Hooligans

My nose had been knocked out of commission along with half of my other senses. I couldn?t have

smelled my hair if it was on fire.

“How long did it take to get here?”

“Twenty minutes, thirty maybe. I?ve never been very good about time and I don?t have a watch on.”

“My God, how long have I been out?”

“Another ten.”

“They must?ve hit me with a poleaxe.”

“Actually it was a little black stick one of them had strapped to his wrist.”

“Just a plain old-fashioned sap,” I said. “Just like me.”

I sat up slowly, so my head wouldn?t fall off, got my feet on the floor, and sat very still to keep from

vomiting. Eventually the nausea went away. The room was small and tidy and looked like a doctor?s

office, without the medical journals and four-year-old National Geographics strewn everywhere. The

only light in the room came from a table lamp made from a wooden anchor with “Saint Augustine,

Florida, 1981” hand painted on it. The room had two windows, both heavily draped, and there was a

TV monitor camera mounted high in one corner.

I decided to see if I could stand up. That brought some activity from the other room. The door opened.

I could tell from the silhouette that it was Nance. I didn?t realize how badly I had beaten him until he

turned sideways and the light from the other room fell across his face. Both eyes were swollen to slits,

he had bruises and gashes down both sides of his face, he was limping, and there was a cut that had

swollen t the size of an egg on the corner of his mouth, surrounded by a blue-gray bruise that spread

almost to his ear. He was a wreck. I felt better when I saw him.

“Hi, Nance,” I said. “Been a real shitty day for you, hasn?t it?”

He made animal noises in his throat and started toward me but a hairy paw against his chest stopped

him. Arthur Pravano, the one they called Sweetheart, stepped past him.

“Don?t make any more trouble,” he said to Nance. Sweetheart leaned on the doorjamb and stared at

me.

“Well, well,” I said, “the pool?s get-ting full.”

“You talk awfully big for a man with his balls in the wringer,” said Nance.

“Go on outside,” Pravano said, and Nance bristled for a second, then turned and vanished from the

doorway.

“You ought to do something about him,” I said, “like give him a brain transplant for Christmas.”

“Big-mouth Fed,” he said, shaking his head. “You got about as much time left as an ice cube in a

frying pan.”