The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy by Gary Ballard Page B

had helped out a number of times. Ricardo had played soccer in Mexico before coming to the states to much fanfare in the early ‘20’s. Known as a feared center half, he earned the nickname Stonewall for his physicality, his ability to stop an attack dead in his tracks. Stonewall’s career had been ended early by a horrible knee injury requiring a cybernetic knee replacement. The league still banned the use of cybernetic replacements, and barred from the pitch, he had disappeared in disgust.
    Twiggs had given Stonewall a job, but Bridge had always felt there was more between the two than just footballer camaraderie. Anytime Bridge asked about it, Stonewall became as silent as his namesake. Bouncing was Stonewall’s front job, but most of the time he was in charge of leg-breaking for Twiggs’s other businesses. The footballer was the nicest guy you’d ever talk to, unless you were his target. Then all the anger and frustration of a man denied his passion would flow out onto the target with a homicidal fury. Luckily for Bridge, Stonewall had needed something he could never reveal to anyone but Bridge. Stonewall had needed therapy, from a shrink that wouldn’t rat out his illegal activities to the cops or his criminal friends. Bridge knew a guy, the therapist to the shitheels, whose client list was as infamous as it was long. Ever since, Stonewall had Bridge’s back.
    Stonewall caught Bridge’s predicament with a stray glance. Bridge waved to the bouncer, who was busily engaged with an average-looking blonde with horrific combat boots trying to beg her way in. With those boots, Bridge figured she had more chance of fitting through the eye of a needle than getting paalln gettist the bouncers. Stonewall raised a finger to the girl and walked over to Bridge and the big side of beef blocking his entrance. “¿Qué onda? Is there a problem, Paulie?” he said to the bouncer, slipping between English and barrio Spanish with ease.
    “Not a prob, guv. Just doing me job.”
    “This here’s Bridge. Bridge, Paulie. Bridge here’s a good friend of the club.” Paulie raised a meaty eyebrow with an almost disgusted air.
    “He ain’t on me list,” Paulie protested meekly. “If we’s just gonna let anybody what ain’t on the list in, what’s the point of me?”
    “Bridge’s a special case. I’ll take the heat if he causes trouble. Cool?”
    Paulie seemed about to make some other argument before waving Bridge on through without further comment. Bridge tipped his nonexistent hat at the bouncer as he walked past with Stonewall in tow.
    “Gotta forgive him, Bridge,” Stonewall explained. “He’s new and a bit of a pendejo, know what I mean? He supposedly knows Twiggs from somewhere, came begging for a job today. He ain’t exactly making friends. Thinks ‘cos he played in the Premiership, us MLS guys should just kiss his white English ass.” He snorted disgustedly as he opened the glass door for Bridge. “You need anything tonight?”
    “As a matter of fact, there’s a guy may come looking for me. A hacker, so he’s probably not going to be on the list, so to speak. If you can’t let him in, just have him wait outside and send me a message, k? Think his name’s Kira or eK1ra or some such idiotic combination of numbers and letters.”
    “Will do, Bridge.” With that, he was in. Bridge noticed a flier for the band playing later in the evening, The Ardents. The walls along the entry hallway were decorated with football jerseys from around the world. Bridge noted authographed jerseys for Liverpool, Arsenal, Valencia, Boca Juniors, and of course, the L.A. Galaxy. The club opened up into subtly-partitioned enclosures, wide-open spaces broken by short walls and standing lamps. The interior design was stuffed with modern gadgetry. Each sub-space had its own white noise walls, separating and encapsulating the sounds of each area within its own space. The sports bar, with the live Galaxy match playing on gigantic screens