Ryan hit the gas and went over to Enzo’s. Clay got out and stood there by the GMC’s open door.
“Thanks for trying to help me,” he said.
“Don’t tell your sister.”
“I’ll say we went for coffee. Unless Chuck shows up to arrest me. Then she’ll know I lied. I’ll just blame it on you.”
“We did go for coffee. That’s no lie.”
“I guess.”
“Chuck won’t show up.”
“I hope not.”
“He won’t.”
“What if Murphy breaks a window or something at the Barking Lot?”
“He won’t. He’s not that stupid. Trust me.”
Clay nodded.
“Tell Kerry to lock the doors.”
“Why?”
“Not because of Murphy. Because crime will find its way to Fall River sooner or later. It’s inevitable.”
“Good idea,” Clay said and closed the door and went around behind the building, through the chain-link gate. Then he was lost in the gloom behind the building.
Ryan drove out of Enzo’s and then turned right up the storage place’s driveway. He parked the GMC in its proper place beside the Ford and went inside with the donuts and coffee and left them on the counter to take Sharky out.
***
Over an hour and four donuts later, Ryan still hadn’t seen the rest of the Alexander show. Because he’d gotten distracted by another show. It popped up on his watch list. A movie, actually. Fire in the Sky, about Travis Walton’s UFO abduction. Ryan didn’t care if the real events behind the movie were a hoax or not. He loved the movie. He liked the 70s setting and the old vehicles. The movie freaked him out back in the day, when he was younger, and he still enjoyed it now. Menacing suspense without any CGI effects. The fear of the unknown came almost entirely from the viewer’s imagination.
Several times as he watched he got up from the recliner and checked out the apartment windows, to make sure there was no fire in the sky anywhere near his place.
It was just getting to the creepiest part when the phone rang. The office phone, not his cell.
Ryan got up and stormed into the office and lifted the landline’s handset and said, “We’re closed.”
Someone on the other end of the line said, “Step outside.”
He hesitated, thinking. Was it Carl Murphy? He couldn’t be sure. Phones tend to distort voices. And he’d only heard a few words.
He said, “What?”
“Come outside.”
“Murphy?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s up?”
“Step outside, Ryan.”
“We going for a pizza?”
“You’re a riot.”
“I’m watching a good movie.”
“Pause it.”
“Ever seen Fire in the Sky?”
“Too much of a pussy to come out?”
“I guess you got the car out, eh?”
“Just come outside.”
“Hey, I’ve been wondering about that small pizza box. The one the girl was holding. Did the pizza survive the crash?”
“Get out here, Ryan. Now.”
The line went dead.
Rude.
Ryan hung up. Stepped to the window. Peered over the air conditioner he’d failed to remove for the winter.
Two thirds of the way to Main Street there was a big four-dour pickup parked in the drive, just this side of the white decorative fence. Three guys were standing in front of it, all shadowed and hazy. The truck’s lights were off and everything was mildly backlit by the distant lights from Hometown Market across the street. The guy in the middle was on crutches. The two flanking him were not. One was bigger, the other was smaller. Both flanking guys appeared to be holding baseball bats. Or possibly golf clubs. Ryan couldn’t be sure from the distance.
Not good either way.
Chapter 14
The office was pitch dark but for the gray light through the windows. Which meant they couldn’t possibly see him from outside.
He went back to the apartment and got the BB gun. The trusty Red Ryder. He came back and slightly opened the other window. The one without the air conditioner. He cocked the gun and knelt, poking the barrel just out, and tried to estimate how much the BB would drop between there and the truck.
He pulled the trigger. The gun thumped and two seconds later there was no BB snap. He’d overshot the truck. The guys stood there looking around, wondering what they’d heard, and Ryan took a second shot that seemed to hit the big guy’s torso. The guy reacted and looked around and took a step back, looking down at his sweatshirt. Ryan heard him say, “What the hell?”
Then the one on crutches moved and wiggled and hopped and used his arm and the office phone rang again.
“What’s up?” Ryan said into the handset.
“You coming out here, or are we coming in after you?”
“Coming in wouldn’t end well for you. Especially on those crutches. You’d look pretty funny with those things sticking out of your ass.”
“Get out here, Ryan. I mean it.”
The line went dead again and Ryan hung up the phone. Murphy meant it. He was angry enough that he might try to come in.
So Ryan went back to the apartment and had a donut. He took his time eating, letting Murphy wait. Seeing if he was actually dumb enough to come near the place.
The phone rang again.
“What now?” Ryan said.
“Are you seriously too scared to come out?” Murphy asked.
“I was just fueling up first.”
“Hurry up. It’s cold out.”
“I like cold weather.”
“Get out here.”
“You want a donut?”
“What do you think?”
“You didn’t eat any pizza. You must be hungry.”
The line went dead.
Ryan went back to apartment and got the paintball gun. Went back to the office, knelt by the front door, gently opened it, and carefully lowered the gun to the step.
Then he went back through the apartment again and pulled on his field coat, the .380 Kimber still in the big pouch pocket. He called Sharky and they went out the back door and walked around to the front.
“Sit,” Ryan told the dog.
Sharky sat near the corner of the building, grumbling a little and scenting the air. Alert but obedient. He was an aggressive dog by nature, but also a smart dog, highly trainable, and very happy to please his person. If Ryan merely spoke to him in an unpleasant voice, Sharky would hang his head in shame.
“Stay,” Ryan said, and took a few steps closer to the front door. He lit a cigarette and looked at the truck with the three guys standing before it.
Apparently they really wanted to fight.
***
“Come here,” Murphy called.
Ryan said, “You come here.”
“Get your ass over here.”
“Come get it.”
“Hurry up.”
“You already came all this way. What’s another fifty yards?”
The smallest guy said, “Keep that dog in line. I’ll beat him if he comes near me.”
Ryan didn’t respond right away. For the first time that evening he felt a genuine wave of anger move through him.
Which wasn’t good news for these guys.
He said, “Your funeral, kid.”
“I don’t think so,” the kid said.
“You better think about it. The SEALs rejected this dog for being too mean.”
“Real funny.”
“Sharky’s no joke. He’s the only living being on record to ever make Marcus Luttrell nervous. What do you think you’re gonna do?”
Murphy said, “Cut the shit, Ryan.”
The smaller guy said, “I warned you on the dog. Remember that.”
Ryan said, “Make something happen, sparky.”
“No more jokes,” Murphy said. “Get over here and fight like a man.”
�
��I’m not walking over there. You come here, if you’re such a man.”
“I’m on crutches, asshole.”
“I noticed.”
“So you come here.”
“How’d you hurt your foot?”
“None of your business.”
“Just asking. Excuse me for expressing some interest.”
“I’m not laughing, Ryan.”
“I’ll bet your mom wasn’t laughing about her Kia.”
Murphy said, “Smoke your cigarette and get over here, old man. I’m sick of waiting.”
“I don’t mind waiting. With age comes patience. That’s one thing I’ve learned.”
“I think you’re scared.”
“I think I noticed your girlfriend checking out my pajamas. Where’s she now, reading poetry with Clay Jamison?”
“Quit stalling, Ryan.”
“Just saying, they share the same taste in clothing. They’re both quiet and concerned with appearances. You keep messing up like this, she’ll pick the stable guy to go shopping with while you’re stuck in physical therapy sessions.”
The biggest guy of the trio said, “Real funny.” And that was it. The other two waited. Ryan waited. But the big one had spoken his mind.
Then Murphy said, “Just get it over with, Ryan. I know you played hockey. You can take it.”
“You got a puck?”
“You’re the puck.”
“I’m not walking to you. The way I see it, you’re interrupting me in the middle of a good movie. At this point you’re lucky I’m not aiming a grenade launcher in your direction.”
Murphy asked, “You got cameras up there?”
“No cameras. If anything, you’re more likely to be on Hometown’s cameras, back where you are. Great planning, chief.”
The three of them moved closer together, speaking quietly. It was like a huddle, calling a trick play.
Ryan called, “What’s up?”
They ignored him and then broke up the meeting. The big one went around and got in the truck and the other two came forward a bit. The truck started up and followed. Apparently they viewed the truck as some sort of strategic necessity. Like soldiers moving in formation alongside a tank, using it for cover. They didn’t dare get too far from it. Maybe they were anticipating a quick getaway after the beating.
They were twenty yards out from the brown-sided building when the big guy parked the truck. He got out and rejoined the formation.
From Ryan’s perspective the shortest was on the left, the hobbled guy in the middle, and the biggest on the right. It was quite a display. They were tough kids, jeans and sweatshirts, breath steaming in the cold. Rural teenage aggression, finding an outlet. Football players, standing up for their buddy, displaying loyalty. Ryan had to respect them at least that much.
The part that pissed him off was the bats. In times gone by high school guys with some honor settled problems barehanded, openly, not with bats in the middle of the night. If these guys had come barehanded, Ryan might have fought them fairly, one at a time. But they hadn’t. They wanted an unfair fight, to hurt him, not just slap him around. And once they beat him up they would probably go on to brake a few windows from the brown-sided building. They’d probably dent his GMC and smash the mirrors off and break its glass, just for spite.
And, the smaller guy had threatened Sharky, right there in his own yard.
Ryan had no respect for that.
He said, “You sure about this?” as he dropped his cigarette butt into the plastic thing with the long neck.
Murphy laughed. He was accustomed to competing with guys his own age, with roughly the same amount of experience. He was used to winning, getting his way, and being respected. Apparently he’d never experienced many of the alternatives.
Yet.
The smallest one said, “What, you’re scared?”
“Just offering you the chance to go home in one piece,” Ryan answered.
No one spoke for a moment. A lone car passed on Main. Crisp night, quiet little town, just over an hour shy of midnight. Everything but the little market was closed up until morning.
Then the big guy moved.
The point man, evidently. Nearly three hundred pounds. Definitely a lineman. Taller than Ryan. Long legs, long strides. Building up steam, raising his bat. Not a fast guy, but powerful. Like a train. Hard to stop once he got some momentum going.
Fifteen yards out and closing.
***
Ryan reaffirmed Sharky’s command to stay as he dropped fast and grabbed the paintball gun with his right hand. Kneeling, he aimed and fired a volley of yellow balls moving at three hundred feet per second into the general vicinity of the big guy’s family jewels.
The gun thumped and the yellow balls smacked denim and splattered and pressed the metal zipper hard against a delicate area. Less than ten yards. Sudden stinging pain besetting him out of nowhere. At least five or six paintballs made solid groin contact before the guy dropped the bat and lowered his arms and folded up, sinking to his knees, shielding the groin area, his arms and torso now taking hits as he clutched his balls. He made a grunt of surprised pain that became a steadier sound, a wheezing moan as he folded closer to the ground. Like someone who had the wind knocked out of them.
Another few shots to the top of the head made sure he stayed down and out with a bit of a headache.
Not seriously injured. Just in more pain than he’d expected. Enough to take the wind out of his sails.
The next second Ryan adjusted and aimed at the shorter guy. He had started off fast after the big guy surged forward, but he had slowed just as fast once the paintballs started flying. He was on the ground just after the big guy, before taking any hits. Kneeling. Already surrendering. The bat rolling away. All mouth, no action. Probably assuming the big guy would have done all the heavy lifting. He was just there as insurance, and once the big guy took some hits, he wasn’t interested in sharing in the pain.
“Get in the office,” Ryan told him.
“What?”
“You’re worried about the dog, right?”
“I quit. I’m down.”
Ryan said, “It’s not a game, dipshit. You can’t call a timeout. You see any referees coming to save you?”
He shook his head.
“You threatened my dog. I take that personally. So get up and get in my office so I can have a good excuse for turning him loose on your sorry ass. I’ll eat popcorn while you cry for your mom.”
At that point the big one got a second wind and made his next attempt. He had arrived all charged up and ready for a fight. He’d been hurt and put down unexpectedly. But being a tough kid, he bounced back fairly quickly. His adrenalin was pumping, and he was ready for some revenge. Served hot, not cold.
He got up moving fast, for a big guy, and charged Ryan, keeping his mass low, legs in a power stance as if battling another lineman his own size. His meaty hands were clenching into big fists, his right arm going back, ready to spring and join his forward momentum and deliver a huge punch.
Ryan was ready.
But Sharky changed things.
The dog lunged to meet the guy, and Ryan shouted to deter the dog, and he stepped left in the same instant, to avoid the big guy’s straight-on momentum. He shifted his weight and met the guy just as he’d turned his eyes to the dog, then quickly back to Ryan again, who was by now lined up in the perfect position for a brutal groin kick.
He delivered it and stepped left of the guy as he screamed, then sprang back in time to watch the guy fold over again, faster than the first time. No longer just in pain. In total agony after meeting the business end of a size 13 Timberland. He rolled over on his side and curled up, moaning and panting and dry heaving all at once. Like a woman with a deep voice going into serious labor. Definitely not how he had anticipated it all going down. He was having a bad night. Probably questioning his friendship with Murphy.
“Good boy,” Ryan said to Sharky, and he kept his eyes on the smaller guy,
making sure he didn’t try anything stupid.
Murphy, wobbling nervously, said, “All right, that’s enough. We’ll go now, Ryan. No dogs, no more paintballs. We lost. We’re done here.”
“Who’s your dad?” Ryan asked the shorter one, ignoring Murphy.
The kid told him, holding his hands up like a clerk being robbed.
“I know him,” Ryan said. “He’s an all right guy. Not a bitch like you.”
The kid said nothing. He knew better.
Murphy said, “We’ll go now, Ryan. You win this round, okay?”
Ryan said, “No, I win it all. No more rounds. Next time you come back I’ll hang a rifle out the window and start emptying magazines. This is a home and a place of business. My safety and livelihood is at stake. State law will side with me. I go on about my business, and you go off in a meat wagon.”
“Okay,” Murphy said. He was trying to hold his hands out in a show of surrender while still balancing on the crutches that were digging into his armpits. “You win. We’re out of here.”
“Get moving before my trigger finger starts itching.”
“What about the cop?” Murphy asked. “Reynolds.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“We won’t call if you won’t.”
“I just said I’m not calling. I handle my own problems, in case you can’t tell.”
“Okay,” Murphy said. “We’re gone and won’t be back.”
“Smart move.”
“Truce?”
“I’ll play nice if you will,” Ryan said. “Ball’s in your court from here on.”
***
The retreat began with the smaller guy helping the big guy to his feet. He was sore and queasy and a little green. He’d have welts in various places when he got home and got undressed. By morning he’d be black and blue and be wishing he’d stayed home playing video games. Murphy hopped around to the driver’s door of the pickup and got in, hauling the crutches in awkwardly behind him.
Then there was a quiet conversation. Apparently they were worried about getting yellow paint on the truck’s interior. The smaller guy helped the big guy get his sweatshirt off and they used the sweatshirt inside out to attempt cleaning some of the paint off his jeans and head. Cleaning the jeans proved impossible. The guy was too sore to be touched. He was standing there with his knees bent and toes pointed out. He might vomit any second.
I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River Page 11