watching other people from a concealed vantage point?
The brawny lads seem to be speaking quietly and sharing a cigarette, up there on the lion. Feels like I’m watching the beginning of a high-concept guy-on-guy porno, that part you’d fast-forward through to get to the action.
Fuck this, I decide to move in on them. No disguising the fact that I’m walking wounded. I have my gun at my side.
Now: if I’d started with a full magazine, I should have fourteen rounds to go. The Down syndrome kid, his guileless smile, pop up at me, I knock them back and bury them.
The boys are watching me, as I do my funky limp their way. Aware that I’m podcasting Halloween-scary, a bloody black apparition in half a suit.
The fellows dismount, not particularly graceful in their movements. My goon radar is spiking. Goon city. And I make them for Baltic/Slavic twenty yards away. Hope that doesn’t sound racist, you can just see it. Tell me I’m wrong.
These people are the new goombahs, nouveau-Guido, used to be the Italians. And they dress accordingly.
The boys fall into bouncer positions, seemingly a natural bearing for this body type. Legs a touch wide, arms folded.
“Good evening!” calls one of them. Yeah, I hear Eastern Europe.
I hobble up and stop, about ten feet shy of the heavies, scope them. One has a shiny black T-shirt with a massive Armani logo, the other is rocking one of those miserable Ed Hardy pieces favored by this class of character, an off-white number with crisscrossing stitching up the sides, and a pair of yakuza-style “sleeves,” renderings of a koi pond, colorful fish, and shit. Both are wearing linen trousers and man-sandals.
I get the douche-chills.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them, hoping they don’t register the quotation marks.
“Beautiful place to come home,” says the talker, the one in the Armani tee. Like overfriendly. He tilts his head in the direction of the library. “To live in such a place is to feel like a king. What do they call this place?”
“It’s a library.”
Armani pouts his lips and nods, admiring the Beaux-Arts façade, which still looks pretty clean. “Very good. If they are making a condo inside, I buy one. I come talk to you, huh?” He grins at me.
“Don’t hold your breath on the condo. And I don’t own the place, I’m just the custodian.”
Armani is nodding. Custodian is a big-boy word so I doubt if he got me, but he’s nodding all the same. “It is Mr. Decimal?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Perhaps you are hurt? Wishing to sit?” He glances at my leg, the bandages, my filthy pissed-in slacks, of which one leg has been cut off at the thigh. I see him note the gun, by which he is unfazed.
“I’m good here,” I say. “Your manners are impeccable, and I appreciate that. Now what can I do for you cowpokes?”
Ed Hardy is looking me up and down, slowly. His eyes have that unoccupied look of heavies the world over. They alight on my gun and stay there. He’s got a jailhouse tattoo on his neck, some gang scrawl, the Jack of Spades.
“Some discussion, some talk. More comfortable inside?” Armani half bows in a lead-the-way gesture.
“It’s a public building. You gents might be more comfortable inside, but I’m fine just where I am. What say we talk here?” In truth I’m aching to sit, but I want these thugs on their way. I cross my arms casually, Beretta in hand.
“Okay. No problems. Guns, no need for guns,” says Armani.
“What can I do for you?” I repeat. I’m too tired, really. I need to wrap this up.
Armani’s ingratiating veneer slides a bit. “Our boss, he likes to speak to you.”
“And who is your boss?”
“Mr. Yakiv Shapsko.”
“Uh-huh. And he wants to discuss …”
Armani lifts his shoulders and drops them. “Business. What else?”
I nod. “Okay, I’m open to that. Tomorrow morning would work best for me.”
The men exchange looks.
“Mr. Shapsko makes suggestion, meeting right away. We take you to him now.
The brawny lads seem to be speaking quietly and sharing a cigarette, up there on the lion. Feels like I’m watching the beginning of a high-concept guy-on-guy porno, that part you’d fast-forward through to get to the action.
Fuck this, I decide to move in on them. No disguising the fact that I’m walking wounded. I have my gun at my side.
Now: if I’d started with a full magazine, I should have fourteen rounds to go. The Down syndrome kid, his guileless smile, pop up at me, I knock them back and bury them.
The boys are watching me, as I do my funky limp their way. Aware that I’m podcasting Halloween-scary, a bloody black apparition in half a suit.
The fellows dismount, not particularly graceful in their movements. My goon radar is spiking. Goon city. And I make them for Baltic/Slavic twenty yards away. Hope that doesn’t sound racist, you can just see it. Tell me I’m wrong.
These people are the new goombahs, nouveau-Guido, used to be the Italians. And they dress accordingly.
The boys fall into bouncer positions, seemingly a natural bearing for this body type. Legs a touch wide, arms folded.
“Good evening!” calls one of them. Yeah, I hear Eastern Europe.
I hobble up and stop, about ten feet shy of the heavies, scope them. One has a shiny black T-shirt with a massive Armani logo, the other is rocking one of those miserable Ed Hardy pieces favored by this class of character, an off-white number with crisscrossing stitching up the sides, and a pair of yakuza-style “sleeves,” renderings of a koi pond, colorful fish, and shit. Both are wearing linen trousers and man-sandals.
I get the douche-chills.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them, hoping they don’t register the quotation marks.
“Beautiful place to come home,” says the talker, the one in the Armani tee. Like overfriendly. He tilts his head in the direction of the library. “To live in such a place is to feel like a king. What do they call this place?”
“It’s a library.”
Armani pouts his lips and nods, admiring the Beaux-Arts façade, which still looks pretty clean. “Very good. If they are making a condo inside, I buy one. I come talk to you, huh?” He grins at me.
“Don’t hold your breath on the condo. And I don’t own the place, I’m just the custodian.”
Armani is nodding. Custodian is a big-boy word so I doubt if he got me, but he’s nodding all the same. “It is Mr. Decimal?”
“Indeed it is.”
“Perhaps you are hurt? Wishing to sit?” He glances at my leg, the bandages, my filthy pissed-in slacks, of which one leg has been cut off at the thigh. I see him note the gun, by which he is unfazed.
“I’m good here,” I say. “Your manners are impeccable, and I appreciate that. Now what can I do for you cowpokes?”
Ed Hardy is looking me up and down, slowly. His eyes have that unoccupied look of heavies the world over. They alight on my gun and stay there. He’s got a jailhouse tattoo on his neck, some gang scrawl, the Jack of Spades.
“Some discussion, some talk. More comfortable inside?” Armani half bows in a lead-the-way gesture.
“It’s a public building. You gents might be more comfortable inside, but I’m fine just where I am. What say we talk here?” In truth I’m aching to sit, but I want these thugs on their way. I cross my arms casually, Beretta in hand.
“Okay. No problems. Guns, no need for guns,” says Armani.
“What can I do for you?” I repeat. I’m too tired, really. I need to wrap this up.
Armani’s ingratiating veneer slides a bit. “Our boss, he likes to speak to you.”
“And who is your boss?”
“Mr. Yakiv Shapsko.”
“Uh-huh. And he wants to discuss …”
Armani lifts his shoulders and drops them. “Business. What else?”
I nod. “Okay, I’m open to that. Tomorrow morning would work best for me.”
The men exchange looks.
“Mr. Shapsko makes suggestion, meeting right away. We take you to him now.
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