Kiss by John Lutz

of his right hand stung, where he’d caught himself and for a second taken the weight of his fall.
    A medium-height but incredibly broad Latin man was standing about six feet away and smiling down at him. He had on faded Levi’s and a sleeveless black muscle shirt. Had muscles, too. His arms were leg-size and layered with brawn in a way that only years of weight training could provide. His shoulders were stacked with the same hard muscle. The man’s thighs threatened to pop the stitches on his strained jeans. His waist was slimmer than Twiggy’s.
    He was holding Carver’s cane delicately with both hands, as if he might decide to tap-dance and use it as a prop. Maybe tell a few jokes. His thick black hair was waved high in an attempt to make him appear taller. It made him look as if his head came to a point. No matter; he was a mile short of handsome anyway.
    Carver worked his way up to a sitting position, his stiff leg extended awkwardly in front of him. He felt foolish and knew he couldn’t get up all the way without his cane.
    The Latin with the muscles looked around. Carver looked around. They were alone beneath the cruel sun. Across the street, the rope and pulleys clink-clanked lazily against the metal flagpole.
    “You should find some other way to spend your time, compadre ,” the man said. He had a Spanish accent and a smooth voice that was oily with meanness and a dark kind of humor. He was getting a tickle out of this.
    Carver wished he’d get near enough so his legs were within reach. If he could grasp a handful of Levi’s and drag the man down with him, so they were both off their feet . . . Well, the guy would probably dismember him like a Colonel Sanders chicken. Sometimes it was wise to admit you were outclassed. Sometimes it meant survival.
    The wide man was irritated by Carver’s neglecting to answer. He gripped the cane like a baseball bat, swung it as if trying to hit the ball out of the park, but whipped his hands back halfway through the powerful swing. The cane snapped in half, and the end with the crook flew into the street and clattered against the opposite curb. The laws of physics had defeated hard walnut. Carver had even seen the cane bend before it had reversed direction and split apart.
    “You should pay closer attention to what I say, eh, fuckface?”
    “Right,” Carver said. “Better way to spend my time.”
    “Some other way’s what I said. I don’t much give a shit if it’s better. It’s your time. But it just goes to show how you don’t pay close enough attention when you’re told something.”
    “Other way,” Carver repeated dutifully.
    The man’s smile broadened. He had deep-set and twinkling cruel eyes. He was a menace, all right. A bandito who’d stumbled upon Nautilus training. “Be some bad luck if your one good leg got broke up, you think?”
    “Bad luck,” Carver agreed. He felt a hollow coldness in the pit of his stomach.
    “Human bone, it don’t take much to snap it. Not like this cane.” He tossed the broken end of the cane on the sidewalk in front of Carver, within reach. “Sharp. A weapon. You want to use it?”
    “I’ll pass.” Come closer, you bastard!
    “You got no guts, my man?”
    Carver didn’t answer. See if the musclehead would lose his temper. Carver was prepared to grab the broken piece of cane and use its sharp tip to penetrate flesh. His body was tensed, his fingertips almost tingling with anticipation. For the moment, fear was pushed to a far part of his mind.
    The broad, smiling man edged nearer, but not quite near enough. He’d had experience. He was playing a familiar game. “Fuckin’ cripple, you got no right to live anyway. Law of the jungle, you be dead meat in no time, you know?”
    Carver stayed quiet, looking the man calmly in the eye. The Latin stared back at him in the way little boys observe insects being devoured alive by ants. No mercy. In fact, if any help was offered it would be to the ants.
    “Goddamn straggler