Hooligans

There was one of those tense moments when nobody says anything. I decided to fill in the blanks.

“There?s an African proverb, goes like this,” I said. “When the skunk saw the lion run from him, he

thought he was king of the jungle. And then he met a dog with a bad cold.? That?s me, Costello, I?m

your dog with a bad cold. I know all about your lily-white record and I don?t care. I?m going to turn

you up. Sooner or later this dog is going to bite. That?s if you?re still around.”

“Oh, I?ll be around,” he said, and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door. “This is a family affair,” he

said. “Resolving it is a mailer of honour to us.”

“That explains the problem,” I said. “If honour?s concerned in this, you?re dead already.”

Costello turned and left. I followed him back out and went up to Chevos, standing so I was a few

inches from his face. He looked like one of those Russian assassins that usually get elected to the

Politburo.

I put on my toughest voice, almost a whisper with an edge like a carving knife.

“Where?s Nance, old man?”

He stared at rue, snake-eyed, his jaws shivering. He didn?t answer and he couldn?t look me in the eye;

he just kept staring over my shoulder.

“Where?s Nance, old man?” I snarled again, with as much menace as I could put in it.

Blood filled his face at the insult but he still didn?t answer.

“Give him a message from me,” I hissed angrily. “You tell that gutless back-shooter he fucked up

when he missed me in Cincinnati that night. Tell him the next time he tries, I?m gonna take his gun

away from him, stick it up his ass, and blow his brains out. Do you think you can remember that, or

are you too senile?”

He was so angry his eyes started to water. His Adam?s apple was bobbing like a bubble in the surf as

he swallowed his spit.

“1 know all about you, you disgusting freak,” I went on, getting all the venom I could out of my

system. “You make junkies out of children. You kill women. You?re scum, Chevos, and you?re on my

list too.”

It felt good. Damn, did it feel good. I may not have had ball bearings in my sneakers or a sawed-off

pool cue in my holster, but I felt good.

I turned and went back into the war room, followed momentarily by Stick and Dutch.

“Well, that?s throwing down the old gauntlet,” Stick said.

“Blood feud,” I said. “I put their patron saint in the place and sooner or later some punk asshole?s

gonna try to even the score and make a name for himself. I just decided to give it a nudge.”

“That?s a comforting thought,” said the Stick. Then he turned to Dutch. “What the hell did all that