“Sure.” Thomas got down from the car. So did the other two.
Wifebeater smirked at Ryatt. “Are you sucking on a lollipop?” Then he spotted the holster on Ryatt’s hip and burst out laughing. “What the fuck is that? You kids playing cowboys and Indians?”
Someone giggled. Not Congo or Cheesecake or even Bugsy. It was Leo. Thomas gave him a look, ordering him to put his fucking ticks on a leash.
Leo knew why Ryatt wore the holster. He was the person Ryatt really opened up to about life, about his mom, about guns, though Ryatt always wondered if the psychopath ever felt the same brotherhood.
“You think I’m funny?” Wifebeater asked Leo, who, not breaking his character, giggled again.
“Cut it out,” Thomas warned but Leo didn’t pay attention to him.
Wifebeater looked Leo up and down as his eyes shrank. Seemed like he couldn’t figure out if the tiny black boy was alright in the head.
Wifebeater turned his attention back to Ryatt.
“Seriously, kid. You watch too many Westerns. Do you always show off your little gun like that?”
Nope. Ryatt only carried his gun to places where it was absolutely necessary. Like here at the hangout, or if he went to rob. Not always. Only gangsters needed to do that, as they never knew from where and when an enemy might jump out on them.
Wifebeater was still going at it, preaching. Ryatt was tempted to yawn.
“… I mean what kind of a criminal carries a gun in a fucking holster?”
Um… the smart kind?
Because it was a thousand times faster to draw a weapon from the holster than to scrabble at the insides of your jacket. Or if the situation demanded, shoot it from the hip. Fast draw was so effective that they taught it in the military. But Ryatt didn’t wish to share his wisdom with a shallow-minded two-bit gangster like Wifebeater. So he kept quiet. Maybe a perfect moment would present itself for Ryatt to display his skill, prove its necessity, and earn their respect.
“I’m talking to you.” Wifebeater produced a silver-plated pistol from behind him. “Answer me, you bastard.”
And there it was. The perfect moment.
Ryatt drew his little gun and shot the pistol out of Wifebeater’s hand.
Along with his thumb.
Less than half a second, Ryatt timed and shifted the candy in his mouth. Not bad, but he had a long, long way to go to become the best. Some legendary gunslingers clocked at less than a tenth of a second. To shoot two targets.
No one finished processing what their eyes had just seen. Everyone froze, except Leo who sprinted towards Wifebeater’s pistol on the floor and retrieved it. However, Thomas and their guests were dumbstruck. Even Bugsy stopped and looked up.
Wifebeater doubled over and clutched his hand, screaming at the top of his lungs and mixing profanities in-between.
“I apologize,” Cheesecake spoke in a thick Italian accent. “My associate has very bad manners.”
“You apologize?” the boorish man with a missing digit yelled. “That runt shot me! That dirty—”
“Shut the hell up!” Cheesecake ordered. “That potty mouth of yours has already cost you a finger. You sure you wanna run it again and bust a ball? Just… just go to the car and wait, will you?”
Having been lessoned in humility, Wifebeater walked away, but not before giving Ryatt the stare.
Cheesecake walked closer to them, extending his arm. “I’m Roman.”
“I’m American,” Ryatt said but didn’t offer his hand in return, which still had the gun in it.
Roman eyed the revolver and lifted his hand. “No need for violence. What I meant was, my name is Roman. Weird, uh?” He let out a laugh, which had no substance to it.
“I agree,” Thomas tried to sound cool but bit his tongue and said, “I mean, uh… the violence part. Not the weird-name part.”
Roman didn’t acknowledge Thomas. Instead of responding, he regarded the bloody mangled finger on the floor.
Leo watched Roman’s discomfort and giggled again, with a lot of throat. This time it was Ryatt who looked at him and shook his head. Leo covered his snicker and nodded.
“That’s impressive and ferocious.” Roman turned and gave Bugsy a wave-off, signaling him everything was fine. The boss once again leaned back on his seat and closed his eyes, while red and blond heads went back to work.
Congo said, “I told you, Mr. Rome. These boys ain’t nothing but trouble. With the capital T. No respect, no rules, and no control. Another bunch of Mad Dogs in the making if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Huh? What?” Congo looked confusedly at Roman.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Roman said, then fixed Ryatt with an intense stare. “I’ve heard about you guys, and you three have the exact wild streak we’ve been shopping for.”
“Is that right?” Ryatt asked.
“Uh-huh.” Roman nodded. “I need a job done, so who do I talk to?”
Leo said, “That would be Mr. Lolly.”
Roman eyed the white straw poking out of Ryatt’s mouth. “And I bet you’re him.”
Ryatt shrugged.
“Straight to business.” Roman clapped and rubbed his pudgy hands. “You heard of MacSharp?”
“Yeah. The new weapons factory in Livernois Avenue?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about it?”
“You know what are some of the most lucrative robberies? Booze distillers, chemical manufacturers, and automobile factories. But nothing beats the good old guns and bullets.”
Ryatt, in spite of knowing that it was not very respectful, laughed. “Man, you nuts or something? How we gonna hit a weapons factory? Don’t they have like a private army protecting them?”
“Not the factory. You’re hitting their truck.”
Ryatt frowned as cogs in various parts of his brain projected different scenarios. The foremost question it raised was, “What do you need us for?”
“Heard you are the best of the best when it comes to truck jobs. We need your expertise.”
That was
