Bermuda Schwartz by Bob Morris Page A

cut and run. The bartender spots him, too. He pulls out a cell phone and punches numbers.
    I throw down money on the table and head for the back door.

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    By the time I step outside, Trimmingham is a third of the way down the long alley that runs behind Benny’s Lounge, heading for Queen Street. He’s fairly fast on his feet for a fat guy. And, cocky bastard, he doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following.
    I could catch him, even with my gimp foot. But where’s the sport in that? More interesting to see where he goes. Who knows? I might even learn something. And the more I learn about Trimmingham, the closer I get to my money.
    I hang back, waiting to see if he goes left or right when he hits Queen Street. But he never makes it there. As Trimmingham nears the end of the alley, a white Toyota screeches in from Queen Street and cuts him off.
    Two guys get out, leaving the driver in the car. One is short, the other tall, and both of them wear sweatsuits like they’ve just come from the gym.
    The short one carries a flat, wooden paddle—a cricket bat, it looks like—the handle wrapped in tape. He slaps it against an open palm as he stands beside the car.
    Trimmingham stops. He turns back my way, but the tall guy is already on him, hooking an arm around Trimmingham’s throat, shutting off his air as the short guy moves in with the bat.
    I start running down the alley. Or, running as best I can anyway.
    â€œHey!” I yell.
    The two guys don’t even glance my way. The short one rears back with the bat.
    Trimmingham throws up both arms, trying to ward off the blow. I hear the sharp, sick crack as bat meets bone.
    The short guy flips the bat around and jabs the handle hard into Trimmingham’s chest. Trimmingham groans. The short guy jabs him again.
    The tall guy releases his grip and Trimmingham folds onto the ground. The short guys rears back with the bat.
    â€œStop!” I yell, closing in.
    The short guy delivers another whack, this one to Trimmingham’s head. Then another. And another. Then the two of them hop in the car and it squeals away.
    By the time I reach Trimmingham, he is trying to prop himself up on an elbow. But he doesn’t have it in him. He collapses on the pavement, head lolling to one side.
    He doesn’t look like the same guy I was just sitting across from in the bar. His eyes are battered shut, and blood oozes from wicked gashes along both cheekbones. His nose is split down the middle and flattened against the pulverized mess that is his face.
    Trimmingham tries again to sit up, but falls back, cradling an arm against his chest, moaning in agony.
    â€œJust lie still,” I tell him.
    Trimmingham sucks in air, gets a mouthful of blood. He coughs and blood splatters my face and shirt.
    I try to apply pressure to the gashes on his cheekbones, but he jerks away.
    â€œTry not to move,” I tell him. “Deep breaths.”
    He breathes, coughs, splatters me with blood again.
    The bartender from Benny’s steps out the back door, spotting us as he lights a cigarette.
    â€œCall an ambulance,” I tell him.
    He doesn’t move.
    â€œDo it!” I yell. “Now!”
    The bartender hurries back inside.
    People gather at the mouth of the alley. A woman kneels beside me. She pulls a handkerchief from a purse and I try to keep Trimmingham still while she dabs at the wounds on his face, trying to stop the bleeding.
    There’s shouting from the street, then a siren.
    Trimmingham’s breaths turn fast and shallow. He’s slipping into shock.
    As the ambulance arrives he tries again to sit up.
    â€œHelp me,” he says.
    â€œIt’s going to be fine. They’re taking you to the hospital.”
    He reaches out, finds my arm, seizes it.
    â€œNo, you have to help me. With them,” he says. “Please …”
    He collapses on the pavement as the ambulance crew swarms in.

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    I‘m way late