned to the two dog handlers. 'You, too.'
One of the handlers, a skinny youth with a huge nose covered in acne, twisted his face at Rink. He was uglier than his mutt. At least the dog had an excuse; it had already gone a couple of rounds.
'Got a problem with your hearing?' Rink demanded.
'The dogs will fight,' he said.
'Then it's your job to stop them, Zit Boy,' Rink said. 'Now get the hell in there. One of you at either end.'
The big-nosed youth entered the ring first, pulling his struggling dog to him. When he was as settled as he could be, the second dog handler entered. Rink pushed the gate to, flipped a catch in place. No one moved in the arena. The tough guys huddled together. Dogs' teeth and a 12-gauge shotgun made the proverbial rock and hard place.
Harvey's surveillance shots of Sigmund Petoskey came in handy. He looked like a typical wealthy businessman. Shirt, tie, suit, and shiny shoes. Well groomed and manicured. He looked out of place in this setting. Even if I'd never viewed a photo of him, I'd have picked him out by the contempt that radiated from him.
'Hi, Siggy!' I said. 'Like to bring your ass over here?'
Petoskey's eyebrows rose and he lifted a finger to his chest.
'Yeah,' I confirmed. 'I want a word with you.'
Pointing my SIG at his chest, I indicated the bulge in his breast pocket where ordinary businessmen would carry a notebook.
'Lose the piece.'
Petoskey pulled a Berretta out of the shoulder rig. Two fingers; like he'd done it before. He placed the gun on the floor at his feet, kicked it away from him.
'Okay. Get over here.'
He stood his ground.
'You are making one hell of a mistake, you goddamn asshole,' he directed at me. With his Eastern European name, you'd half expect him to have the stilted accent of a villain from a James Bond movie. You would be wrong. Just as Rink is a contradiction of his ancestry, so is Sigmund Petoskey. He spoke with the cultured tones of an Ivy Leaguer with top honors.
Admittedly, his first words weren't anything you'd expect from one of such a background. Then again, you only have to recall Rink's summing up of Siggy's childhood to imagine where the gutter language came from.
'No,' I told him. 'You're the one making the mistake.'
'Who the hell are you, coming here and shooting up my place? My personal friend the mayor will have something to say about this!'
'I don't give a damn what the mayor says,' I told him.
'He'll have your job for this,' Petoskey said. He rounded on Rink. 'And yours.'
'Like I said,' I told him, 'you're the one making the mistake. We aren't police officers, Siggy. For all I care, your friend the mayor can kiss my ass.'
For a second time Petoskey's eyebrows sought the top of his head.
'Not the police?'
'Not the police,' I echoed.
'Then you're with Hendrickson. I should have known . . .'
