His face was cadaverous-starved and narrow-skulled, pale skin taut over the cheekbones, bulgy dark eyes, a distinctly ridged brow-and in the alley’s gloom, deeply shadowed, that mask was grotesque enough to freeze Joe for a second. Joe blinked and turned his head slightly, as if refocusing would bring the man’s features back into proportion, convert the monster back into something familiar, a derelict or punk or some other nightwalker.
The man, apparently misapprehending some tolerant impulse in the cop’s hesitation-sympathy, brotherhood, fear, who knew what?-clamped his hand hard between the girl’s legs and agitated her hips against the wall. He gave the cop a little wrinkle-nosed smirk. Yeah! See that?
Joe decided then and there to fuck this guy up but good. He charged forward.
The giant released his grip on the girl. She landed unevenly on one shoe but righted herself, and stood long enough to watch the cop fly right past her without so much as a glance to see if she was okay-he passed very close, so close that she felt a little draft on her cheek, heard metal equipment clinking under his coat-and she decided just to lower herself to the ground and sit there.
Joe knew after a few steps that this guy wasn’t going to get far. The guy ran like a fuckin’ retard, all high- stepping Lincoln-long crazy-legs, and Joe had time to ruminate over how best to take him down with maximum injury. As they neared the opposite end of the alley, which opened out onto Winter Street, Joe launched himself- enjoyed a horizontal ecstatic moment-and fell on the guy’s back, engulfed him like some enormous flapping bird. He hugged the giant’s arms to his sides and allowed his own stout legs to become entangled with the giant’s. His intention was to prevent the guy from breaking his own fall, ideally to bounce his face off the pavement.
But immediately it felt wrong.
There was enormous cartilaginous strength in the giant’s torso. He managed to carry Joe a few steps, and Joe felt like he was riding one long smooth muscle, as if he’d jumped on a dolphin’s back. The guy did not fall forward; he did not fall at all. With unearthly power he managed to twist, even as he began to stumble, and Joe felt himself slipping off the side of the giant’s back, and the two men rolled down onto the pavement.
From behind, Joe immediately hooked his right arm around the giant’s neck and locked it with his left. He squeezed. He meant to crush the man’s Adam’s apple in the crook of his right elbow. Choke him, whatever-just take the edge off this fucker, cuff him, and get the hell out of there.
But, incredibly, the guy was already prying Joe’s arm away with his fingers. It was impossible. His fingers! What the fuck! Joe hauled with his opposite arm for leverage. It was no use. Those fingers pried their way under Joe’s arm and levered it away.
Joe’s shock-he could not remember ever being overpowered like this-gave way to panic. He looked around for help. No one. Empty alley, glimpse of an empty street.
And those hands! The strength in them was inhuman. They spread Joe’s arms wide enough that the giant was able to roll over and face Joe like a lover. His hands found Joe’s neck, encircled it. The thumbs met at the fleshy hollow below the Adam’s apple, mashed around a bit as they sought out the windpipe where it was closest to the surface, just above the point where it disappeared into the rib cage, and when the hard pads of his two thumbs were settled on that exposed rubbery tube, he pressed.
A thrash of adrenaline convulsed Joe’s body.
His head snapped forward instinctively to protect the vulnerable spot and, his hands caught uselessly behind the giant’s head, his body beat itself forward and back.
Almost immediately-seconds-his mind began to unfocus, he felt himself beginning to lose consciousness. He looked into the face, inches away.
The giant leered back with those swollen bug-eyes. He seemed to sense there would only be this initial burst of resistance to overcome. He pressed his thumbs again. Crush it, deform it.
Joe struggled to free his arms. The pain was lessening slightly, losing its electric quality, its urgency. He found the guy’s wrists, tried to rip them away, but Joe’s own arms were stony and heavy. It felt as if both men were immovable, as if he and this fucking monster were petrifying into a sculpture. It was already too late. He was dying-actually dying. Could it happen this quickly? He had not expected There was a siren.
The pressure on Joe’s neck lifted a little.
The siren was far off, maybe just a coincidence, city noise.
Then the pressure was back, harder than before, the thumbs crushing Joe’s trachea, as if the giant meant to finish it quickly.
Joe thrashed again, re-adrenalized. Not dead.
He jerked his knee up into the giant’s crotch-scratched at those bulgy eyes-and it was over. Gone. No hands on his neck, no crushing pain in his throat.
The siren was close now, oscillating.
The man was running off. Joe heard his shoes brushing in the grit.
Joe dragged himself to his feet. He shuffled back up the alley to the girl. She lay in a curl with her back against the wall, knees up. Joe held out his hand to her. “Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I’ll get you out of here. It’ll be okay.”
Joe slid his arms under the girl and forked her up off the pavement. She was light as a child. Good-looking, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. He wondered what it would be like to fuck her, what her body looked like, all automatic thoughts for Joe, but he could not work up any enthusiasm for the project, which he took as a worrisome sign that his encounter with the giant had left him unmanned somehow. The girl lay limp in his arms, her head against his chest, arms trailing down in her lap. Joe carried her out of the alley to the street, where he was startled by a blinding flash from a news photographer’s camera.
13
“Vincent Gargano was in here looking for you.”
The bartender had leaned over with his elbows on the bar to confide this news. He apparently expected Ricky to crap his pants when he heard it. When Ricky played it off, didn’t even blink, the bartender straightened, relieved and disappointed.
“What about?”
“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
“When?”
“Couple nights ago.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That I haven’t seen yuz.”
“Thanks.”
“What do I do if he comes back?”
“Just tell him the truth, Sull. Keep your nose out of it.”
“Hey, maybe it’s nothing, right?”
“Yeah. Just business.”
“May be nothing.”
“It is nothing. I just got through saying.”
The bartender twisted a rag in his hands, anxious to change the subject. He gestured with his chin toward the evening Globe in front of Ricky.
COP FOILS STRANGLER ATTACK
Big photo of Joe with his grim scowl and mussed uniform, a damsel swooned in his arms. “What’s with your brother? Can’t keep his mug out of the papers lately.”
“Who? You mean Elvis?”
“Yeah, Elvis Daley.” The bartender snorted, but he was plainly worried. “Hey, Rick, no offense, but if you got trouble with Vincent Gargano, I’d just as soon you don’t bring it in here, know what I mean?”
“It’s no trouble. I told you.”
