CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO #2
By the time he’d driven Mickey back to his car, Cracker could see that the bottle of rotgut vodka was punishing the old drunk.
Mickey couldn’t sit up straight. He swayed back and forth in his seat.
When Cracker stopped his truck and pulled Mickey out, it was as if the man had no bones.
He wobbled all over the place. It took a lot to keep him upright while Cracker rummaged through his pockets for the keys to his muscle car.
Pouring Mickey into the front seat of that car was an adventure.
The boozer kept sliding down the seat and mumbling something, but Cracker knew deciphering it would take a better man than him.
Cracker leaned into the car over Mickey, wrinkling his nose at the smell of alcohol.
It burned the hair out of his nostrils. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine caught with a throaty rumble.
“Drive careful now,” said Cracker, mussing Mickey’s hair. He spun on his heels and looked at his truck. “Wait a second. You forgot something.” He ran over to grab the empty vodka bottle off the truck’s floorboard. Mickey’s head snapped up as he shoved the bottle between his thighs.
“I dint ay nuffin,” said Mickey.
Cracker patted him on the cheek. He reached over, put the car in Drive and stepped back to watch the Camaro lurch toward Angel’s garage. He got in his truck and was driving away when he heard the crash.
Mickey hadn’t put him any closer to Conor, but sharing time with the old drunk was enjoyable.
It would probably be a good time to check in with Duck to let him know how things were progressing.
He might even tell him the details of his meeting with Mickey Monroe.
It was always good to let an employer know what they were getting for their money.
* * *
Cracker parked in front of Duck’s. He walked up the driveway.
Some inconsiderate son-of-a-bitch had parked his motorcycle on the walkway leading to the front door.
Cracker thought about pushing the bike over, but he walked across the front lawn instead.
Whoever parked there didn’t care that he was interfering with other people’s ingress and egress.
Selfish bastard. After talking with Duck, it would be appropriate to inquire about the owner of the motorcycle.
Whoever the boy was, he was gonna be rubbing a knot on his head.
He opened the front door and heard Duck in a heated conversation.
Stepping into the house, he studied the situation.
Duck sat at the head of his dining room table.
Some big old boy with a ponytail was bent over, hands on the table, getting in Duck’s face.
When Duck looked over and caught sight of Cracker, his eyes lit up.
“Here’s the gentleman you need to talk to,” said Duck, pushing out of his chair to stand and point at Cracker.
Cracker watched the big boy with the ponytail turn around.
“Joe Cracker Jones, meet Angel Silva,” said Duck, smiling.
“You an Indian?” said Cracker, eyeing Angel.
“Angel is upset,” said Duck, rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them under a faucet. “A friend of his, Sully Bomba, hanged himself in the hospital.”
“Is that right?” said Cracker. He tilted his head and stared at Angel. The big boy returned his stare. He wasn’t happy. Not at all.
“And Angel thinks I have something to do with it,” said Duck. “Some crazy notion about me putting a hit out on Conor Monroe and having his friends killed until Conor turns himself over to me. I’ve explained that I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he won’t listen.”
“You the guy Duck hired to kill Conor?” said Angel.
“Uh-huh,” said Cracker. He pointed toward the front door. “That your motorcycle out there?”
“Yeah.”
“It was in my way and anyone else’s that’s trying to get to the front door,” said Cracker. “That was very selfish of you.”
Angel turned to Duck. “You gonna call him off, or do I have to get involved?”
Duck held up his hands. “This is between you and Mr. Jones. Talk it over with him.”
The first thing Angel did was interesting.
Cracker liked it. Angel was a big boy. The big ones usually stepped right in and started swinging punches.
But Angel just stretched his left hand way out there, showing his palm like he was giving a blessing, and then edged closer.
And when his hand got in near to touching distance, Angel stopped.
The boy was measuring him. Getting a feel for where he could throw punches and still be able to jump back and avoid counters.
It was a pleasure watching him do it. Cracker stepped forward and watched Angel slide back a step, maintaining his safe distance.
Definitely a fighter. Problem was, although he looked to be a fighter with skills, Injun Joe probably had no conception of what he was getting into.
Then Angel stepped in and started. Nothing fast. Nothing hard.
But everything hit. Two jabs to the face.
A right to the kidney. A left hook to the jaw.
Two rights to the body. The punches seemed slow to Cracker.
Like every one of them could’ve been ducked or sidestepped, but for some reason he couldn’t get out of the way.
And he felt every one of them. His broken nose flared with pain from the first two punches to the face.
The wind got knocked out of him with the last two shots to the body.
The pace hypnotized him. Bang, bang, bang, bang—
Enough.
Cracker ripped a right hook at Angel’s head.
But nothing was there. Another volley of punches rained down from every direction.
Every shot found a home. The shots to the face blinded him.
The shots to the body turned his legs to rubber.
He covered up and tried to weather the storm.
None of the punches were hard. But they were deadly accurate.
This Angel was a devil. And he was walking him down. Beating him to a pulp.
Cracker backed up and took the blows, waiting. A man had to get close to finish things off. And Cracker could feel Angel, moving in a little closer with every punch.
A punch to the jaw.
A little closer.
A punch to the temple.
A little closer.
A punch to the kidney.
A little too close.
Cracker came out of his shell, reached up and grabbed Angel’s head with both hands.
He heard Angel curse as he pulled Angel’s head down and jumped, driving his right knee into Angel’s chin.
This big ole Indian-looking fella knew he’d gotten too close.
He knew he’d screwed up. But that’s the way it went when you got to fighting.
You got your blood up and started wading in, thinking you were king of the hill.
The crack of knee against chin—bone on bone—was harsh. Angel staggered. The lights in his eyes went out for a moment. Then he was back, struggling with everything he had to stay on his feet.
Cracker kicked him in the balls. He’d once heard a trainer call a groin shot ‘old-school Kung Fu,’ and for his money, it worked better than just about anything. Like now, for instance. Angel crumpled like a piano had been dropped on his back.
Cracker grabbed Angel’s ponytail, lifting his head off the floor.
“No, no, no,” he said. “Don’t go to sleep on me yet. I ain’t finished. Not by a long shot.”
He pulled Angel to his feet and pushed him against a wall. Angel pawed at him. Swung powder-puff punches. Cracker stuck his chin out, let a couple shots land, then got in Angel’s face, opened his mouth wide, and screamed his rebel yell.