The Perfect Gift

This asshole was huge and hairy, and would have looked far more comfortable in the Pacific Northwest than here in a steamy pool hall that reeked of sweat, stale perfume, and so much beer-soaked wood a man could gag just walking into the joint. But I was big, too, and had been a linebacker in high school. As long as I didn’t hit him with my bum knee—or he didn’t hit me—I figured I was golden.

“Think I can’t take you?” I asked, smirking at him just to rev him up. Big guys like him get revved up and lose focus, thinking they can win the fight purely by their size.

“I know you can’t take me,” he snorted. “Come on, pretty boy. Show me what you got.”

Pretty boy? Really?

He took another step forward. Crunch went Archie’s foot. Archie howled and scrambled away, crab-walking his way several feet to curl under the lip of the bar.

I had almost forgotten that the bar fight Stan had started was still raging behind me. A body slammed into my back, but I shook it off, ignoring the warmth of damp sweat, and possibly blood, against my T-shirt. This fight had devolved from a chaotic skirmish into a full-on battle. I wasn’t worried about me, but I needed Archie out of here in one piece to be of any value to me.

When the guy came toward me my right fist shot out quickly. My knuckles caught him right on the chin and stopped him cold. He rocked back on his heels then staggered against the bar. He clutched at a stool to keep from tumbling, and then he roared at me like a pissed off mountain gorilla.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I shook my hand, hoping that I hadn’t broken it on this asshole’s face. “Did I hurt you?”

His hot breath poured from his mouth as he let out another roar and charged toward me, head prepared to butt me into next Tuesday. Even better.

When the fucker got within a foot of me, I sidestepped and spun around, using my weight to propel him farther. He plowed into a table, toppling bottles, breaking glasses, knocking people down, and smashing the rickety thing beneath his ginormous head.

The sounds of clapping and cheering replaced the sounds of fists hitting flesh and bottles shattering against the floor as everyone around us froze in mid-step and mid-punch. I sauntered over and lifted the ape by the belt and the dank hunk of hair at his neck. I somehow managed to lift him and flung him across the wet floor like a bowling bowl.

My human bowling ball knocked down everything in his path and smashed into the jukebox, cutting off Johnny Cash in mid-warble. The glass over the front cracked then rained in shards to the floor. The lights flickered, dimmed, flickered again, and then the box just moaned and died. Bigfoot gave a low groan and fell still.

“Holy shit, man. You took down Otto.”

I turned to find Archie limping toward me, nursing his hand against his chest like a baby bird. A bright red ring punctuated by two thumbprints hugged his neck. His eyes said junkie; his breath said alcoholic. I knew he was both, but he was perfect for my plan. He was staring at me with something akin to wonder. Even better.

“Otto was messing up my night,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t mind a good brawl, but killing someone shouldn’t be part of it.” I waved my aching hand up and down his body. “You all good?”

He nodded quickly, so fast I thought his head would pop off.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Archie said, his eyes still glowing like I’d just played the world’s greatest guitar solo. “New to town?”

“I been away for a while, upstate,” I said, inferring that I’d just gotten out of Joliet Prison without actually saying so. “Danny O’Shea.”

“Archie Devereaux. But call me Archie Dee. Everyone does.”

“Nice to meet you, Archie Dee.”

I held out my right hand. Archie started to shake it then winced at the pain in his own hand. I was glad because my hand hurt like a mother.

I nodded at the hand he was clutching to his chest. “Is it bad?” I didn’t care, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Archie glanced at his hand and tried to put on a brave face. “Would have been worse, a lot worse.” He glanced toward the giant slug still lying in the demolished jukebox. “Otto doesn’t quit.”

“Seemed like a quitter to me.” I huffed.

“Yeah.” Archie gave me one of those smiles that almost made you feel sorry for a guy. Almost. “I owe you,” he said. “Big time. You name it.”

I shoved my hands in my jeans pockets and rocked on my heels. This guy was like putty in my hands, though I’d suspected he would be. I pretended to think for a minute.

“I could use a job,” I said. “Know anyone looking to hire someone with no marketable skills?”

Archie gave me a bobble-headed nod. His shaggy hair fluttered against his shoulders. “A job? Sure, I can hook you up. You got a car? I can take you to him right now.”

“Sure, my car’s right outside.” As we started out the door, Otto was groaning, starting to come around, I looked at Archie and smiled. “Wanna give the bastard a kick for luck?”

“I’m afraid it would be bad luck,” he said, giving me a nervous smile and shaking his head, as if he knew what kicking Otto might bring down on his head later on.