by Steve Lowe
And even if he had no one to go back home to, Jimmy realized he wouldn’t leave there until Sonny was dead. This had to end now.
Jimmy held the near-full coffee can in his right hand, pulled back the hammer on the 686, and got ready to go, but movement in the office stopped him. He watched the broken fighter in the back corner, Buster Grant, struggle to his knees. The kid was covered in blood and looked dead, but he pushed himself to his feet using a sledgehammer for leverage. Jimmy waited for Sonny to shoot him, but Sonny just kept talking.
“How about it, Jimmy? We need to get this over with already. If you think you can wait it out until the cops show up, you’re wrong. Listen hard, no distant sirens getting closer. Cops don’t come out to this neighborhood, and even if anyone heard these shots, they won’t be dialing nine-one-one. This shit is a way of life out here. So it’s just down to you and me and I’m ready to collect my money and move the fuck on.”
Buster wobbled on loose knees, but he bent down and gripped the sledgehammer in the middle of handle and staggered forward. Jimmy caught sight of Buster’s right hand, or rather where his right hand should have been, and his stomach dropped. Buster hefted the sledge, turned to get his whole body behind the swing. Jimmy set the can down and moved for the office door.
Sonny was rising from behind the desk, his head swiveling around to face Buster. The sledge connected as Jimmy came through the door. Sonny’s head, his whole body, spun around, his jaw sideways, the sound of it shattering nearly as loud as a gunshot. Jimmy raised the Smith & Wesson, but didn’t use it. The Walther dropped from Sonny’s hand, clattered onto the desk. Sonny dropped to the floor and didn’t move.
Buster let go of the sledgehammer and fell against the wall, slid down to the floor. Jimmy reached for the Walther and stopped. He stood and stared for a long time at the smashed boxing glove, lying in blood, a jagged bone sticking out of the wrist. He looked over at Buster, who sat watching him back. Buster’s eyes fell to Jimmy’s right hand, the fingers curled in toward the palm. It pulsed with old pain.
Sully mumbled, blood trailing from his split lips in strings. Jimmy walked over to him. His friend looked up, smiled meekly.
“Good job, man,” Sully slurred. “You got his ass.”
Without thinking about it, Jimmy raised the Smith & Wesson, pressed the barrel against Sully’s temple. The hammer was still down. Sully’s eyes widened. He was fully conscious now.
“Alright, man,” he said. “OK. Alright, JP.”
Jimmy’s finger twitched against the trigger. The slightest squeeze would take care of his biggest problem for good. Paint the wall with it. Sully shut his mouth and looked straight ahead. Saw Jimmy’s expression and knew that was it. Jimmy was stone-faced. Still, save for his gently rising chest. Stayed that way until Sully began to tremble. Was it fear or the ALS?
Jimmy finally spoke. “Last chance at the truth. Are you sick?”
Sully didn’t look at him, just kept staring ahead. He nodded. “Yes.”
“Your mom really died?”
“Yes.”
“And instead of taking the money and giving it to me like you said you were, you laid down a bet with it. So you could still pay me off and have some for yourself.”
Sully nodded.
“How did you get hooked up with Ricky?”
Sully swallowed. “I lied about Mom’s funeral. I did come back for it. Heard her will read by the lawyer. Went to a bar after. Ricky was following me. Found out I was back, was going to blow my head off. Said he wasn’t told to do it, but just wanted to because he didn’t like me. I told him about the will. About the money I had coming. He thought about it and had a better idea.”
Buster, voice thick with pain, said, “I was supposed to meet the lawyer here. Didn’t say nothing about none of y’all.”
Sully shook his head. “You weren’t supposed to know about us. Ricky was going to shoot you and Sonny both. I figured I was going to get it, too, but what the fuck was I supposed to do?”
Jimmy pressed the gun into Sully’s head. “You knew that and you still brought me along?”
“I thought I could tell you what was what. That you’d help me out, back me up in here. But then you found me in that gas station bathroom. I thought you were gonna run me down for real. I knew I made a mistake bringing you, but I figured you would just leave like you said you would.”
Jimmy breathed, eased up with the gun. Thumbed the hammer up and held it at his side. Sully looked at him, tremors getting worse. He tried to smile. “I always could count on you, Jimmy. No matter what. And look how this turned out? We got the money, right?”
Buster said, “Whatchu mean look how it turned out. You see my hand on the fuckin’ desk there, asshole?” He struggled to stand again, pushed himself up with his back to the wall. Buster held up his charred stump, the blackened flesh cracked and seeping. “You think this shit turned out good, motherfucker?”
Jimmy looked from Buster’s stump down to Sonny on the floor. Sonny’s eyes, wide and running with tears, watched them. Darted from Jimmy to Buster and back. He blinked and Jimmy moved around the desk. He pulled Sonny up by the shirt and shoved him into the empty chair behind the desk. Sonny groaned in agony, his jaw slack, canted to the left and hung crooked.
Buster lurched toward Sonny, gripped his ruined jaw in his remaining hand and squeezed. Sonny screamed.
“Look who’s still with us,” Buster said.
Jimmy patted Sonny down, felt the breast pocket of his pink shirt. Looked in the desk drawers, rummaged through papers until he came up with a box cutter. He flicked the blade out and walked back to Sully. Once Sully was free of the tape, Jimmy tossed the box cutter to Buster and said, “Keep an eye on him.”
He slipped the 686 into the back of his pants and plucked the Walther off the desk. Released the clip, checked it, re-inserted it and pulled back the slide. Jimmy walked out of the office and scanned the workbench. He didn’t find what he wanted and picked up the coffee can of screws and nails, dumped it out on the desk in the office.
Jimmy said to Sully, “Go out there and find me a hammer.”
Sully shuffled away and Jimmy pushed the pile of fasteners around. He plucked out a four-inch deck screw and a crooked gutter spike. Sully returned with a hammer, handed it to Jimmy who tucked it under his arm. He nodded at the axe still stuck in the desk. “Pull that out of the way.”
Sully did, rocking it back and forth until it came free.
Jimmy said to Sonny, “Hands out flat on the desk and keep them there.”
Sonny hesitated and Buster squeezed his jaw again. Sonny shrieked and slapped his hands on the desk on each side of Buster’s glove.
Jimmy said, “Hold him down.”
Sully got on one side of Sonny and Buster on the other and they leaned on him, gripping his arms. Jimmy held the seven-inch long gutter spike in his face. “If you move, I’ll use this to nail your ballsack to that chair. Understand?”
Sonny nodded and winced at the pain the effort caused him. Jimmy put the Walther in his front waist band, held the hammer with his left hand and placed the gutter spike in the middle of Sonny’s arm, just behind the wrist. With one swing, Jimmy drove the spike through Sonny’s arm between the radius and ulna bones, down into the desk. Sonny squealed and bucked against Sully and Buster, but Jimmy continued to hammer the spike into the desk until the head was flush against Sonny’s skin. He jerked against it, but his arm didn’t move and brought on fresh screams. Buster came around and helped Sully hold the other arm down and Jimmy repeated the process with the deck screw until both of Sonny’s hands were pinned to the desk at the wrists. Sully and Buster backed away.
Jimmy stood and stared at Sonny, who quivered and whined, looking up at him with his crooked jaw. Jimmy held the hammer up, showed it to him, and slowly transferred it from his left hand to his right. Water dripped somewhere in the room and Buster looked down at the floor.
“Motherfucker’s pissing himself.” He leaned over and whispered
into Sonny’s ear, “You one filthy nigga.”
Sonny cried.
Jimmy swung the hammer. He ignored the ache in his hand, and eventually, it went away. He brought the hammer down over and over onto Sonny’s right hand. Splinters of bone split through skin. Blood flung off the hammer in ropes, painting the wall, the ceiling, himself. He stopped swinging when the deck screw finally pulled free. Sonny slipped from the chair, ruined right hand held close to his chest. The longer gutter spike held fast, didn’t budge. Sonny dangled from it, his knees on the floor, left arm dislocated at the shoulder, as crooked as his face.
Jimmy handed the hammer to Buster.
Buster swung it, over and over, until he collapsed, fell against the desk and dropped to the floor. Sonny’s left hand was ground meat. He wheezed in and out, a wet rasp in his chest, his throat shredded from screaming.
Jimmy picked the hammer up and Sully stepped toward him, his hand held out for it. Jimmy looked at Sully’s hand and came at him with the hammer. Sully scrambled away. He fell over the chair and landed on his back, hands held out, screaming at Jimmy to stop.
“The fuck you think you’re doing,” Jimmy said.
“I don’t know,” Sully said. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Dammit, Jimmy, don’t do me like this.”
Jimmy ground his teeth together. “I’m not. Goddammit, I want to, but I’m not.” Tears burned his eyes and he wiped at them, lowered the hammer to his side. “You fuckin’ asshole, Sully.”
Jimmy threw the hammer at Sully. It struck him, heavy in the chest.
“You don’t get payback from anybody you piece of shit. You owe, Sully.”
A new voice from outside the office said, “Starting with me.”
Another deafening gun shot inside the tight office and Sully’s brains blew out the side of his head, slapped against the paneled wall. He dropped sideways, dead before he hit the floor.
Jimmy staggered back and looked at the two men coming through the door into the office. A middle-aged guy with long hair and a goatee, a nine-millimeter pointed at Jimmy’s head. The second guy was older, salt and pepper hair and closely trimmed beard. Thick, black-framed Harry Carey glasses like Coke bottles.
The old guy said, “And now, Sully, you don’t owe me no more.” The old guy stared down at Sully, hocked up phlegm and spit it at the body. His eyes moved to the desk, the mush that was Sonny hand, the rest of his arm still pegged there by the spike. Looked at Buster’s glove and down to Buster on the floor, breathing heavily on his side, watching them. His eyes finally fell on Jimmy. The old man’s face brightened.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “If it ain’t Jimmy fuckin’ Paradise.” He nudged the shooter and said, “Mick, you remember Jimmy, don’t you?”
Mick nodded, never moved that nine from Jimmy’s face, and said, “Yeah, Jimmy Two Tickets to Paradise. Course I do. How’s things, Jimmy?”
Jimmy shrugged, realized his hands were up. Licked his lips and said, “Things have been better.”
The old man said, “You remember me, don’t you Jimmy?”
Jimmy thought for a moment and said, “Yeah, now I do. Mr. Sims, right?”
Sims smiled. “Sure, you remember.”
Sonny groaned, tried to pull himself up, fell back again and cried out as the spike dug against his arm bones.
Sims walked around the desk and looked down at Sonny, shook his head and scratched his beard. “Jesus, what a mess.”
He looked back up at Jimmy. “This is not how we do things.” He pointed at Jimmy’s hand. “That,” he said, “is not how we do things. You know the reason people don’t respect boxing no more?”
Jimmy had his opinions, none of which he cared to share at that moment. Instead he just shook his head.
“Because of guys like this,” Sims said, pointing down at Sonny. “Because it’s full of crooks who think they’re hotshots. Think just because they put a few fights together it gives them the right to throw a couple. Too many sonsabitches trying to make a fast buck in this sport, but that ain’t the way to do it. You know what I mean, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, just statement of fact. Jimmy sure as shit knew what he meant and nodded at the old man.
“A boxer’s got to train hard,” Sims continued. “He’s got to give up everything else and devote himself to the science if he wants to be something. Boxing is the American way. It’s a sport that even the lowest, dumbest bastard around can succeed in, if he’s willing to put in his time. Do the hard work that’s necessary.” Sims pointed at Sonny. “Guys like this, they don’t put in the time and pay their dues. You have to earn respect. My old grandfather used to say, ‘Any man thinks he’s entitled to your respect will never deserve it.’ That old man was right.”
He squatted down and pulled Sonny’s head up by the hair. Looked at his face, at his broken jaw, and grimaced. “You’ve gotten everything you deserved, you fuckin’ half Wop greaseball piece of shit. You’ve got no respect for this sport and no respect for the people who run it, and now we’re going to have all manner of heat come down on us because of this. Illinois State Athletic Commission is already talking about an investigation. I’m too old for this nonsense.”
Sims let go of Sonny’s head and walked around the desk to Buster. “Son, you stole from me,” he said. “You could have been a hell of a fighter, but you let that shit get a hold of you, and now look at you.” Sims shook his head and glanced at Mick.
Mick turned and put a bullet in Buster’s chest, a second one in his head. Jimmy shrank back against the wall, his hands still up. Mick moved around behind the desk and shot Sonny in the head. The wheezing stopped and the room was quiet save for the ringing in Jimmy’s head. Blue smoke drifted toward the ceiling.
Sims said to no one in particular, “I think it might be time to get out of this business for good.” Jimmy thought he might have still been talking to the dead men littered around his feet. Sims sighed and turned for the door.
Mick gestured at Jimmy with his gun. “What about this one?”
Sims looked over his shoulder at Mick then over to Jimmy. He said, “Everyone in this room tried to steal from me but Jimmy.” He walked up to Jimmy and pointed at his gnarled hand. “I had beef with the rest, but this one? He’s just a fighter. Right, Jimmy?”
“Yeah. Right.”
Sims stared at Jimmy’s hand and shook his head. “I feel bad what happened to you, kid. Never should have gone like that. There’s no place in boxing for people like these. It’s no wonder people don’t take the sport seriously no more. This was a long time coming for Sonny, and for your pal Sully, too.”
Jimmy said nothing. Just waited for the old man to change his mind. He didn’t.
“I always liked you, Jimmy, because you were respectful. You worked hard, you did your job. You just got unlucky when it came to your friends. Maybe if we had a few more guys like you around, I wouldn’t be thinking about an early retirement. Where you gonna go now, kid?”
“Home. I’m going home now.”
Sims nodded. “Good. You take care of yourself.”
Sims walked out of the office and Mick followed, stooped to pick up the satchel lying next to Ricky. Unzipped it, checked inside, closed it up again. He left without another glance at Jimmy, who slipped down the wall until his ass hit the cool concrete floor. He held his head in his hands as the front door banged shut.
A second later, the rattle of automatic weapon fire out on the street. Rounds slammed through the cheap sheet metal outer walls of the body shop, punched holes through the paneled interior walls of the office. Splinters and plaster showered onto Jimmy, face down with his arms over his head. One long burst of fire, over a dozen rounds at least until Jimmy figured the weapon was empty. Then quiet for a long time. Jimmy lay there, breathing, listening. Waiting for the gunman outside to reload. To come in and finish him off. He didn’t move until the high buzz in his ears dissipated and he could make out the distant whine of sirens.
Jimmy crawled over to
the door and looked out into the shop. Nothing moved except a puddle of oil spreading across the floor. Smell of fuel in there now, everything riddled with bullet holes, leaking fluid. The grill was tipped over, a steaming circle in its metal side, ash-covered charcoals spilled out over the floor. He pulled Sonny’s Walther from his waistband and went to the door, watched the puddle advance toward the coals.
Jimmy opened the front door and looked outside. It was quiet. The sirens were moving away from him, their Doppler warble fading. He scanned the street a few more seconds then tucked the Walther back into his pants. He reached around and pulled Ricky’s 686 out, used his shirt to wipe down the handle and trigger guard, turned and tossed it back into the puddle of oily gas. He took a breath and walked out onto the sidewalk.
Sims and Mick lay heaped together, also riddled with holes and leaking fluid. The bag of money between them on the ground. Jimmy dug into his pocket, pulled out his keys, looked up and saw a black man standing in the street, an AK-47 in his hands.
“Is that Jimmy Paradise?”
Jimmy squinted through the darkness, the sliver of moonlight above not enough to make the guy out. He tried to keep the rattle out of his voice.
“Who’s that?”
The guy stepped closer until Jimmy recognized the face. He struggled to come up with a name.
“Buster dead, ain’t he?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.” It finally came to him. Mitch Sampson. Buster Grant’s uncle. He remembered the old guy from his early days training at Windy City Gym. He was a tough old guy, but he wasn’t a gangster.
“They shoot him?”
“Yes.” Jimmy nudged Mick’s leg and said, “This one right here.” He didn’t plan to tell Mitch what Sonny had done to his nephew’s hand.
