Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [47]
The two guys on the other end started out of the booth just as Virgil slapped the nearest one with an open palm. It sounded like a rifle shot. Virgil flicked his hand. Bloody glass from the ashtray fell out.
The weasel–face in the middle got to his feet, back arched against the wall. His hand went to his pocket. Click of a switchblade. Smile twisting on his face. "Maybe you like to play with knives," he snarled, crouching and coming forward.
I backed off, giving him room, shrugging out of my jacket to wrap it around my hand.
"Try playing with this, boy!" Blossom's voice. A meat cleaver in her hand, face darkened with blood. Trying to push her way past me to get to the knife–man.
"That's all! Back up!" Leon. A double–barreled twelve–gauge in his hand.
The fat man got to his feet, breathing hard, one hand on his neck. "This ain't your beef, man," he said to Leon.
Leon held the shotgun steady. Said the most damning words in our language. "You ain't from around here. Get out. And don't come back."
They filed past us. Muttering threats they'd never make good on.
You ain't from around here. I'd heard that all my life. It was the first time I'd heard them shot at someone else.
We sat back down. Blossom and Cyndi cleaned up the mess. Leon sat by his cash register, watching. Cyndi switched over to him, gave him a big kiss. "You're a hero, Leon!" He turned red. Kept his eyes front.
Blossom brought some ice wrapped in a dish towel, held it against Lloyd's face. "You're quite a man," she said, her voice husky. The kid's chest swelled. She bent forward, kissed his forehead. Said "Thank you" in that same voice. And walked away.
Virgil looked over at Lloyd, chuckled, "Son, don't even be thinking about it."
"What?"
"One time, I was about your age, I saw this girl get slapped by her boyfriend on the street. I went over, told him to cut it out. We fought. He damn near beat me to death before they broke it up. Then one of my kin broke him up. Well, that girl gave me a kiss like you just got and I spent the rest of that summer looking for girls to rescue. There's easier ways, son."
He looked over at me. "But the boy sure as hell can hit, can't he, brother? Wasn't for that head butt, I figure Lloyd would've whipped him straight up."
"No question about it."
Jack Scott on the jukebox. "My True Love."
Blossom came back with a little penlight. Tenderly lifted the dish towel from Lloyd's face. He didn't make a sound. She could have done brain surgery on the kid without anesthetic.
She shined the light into his eyes, asked him some questions. Checking for a concussion. She hadn't been a waitress all her life. "You're going to need a few stitches," she said.
"It's okay."
"You get the stitches now. When the girls ask you where you got the scar, you tell them come around here and ask for Blossom. I'll tell them what a man you are."
The kid's face was a neon rainbow.
65
I SPENT THE next day in the library. Closing off the corners. Looking.
On the way back to the motel, the car phone purred. Sherwood.
I left his office with a thick manila envelope.
When I spread the papers out on the motel bed, I found a list of twenty–nine names. Red check–marks next to five of them. Photocopies of rap sheets, FBI investigative reports, reports from local detectives. The five were all members of something called the Sons of Liberty. Three were suspects in vandalizing a synagogue, never formally charged. All on the subscription list for racial hate sheets, mercenary magazines. And mail–order video–porn.
If the sniper wanted to join a club, he'd have to crawl under the right rock.
66
THE CAR PHONE went off the next morning. My pal the real estate broker? I picked it up.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Sloane?"
"Yes."
"This is Blossom.