Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [47]
The man turned to Bobby, gun in hand, eyes lit with anger.
“Take your shit down the road, bum,” he said. “Before I put you to sleep for good.”
“I look like a bum to you?” Bobby said, dragging his garbage bag-covered feet closer. “You blind? I’m a singer, man. And you’re steppin’ on my stage.”
The man raised the .38 Special, placing it inches from Bobby’s chest, and tightened his grip around the trigger.
“Hear me out, singer,” the man said. “I kill you and there ain’t nobody out there gonna give a fuck.”
“I tell jokes too.” Bobby planted his feet, his right hand clutching the Four Roses pint. “Make the girls smile nice and pretty.”
“Last chance,” the man said, pressing the gun against Bobby’s cheek.
“I’ll take it,” Bobby said.
He slapped the gun away with his left hand and smashed the pint of Four Roses on the side of the man’s head. As the glass broke against bone, the ski mask was drenched in iced tea.
But the blow only dazed the larger man.
As he hurled his body on top of Bobby, both falling to the ground, he landed two solid punches to Bobby’s temple and one to his lip.
“Gonna kill you, bum,” the man said, wrapping a large gloved hand around Bobby’s throat and pressing down hard. “Gonna fuckin’ kill you.”
“I keep tellin’ you,” Bobby managed to say, his words garbled. “I ain’t no bum.”
The two girls sat frozen in place, staring at the struggle in front of them. T.J. and Tommy started the Plymouth and roared out from behind the park station, rear tires kicking up dust and leaves, the red cherry on top of the unmarked car twirling.
Bobby turned his head slightly to the right and spotted the .38 Special on the ground, inches from his hand. His legs were wrapped tight around the man’s waist. Bobby landed two quick punches to the man’s face, both with little effect. He was having trouble breathing, lungs searing with pain, his throat clutching. The glare of T.J.’s headlights illuminated the man’s large frame. His weight sat like a boulder on Bobby’s chest.
Bobby closed his eyes, took a short breath through his nose, and stretched the fingers of his right hand, tearing the back of his coat as it scraped across the black concrete. But he reached the .38.
T.J. and Tommy were out of the Plymouth, their guns drawn.
“Let him go,” T.J. said in a relaxed voice. “Don’t even think.”
“You can’t stop me,” the man said, eyes glowing as he pressed down tighter on Bobby’s throat.
“I can,” Bobby said in a raspy whisper.
He had the gun barrel inside the man’s mouth.
The man looked at Bobby, whose gaze was focused and determined.
It was the look Ray Monte had seen before he died.
It was the look of a man ready to kill.
The man slowly released his grip on Bobby’s throat, holding his hands out to his sides. T.J. and Tommy came up next to him, cocked guns aimed at his head. Tommy snapped a cuff around one of the man’s thick wrists and clamped it shut. He swung the arm down to the man’s back, took the other hand, and locked it in cuffs.
“Okay, Rev.,” T.J. said, still holding the gun on the man. “Take the jammer outta his mouth.”
“This piece of shit,” Bobby said between coughs, gun rocking in and out against the man’s teeth. “You see what he did to me?”
“He almost killed you,” Tommy said in a soothing tone. “But he didn’t. Now let him go so we can drop him off at the station, take the girls’ statements, and then go grab us a bite.”
“And if there’s time,” T.J. said, a firm grip on the back of the cuffed man’s jacket, “we’ll come back here and see if we can find somebody else who might wanna kill you.”
“Forget killing me,” Bobby said, his voice cracking with anger. “The fucking bastard pissed all over me!”
• • •
BOBBY SAT ON the living room couch, nursing a Dr Pepper, TV tuned to a late fall Giants-Eagles football game, the sound muted. Ronnie Earl and the Broadcasters were playing on the corner stereo, halfway through a rendition of “Drown in My Own Tears.” Outside, heavy snow blanketed the streets.
Albeit Scarponi walked into the room and sat on the far end of the couch, a large tumbler of red wine mixed with