Cards on the Table, стр. 10
«Yeah. There's a lot in it, but I don't know how relevant most of it is. I figured you'd find it interesting.» To put it mildly. «I'm on my way,» I said.
I turned off the burner, stuck the soup in the fridge. Stopping only long enough to slip on a pair of Vans and drag the comb through my damp hair, I shook my head at my mirrored self. I had a feeling trying to work out a friendship with Jack was a bad idea. I was still too attracted to him. But, unless one of us was planning to move, there didn't seem much help for it – and he was a valuable resource.
I stepped outside of my apartment and locked the door. The evening air was mild, filled with the hum of the pool generator and air conditioners. The lights were on in the pool, the solar-powered tiki torches flickering in the twilight. I could smell the jasmine in the air –and a hint of tobacco smoke.
I glanced over as I started up the stairs to Jack's apartment, pinpointing the round orange dot of the cigarette of someone standing in the shadow of the blanket of bougainvillea cascading over the side of the building. I didn't make anything of it until I saw the cigarette arc off into the night and a bulky silhouette detach itself from the deeper shadows.
«You don't listen too well,» the shadow said conversationally, walking toward me.
The funny thing is, my initial thought was that he said too well rather than too good. A thug with proper grammar?
He lunged for me, and instead of backing away, I moved forward and delivered an uppercut with all the power I had. Despite the fact that I was off balance on the steps, it was a good punch; I hadn't had time to think and so my body was loose and my hand relaxed till the last moment. I put my total body force into that strike, driving my fist squarely into his sternum. It was like punching a bull. I tried to follow through to his chin, but he'd recovered from his initial surprise by then and blocked me, slipping left and countering with a straight punch. Ducking, I thought, Fuck. He's a boxer.
Most street fights aren't about training or skill. They're about two pissed off men throwing punches until one of them falls down. So a guy who can stay cool and keep thinking, and knows the basics, has an advantage, even if he's on the slim side. Unless he runs into a bigger guy with a lot more experience and training – which I'd just done.
The punches began to fall, landing on my arms and shoulders. I had my guard up trying to protect my head, but there was no way I could stand up to that onslaught. His fist landed in my gut and I went down on one knee, nearly losing my balance. The stairs and railing
prevented me from getting clean away, and that was my only hope at that point. Through the barrier of my arms, I tried to get a good look at him, but it was nearly dark by then. He kind of looked like Mr. Clean: big and bald and sort of jolly. He seemed to be enjoying pummeling me.
Footsteps pounded on the landing above and then down the stairs, and somebody brushed over me and tackled Mr. Clean, who quit whaling on me and plunged back, crashing down the stairs with Jack on top. I lowered my arms, panting, muscles shaking, and hauled myself to my feet.
Jack and Mr. Clean were rolling around on the cement courtyard, and I had to take a moment to admire the brutal efficiency of Jack's attack. He swung with fine, fierce proficiency – and he was better built for brawling than me, though not in Mr. Clean's division.
Mr. Clean changed tactics, snaking around like one of those Water Wiggles. He was a wild man, and he managed to wriggle out from under Jack, grabbing for one of the umbrellaed metal tables and tipping it over. I was down the stairs by then and caught the table edge before it cracked down on Jack.
Mr. Clean rolled onto his feet, Jack scrambled up, and Mr. Clean drew a gun from beneath his lightweight sports jacket and pointed it at us.
Chapter Six
I froze. Jack's arms came up in a hold everything position. «Easy, pal,» he said.
Mr. Clean's eyes met mine, and they were as dark and fathomless as the barrel pointed my way. «Bang,» he said.
I stopped breathing, but instead of firing he swung the gun at Jack and said, «Don't move. Don't even twitch.» He was backing up, moving swiftly to the front entrance, one hand stretched behind him to keep from walking into one of the other tables or lounge chairs.
The gun swung back my way. «Last warning,» he said to me. «Stay out of the Aldrich case.» And then he was out through the arched entrance.
«God damn it!» Jack snapped, and he went tearing up the stairs back to his apartment.
I sat down on the bottom step, feeling like a puppet after someone had cut the strings. Bang.
I could hear the blast; feel bullets tearing into my body, plowing through flesh and bone. I felt sick, although that probably had something to do with the punches I'd received.
Jack came racing back, taking the stairs a couple at a time. He shot past me and out through the apartment complex entrance. It was dark now but I could see the gleam of the gun in his hand.
I put my head in my hands, getting my wind back. I was going to have a beautiful set of bruises in a few hours. It'd happened so fast, but that's like anything. Fast and unexpected, like when a soccer mom runs a red light and smashes into your car. Like a lightning strike in your brain.
After a short time Jack returned, walking through the arched entryway. Spotting me still sitting on the stairs, he came over and dropped down beside me, resting his gun on his knee. «Okay?» «Yeah.» «Do you know him? Did you recognize him?» I shook my head. «I think it's the guy from yesterday. Same voice, I think.»
«I'll file the report on this one. I want that asshole.» His face was all angles and sharps in the uneven light. The little white scar on his forehead stood out clearly. Meeting my gaze, he suddenly grinned. «That was a helluva punch you threw, Mr. North. You can handle yourself okay.» «Define okay.»
«Nah, the dude was built like a brick wall.» His cheek creased. «You've done some boxing.» «College.»
He nodded. After a moment he said quietly, «The guy's connected. I'll guarantee it.» «You mean like mob connected?» He nodded. «I guarantee you we'll find him in a mug book.»
«Tony Fumagalli?» I said doubtfully. «No one seems to know – or will say – why Eva broke her engagement to him.» «Maybe she figured out what he did for a living.»
«They called him the Gentleman Gangster in the press. It shouldn't have been a newsflash.»
He didn't say anything. I was crazily conscious of his shoulder against mine, his bare arm brushing my bare arm. Jack shrugged. «Tony F.'s out of play but there's always Frankie, his son. He inherited the family business when the old man's brain turned to mush.»
Speaking of brains turning to mush. I wiped my forehead on my arm and said, «Maybe there's a problem with Tony's alibi. Even so…would it really matter? Would anyone prosecute a senile old man?» «They might.» Jack sighed. «I agree it doesn't seem worth the taxpayers' money.» «Maybe Mr. Clean's not mob connected.»
«Mr. Clean.» He snorted with amusement. Then he shook his head. «You don't hire guys like that off the street. He's a pro.» He smiled at me and his dimple showed. «You've got someone seriously annoyed with you, Tim.» * * * * *
Splashing cold water on my face, I used one of Jack's immaculate towels to dry off and stepped out of the bathroom.
His place was very neat. Everything-in-its-place-scary. I glanced in his bedroom as I walked past. The bed – a waterbed – was tidily made, black and brown striped pillows stacked comfortably on a black comforter. I wondered who he was sleeping with these days. I hadn't noticed anyone coming or going, but then I'd tried hard not to notice. And Jack had always been discreet about his social life, even when I was part of that social life.