Reid About It

I hung my head down, and spit. The rush of blood to the side of my face came to a boil in my mouth, and the taste of metal hung on my lips even as the dark blob hit the wooden floor.

The smile on the goon standing over me told me he enjoyed that last closed-fist lovetap he delivered. In a moment, he'd enjoy the next one even more.

My hands strained against the ropes, holding me tight against the old wooden chair. I could feel my trusty knife hidden in my back pocket, but there was no way I could reach it at this angle.

I'd have to take some more punishment before I'd get a chance.

"Again," came the word from the little weasely one, the apparent brains of the operation. The other two went to work on me again, fists pistoning into my ribcage to drive the breath out of me, then a backhanded slap across the chops to get my attention. Funny how when there's a crowd of these guys, the littlest one is always in charge. Put 'em together, and these two big mugs couldn't figure out a 10% tip if you gave them all day. They had all the muscle in the world, but had to rely on a guy who stood five-and-a-half and weighed a buck-o-five to tell them what to do.

The thick one with the shaved head was enjoying himself a little too much, and I felt something pop under the right side of my chest. My body doubled in pain, and my fingers reached the top of my pockets behind me. While I coughed up another wad of black and red pain, I drove my hands down until I felt cold metal, and I grabbed that knife like a wino grabs a fresh bottle.

As I looked up, I saw the weasel pulling the skinhead off of me. He wanted it to hurt, but he didn't want to kill me yet. I had something they still needed, the location of a friend.

This guy had been there for me. He was always on my side. When I needed help, he was there. He didn't ask questions, he just handled his business. In a time when men were becoming something less, he stayed true. He stood for something, though he'd never admit it.

And now, they wanted him. And I'd be damned if I was going to give him up.

I coughed hard again to cover the sound of the knife opening. The hacking came with so much pain inside, it was followed by another.

The weasel walked up to me and bent down in my face. "You know what we want."

I looked up. The single light that hung over my head made this character look even shadier. At this point, there were only four of us in the building.

That meant there were only four of us who knew I was still alive.

I had cut through one coil of the ropes, but with everything quiet I couldn't make too much effort. I needed a distraction.

"Where's Hammer?"

"Mike, Sledge, or MC?"

That did it.

Skinhead moved in and hit me right in the same spot again, the place on the right where my ribs were floating in a sea of pain. While bright lights put on a fireworks show on the inside of my eyelids, I gritted my teeth and sawed through the ropes.

Two down. One to go.

Skinhead's partner exploded his fist into my face again. I felt teeth come loose in my mouth like bloody marbles.

But I felt the last rope tear. And it was worth it.

Weasel backed his muscle off of me again, and climbed right down into my face.

"Where's Hammer?" he snarled, trying his best to look tough.

I threw back my head. For the first time in hours, I finally allowed myself to smile. My mouth was stained with blood, my teeth blood-stained nubs. My clothes were dirty and stained. Behind me, loose ropes hung over my hands, hiding the knife clenched tight in my sweaty palm.

"He's gone," I said. I laughed out loud as they realized how futile this afternoon had been for them.

"Hammer's gone. He's somewhere safe."

"He's somewhere you'll never touch him, you bastards."

And I laughed again, long and hard. And I squeezed that knife tight in my hand.

-- For Mickey Spillane, 1918-2006