At first, neither Demarco nor Manny said a word. The chilling chu-chunks of the shotguns being pumped stopped all the bravado and yelling. The shotguns were one thing. The men holding them were the main thing.
Demarco said, “Hands.”
All four of them, heads swiveling back and forth at the men in front and behind them, raised their hands.
Guzman continued to advance until he had the long barrel of his Winchester pressed into the forehead of the nearest gangbanger.
Manny Guzman was shorter, stockier than the young black man, but implacable. He just kept walking forward, pressing the muzzle of the Winchester into the soft skin of the young man’s forehead, pushing him toward the van.
“Leave. Now. Or I kill you.”
All four of them tumbled and pushed their way into the battered van, three of them falling through the sliding side door and one jumping into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and accelerated down the street, swerving and sliding on the slick cobblestones.
Now that the four behind him were taken care of, Beck circled to Reese’s left, his blind side. Reese had his left hand clamped over his suddenly throbbing blind left eye, giving Beck an opening to slide forward and twist a fast, hard right into the left side of Reese’s nose. The septum broke with a sharp crack.
One moment Reese was thinking about taking apart James Beck. The next he was half blind with a screamingly painful broken nose.
Beck stepped back, figuring that should do it. But he was wrong. Taking out an eye and breaking a nose weren’t disabling blows, just horribly painful. And pain wasn’t going to stop Willie Reese.
He lashed a roundhouse left at Beck, more to knock him away than to knock him out. Beck leaned back from the fist, but not far enough. The fist only grazed the right side of his head, but the power and speed behind the wild punch still were enough to make everything go black for a moment.
Beck didn’t hesitate. He leaned right back in toward Reese and fired a fast right fist around the hand protecting Reese’s left eye, landing a solid blow to Reese’s left temple. Hitting Reese’s big head with such force nearly broke two of Beck’s knuckles. It was a knockout punch, but it only staggered Reese. Beck followed it with a left elbow to the face, a right to the side of the neck, and a left aimed at Reese’s throat.
Reese somehow slap-blocked the last punch and lunged forward quickly enough to grab Beck’s coat, rear back, and snap a vicious head butt at Beck’s face.
Beck barely jerked out of the way in time. Reese’s huge forehead banged into Beck’s left collar bone. It felt like being hit with a bowling ball.
Reese tried to throw Beck to the ground, but Beck grabbed Reese’s massive forearms, widened his stance, twisted back against Reese, and levered his own head butt directly into Reese’s already broken nose.
This time the pain was too intense even for Willie Reese.
Beck heard him gasp and growl in agony. Reese couldn’t move, but he held onto Beck’s coat, so Beck pounded six hard fast lefts and rights into Reese’s liver, floating ribs, and sternum, twisting, aiming, grunting with exertion as he landed each blow. Reese could do nothing but hang on to Beck, who couldn’t believe that Reese was still standing.
Finally, Reese hurled Beck away from him. Beck’s feet left the ground and he went down hard onto his back. Reese tried to step toward Beck so he could kick him or stomp him, but his legs wobbled under him as he staggered forward.
Beck rolled sideways and scrambled to his feet, quickly backing away from Reese, who managed to stay on his feet, blood streaming from his nose, left eye beginning to swell, huffing and puffing for air, two cracked ribs splinting pain with every breath.
They both knew it wasn’t over. Beck would have to step in to finish Reese off. And if Reese managed to get his hands on Beck, he might find a way to grab Beck’s throat so he could crush his windpipe. Or smash Beck’s head into the ground. Or manage one hard blow that would knock Beck out.
Beck shook out his arms, staying back, breathing deeply. Getting ready.
He said to Reese, “You that hard up for my business?”
Reese spat out a mouthful of blood and turned his head sideways to look at Beck out of his good eye.
“Ain’t about that anymore.”
“What’s it about?” asked Beck.
“You and me,” said Reese.
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, man. You’re a fucking handful.”
Reese looked over at Demarco and Manny, watching, cradling the shotguns.
“Maybe you should have your boys shoot me. You don’t want me comin’ back for you.”
“Maybe. But there is an alternative.”
“What’s that?”
“You working for me, like you said.”
“What?”
As soon as he heard that answer from Reese, Beck knew he wasn’t a complete maniac. And that meant there might be a way out of this without one of them dying.
Beck continued to keep his distance and said, “Hey, like you said, I hired Shorty and his little gang to give me the heads-up on anything coming this way through the projects, but he didn’t do it, did he? He didn’t have the balls to tell me you were coming.”
“Nah, he didn’t.”
“So what do you want more? A job or a chance to keep beating on me? Which I guarantee you isn’t going to work anyway, ’cuz they will shoot you down if it gets out of hand.”
Reese looked at Demarco and Manny with their shotguns. He spit out more blood.
Beck said, “Fuck it. Your guys are gone. Tell them you beat a job out of me. I don’t give a shit. Think it over. It’s too damn cold to stand out here discussing it.”
Beck turned his back on Willie Reese and headed toward his bar. He told Demarco and Manny, “Don’t shoot him if he wants to come in.”
2
Beck walked behind the bar, flipped open the lid on the ice maker, and shoved both hands into the pile of frozen cubes.
Manny headed for the bar kitchen. Demarco took a seat at the table farthest from the front door. He placed the Benelli on top of the table and sat facing the door.