A Little While Later

We need to finish our meeting. Sunday, train depot, midnight.

The instructions are simple enough. Perhaps this time I’ll actually get some information from this broad. I upend the bottle of rum into my glass and dribble in what’s left of the flat cola that was at the back of my refrigerator before tossing the bottle in the garbage. Looks like I’m out of the bare essentials. Time to go grocery shopping. I pull an ice cube from the glass and rub it on my jaw as I walk to the bay window overlooking the alleyway behind my apartment. The rain is falling in sheets now, pelting the glass. I knew a storm was headed this way. I light up a cigarette and take a deep drag. A car passes by on the street. Its headlights cast a glow over the alley on the other side of the intersection and I stop midexhale.

There’s somebody in the alley.

I don’t want him to know that I know he’s there, so I have to act like I didn’t see him. Did he see me stop exhaling? Did he see me pause? I don’t know for sure, but I can’t take any chances, what with the “invisible hand” and all. It’s time for me to get some answers. I move away from the window casually and holster up, grabbing my .45 from the coffee table. Cigarette pressed between my lips, gun in hand, I make my way out into the hallway. As I bound down the back stairs, I make sure I’m fully loaded. Check. Kill or be killed. That’s what I was told.

Why is someone standing in the alley? How long have they been there? For all I know, it could just be a vagrant, but to be honest, it doesn’t really matter at this point. All I know is that I have to take whoever it is by surprise. That’s all I can think about right now. I can’t take any more chances. I’ll sort out the whos and whys later. I stop at the door to the outside world, cock my gun, and ease the door open, prepared to be pelted with a storm of bullets, but all that hits me is raindrops.

I step out into the pouring rain, scanning the area, looking for whoever I saw from my window. A streak of lightning arcs across the sky, illuminating the world for a fraction of a second. I see him. He’s still there, across the street, leaning up against the wall. Looking at the ground at his feet. Either I got the drop on him or he’s got balls made of solid brass. I sidle up to the wall, my piece at my side, and I walk toward the road.

As I near the edge of the building, the figure looks up, directly at me. He knew I was coming. He’s not just some schmo on the street. This guy’s a professional. He’s been waiting for me. He saw me in the window, he saw me hesitate for that single instant. I wonder how long he’s been trailing me? No time to think about that now. This is one of those shoot–first-and-ask-questions-later scenarios. I step out of the alley onto the sidewalk and raise my gun, just as a battering ram comes around the corner and catches me in the face. I tumble backward, falling on my ass. My gun clatters away from my hand. How did I not see that one coming?

I try to make sense of what just happened. I blame Quill for the whole ordeal. The little brawl out front left me hazy. I stretch out my arm, searching, half-assed, for my gun. As my fingers graze the cold, wet barrel, a looming figure bends and plucks it out of my grasp with his enormous hand. It wasn’t a battering ram that knocked me down. It was this guy.

“I’ll hold on to this,” he says, and all I can think about is Lurch from the Addams Family. The rain is in my eyes, but I can see that this guy is a behemoth. He’s a fucking monstrosity. It’s no wonder I’m on my ass. It’s a surprise my head is still connected to my body.

“You ever try boxing?” I ask. He doesn’t get the chance to answer as the figure from across the street steps into view at his side.

“That was too close, man,” he barks. His voice is nasal with an Irish twang. “He already had his gun leveled at me. He could’ve shot me in the face.”

“I had it under control.”

“You got lucky.”

“It had nothing to do with luck.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get him in the car, Maestro.” The hulk leans in and grabs hold of my lapels, yanking me to my feet. My head spins and I feel like vomiting. I can only assume that I have a concussion. The Irishman moves in close to me.

“Who are you working for, you lousy mick?” I spit. He scowls at me, wiping the spatter of saliva from his face. Then he cocks an eye at the beast holding me up. A locomotive slams into my gut and I double over, gasping for air. I get the feeling I shouldn’t be shooting my mouth off.

“No funny business, wiseass,” the Irishman tells me. My stomach is burning. I can’t even straighten up to see his face, so I spit a gob of blood on his shoes. I can tell the expression on his face is one of exasperation by the sigh he releases. “I warned you.”

I’m pulled up straight. My stomach muscles scream out. The beast shrugs. “Say good-night, Gracie.”

His fist rushes straight on into my forehead. I was always under the impression that you only saw stars if you were in a bad cartoon.