out of the car.
The night air had a late-winter bite to it, just a promise of spring off in the distance. He approached the house, leaving the flagstone path and cutting across the lawn. He didn ’ t knock or ring the bell before trying the knob. Locked. He circled the house in a replay of what he and Behr had done that afternoon. He found this to be a house with sturdy doors and bolted sliders, not to mention armed alarm panels glowing inside behind small, thick windows in both the front and back doors.
Paul performed a full loop of the house and discovered nothing close to a way in. He knew he should get his ass back in his car and speed it out of there, but he sat down on the back patio on a piece of lawn furniture to think. It was peaceful in the back, only the sounds of the neighborhood, distant and muted, floating in as a reminder of where he was. Deep inside him a faint voice was urging: leave, leave. But still he didn ’ t move. During his wait he tried to conjure up cover stories as to what he was doing there should Riggi get home and discover him. When he came up with absolutely nothing plausible, he began to consider whether he could handle the man physically should it come to that. He wasn ’ t sure. He played two scenarios in his head — one that had him kicking out Riggi ’ s knee and pouncing on him, the other beginning with a hard cross to the man ’ s face before he was ready for it. Neither seemed too definite.
Finally the sounds of the night began to intrude and Paul realized he ’ d stayed too long and it was time to clear out. As he got up and headed back around front, he saw a small hutch that protected the garbage from raccoons and other vermin. He looked around and crossed to it. He opened the hutch doors and found three large Rubbermaid trash cans. Two were empty, but one held a pair of kitchen-size garbage bags. Paul half held his breath before pulling the bags out, closing the hutch, and hustling back toward his car. He opened his trunk to put them inside when a pair of headlights washed him with blinding white.
Behr had enjoyed the feel of having a young, pretty woman at his table. Her scents changed the familiar booth to an exotic place. There was the light mint, remnant of the gum she ’ d chewed for a minute after her coffee and then wrapped in a sugar packet, a citrus he clocked as hairspray, and an exotic floral that was her perfume. It was time to leave, however. He didn ’ t want to stretch a first date ’ s conversation to the point of uncomfortable. That didn ’ t seem to be a danger as Susan knew how to alight on a subject just long enough before moving on to the next and to sit quietly for pleasant moments as well. Still, though, when something had gone as well as this dinner had, Behr was loath to kill it by dragging it on too long. He raised his hand toward Kaitlin, who was standing by the service end of the bar, and she headed right over with the check she had ready.
“Anything else, Frank?” the waitress asked, her voice husky from a lifetime of nights spent working in places like Donohue ’ s.
“No, we ’ re good,” Behr said, looking to Susan, who nodded. Kaitlin moved on as Behr reached for his cash.
“Can I…?” Susan said, picking up her purse.
“No, you definitely can ’ t,” Behr answered, counting out bills, “but you ’ re a peach for asking.”
“I knew you ’ d say no.” Susan smiled, causing his blood to rush to his stomach.
“Ready?”
“Let ’ s blow this joint,” she said, collecting her bag, coat, and scarf and sliding out of the booth.
Rooster be-bopped into the shower room, silence inside his head and out. He ’ d mastered a confident walk his first time in jail. He ’ d learned it was paramount, even if one wasn ’ t feeling confident. He steered clear of two big dudes who were just finishing up, moving down the row of showerheads to the end of the line. He flexed his lats a little and realized he was bulked up but not truly big and never would be at one eighty-five, one ninety tops. The two guys, turning off the water and toweling dry, each had forty, fifty pounds on him and probably didn ’ t work too hard to get it. The County towels barely went around their trunks. Rooster felt his own somewhat heavy steps on the tiled floor and recognized his own size change was a sham. He was jacked but still not truly big. And he ’ d lost some speed and quickness, which used to be among his primary weapons. If he could manage to get out of this place, get back to a diet of his own choosing, he decided he ’ d cut down, go high rep, fast twitch, until he was wire and sinew like an Asian shoot fighter. He ’ d give up the bull and become the cobra.
He kept half an eye on the guys down the way as they collected their stuff and drifted out of the room. He adjusted the water and stepped under the needle spray of the water-saver head. He worked his cheap soap into the best lather he could and began washing. He was rinsing off when they came in, three of them now, big and thick. Rooster felt them move down the row, heard their steps under the shower ’ s sizzle. He saw shoes on the first one, out of the corner of his eye, and that was a bad sign. He played it cool for another second, girding to turn to them and start the ritual of proving he was no bitch. But they weren ’ t circling and testing. They were on a direct course.
The first blow landed on his lower back with a wet slap just before he was ready. He felt a moment ’ s smug confidence at the lightness of the blow, the lack of pain it caused, and turned to kick some ass. Fighting naked wasn ’ t his first choice, but such considerations fled his mind as fury rushed in. Then his body realized it wasn ’ t an open-handed smack. He ’ d been stabbed. Fuck, he breathed, as his kidney went cold. It felt frozen over. Then the shivs started landing like a flurry of bee stings. His fists went out in a feeble combination that caught nothing but air. The attackers ’ jabs produced bright red starbursts of blood against his pale skin. His legs turned to lead, then went taffy soft. He didn ’ t drop, more melted to the floor near the spray of the shower. His three attackers stood over him for a moment, towering black men he ’ d never seen before, blank looks on their faces.
“Welcome to County, short eye,” one of them said in a low voice.
They extended their bloody metal points into the flowing water, and once they ’ d been rinsed clean, turned and left the room. Rooster felt his eyes go clear. He wasn ’ t seeing anything now. He squinted and fought for focus. The tile floor came into view. His blood ran in a brown stream, with water, down the floor drain a few inches from his face.
I could have been special echoed in his mind, then evaporated. He sighed, the last oxygen he ’ d ever breathe seeping from his lungs.
They were crossing the short expanse of Donohue ’ s parking lot when they heard the staccato thump of two car doors closing. Behr glanced toward the street. A car was there, motor running and lights on. Two men approached. More of Pomeroy ’ s terriers, Behr thought. Their appearance caused him to keep walking toward his car, in an attempt to look unworried, rather than turn back inside the restaurant.
The men, Mutt and Jeff in size and vibe, started coming faster. They didn ’ t say anything, and Behr saw the blood in their eyes and realized they weren ’ t cops.
“Get around the car,” he said to Susan, flipping her the keys. It was then he made out in the darkness the length of pipe each held alongside his leg.
The shorter of the pair, a stout bastard, led the way, stepping like a crab, pipe raised, other hand up around his face, ready to rock. But Behr was ready, too. He dove toward the incipient violence with abandon, the way he knew he must.
The side kick of a strong, trained six-foot-six-inch man is a weapon for which there is very little answer in the street, and the stout man ate one full bore. Behr loaded up and stepped into the kick, sending it right up the middle below the man ’ s defenses. Despite the fact that Wenck weighed north of two hundred and thirty pounds while standing only five foot six, he was lifted off his feet. He landed hard, sitting down on his ass, behind a great out- rushing of air from his lungs, a look of befuddlement on his face.
Behr regained his stance, left foot forward, and squared just as the tall guy swung at his head. Behr understood, when he managed to block it, that the pipes they carried weren ’ t hollow but solid-core cut-down rebar. He took a glancing blow off his forearm that would swell and bear a bruise for months, but it didn ’ t catch bone. As bad as his left arm felt was as good as his right did when he pivoted and connected to the lanky man ’ s chin. A shiver ran up Behr ’ s arm, all the way to his shoulder cap. The man crumbled back and sagged to a knee, the rebar dropping from his hand. A broken jaw for certain.
Behr glanced over his shoulder to see that Susan had gotten behind the car and was crouching at the fender. He turned back to locate the recipient of his kick, expecting the man to be back up in his face or pointing a gun at him. Instead the man was on hands and knees, his abdomen heaving for breath, ropes of saliva hanging out of his mouth. Behr swept up the piece of rebar and stepped toward the man, who stood, then took a half-step forward, before he lost his will. He turned and fled from the parking lot toward the street. Behr would have chased him if not for Susan and the screaming freight train of agony that was only now rushing into his forearm. He looked back to the tall one, who had managed to scuttle a good ten yards away on his hands and heels. Now he got up and ran, in
