part. He lifted his foot to meet his hand halfway, staring at Evan the whole time. He had to get the blade out without tipping Evan off. His fingers wormed into the soft leather of his boot. ‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you, all the jobs you guys pulled together?’ Negotiations were over, but he had to keep him distracted.
Evan smiled. ‘It meant more before he sent you to hard-case me.’
His index finger touched the butt of the knife, and he pinched it gently, sliding it out. The grip felt warm from his skin. He braced his feet, one a little ahead, ready to lunge from the chair. The trick would be to do it easy; fast, but not hurried. ‘How’s this for hard case? You back off Danny, or I’ll come at you with everything I have.’ He pictured the moves. Click the knife open, spring forward, clock Evanwith a left – it would be clumsy, but it would sting – get the blade to his throat. Dig in enough to bring a little blood. Evan wasn’t the only bad boy on the playground.
Evan smiled, laid one hand on the table atop the rag. ‘Fuck you, Patrick.’
Now.
He leapt to his feet, the chair falling backward as he thumbed the stud. The knife opened smooth and clean in his right hand. Evan’s eyes tracked him, but he hadn’t stirred from his seat. Taken by surprise. Patrick drew back his left fist as he moved, feeling the blood surge through his body, feeling unstoppable, unbeatable –
The whiskey bottle exploded. Something sucker-punched him, white-hot in his chest. It didn’t hurt, but it stopped him like he’d hit an invisible wall. He stared at the table, at the green bottle fragments and the shattered Jameson’s shield. Evan’s hand rested on the kitchen towel, which was smoking from a ragged hole, the edges burned powder black.
Oh. No.
Evan stood in slow motion, a hint of a smile on his face. His right hand blurred in a backhanded slap. The world burst into black-and-white stars as Patrick felt himself falling. His back smacked the linoleum, the wind springing from his lungs. It was the first thing that hurt.
The second was Evan stepping on his knife hand, crunching down on his ohgodjesus his fingers, his mother-fucking fingers!
Then a steel toe caught his temple, and darkness smothered him like a heavy wool blanket.
16. Mute and Far Away
It was after three in the morning, and the diner was nearly empty. Evan took a booth in the smoking section and scanned the place. Two cops hunched over coffee mugs at the counter. A table of twenty-something drunks told too-loud stories that all began with ‘You’se guys,’ like they were in a Scorsese movie. The Italians outnumbered the Irish in Bridgeport these days, but that was nothing to brag about. There was a Buddhist temple where he remembered a Catholic church. Half the signs were in Spanish. And Asians had taken over McGuane Park, trying to pose and play basketball like the brothers.
Once he had his stake, it’d be time to move on.
The waitress called him honey and touched his shoulder, her tits straining against the cheap uniform. He thought about kicking it back to her, asking when she got off, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble. He ordered, then lit a smoke and took it deep.
So Danny had sent Patrick after him. Surprise move.
Typical, though, of the guy he’d become. A couple of years wearing a white collar, and Danny had forgotten what was important. The thought chafed at Evan, the idea that while he’d been doing his time, the smug fucker was busily erasing his past.
You could read the
Trib
through the burger the waitress finally plunked down. The soup looked like cream of corn-starch. It reminded him of prison food, and he imagined Danny waiting in line at the Stateville cafeteria for a plastic plate of mac and cheese with mashed potatoes, lukewarmmilk to wash it down. He liked that image. Liked it quite a bit. A six-by-nine cell might be exactly what Danny needed.
Something to think about.
He ate without relish, keeping one eye
Evan smiled. ‘It meant more before he sent you to hard-case me.’
His index finger touched the butt of the knife, and he pinched it gently, sliding it out. The grip felt warm from his skin. He braced his feet, one a little ahead, ready to lunge from the chair. The trick would be to do it easy; fast, but not hurried. ‘How’s this for hard case? You back off Danny, or I’ll come at you with everything I have.’ He pictured the moves. Click the knife open, spring forward, clock Evanwith a left – it would be clumsy, but it would sting – get the blade to his throat. Dig in enough to bring a little blood. Evan wasn’t the only bad boy on the playground.
Evan smiled, laid one hand on the table atop the rag. ‘Fuck you, Patrick.’
Now.
He leapt to his feet, the chair falling backward as he thumbed the stud. The knife opened smooth and clean in his right hand. Evan’s eyes tracked him, but he hadn’t stirred from his seat. Taken by surprise. Patrick drew back his left fist as he moved, feeling the blood surge through his body, feeling unstoppable, unbeatable –
The whiskey bottle exploded. Something sucker-punched him, white-hot in his chest. It didn’t hurt, but it stopped him like he’d hit an invisible wall. He stared at the table, at the green bottle fragments and the shattered Jameson’s shield. Evan’s hand rested on the kitchen towel, which was smoking from a ragged hole, the edges burned powder black.
Oh. No.
Evan stood in slow motion, a hint of a smile on his face. His right hand blurred in a backhanded slap. The world burst into black-and-white stars as Patrick felt himself falling. His back smacked the linoleum, the wind springing from his lungs. It was the first thing that hurt.
The second was Evan stepping on his knife hand, crunching down on his ohgodjesus his fingers, his mother-fucking fingers!
Then a steel toe caught his temple, and darkness smothered him like a heavy wool blanket.
16. Mute and Far Away
It was after three in the morning, and the diner was nearly empty. Evan took a booth in the smoking section and scanned the place. Two cops hunched over coffee mugs at the counter. A table of twenty-something drunks told too-loud stories that all began with ‘You’se guys,’ like they were in a Scorsese movie. The Italians outnumbered the Irish in Bridgeport these days, but that was nothing to brag about. There was a Buddhist temple where he remembered a Catholic church. Half the signs were in Spanish. And Asians had taken over McGuane Park, trying to pose and play basketball like the brothers.
Once he had his stake, it’d be time to move on.
The waitress called him honey and touched his shoulder, her tits straining against the cheap uniform. He thought about kicking it back to her, asking when she got off, but it didn’t seem worth the trouble. He ordered, then lit a smoke and took it deep.
So Danny had sent Patrick after him. Surprise move.
Typical, though, of the guy he’d become. A couple of years wearing a white collar, and Danny had forgotten what was important. The thought chafed at Evan, the idea that while he’d been doing his time, the smug fucker was busily erasing his past.
You could read the
Trib
through the burger the waitress finally plunked down. The soup looked like cream of corn-starch. It reminded him of prison food, and he imagined Danny waiting in line at the Stateville cafeteria for a plastic plate of mac and cheese with mashed potatoes, lukewarmmilk to wash it down. He liked that image. Liked it quite a bit. A six-by-nine cell might be exactly what Danny needed.
Something to think about.
He ate without relish, keeping one eye
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