Except I opened the door onto anarchy.
All freaking hell was breaking loose at my own club. A milling crowd drifted in front, yelling and hooting, a surefire indication of a brawl. I tossed a five through the partition and got out as quickly as I could.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…
Junior was on his back on a patch of ice. Some hipster fucko was raining shots down into his face as Junior clutched at the guy’s lapels. Before I could get there, G.G. grabbed Junior’s assailant by the back of his coat and launched him up and over both the snowdrift and the railing behind it. When the guy saw that the odds had changed, he bolted.
I chased him the aforementioned six feet before the inferno in my leg took hold again.
When he saw that my attempted pursuit had run its course, he turned and yelled back at me. “You tell that cunt that I’ll be back later.” He spat onto the sidewalk, then disappeared down the stairs of the Kenmore T station.
I didn’t respond, since I had no idea who the supposed cunt was, nor the context for who the mystery cunt may have been.
I turned back to Junior. G.G. held him up under the arms as he regained his senses. Blood dribbled between his mashed lips. “That guy call me a cunt?”
“Not sure, buddy. Definitely in the realm of possibility.”
“That’s not nice.” Junior straightened himself up and brushed some of the snow from his shirtfront. Groggily, he looked around for the reason he’d just been owned. “I slipped,” he mumbled. “I had the asshole and I slipped on the ice. I went down under him. I fucking had him.”
I took a handful of snow and handed it to him. “Here. Hold this against your mouth.”
“Thanks.” That made three people who had gotten stomped in less than two hours. And the night wasn’t over yet. The snow in front of the bar had so much blood smeared into it, it looked like somebody had lost a fight with a cherry Slushee machine. Junior’s eyes cleared a bit when the snow came in contact with his swelling face. “How was your field trip?”
“Good. Good.” I rolled the leg of my Dickies over my knee and applied a handful of snow to my own injury. “Think I may have got us into a war with Ian Summerfield and, by proxy, IronClad.”
Junior nodded, impressed. “IronClad? Marcus there?”
“Yep.”
“At least tell me you got to tag that cock-knocker.”
“Broke his nose, I think.”
“Good on ya. Can we go back in? I’m freezing balls.”
“Sure.”
Junior looked around. “Where’s Jason?”
FUCK!
I knew I was forgetting something.
***
The bar had a dangerous energy to it when we walked in. Most of the crowd had witnessed Junior getting dropped.
One thing about the bouncing biz and life amidst the wildlife: never let the animals see that the zookeeper is vulnerable.
The noise level dropped suddenly, as if everyone in the room had a solid shit-talk running and all shut their yaps at once so we wouldn’t hear it. As we passed the jukebox, I did catch one snippet, a Townie in a Bruins cap muttering to his buddy. “Nice fucking bouncing, tough guy.”
I didn’t say anything. I took the cap off his head and held it over his eyes for a second.
In the first half of that second, he said, “Hey!”
The second half was occupied by my fist colliding right onto the embroidered yellow B.
His head snapped back and he fell against the juke. His buddy yelped when G.G. lifted him under his arms and bopped him hard off the doorjamb, then out into the snow.
I cracked the Townie twice more in the mouth, until I felt wetness under my knuckles. Then I spun him around, grabbed a handful of the back of his jeans, and launched him right behind his buddy.
The room was a lot quieter after that.
But not quiet enough.
I yanked the jukebox cord from the socket right in the middle of “Back In Black” and the room fell silent as a morgue. I looked around the room, stopping to catch any faces that might have decided to give me the stink-eye. There wasn’t a one. Even Tommy wasn’t looking at me.
“Anybody got a comment?” I roared.
Nobody did.
“Nobody? Everybody sure? ’Cause now’s the time, bitches.” Adrenaline surged through me, my rage barely checked.
Silence.
I plugged the jukebox back in.
The animals knew who was in charge again.
Chapter Three
We went into high alert.
Tommy was having a hissy fit about me losing Jason, the crowd was getting restless, and I was beginning to lose my various patiences.
Junior was no help. “Did you ever think that this might not be the best time to make a stand against the drug trade? I mean, we’re not in top form, Batman.”
“Marcus grabbed me. Talked some shit. I reacted.”
I didn’t mention Kelly. It wasn’t that I was afraid Junior would think less of me for letting it get to me, it was that I was thinking less of me for letting it get to me.
Junior shook his head. We weren’t used to being helpless.
Okay, we weren’t helpless, but we were not the threats we had been a year ago. And even in our top form, we couldn’t have gone head to head with Summerfield and IronClad.
“Where the hell is Jason?” Tommy hollered at me for the fifth time in fifteen minutes.
I bit my lip and fought the urge to put my fist into his. “I told you, Tommy. He went to Raja and I got tossed. I warned you about that asshat.”
Tommy spat some more curses in my direction, but knew I was right. No amount of money was worth the trouble Jason St. John brought down on the house. Not on this night, at least.
“What the hell happened with the guy outside?” I asked Junior.
Junior’s ears went red with embarrassment. “I had him. Then I went down on the ice and he got on top of me.” The story already had taken on the quality of rote, Junior convincing himself that it was all the ice’s fault. It wasn’t the first brawl Junior had lost, but it was probably the first since he was fourteen.
“I got that much already. Why did you toss him?”
“I don’t know what happened. I heard a crash and saw him shaking Ginny by the shoulders.”
I could understand that. Ginny had been waiting tables at The Cellar for almost four years and had sharpened her tongue to a point where she could cut drywall with it. Many a customer had their tempers flared by a few words from Ginny. It didn’t excuse the manhandling, but it was understandable.
“Yo, Boo!” G.G. yelled up the stairs.
“What’s up?”
“Jason’s back.”
I hobbled down the stairs two at a time, ready to strangle him with his own skinny jeans. I quickly scanned the room, but couldn’t spot him. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the back.” G.G. pointed toward the small room to the left of the stage that band members lounged in between sets.
“Thanks.” I started pushing my way through the crowd, clenching my fists.
Reading my mind, G.G. yelled to my back. “Don’t hurt him too bad, Boo. Tommy will have your ass if he can’t play the last set.”
I shoved the door to the back hard enough to make it bang like a shotgun. Jason jumped up, startled. Unluckily for him, it also startled the shirtless girl who was blowing him. Jason shrieked in pain and doubled over on the dirty concrete floor.
“Ohmygod,” the girl wailed. “Are you all right?”
Jason squealed and rolled around on the floor in response.
“Get the fuck out,” I snarled.
“I can’t! I can’t stand up,” Jason mewled.
“Not you, shithead.”
The girl grabbed her top and jacket and bolted from the room. Hoots and cheers erupted behind me as I slammed the door shut after her. I propped a folding chair under the doorknob to keep any other interested parties at bay.
“Oh Christ,” he squealed at me. �
��Is it still on? Please tell me that bitch didn’t bite my cock off.”
“You’re fine. Stand up.”
“Check. I can’t look.”
I had no intention of checking. I grabbed two handfuls of his denim shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Stop your whining and answer my questions.”
Under the haze of whatever pharmaceuticals he’d bought and dropped at Raja, his unfocused eyes tried looking into mine but instead skittered around like two fried eggs on a skillet. “What the fuck’s your problem? Where’s Tommy? You almost got my junk bit off.”
I bounced his head off the grafitti. Decades-old paint flakes crackled down into his greasy hair. “Tommy’s no happier with you right now than I am. What did Summerfield say to you?”
“Ow, man. Take a pill.” I bounced his head again, then threw him onto the ratty couch right where I knew there was a sharp spring poking up. Jason bucked and grabbed his ass. “Dammit!” His flaccid dick wobbled at me as he hopped up.
I checked my gag reflex and decided to give him a moment. “Pick your pants up.”
“Up your ass,” he said. Jason yanked up his underwear and leather pants, wincing. That’s what rock stars get for wearing such tight pants.
“I’m not asking again without loosening your teeth, got it? Now, what did Summerfield say to you?”
“Where the fuck is Tommy? This is your last night on the job, dickhole”
I slapped him hard. The back of my brain reminded me that I may have been pissed at Jason but not as much as I was with the rest of the situation. It was hard not to take it out on him. “Last chance.”
“Are you going to hit me again if I tell you you’ve got an anger management problem, dude?”
“You’re not the first one to say it.”
“Wait a minute. You were at Raja. The hell was that all about?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m not the one who started the Royal Rumble in there. I was just there to—”
“I know why you were there. Everybody knows how you roll, Trippy. I was following you to make sure you didn’t forget to make your way back here for the second set.”
He didn’t seem ashamed that everybody knew he was popping. If anything, he seemed pleased. Maybe he thought that his cavalier drug use enhanced his rock star creds. “Hey, man. Like Kiss said, ‘I wanna rock all night and party…’”
Bad enough he hit me with butchered lyrics, but then he followed up by making the devil horns with his fingers at me.
I grabbed his pinkie and twisted, if only out of respect to Ronnie James Dio. “Last chance, Jason. What did Summerfield say? You either answer me, or I take this finger with me and we end your musical career right now.”
“Owowowowowow!” Jason squealed and went to his knees. “Whaddaya mean, what did he say? About you?”
“No, about Kiss, dicktard. Yes, me.” I let go of his finger.
Jason pulled his hand back and cradled it under his arm. “Not much. Just said, ‘Oh dear’ after you left.”
“He actually said, ‘Oh dear’?” Fucking douche.
“Yeah. For the record, the guy didn’t seem half as concerned about you as you seem to be about him. His girl was more upset than he was.”
His girl.
His girl.
Some small animal with very sharp teeth began gnawing inside my chest. “What did she say?”
“Not much. She got all freaked out and said she had to go.”
“Did she?”
“Yeah. Summerfield was pissed. Maybe pissed isn’t the word—maybe irritated. Guy’s a cucumber. Anyhow, he kissed her and she left. That was it.” Jason flexed his fingers and lifted his chin at me, a smug smile on his face. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
The animal chomped harder.
I glared at him, but didn’t take the bait.
The crowd was starting to chant King-Ly! King-Ly! King-Ly! There were three hundred strong ready to tear the place down if this dickhead didn’t take the stage.
“I want you on stage in five minutes. Finish your set and get the fuck gone.” I turned to walk out.
“He said one other thing after she left.”
“What?”
“I don’t know if it was about you or not, but he said it to the guy whose nose you busted.”
“What was it?” At least that confirmed Marcus’s nose got broke.
“He said that they were gonna have to take care of the problem.”
“Was I the problem?”
“What do you think?”
Well, wasn’t that just ducky?
***
The Kingly got onstage and started their second set. I went back to the door with Junior, grinding my teeth over the new pile of fecal matter I’d managed to get us into. I stood just outside the entrance, puffing furiously away at the third straight cigarette I was chaining.
“You think they’ll hit us here?” he asked, the frayed end of a cocktail straw twirling between his lips.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Tonight?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. They know we’re busted up. There’s no better time to come at us.” I immediately lit another cigarette, ignoring the creeping ache in my lungs. I needed to keep my hands busy. “So what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you’re an asshole.”
“You always think that.”
“True, but the feeling is particularly strong tonight. What do you wanna do? We could call in some backup.”
I shook my head. “The rest of the boys who aren’t puking their guts out with the flu are out in Cambridge working the Slapshot show. No way they’re getting back here by the time we close in this weather.”
I gave it some thought, then raised an eyebrow at Junior.
He knew where that eyebrow was heading, other than to the middle of my forehead. “Aw, hell no. Don’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking. That’s going to make it worse.”
“Can it get worse?”
“Don’t say that!”
“I think we have to.”
“Fuck.” Junior frowned, making the bulldog face that I knew only accompanied his darkest moods and imaginings. “If you think so.”
“What do you think?”
“You don’t wanna know what I think.”
I ground out my smoke into a pink pile of bloodied snow, a reminder of what had already gone down that night. And what might be coming.
I went upstairs.
To call Twitch.
Chapter Four
2:15 in the a.m.
The bar had been closed for fifteen minutes and the last stragglers were getting the heave-ho.
No sign of Twitch. I’d left a voice mail message, but wasn’t sure he’d gotten it. Twitch wasn’t the kind of guy who regularly checked messages. If I had to guess, he didn’t get all that many he had to check.
One could assume he was home, since Twitch also wasn’t a “night out on the town” kind of guy. He was more of a “sit at home on Saturday night cleaning his guns and watching Fox News” type. Hence the few and far between messages from the few and far between friends he had.
Like I was one to talk.
“Maybe they’re not showing,” Junior said hopefully.
I wasn’t as hopeful. “We would.”
“I know, but maybe they’re not showing tonight. The blizzard’s kicked up again.”
“It’ll be tonight.”
“I’m just saying, they have to know we’re expecting them. Maybe they’ll wait and nail us with the element of surprise. Catch us when we’re not expecting it.”
The soreness in my leg reminded me of the storm’s presence with every step. Its status was “fuck you.”
“It’ll be tonight.” The IronClad crew weren’t element-of-surprise type guys.
G.G. walked up the back stairs. “Downstairs is locked up. All out.”
“You can take off, then,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right?” G.G. curle
d his lip at me. “You think I ain’t got your back?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying this isn’t your fight.”
“Whatever part of that might be true, fuck you for saying that. I ain’t going nowhere.”
I had to admit that having G.G. behind us made me feel better, but I’d have laid money on IronClad showing up with at least six guys. We were still going to be outnumbered by double. “Thanks, man,” I mumbled.
“And fuck you for thinking that you have to thank me.”
I walked to the porthole in the thick wooden front door. All I saw was snow. Then I saw the cut of halogen lights moving down Comm Ave. Halogen lights that were on the front of a black SUV that stopped in front of The Cellar.
IronClad had arrived.
“They’re he—” I started to say. Then another SUV pulled up behind the first. Then a third cut around in front and backed alongside a snowdrift.
“What?” Junior pocketed a roll of quarters and handed G.G. a pool cue. G.G. snapped the cue over his knee and handed the bottom half to Junior.
I counted the first six as they climbed out of the cars on the side that I could see. Then another seven walked around from the other side. Each one the size of a small African nation.
Boy, was my estimate off.
“Boy, are they ever here.”
Boy, oh boy, oh boy.
“Last chance,” I said to Junior and G.G.
“Fuck you,” they said in unison.
Then Junior added, “Sundance.”
I could have done without the Sundance.
I opened the door and walked out into the snow, my two-man crew behind me. Marcus stood front and center, his arms behind his back, his baker’s dozen-strong wrecking crew behind him. However, I was pleased to see his nose was taped tight against his face. At least I had that, considering that the three of us were probably ending our night with most of ourselves taped to the rest of us. Maybe some staples.
“Hey, Marcus,” I said cheerily. “You bring enough guys with you?”
“Gonna sucker punch me now, Malone?” He brought his hands around and slapped a Louisville Slugger into his right palm.
And so the dance began…
“Well, if I remember the incident correctly, I believe you put your hands on me first.”
Rough Trade Page 3
