"Strange Friends" (Cont.)

Baldy went to punch me with his right jab, apparently the only hand he could hit with. I blocked it with my left and popped him straight in the nose.

He fell with the cracking sound, and I heard the rush that meant his short, stocky friend coming up behind me. I bent at the waist and drove my right leg back as hard as I could. Shorty caught it right in the stomach and went down, out of breath and with some rib damage.

"You see," I said to my friend as I turned and made sure Shorty stayed down, "you never want to throw a kick that high in a fight. You got up around the shoulder, which looks good on videos."

I pulled out my plastic twist-ties from under my shirt and bound Shorty's hands behind his back.

"But you just can't get any power swinging up that high. Did you see how I handled Shorty here? "

He nodded, dazed.

"He was stupid enough to come running up right in my wheelhouse, all I had to do was set my center of gravity and swing backwards. All my power hit him right in the gut."

"There's a roll of duct tape in my trunk," I said, tossing him my keys. "Maroon Impala over there. Toss it to me, would you?"

He wandered over, still in a bit of shock. He opened the trunk, found the tape and turned around.

Baldy was standing behind him when he turned.

"DABBI! YOU BRUH MAH FURHIN NAAS!"

"He's probably saying he's pretty ticked I broke his nose, you might want to hit him low, maybe in the knees."

My new friend's leg shot out and kicked Baldy on his right knee, which sent him back to the ground, whimpering.

"Nice shot!" I shouted. It's always nice to encourage the rookies.

I walked over and grabbed Baldy, binding his hands and feet. I pulled off two strips of tape and covered his mouth, then pushed him into my trunk.

We grabbed Shorty, and did the same to him. As we stood looking into my Impala's mammoth trunk, the shocked look on their eyes told me they had no clue what had just occurred.

"Hey fellas, how you boys doing? Well, I know you can't answer, seeing as how I've tied you up and gagged you and all. Anyway, let me tell you what I know. Shorty, you go by Pancho Guillermo, right? Baldy, your handle is Eight-Ball Jackson, correct?"

They still didn't say much, but the shocked look in their eyes told me I was right on both counts.

"Let me explain something to you boys. When you knocked over that liquor store in Houston last month, you killed four people."

"It was unfortunate you had to kill the store owner and his wife, and also the middle-aged customer. However, those crimes are between you and the law."

"The pregnant woman you killed, however, was another story."

Pancho's eyes grew wide.

"It seems that she was the daughter of my employer, a…rather wealthy businessman with offices on the East Coast. They had a falling out a few years ago, and she was living in Houston with her boyfriend, a Hispanic gentleman."

"My employer would like to meet you guys. There's airholes in the trunk, that's where you guys will ride to New Jersey with me."

"You know, normally when I do a job like this, I'm here to kill you," I said, cleaning my hands with a rag. "Not today. This is a simple capture operation. I'm going to deliver you to the gentleman whose daughter and grandchild you killed."

"And I'm pretty sure if you guys weren't gagged, you'd be begging me to kill you right now," I said, slamming the trunk.

I stepped back, knowing full well my new friend was staring at me. "You know, Impalas are built real solid. You can stash two full-grown men in the trunk, and you can't even hear them screaming."

I turned to him. "Course, you won't read about that in Consumer Reports Magazine."

He looked at me. "You're…you're…they're gonna…you've…"

"Would those words make more sense with a dance beat behind it?"

He rubbed his eyes, as if trying to make his dream go away. "Why…why did you make me a part of this?"

"Well, Junior," I said, "I just wanted you to have some good stories of your own."

He turned and walked over to his truck, a new Explorer.

"Where you headed?" I asked.

"I'm going to drive to the nearest city, and stay in the best hotel I can find," he said without turning around. "Then tomorrow, I'm getting on a plane and going back to work on the next album. Or tour. Or…something."

"Hey," I shouted as he climbed in the door of his Explorer, "I didn't get your name."

"And I didn't get yours," he said, slamming the door and throwing it into gear.

"I guess that's probably best," I said to myself as his taillights faded in the East Texas distance.