Chapter Two

Bill Furyk sat in his car across from the club in downtown LA. Lots of short black dresses waited in line behind a velvet rope. Guys in ripped jeans and rocker shirts or five thousand dollar Armani trying to look cool enough to get in. Furyk watched from across the street, the fire hydrant providing a convenient parking spot. Cop habits died hard, even when you didn’t have a badge anymore.

A couple came out of the club, the guy tall and lean and wearing a vest with no shirt. Tight black pants, shoulder-length black hair and sunglasses. Showing off broad shoulders and muscled chest. The girl was in uniform; short black skirt displaying long but very pale legs. Tattoos on each ankle, probably one on her buttocks but above what there was of the hemline. Spiked heels and hair. The boyfriend pulled her across the two-lane street, assuming the heavy traffic flow of lookers and cruisers would stop. They did, with a couple of horn blasts. They headed toward Furyk, the guy giving him a hard stare once he saw there was someone in the car. At the last second they veered to the left and keyed open the bright green Hummer parked directly in front of Furyk. The guy kept the hard stare on him, probably defending his turf because Furyk had taken in a full view of the girlfriend when they’d crossed. Furyk didn’t care, but held the stare. The guy climbing into the absurd SUV broke the contact. Brake lights, then reverse lights, and the Hummer backed up slowly, and into the nondescript Honda Accord Furyk used when he was shooting for anonymity. It wasn’t a car people noticed or remembered.

The Hummer’s brake lights came back on and the guy jerked it into drive, pulled up a couple feet, and slammed to a stop. The driver’s door flew open. No danger of getting hit, since all traffic had stopped behind a silver Lexus that couldn’t believe its luck in finding someone pulling out right in front of the club. The guy jumped out and was at the space between his car and Furyk’s in two strides. The shades came partway off as he looked at his bumper. Pristine as the day he got it. Then back at Furyk, whose hood now had a scrape caused by the Hummer bumper that was a foot higher than any other car on the road. Furyk hadn’t reacted; had barely taken his eyes off the front door of the club. He was there for a reason. But his heart was beating a little harder as the guy came up to the window and made a sharp rapping noise with the rings on three fingers of his left hand. Furyk, keys in the ignition letting him use the electric windows without having to start the car, let it down a few inches. He was still able to see the front door of the club with the guy standing there.

“Asshole, you scratched my car!” with a finger pointing in Furyk’s face, coming a couple inches into the window. Furyk’s silence just pissed him off more.

“Get out of the car, bitch.” Furyk turned his gaze to the front and flipped on his headlights. They gleamed off the perfect surface of the Hummer’s fender.

“Your car’s fine. Better than mine. Go home.” The guy couldn’t believe Furyk didn’t care about the gouge in his own car. Must be a complete wuss, a coward. Now he was going to pull this jerkoff out of his crappy little beater and mark up his face. The passenger door of the Hummer opened and the girl came around her side. Not to tell the boyfriend to get back in the car and let’s go home. To watch. In the light of the high beams Furyk had switched on, she looked pasty and the smile on her lips looked mean. She leaned against her car and put a leg up on the bumper – probably scratched it more than the bump into the Honda had. Her skirt rode up and the guy had new ammunition.

“You lookin’ at my girl, asshole?” Spittle flew through the open crack of the window as he leaned close. Furyk rolled the window up, both to avoid the spray and to drown out the heavy breathing as the guy got more worked up. It would end with the guy giving him the finger and stalking off. Maybe. Furyk looked back at the club, wanting to make sure he didn’t miss anything during this interruption. There was a pause, the guy deciding what to do next. Furyk could feel the transition, the tension getting ready to ebb. And then the Lexus hit his horn and flashed his lights. He wanted the parking space. It was fuel on an open flame. Furyk watched the guy’s face contort as he stood and headed back to the Hummer. He didn’t give Furyk the finger; a bad sign. He opened the driver’s door and reached in instead of getting in. Another bad sign. Furyk’s headlights made for the perfect spotlight as the guy came onto the stage he’d created in the middle of the street, carrying a baseball bat. Metal bat. No tradition, Furyk thought. Only little league teams used metal instead of the classic, better-feeling wood. He started to get a pain behind his left eye. Control, that’s what he needed right now. He had work to do, and letting some moron break his rhythm was a waste of time. Let the guy get his revenge, show off for his girl. Another ding on the bumper from a bat wasn’t a big deal; Furyk was going to have to get the front end buffed anyway because of the scratch. But the guy went past the gap between the cars and headed for the driver side of the Honda. That meant shattered glass, a new window, and maybe even some scrapes and splinters in Furyk’s face. The pain behind his eye ramped up a notch and he felt the anger start pushing in his gut. It only took a second to make itself felt, like an on-off switch. The guy was only a step away now and still coming. Too close. The bat swung up to his shoulder and as he shifted its momentum to swing it forward in time with the last step that brought him right up against the Honda’s door, Furyk pulled the door handle in and pushed with his shoulder, hard. The bottom of the door cracked against the guy’s shin, not enough to snap the bone but enough to stop his forward motion and the beginning of the swing of the bat. Furyk pulled the door in a foot as the guy bent over in pain, then pushed it open again. This time the window frame smacked the guy across the forehead, sending him back into the street, still empty as the Lexus waited for its spot. Pain and surprise played on the guy’s face. Still on his feet but swaying, the bat hanging loosely from his right hand. Before the rocker could decide what to do, Furyk was standing in front of him. The guy was two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. Furyk felt the anger evolve into rage, rage at this jerk who had made a scene for no reason, maybe blowing Furyk’s whole night of work. Rage at having to deal with another asshole who had to show the world what a tough guy he was. Furyk raised a fist to give the guy a cross-cut blow across the face he wouldn’t forget for weeks after the swelling went down, and stopped. He fought the rage. Cops, delays, a night of answering questions. It wasn’t worth it. His hand shot forward and he grabbed a clump of hair on the guy’s chest and pulled him forward hard. The guy followed without resistance, dragging the bat. Furyk turned to the girl, who was still standing in the gap between the cars.

“Get in.” Her mouth hung open and he repeated the order. She disappeared around the passenger side. Furyk, still pulling the guy, spun him around as they got to the open Hummer driver’s door. He pushed him up and in, grabbing the bat as the guy’s body flopped into the plush leather seat. Keys were still in the ignition. He was recovering from the surprise; the pain in his leg and forehead made him mad. But the ease with which Furyk had manhandled him into the car made reason win out.

“Go home.” The guy’s sunglasses, still in place, nodded up and down once. Furyk slammed the door shut and headed back to his car. The Hummer backed up, bumping the Honda again but clearly without malice, and pulled into the street. A few seconds passed as Furyk got back in his car and the Lexus pulled up. It slowed but did not stop and then shot away. The spot didn’t seem so prime anymore.

Furyk tossed the bat in the passenger seat and killed the headlights. Looking over at the club, he shook his head. Nobody was trying to bribe the bouncer, who wasn’t checking the list or watching the door. All eyes were on Furyk. Silence for a few seconds, and then a cheer went up from the line. Applause and whistles. The throbbing in Furyk’s eye persisted. He keyed the ignition and cut into traffic. The night was blown. Nothing but a new bat to show for it; metal. The kid who lived down the street from Furyk, who lingered outside his door on half a dozen occasions before working up the nerve to knock, would be disappointed. She just wanted to know if her father was really out of town on business trips, missing birthday parties and her quinceañera celebration. Furyk had already found out the absent dad wasn’t doing much traveling, but had a penchant for staying at downtown hotels with sweet young things he’d meet at the clubs. Tonight he was planning on have a chat with the guy. It would have to wait.