Noble Warrior by Alan Lawrence Sitomer Page B

a wild, revved-up look in his eye, it took McCutcheon all of two seconds to get a bead on Puwolsky’s partner. The distended stomach, the immense lats, the red-speckled
acne traveling around the side of his neck and most assuredly down his back, all were telltale signs.
    ’Roid monster. No doubt.
    “So this little twig is the fucking legend I’ve heard so much about?” Larson scoffed. “Gotta say, I’m sort of disappointed.”
    Larson circled M.D., sizing him up. He sniffed, unimpressed.
    “With all the shit I’ve heard about you I expected you to be about seven feet tall with a thirty-inch dick.”
    “You were misinformed,” McCutcheon said. “My penis is only half that size.”
    Larson took a moment to do the math and then his glower turned into a laugh.
    “Aw, lemme have a go at the smart-ass, boss,” Larson said to Puwolsky. “Before we drop him in. A beast like me deserves a crack at the champ, don’t ya think?”
    Larson flexed his sixteen-inch biceps like a bodybuilder showing off a championship pose and then got right up into M.D.’s face. The two locked eyes. McCutcheon had no idea who this pit
bull was, but steroid users were notorious for erratic, crazed behavior. Whacked-out body chemistry plus overinflated egos, mixed with too much time staring into mirrors, wasn’t
psychologically healthy for anybody, and this guy Larson proved no exception to the rule. But M.D. had dealt with this kind of nonsense before. Many times. People had been challenging McCutcheon
for years to fights for no other reason than they wanted to measure up against a guy with a huge rep. Most of the time, the challengers were idiots with big mouths who turned out to be all bark and
no bite.
    Yet occasionally M.D. would have to, like a lame horse, put a guy down. His rules about when to do so were simple: Talk all you want, but touch and you pay.
    “Get yer head out of your ass, Larson, we’re doing business here.” Puwolsky clicked his key chain and beeped open the door to a white Cadillac Seville. The car sported a
high-end enamel paint job and special edition silver rims. “Get on in. I got no time for this shit.”
    Larson reached for the door handle.
    “Not you,” Puwolsky said. “Just him.”
    “I thought I was goin’?”
    “Negatory.”
    “Why?”
    “Because,” Puwolsky said. “Nothing personal, Larson, but sometimes you act like a brain-dead meathead and I don’t want you to mess any of this up. There’s too much
riding on it.”
    “That’s bullshit.”
    “You have other talents. Important ones, too,” Puwolsky said. “But going for long, uneventful car rides is not one of them.” Puwolsky nudged his head as if to say,
Trust me, I got this.
“And that’s what I need this to be,” Puwolsky added. “An uneventful car ride.”
    It took a moment but Larson let go of the door handle, stepped back, and did as he was told.
    McCutcheon climbed into the Caddy and glanced around. A black-and-cream interior. A polished wood steering wheel. An all-digital panel and stitched leather seats.
    “My wife’s,” Puwolsky explained. “She owns a waxing salon. You wouldn’t believe how much women pay for their fucking eyebrows.”
    “I bet I wouldn’t.”
    “You don’t believe me?”
    McCutcheon buckled his seat belt and waited for the car to drive away. Stanzer had lobbied, made his case, made a great many arguments to try to change McCutcheon’s mind about taking this
assignment, but when all was said and done, M.D. remained unmoved.
    “I’m going in,” he had told Stanzer.
    Stanzer both disagreed and disapproved, but finally relented. “I guess no man can save another from himself.”
    “I’m the one who has to live with the decision. I’m the one who has to live in this skin.”
    “
Live
being the key word,” Stanzer replied. “But I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.” The colonel extended his arm for a shake. “Good luck, son. You
know how to find me if ever you need me. My