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HOWARD GLARED AT me with a fierce hatred. Having never met him, I was a little confused by his reaction. Is it possible that Gail kept some mementos or pictures of me and that Howard recognized me as her ex-boyfriend?
In any case, it figured Howard would do something to immediately turn Monty's attention back my way. Idiot. I moved into a half-crouch, getting ready to spring.
"Fuck yeah," Monty said. "Your biographer, thought he would try to be a hero and rescue you. Stupid man."
As Monty said these words, I widened my eyes at Howard, raising my eyebrows, hoping he would get the hint that he should stick with the story.
But, as I should have expected, Howard did no such thing.
"What are you talking about, Monty?" Howard asked, perplexed. "My biographer?"
"Yes," I said, still trying to keep the fictitious story going and playing upon Howard’s ego. “It’s all part of documenting Howard’s inevitable rise to success; a tale about how conviction, talent and hard work can conquer all.”
"He's no biographer," Howard said, incredulous. "He's Michael Andrews, the mystery author. You know – the guy who writes the Maxwell Bronte novels."
Monty shook his head, not understanding. Clearly, literary references were way over his head.
"He's that writer Gail dated before she met me. The guy Gail dated but hasn't quite let go of. She still has his pictures all over her apartment. Books he signed for her." He glared at me, stepping forward to address me. "What the hell kind of hold do you still have on her, Andrews? And what are you doing following me?"
Howard lashed out with a foot that connected with the side of my head.
I saw it coming, could tell he was going to strike me from the change in his heart rate. I could have easily dodged the blow or grabbed his foot and sent him sprawling.
But instead, I let him hit me.
He didn't hit me that hard. But from the angle Monty was at, and the way I played into it, reacting as if the kick was harder than it was, it looked pretty nasty. I threw myself backwards onto my back and feigned unconsciousness.
Howard stood in place, his heartbeat still elevated. He apparently wanted to strike me again and was debating on whether or not he should kick a man while he was down. It didn't take long for him to decide. He stepped forward and kicked me in the ribs. I maintained my role of the unconscious guy and let the kick roll me onto my front.
Monty stepped forward.
"You mean this is your old lady's ex? You think they're still tight?"
"What? No. No contact. She hasn't had contact with him at all. They're not tight."
"People screw around," Monty chortled. "Look at you and Missy. Maybe your old lady is getting some on the side from this guy."
Howard kicked me again. "No!" he yelled, kicking me once for each word. While the kicks did hurt, I was glad the man wasn’t all that strong. It might have hurt a bit more than a young child’s wild and flailing punches. Certainly hard enough to cause some bruising, but not hard enough to break any ribs "She's. Not. Getting. It. From. Him."
"Then what the hell is the guy doing here? And why is he claiming to be your biographer?"
"I don't know. I just . . . I don't know."
Howard's heartbeat pattered again and I braced for another kick.
"Stop kicking him,” Monty said. “We need him to wake up so we can figure out what he's really doing here, why he's apparently following you. Do you think your old lady has been on to us and our dealings?"
"Naw," he said. "No way. She's too stupid to figure something like that out."
It took everything in me not to jump up and pummel him. How dare he insult Gail like that. Howie-boy was going to get one hell of an ass kicking after I got him out of this mess, that was for sure.
But I continued to play possum.
I needed to figure out how best to get out of this.
Monty bent down and I let him roll me over onto my back. He slapped me in the face.
"Okay, dickhead," Monty said, menthol breath strong in my face. "Time to wake the fuck up." He slapped me several more times, back and forth.
I cracked an eye open, then slowly opened both, trying to look groggy and confused.
"Wha?" I mumbled.
Monty slapped me again. "Wake up, dipshit."
"Where am I?" I asked, glancing around, quickly taking in the fact that Monty's gun was no longer in his hand. One arm was still on my shoulder from when he'd rolled me over and the other still hovered in front of my face, ready to slap me again. I figured the gun was close by. Perhaps tucked into the back of his pants.
"What's your fucking game?" Monty asked, cocking his hand back to show me not answering meant another blow to the face.
Something came to mind. If I could keep Howard jumpy and aggravated, perhaps these two would work against each other.
"My game?” I asked. “Normally it’s Parcheesi. A seemingly simple game, but involving various strategic approaches. I love the fact that, right up to the end, you’re never really sure who’s going to win. But it’s difficult nowadays to find people who play it.”
I was listening to his heartbeat change while I rambled, aware of just how much I was getting under his skin and pissing him off. It was time to start pissing off Howard.
“Howie-boy's right," I said, looking up past Monty to glare at my rival, my eyes filled with hatred. That part was easy. He not only had my girl, but he was an unfaithful prick, bad-mouthed her, and was a white-collar criminal.
"I'm banging Gail. She told me his limp little dick wasn't enough for her – that she needed to be satisfied by a real man."
Monty started to laugh, and Howard let out a shriek of rage, his blood pressure going through the roof.
Howard reached down, grabbed the gun from where Monty had indeed tucked it into the back of his pants, and shouted, "Out of the way, Monty. I'm going to kill this mother fucker."
That was the distraction I needed.
Monty turned and easily knocked the weapon out of Howard’s hand with a chop to his forearm. It fell to the floor just a couple of feet away as Monty stood, twisting Howard’s arm around behind him.
Howard let out a yelp. “Lemme go! I wanna kill the fucker!” Howard was screaming.
“Don’t touch my fucking piece again,” Monty said, pushing Howard face first against the nearest wall.
As much as it pleased me to see Howard getting roughed up, this was the moment I’d been hoping for.
I did a break-dance style swipe of my legs that struck both men in the backs of their knees. They toppled to the floor, arms entangled, Monty falling mostly on top of Howard.
I jumped to my feet, kicked the handgun across the room then hauled Monty up by the shoulders. Holding him about six inches off the floor, I pressed him against the same wall he’d slammed Howard into and held him there, my hands on his shoulders and my forearms keeping his own arms pinned against the wall.
He spat in my face, the menthol-laced saliva irritating me more than the gesture itself.
I head-butted him, my forehead striking his forehead. We both let out a yelp of pain.
Damn, it hurt. It seemed to hurt me as much as it hurt him, making me wonder why the head-butt was such a popular move, but more frustrating, why I had tried using the head butt twice in the past half hour – both times I had been completely unsuccessful.
I shook my head, heard Howard getting to his feet behind us, and scrambling in the direction I had kicked the gun.
Monty was kicking at me, muttering curses, and I was still trying to clear my head, not sure what to do with the thug I was pinning down, nor about Howard.
Then the smell hit me.
Kern was back, and approaching from just outside the door. There was at least one other person with him.
When the door opened, both Howard and Monty were surprised. In fact, so were Kern, Bricky and Vince. The latter two were in pretty rough shape. Vince’s blood splattered face from his broken nose made him look like he’d just finished a raspberry pie eating contest. And judging by the look on his face, he hadn’t just lost, but likely been disqualified. Bricky’s swollen face and head suggested he’d been pummeled with a pile of the ceramic/clay blocks of his namesake. And Kern, well, he just stunk up the room. But I noticed he was carrying the aforementioned laptop in his right hand.
Everybody pretty much paused to regard one another for a few seconds when the hi-low wailing of the sirens pierced the room.
“Shit!” Monty said, and the thugs across the room responded like a group of well-practiced parishioners in response to a priest’s cue line.
“Shit-fuck!”
I twisted, hefting Monty by the shoulders. It didn’t take much to toss him the dozen or so feet to the door. He spun sideways in the air, his head and flailing arms catching Kern mid-chest, the core of his body hitting Bricky, and his right foot connecting with the side of Vince’s head.
All four went down, and, judging by the way Vince dropped, he was out again. But Monty, Kern and Bricky, as much a mass of arms and legs as they were of muttered curses, scrambled out from under one another and to their feet.
Howard reached the gun and started taking wild shots at me at the others in the room. His first lucky shot clipped Bricky in the shoulder. His next two shots went wild and into the walls and ceiling, but his third one struck Monty in the leg.
Kern dropped the laptop and scrambled back out the doorway.
That’s when Howard turned the gun toward me, a twisted grin on his face. But I’d already taken two lunging steps toward him. I knocked his gun arm down, a round firing into the wooden floor as the weapon came loose from his grip.
We both looked down at the gun, then at one another.
Howard’s grin took on a helpless look, almost as if the failed attempt to shoot me was a mere accident of sorts. A so sorry, man, can’t believe the gun went off like that in your direction.
I looked at him standing in front me, completely helpless, useless, and weak. His heart rate was doing its best Buddy Rich imitation.
I wanted to beat the snot out of him.
I wanted to strangle him to within an inch of his life.
But he just stood there, helpless, his goofy grin and upraised eyebrows now accompanied by the smell of fresh urine soaking into his pants.
Taking everything in me to restrain myself from putting too much into the punch, I threw a roundhouse to the side of Howard’s head that spun him around.
“That’s for Gail,” I said as he crumbled to the floor.
I watched him fall and felt the most wonderful guilty pleasure in my action. I had never purposely hurt another defenseless person with such ruthless disregard before, and while part of me was shocked at my actions, another part was . . . well, delighted.
In my mind, it was as if he was slowly folding in on himself as he collapsed to the floor. And if there was a way I could have slowed the track down in my mind, I would have. I would have played the Rocky theme in my head, too.
But I couldn’t really pause to enjoy the moment. Monty’s goons were still around.
Bricky had followed Kern out the door. But it was too late for them. I could hear the sound of police officers heading into the building to intercept them.
“Cowards!” Monty yelled at them from where he tried to get to his feet. The wound in his leg was too much for him and he teetered over onto his side.
Another flash from the night before hit me.
The flash of headlights followed by a car door slamming. A panicked human yelling something that sounded like “Stop” and the sound of a gun firing. The burning hot feeling of something tearing into the flesh of my leg.
I shook my head, glanced at Monty and Howard.
Howard was safe, the stupid scumbag, so my promise to Gail was not broken.
The police would be inside within a few minutes. I glanced at Howard, at Monty, at the laptop. I had to trust that the truth would make itself evident.
But I couldn’t be involved in this, at least not right away.
I needed to make myself scarce.