Beck didn’t hesitate. He leaned right back in toward Reese and fired a fast right fist around the hand protecting Reese’s left eye, landing a solid blow to Reese’s left temple. Hitting Reese’s big head with such force nearly broke two of Beck’s knuckles. It was a knockout punch, but it only staggered Reese. Beck followed it with a left elbow to the face, a right to the side of the neck, and a left aimed at Reese’s throat.

Reese somehow slap-blocked the last punch and lunged forward quickly enough to grab Beck’s coat, rear back, and snap a vicious head butt at Beck’s face.

Beck barely jerked out of the way in time. Reese’s huge forehead banged into Beck’s left collar bone. It felt like being hit with a bowling ball.

Reese tried to throw Beck to the ground, but Beck grabbed Reese’s massive forearms, widened his stance, twisted back against Reese, and levered his own head butt directly into Reese’s already broken nose.

This time the pain was too intense even for Willie Reese.

Beck heard him gasp and growl in agony. Reese couldn’t move, but he held onto Beck’s coat, so Beck pounded six hard fast lefts and rights into Reese’s liver, floating ribs, and sternum, twisting, aiming, grunting with exertion as he landed each blow. Reese could do nothing but hang on to Beck, who couldn’t believe that Reese was still standing.

Finally, Reese hurled Beck away from him. Beck’s feet left the ground and he went down hard onto his back. Reese tried to step toward Beck so he could kick him or stomp him, but his legs wobbled under him as he staggered forward.

Beck rolled sideways and scrambled to his feet, quickly backing away from Reese, who managed to stay on his feet, blood streaming from his nose, left eye beginning to swell, huffing and puffing for air, two cracked ribs splinting pain with every breath.

They both knew it wasn’t over. Beck would have to step in to finish Reese off. And if Reese managed to get his hands on Beck, he might find a way to grab Beck’s throat so he could crush his windpipe. Or smash Beck’s head into the ground. Or manage one hard blow that would knock Beck out.

Beck shook out his arms, staying back, breathing deeply. Getting ready.

He said to Reese, “You that hard up for my business?”

Reese spat out a mouthful of blood and turned his head sideways to look at Beck out of his good eye.

“Ain’t about that anymore.”

“What’s it about?” asked Beck.

“You and me,” said Reese.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to have anything to do with you, man. You’re a fucking handful.”

Reese looked over at Demarco and Manny, watching, cradling the shotguns.

“Maybe you should have your boys shoot me. You don’t want me comin’ back for you.”

“Maybe. But there is an alternative.”

“What’s that?”

“You working for me, like you said.”

“What?”

As soon as he heard that answer from Reese, Beck knew he wasn’t a complete maniac. And that meant there might be a way out of this without one of them dying.

Beck continued to keep his distance and said, “Hey, like you said, I hired Shorty and his little gang to give me the heads-up on anything coming this way through the projects, but he didn’t do it, did he? He didn’t have the balls to tell me you were coming.”

“Nah, he didn’t.”

“So what do you want more? A job or a chance to keep beating on me? Which I guarantee you isn’t going to work anyway, ’cuz they will shoot you down if it gets out of hand.”

Reese looked at Demarco and Manny with their shotguns. He spit out more blood.

Beck said, “Fuck it. Your guys are gone. Tell them you beat a job out of me. I don’t give a shit. Think it over. It’s too damn cold to stand out here discussing it.”

Beck turned his back on Willie Reese and headed toward his bar. He told Demarco and Manny, “Don’t shoot him if he wants to come in.”

2

Beck walked behind the bar, flipped open the lid on the ice maker, and shoved both hands into the pile of frozen cubes.

Manny headed for the bar kitchen. Demarco took a seat at the table farthest from the front door. He placed the Benelli on top of the table and sat facing the door.

About the time Beck could no longer feel his hands, the front door opened and Willie Reese leaned into the bar. Demarco didn’t pick up his shotgun, so Reese stepped inside.

From behind the bar Beck said, “So?”

Reese stood near the front door looking at Beck. His left eye was killing him. His nose continued to bleed. His muscle T-shirt was more red than white. The bruises on his ribs and body thrummed with pain.

He said, “You asked me do I want the job.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Well, you fucking failed the first part of the interview.” Beck motioned with his head toward a table near the door, one of three set up against the wall opposite the bar. “Have a seat, and let’s see how you do on the second part. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Reese sat two tables away from Demarco, whose right hand now rested on the Benelli’s trigger guard. Demarco stared back at Reese without expression. Beck dug out his cell phone and made a call as he headed back toward the bar kitchen.

*   *   *

Beck found Manny at his two-chair wooden table in the old first-floor kitchen where Manny spent much of his time. The shotgun was back in its rack, but Manny’s white kitchen apron didn’t cover the bulge of the Charter Arms Bulldog revolver that he always carried in his right front pants pocket. It was a small inexpensive gun, but at .44 caliber it had tremendous stopping power. With only a four-inch barrel it was the kind of gun that had to be used up close, which was fine with Guzman.

Manny sat with a cup of the same coffee Beck had been drinking, except Manny brewed his version with twice as many grounds. This morning, however, Manny also sipped from a shot of dark, one-hundred-proof rum. Manny took a sip of the sweet liquor, followed by the coffee. He sat motionless, the air around him pulsing with murderous rage.

“Not a good way to start the day,” said Beck as he took the seat opposite Manny.

Manny made a face. “I was ready to kill somebody even before those coños showed up. That punk don’t know how close he came to losing the top of his head.”

“Actually, I have a feeling he does know.”

“Yeah, well, I can see not shooting ’em, but they come up on us like that and don’t even get a beating? I don’t know.”

“One of ’em did. The others … maybe their time will come.”

“I don’t like that they thought they could do that. Like they don’t know who we are.”

Beck answered, “They do now.”

Manny replied with a half grunt.

They both sat quietly for a few more moments. Manny took another sip of his rum and chased it with the strong coffee. Then a deep breath. And a long exhale.

Beck waited for more of the tension to ebb out of Manny. He shifted in the hard wooden chair. He asked, “Those guys have anything to do with your…?”

“No. I don’t know what the fuck any of that was about.”

“About being stupid, I guess.”

Manny moved his head a fraction, not saying anything. And then, “Stupid is a good way to get killed.”

Beck nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’ll look into it. So what about the thing D told me? What should I know about it?” Beck leaned forward. “Is it something to do with us?”

“No. It’s my thing. It’s family. My family.”

This surprised Beck. After so many years in the gangs and in prison, as far as he knew, Manny Guzman’s family had either died or abandoned him long ago. He wondered if there was an ex-wife or a child. Beck knew a great deal about Manny, but he hadn’t heard much about any of his family members.

“I see,” said Beck.

Manny swallowed, not coffee or rum, just moving his mouth and swallowing as a way to relieve tension. Beck waited for the rest, not pushing it. Manny sat shrouded in stoic silence.