31

The irony was that just about every piece of furniture in the whole damned apartment had come from Uncle Eddie at one point or another.

The bedroom set, the kitchen table. The leather recliners and the sofa sleeper. Not only the stereo system, but the cabinet where the stereo system lived.

So maybe he’d only gotten the forty-two-inch television. When you got down to it, Uncle Eddie had done pretty well by his favorite nephew over the years.

He and Ray made a mess out of all of it. Out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the living room. They chopped and gouged and grappled, Tony in his street clothes and Ray in his uniform, throwing fists and elbows where they could.

Ray caught him with a short uppercut. Tony’s head popped up but he rolled with it, slamming his elbow into the back of Ray’s head.

Right on the funny bone. His fingers went numb. Ray stepped back and threw his weight. They went over the couch.

The bitch in the apartment below pounded on her ceiling. Tony pounded Ray in the ear. Then he got caught with his legs in a twist, and Ray found a gap.

He scrambled around, driving his knee into Tony’s cheek. Once, twice, three times.

Tony took each shot full force. He couldn’t make a move to evade. By the third shot, he felt his vision start to wobble.

He tried to roll over, but Ray had capitalized. He hooked up an arm lock and cranked it, powering Tony over, onto his face.

Tony reached across, grabbed Ray’s thumb. He pretended he was twisting the cap off a beer bottle.

Ray punched him in the side of the head.

Right in the goddamned stitches.

When Tony didn’t let the thumb go, he did it again.

“Motherfucker,” Tony wheezed. He threw his head back but didn’t connect with anything. He bucked, putting all his strength in it, and tried to twist.

Ray shifted his weight and drove him back down.

“Eddie wanted to be a player,” he said. He used his leverage, driving Tony’s face into the carpet. He was panting, but not as hard as Tony. “He got to be a player. Right? You said that shit yourself, man. Think about it.”

Tony couldn’t move. His whole head was throbbing, and his arm couldn’t go over much farther without tearing out of joint.

He drove with his feet, but Ray hooked a leg and bore down. Tony’s shoulder popped. Slowly, he began feeling the edges of the answer to the question he’d always wondered about but never had reason to ask.

Fair fight. No holds barred.

Could he take Ray?

“Okay,” he said. He spat blood, dragging in a breath. Let himself go limp. “Fuck, dude. Okay.”

Ray eased the arm hold a fraction. “Yeah?”

“Jesus,” Tony said. “Yeah.”

Ray held for a second, then let up a little more. After another pause, just for good measure, he said, “I’m getting off.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tony said. “Don’t get any on me.”

Ray moved a hand to the back of Tony’s head. He pressed down, let the arm lock go, and stood up.

Tony pushed himself up and hung for a second, resting on his hands and knees. He caught his breath, rolled his shoulder. Spat more blood, plus a tooth.

Motherfucker.

He grabbed the edge of the coffee table, pulled himself up to his feet.

Ray stood between Tony and the front door, working his jaw. He dabbed a bleeding cut at the corner of one eye with the back of a hand.

Tony straightened. Slowly.

He said, “Thought you had my back.”

“This is me getting your back,” Ray said.

They leaned against each other then, stood there, breathing like bulls. Tony grinned. It hurt.

“So what now?” he said.

“You tell me, partner.”

It was a tooth from the bottom Ray had knocked out. Broken off right at the gum line; Tony could feel jagged shards of enamel with his tongue. His mouth had filled up with blood.

He swallowed. Sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

Ray nodded. “I know.”

“A long fuckin’ day, brother.”

“Ride with me to the station,” Ray said. “I’ll change up. We’ll go get drunk.”

Tony straightened again, looking away. He finally sighed. Nodded. “Okay.”

When he saw Ray’s hand move away from the butt of his service weapon, he added, “Hey?”

“Yeah,” Ray said.

Tony head-butted him in the face.

Ray stumbled back. Without waiting, Tony dropped his good shoulder and rammed him in the gut, using his legs.

You had to hand it to Ray Salcedo. He recovered quick for a guy who’d been head-butted in the face. He lowered his center of gravity and spread his legs, instinctive as breathing, not only staying on his feet but gaining leverage again.

Tony sacrificed his position and jammed a thumb in Ray’s eye. He finally heard the guy grunt, like he’d actually been hurt. He shot in like a high school wrestler, grabbed a leg, lifting and driving forward at the same time.

Ray twisted and tried to drop even lower. Tony stepped in front of his other leg and shoved.

They went down again, Ray headfirst, Tony riding his back, into the coffee table Eddie had given him. The table collapsed under their weight in a twist of chrome and a crash of glass.

“Booya!” Tony said.

He punched Ray twice in the kidney before rolling off, not wanting to get into more Greco-Roman bullshit on the floor. He planted his elbow in a pile of glass and sucked air through his teeth at the pain.

But he still made it to his feet first.

Now it was Ray on his hands and knees, slowly pushing himself up out of the rubble. Tony put a boot in his ribs and stepped back.

Blood streamed from his nose. He felt more dripping from his fingers. He stood there, out of breath again, sporting another new set of wounds.

“I changed my mind,” he said. “We’re splitting sixty–forty.”

Ray made a strange gurgling sound.

Tony finally noticed the way he pawed at his collar. He said, “Ray?”

Ray lowered his hand. He gagged, and something wet hit the carpet. For a moment, Tony thought he’d vomited.

Then Ray sagged against the couch. Tony finally saw the scythe-shaped shard of glass in his partner’s throat.

“Oh, shit.” He hurried over, dropped down. “Shit. Hang on.”

Ray worked his mouth without making a sound. The blood seemed to be falling out of his neck in sheets. Tony reached out and took the glass in his fingers; a new gout pumped from the wound, pouring over his hand.

“Hang on, partner.” Tony looked at Ray, forcing eye contact. Ray’s gaze had gone vague. “Just hang on.”

His heart raced now. He didn’t know what to do with all this blood coming out. Before Tony could stop him, Ray finally managed to pull the glass out himself.

“No! Shit. Goddammit.”

It came in a hot flood now, bright red. Arterial. The front of Ray’s duty shirt was soaked, dark blue turned black, silver badge turned red. Tony’s hands were slick to the wrists.

He eased Ray back and pressed down on the wound. He tried to clench the flow off in his fist. Ray grabbed his free hand, but his grip had no strength.

Tony shook free and tore the comset off Ray’s shoulder. His fingers were so slippery that he couldn’t hold it. He fumbled the unit, picked it up again.

Ray coughed. A wet, congested heave.

It didn’t take much longer after that.

For a long time, he stood there in the demolished apartment, looking down at Ray’s body.

The carpet had soaked up a lake of blood. Tony was covered in the stuff; he couldn’t tell what was his and what was Ray’s. Ray lay there in the middle with his eyes still open. He almost looked gray.

At some point, Tony found himself in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. His nose was broken. He had a knot on his forehead, and his upper lip was pulped out on one side.