I used my elbow to open the door as I left the cleaning-supply store. Once I was outside, I casually stopped to look at the hours of operation. I pulled my sleeve over my hand and wiped the door handle as I leaned in to see the hours posted on the glass. I nodded my head as though the opening and closing times pleased me, then walked away from the store to my car.
Denis had to run. He and his father had to clean up the mess I left and get as far away from the city as they could. The tape I had on Denis was more deadly than a cruise missile. If the tape got out, which he believed it would, there would be nowhere safe in the city for him. I counted on his fear, on the utter terror Bombedieri put in him, to send him running.
I walked up the street to the car, watching every window and alley. I had seen no one watch me go in, but I knew that fact didn't cover me going out. As I moved up the street, I passed a kid sitting cross-legged on the pavement playing a guitar. His black leather case was closed beside him, and I had to step over the neck of it as I walked past him on the sidewalk. The kid didn't look up at me while he played; he kept his red head down. He didn't even pick up the pace of the song to earn a donation for his effort and skill. He just played his song, oblivious to the world.
I saw my car up ahead, and on the trunk sat two men in their early twenties. Instinctively my hand began to swing closer to the front of my pants as I walked. I still had Denis's stubby revolver tucked in my waistband. The two men, if you could even call them that yet, were in faded ripped jeans and old unlaced high-tops. They were at an age where they weren't children anymore, but at the same time they could never be considered men. The only word that came to mind was “punks.” One was blond, and his hair stuck out from under a sideways baseball cap. The hair was meticulously placed so that it shaggily hung over one eye. The other had long, greasy black hair that made it hard to see most of his face. His long beard covered everything below his nose so the only bit of skin I saw was a small patch of forehead. Both of the men looked pale and strung out. Their knees bounced on the bumper to an irresistible, soundless, chemical-induced beat. The dark-haired one shoved the blond with a heavily tattooed elbow as I got closer. Both looked at me. My mind raced as my eyes met the two pupils I could see peeking through the mess of hair on each punk's face. There was no way these two were after me. They were white punk-rocker kids — about the farthest thing from Paolo and his organization — and yet there they were, waiting on my car.
I stopped three cars away, my hand near my belt, and looked at the two punks on my trunk. Before I spoke, something pulled at my mind. The guitar player had his guitar case closed. He wasn't there for money, so he had to be there for something else. The guitar was no longer being strummed — I couldn't hear it — but I could hear singing. I recognized the words as being from an old Ramones song.
“Beat on the brat. Beat on the brat. Beat on the brat with a baseball bat. Oh, yeah . . .”
As the song behind me grew closer, I watched the two punks on my trunk tense their shoulders and squint their eyes as though they were about to be hit with a snowball. Just before the second “oh, yeah” of the chorus I tried to roll forward. My head and shoulders started the roll, but the baseball bat that smacked across my lower back ended my attempt.
I fell to my knees and fought to pull air back into my body as the two skinny kids jumped off my car using the bumper as a springboard. I watched the two pairs of feet approaching as I listened to the singing continue behind me. The guy had moved ahead in the song and was laughing as he sang, “What can you do-oo.” The singing was terrible, but it bought me the seconds I needed. I got a quarter of a shallow breath and rolled off my hands and knees onto my back. My right hand groped for the pistol and yanked it free from my waistband. I had the gun out and moving to the centre mass of the red-headed punk standing over me, but the ball bat to the back did the trick. I was slow on the draw, and the kid above me had time to swing the bat low, connecting with the snub-nosed revolver in my hand. The gun went off when the bat connected with it, but the shot went wide.
“Holy shit! He's got a gun,” one of the voices behind me said. The voice was not full of fear; it was equal parts laughter and excitement. “Give Dirty Harry an encore.”
Another swing didn't come. The punk with the bat had stopped his attack. His face was down, and he was checking to see if he was shot. I knew there was no way I could pull the other gun from the tight pocket on my thigh without getting brained by the bat, so I kicked out instead. The toe of my heavy boot found the soft spot between the redhead's legs. He cringed and then crumpled in on himself, collapsing to the pavement.
I got to my feet just as two sets of hands began laying into me. The punches were wild and everywhere at once.
“Come on, Dirty Harry, make my fucking day,” one voice said as a fist hooked into my ribs.
A kick to the side of my leg wobbled me, and I heard, “Oh ho, that was lucky. I was lucky that time, Harry. How lucky you feel now?”
It was as if I was being swarmed by bees with knockout power. I covered my head and tried to weather the storm, but a punch to my exposed and injured back changed that. The blow to my back straightened my body as though an electric current was shot through it. The two punks behind me saw me straighten, and they began to focus on the back of my head. I bent forward and kicked out behind me like a barnyard mule. My foot found something solid, and I heard a grunt. I staggered forward, still covering my head, trying to get away from the three attackers.
A hand grabbed my ankle, and I looked down to see the red-headed singer holding on to me with two hands. I kicked out with my right foot, and my boot split his eyebrow open. The blow was enough for me to get my feet free. I kept staggering forward until I was shoved face first into a parked car. The punk with the hat and the bangs had done the shoving; he was still untouched and ready to go. I pushed off the car and flung myself backwards into the punk's body. Once our bodies connected, I leaned forward and then slammed the back of my head into his face. The impact had me seeing stars, but I was free to run again. I looped around the car and began stumbling up the street towards my car, using the other parked cars on the street as a buffer to separate me from the three punks. I fumbled for my keys and managed to get them out five feet from the bumper.
“Batter up, motherfucker.”
I heard the words in conjunction with the feeling of the bat. The impact hit me in the back again with such force it made my teeth rattle. I bounced to my knees, not even feeling the pavement. The car keys fell from my fingers, and I pitched forward. I saw the pavement accelerate towards my face then lurch to a stop and reverse away from me. Three sets of hands stood me up and began beating me. Fists pummelled my face and guts all at once.
“Get his ass into the van.”
“Ah, come on, Mickey. My fucking stomach hurts from that asshole's foot. Let's use his car. We were gonna jack it anyway. This way we don't have to come back for it. Harry here won't mind. His feet are burning up anyway from all that kicking. Ain't that right, Harry? You got a real hot foot.” With the last two words, the kid with the beard, that I had kicked, stamped down hard on my foot with his heel. The boot absorbed the impact, and I didn't feel a thing. I screamed out anyway to avoid a second blow somewhere softer. The impact of the foot stomp on the steel toe must have hurt the punk with the beard. His worn-out Converse high-tops would offer no protection against that kind of activity. He took my scream for gospel as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. There was no way he was going to try for another stomp.
Mickey, the redhead the punk with the beard was talking to, pressed a hand to his damaged eyebrow. Out of the corner of my eye, I got a good look at him. He was tall, six feet five at least, with red hair — real red, not dyed. His arms were large but not muscular. He was probably stronger than most people simply because of his unnatural size. He had thick leather bracelets on his wrists and a pair of dead eyes that gave his face a sort of zombified look. He seemed to manage talking without moving his lips. He sighed. “Fine, fine, whatever. Let's just get this fish back to the whale. You two put him in and drive him back in his piece of crap. I'll get my guitar and follow you back in the van.”
“Righteous, let's get some fucking drive-through on the way back. I'm jonesing for a Frostee.”
“Gonzo, you are taking him straight back. We can't fuck this up. You heard what the whale said.”
“Ah, come on, Mickey. Me and Ralphy just want a snack. Look at Ralphy's mug, that asshole cracked the side of his face. He probably needs to get his head in a cast. He needs something cold, something soothing, something chocolate.”
Ralphy stopped adjusting his sideways hat and tried to speak. He failed on his first attempt and brought his hand to his face in pain. Through the hand cupping his face, he finally got out, “Yeah, dold.”
“Plus I don't want to eat that shit the whale puts out. I hate that Italian shit. I want a burger with extra cheese.”
Ralphy nodded and forced a “mm-hm” through his hand.
Mickey shoved Gonzo and Ralphy hard, and they almost dropped me. “Get him back to Domenica's. Then we can eat. Got it?” He poked Gonzo hard in the sternum with the top of the bat for emphasis. Blood trickled down his face from the wound I gave him with my boot. Mickey felt the blood and swiped it away with the edge of his hand.
“All right, all right, shit. Just wanted to eat is all. You're so fucking critical. Fucking guy from Oasis was like that, and look where they are now.”
This seemed to really piss Mickey off. “Oasis is a shit Manchester band. Up on stage singing about champagne supernovas and shit. They champagne super suck. Now get his ass in the car before I make you ride in the trunk.”
Mickey's anger spurred everyone into motion. I was thrown backwards against the bumper and the rear of the car rammed into my lower back. The blow crumpled me to the ground, pushing the small specks of gravel on the pavement into my knees. Mickey's tall frame loomed in front of me, and I swung for it. The punch got no help from my back, making it less than a weak swat. The other two laughed at my offence, and each took a handful of shirt and collar. One of their shaky hands lost its grip on my coat, so my ear was used to pull me off the ground.
“Hey Mickey, Harry here kicked me and he messed up Ralphy's face. We should get a chance to get him ready for his ride.”
My eyelids fluttered as Gonzo launched his fist into my head. He put his weight into it, and both of us went down. With double vision, I didn't know which of the six men around me to grab on to. Twice I got it wrong before my hands found the one that had hit me.
“Get the fuck off me, Harry!” Gonzo shrugged my weak grip off and got back to his feet.
Ralphy stood over me with his identical twin. He cradled his cheek and grunted twice through his pursed lips at the tall redhead. The redhead seemed to understand the grunts and replied, “Yeah, fine, but make it quick.”
Ralphy began to stomp me in unison with his twin. I tried to block out one, then the other, until I figured out which one was really Ralphy. The stomps weren't that hard, but they were fast and rhythmic.
Gonzo was bent over the side mirror adjusting his hair and beard. He stopped twirling his greasy hair to laugh. “He's playing your tune, Mickey.”
Mickey looked at me hard and then began bopping his head to the tune of the feet bouncing off my ribs. He began to sing along with the beat; the song was near the end of the chorus. “Beat on the brat with a baseball bat. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.” There was a pause and then two more stomps: “Oh, oh.”
Mickey looked around the street and stopped thinking the beating was so funny. “All right, all right, get him in the car. The whale wants him alive and like ten minutes ago.”
Once again I was in my car, but this time I landed on the fabric floor of the trunk on top of the spare. The shocks bounced with my weight, and the lid closed before I could even turn over.
As soon as the lid closed, I began to feel my body. Nothing was broken; the kids had cracked a rib at worst. Ralphy had sacrificed power to show off his musical talent on my midsection. Two teeth were missing from the side of my mouth where Gonzo had hit me, and one of my eyes was swollen, but it didn't matter — I couldn't see in the dark anyway. I knew the double vision would pass quickly, probably before the trunk lid opened. I was beaten up, but my head was clearing. The three punks had not frisked me after they saw the gun. I was alive in the trunk, and still armed.
It was hard to breathe with my rib cage resting on the spare tire. I adjusted my body in the cramped space until I found the least uncomfortable position. The fact that I wasn't frisked meant the three punks had probably never done this type of thing before. Another clue was their urge to stop for drive-through with a live body in the trunk.
Once I figured out that my back wasn't going to get any looser in the quarters I was in, I worked the nickel-plated revolver I took off Johnny back on the island out of the concealed thigh pocket of my pants. I got the gun free as the car roared to life and jerked away from the curb, causing my back to spasm again. I bit my lip to stifle the scream and thumbed back the hammer on the revolver. I stayed in my cell, in the trunk of the car, sore, angry, and holding a dead man's gun.