My route was interrupted by three thugs who’d no doubt seen me enter the alley and emerge with a briefcase. What a stupid set of coincidences. A suitcase meant either the Mob or big business, and both meant big money. In this district, I must have looked like Rockefeller, so they were probably hoping to rob me. One was short, white, and carried a broken bat. The weapon had either been salvaged from the garbage or broken from use. The second was black, tall, and carried a revolver in his belt. He looked like he knew how to use it. The third was white, tall, and built like he didn’t need a weapon.
“All right, pretty boy, hand over the case and you get to live,” the short white one said.
I considered pulling out the Foldgun to threaten them, but they might have shot me before I managed to do so. I dropped it and backed up against the Dumpster.
Though I’d started out thinking these guys were regular muggers, it occurred to me that muggers didn’t often work in packs. Not unless they were being paid to keep people quiet.
The curved lid of the trash bin bounced when I backed into it. Glancing at it again, I noticed that the mouth of the bin looked sharp, with the paint scraped away by the sliding action. I tried to get a better look, but only managed to move an inch before the cocking of a hammer made me stop dead.
“No funny business or you get a bullet in your fuckin’ heart.”
I nodded and kicked the box to them. The taller white guy grabbed it and tried to open it. I saw the lid of the Dumpster: sharp, very sharp indeed, with old blood from past accidents. Even if it had been dull, steel bites deep.
“Do I get to go, asshats?”
“Oh, so sorry, but that disrespect just cost you your wallet, too.”
I was in no mood. “Come get it, shitbirds.”
“Look, old man, I will fuck you up if you play this game.”
“Son, I’ve seen Germans hold a pencil in a more frightening way than your friend is holding that gun.”
Shorty was the leader, Big Guy was the muscle, and the kid with the gun was the hit man. The gun was shaking in his hand. He had killed before, but he was hesitating. He looked older than the other two, at least in his late twenties. Still younger than me. “I’ll give you to three,” the kid began. “One …”
I looked at the trash bin. Time to dispose of the garbage. Ha.
“Two.”
Big Guy was still wrestling with the Foldgun, and Hit Man was shaking like a leaf. Shorty was still mouthing off. If I took him out, the rest would fall, easy. I didn’t need my Diamondback for this little encounter. Not yet.
“Three.”
They weren’t expecting me to move after three. Hit Man hesitated, losing his bead on me as I grabbed Shorty, pulling him with me to the garbage while Big Guy was still wrestling with the Foldgun. He was easy to move — he must have weighed ninety pounds or less — but he had some muscle on him. He swung at my ribs, the hit aggravating the bruises that the GE rent-a-cops had given me. But I was tougher than that. I made sure his back was to the group so that the bullet would hit him and not me if Hit Man got brave. I got Shorty in the cheek, but he was still fighting.
While I braced against his punches and kept a grip on his collar, with my other hand I opened the Dumpster lid. Shorty was still on his feet. After finding that the suitcase wouldn’t open, Big Guy dropped the Foldgun and ran at me, hoping to catch me off guard. I threw Shorty against the Dumpster. His head and shoulders fell into the receptacle, and I had to duck to avoid Big Guy’s swing. I was smaller and could move well, but if the big guy hit me once, I would lose.
I shifted right. Shorty struggled to push against the Dumpster and get his head out of it. Big Guy swung again. I dodged, shoving my back into Shorty. His legs gave out, and his chin hit the rim of the Dumpster, locking his head into place. I grabbed the top of the lid and pulled down hard. The sharp edges dug into his flesh — only his vertebrae stopped the metal from cleaving off his whole head. Blood sprayed everywhere, hitting both me and Big Guy, which made him hesitate as well.
My Diamondback was waiting in my holster, but I knew I didn’t have enough time to pull it, cock it, and fire. I needed something else to use as a weapon — a bottle, a stick, a pipe, a wrench, glass, wood, anything. The only thing available was a broken whiskey bottle. Perfect. I dodged another of Big Guy’s swings, then leaned down and grabbed the bottle’s neck. I moved backward to the wall opposite to the garbage, where a fresh corpse now hung limply, and broke the bottle against the brick wall of the building to make sure it was sharp.
He swung, I went under, then came up, and the bottle followed my movement. The cracked glass went through his neck, cutting through his esophagus. I kicked his body back, pulling the bottle out as a fountain of blood poured from his gaping wound. He didn’t struggle long. His crimson blood pooled with Shorty’s around my feet.
The black guy with the gun wasn’t firing. He had dropped his gun a while ago and now stared at me in disbelief, then at his old cohorts. I nodded to him, looking at the gun. He kicked it from himself, backing away, then breaking into a
