Shoppers stepped back as Mean Eyes charged me. I leaned in to Kowalski and kicked Mean Eyes onto his backside. Kowalski hugged tighter, and it became difficult to breathe.
I rocked my head back into his face several times. His grip loosened and I slipped free. Mean Eyes reached into his coat and I kicked him in the stomach, scattering his gun across the sidewalk. A pile of aluminum tubes lay in a neat pile by the tent. I picked one up and held it like Big Papi, moving toward Killer Kowalski. The wittiest thing I could think of was “Okay, let’s go.”
He smiled and stepped forward. I swung and hit him in the neck. I swung again and connected with his head. The tube made a hollow musical sound as it connected with bone. Killer was unfazed. He had dark skin and black eyes. With the tailored suit and big gold watch, he had the appearance of a pro athlete. His muscles swelled in the tailored suit.
I stepped forward, fist raised.
To my amazement, he did the same, and we began to circle each other like a couple of stray dogs.
People were screaming now. Someone was yelling for the cops. Blood rushed into my ears and my vision narrowed. My body felt light and loose and I wanted to hit the man again and again. Mean Eyes jumped on my back and I turned backward and ran him into the big table of shellfish. The table broke; ice and shellfish scattered. The Hispanic owner yelled that he was calling the cops, too.
I got back on my feet.
People in the market scattered as we fought. I searched for the aluminum pole but could not find it. I tasted blood in my mouth as I stepped forward. He was a few inches taller than me and about the girth of an American brown bear. If I got close to his body, he’d get me to the ground. Never let a bear get the upper hand.
I stepped forward, throwing a right, and he ducked it. He came up with a right and connected. I saw stars popping and stepped back. My breathing was very good. My newly reconstructed knee worked great. He was no more to me than just a thick heavy bag. I stepped in with a combination on his body. My blows were fast and hard but seemed to show no effect on him. He countered with a barrage that brought tears to my eyes.
I stepped back, fists raised. I threw a right and a hook. The hook connected. He nodded in appreciation. His eye began to bleed. The man almost seemed to enjoy it.
It was only us. Wind rushed down Blackstone Street, fluttering the tents. I heard sirens way off. I landed a hard right. He landed two quick jabs in my ribs. They hurt a great deal.
Just as it was about to get interesting, Mean Eyes stepped in with a gun. Killer tried to wave him off. The man wanted more.
Hawk entered the alley. Both men looked to him. And then at each other. They turned, but not before Killer wiped the blood from his busted eye and nodded. I attempted to catch my breath as they turned and walked away with purpose.
“Who the hell was that?” I said.
“New blood,” Hawk said.
There were sirens coming close. The Hispanic man was calling me unpleasant names in Spanish. Hawk grabbed my elbow and turned me away from the market and out of the alley.
24
My hand was in a bucket of ice.
Tyler King was seated in a chair before me. I’d already assaulted two men in a very public place. Why not add kidnapping to the mix? Z had insisted Tyler join us after he’d made a drop of some kind at the Quincy Market. Z had a small bruise under one eye. King had several more. Hawk leaned against a concrete wall and waited by a metal door.
We were in a storage cellar around the corner from a bar where Z worked as a bouncer. Z wore jeans, work boots, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut out. It read ROCKY BOY, MONTANA ALL-STARS.
“Go fuck yourself,” Tyler said.
“Witty,” Hawk said.
“Who the hell are you?”
Hawk didn’t move. He stood in the shadow with shades on. “Hawk,” he said.
Tyler swallowed. He had dirty hands, grease under his stubby fingernails. He wore a green Sox cap like they pass out free on St. Paddy’s Day. I stepped in closer and got a good look at his neck tattoo. Mickey Mouse extending his middle finger.
“What the hell?” he said. “Why’re you busting my nuts? What’d I ever do to you?”
“We work for Disney,” I said. “I know a lawyer there. Did you realize you’re guilty of copyright infringement?”
I turned to Hawk. He started to whistle “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.”
“Song of the South.”
“Yes, suh,” Hawk said.
Z smiled. Hawk and I had perfected our act long ago. We were the Martin and Lewis of beating the crap out of people. My hand hurt. My ribs hurt. Jackie DeMarco had definitely traded up in his hired help.
“Who sent you?” Tyler said. “Christ. You can’t stick a fucking gun in a guy’s back and knock him around until he talks. This ain’t some Arab country. Shit. We got rights here.”
“Sure,” I said. “But how about a little talk. Or else my associates here might take you out on a deep-sea fishing trip and use you as bait.”
“Bullshit,” Tyler said. “Hawk does shit for money. How much money do you want to let me go?”