Reinventing wheels is all fun and good, but sometimes you need to kick it old school.
Don't matter much in the Gutter. Old and new shoes both land you in the same steaming piles of shit.
Don't matter much in the Gutter. Old and new shoes both land you in the same steaming piles of shit.
One Night Stand-Off by Anton Sims
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It was just past eleven on a cold Tuesday in February when
Duke Zabriskie called. In the background I could hear noisy music and scattered
voices. Duke tends bar at Lost Weekend, a deliberately nondescript drinking
hole in the East Village. I happen to live directly upstairs.
“Eddie, hey, can you come down here?” Duke’s not the
sharpest pin in the cushion but he’s got a good heart. Looks out for his
friends.
“Right now? What’s up?”
“Maybe a job. Guy here’s talking like he needs a bodyguard.
I didn’t say nothing about you ’cause of I didn’t know if you was free. Uh, you
free?”
“I’m available, if that’s what you mean.” No jobs at the
moment. Slow week. Slow month. Shaping up to be a slow year.
“Wanna pop in? I’ll introduce you.”
“Be there in five.”
I’m the type that people think of when they think bodyguards.
Or any job that requires bulky and menacing. During my fifteen minutes of fame
as a wrestler—more like five minutes, really, and “fame” might be a bit of a
stretch—I was billed as Eddie the Yeti. The wrestling didn’t last. The nickname
did.
Down three flights I trundled to the street, past the busted
glass door. Half a dozen steps later, I was at the dark entrance of Lost
Weekend. I put on my tough guy face, the only face I’ve got, and pushed my way
in. And bumped right into the business end of a Browning .22 T-Bolt.
“Inside,” said the gunman, waving the rifle. “Against the
bar. Move.”
I moved, keeping my hands in clear sight. At the same time I
took in the action. Two punks in ski masks, the second one holding a pistol.
Altogether about a dozen customers. Three couples at tables to one side, their
faces pale; half a dozen others still sitting on stools. Duke stood behind the
bar with a rag in his hand, looking pised.
“Come on, fill it up,” said the punk with the pistol, waving
a pretzel basket with his free hand. Inside were several wallets, a couple of
watches and some jewelry. I made no move to add to the kitty.
“You, gimme the watch,” he said, singling out a balding
customer in a dark suit.
“Sure, sure, take it,” the man answered, wrenching the band
off his wrist and tossing it in the bowl.
“And the ring.”
“All yours,” said the main, yanking off a gaudy bauble,
anxious to please.
“What’s in the briefcase?”
The man glanced down at the case and licked his lips.
“Papers. Business stuff. Nothing important.”
“Give it here.”
“It’s only documents.”
“Give.”
I’d had enough. “I got a Rolex,” I said, holding up my left
wrist. The punk with the pistol turned to me with his mouth hanging open. Not
used to people volunteering their valuables. “You want it?” I asked.
He looked at the guy by the door and then at the customer
with the briefcase. “Toss it here,” he said, holding out the pretzel basket. I
took a step closer, keeping my left hand raised and working at the strap with
my right. It was a Timex not a Rolex, but he never found that out. As soon as I
was within range, I let go with a jab that cracked the cartilage in his nose
like a raw egg. He tumbled backward and hit the floor with a thud that rattled
the drinks on the bar.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” said the thug with the
rifle, moving toward me rapidly. “Get away from him, you dumb ox. Or I’ll blow
your damn head off.”
I stood my ground and gave him the look. “You have
thirty seconds to haul your friend out of here or you’re eating that gun.
Understand me?”
He glared at me defiantly for a long moment and then
abruptly wilted, glancing away and lowering the weapon. “I knew this was a
stupid-ass idea,” he mumbled under his breath. I had to wonder what kind of
idiots would try to rob a crowd with a bolt-action target rifle. Buttercup
criminals, that’s who. Crouching to revive his unconscious buddy and finding it
impossible, Buttercup slung the Browning over his shoulder and dragged the limp
gunman toward the door.
Once they were gone I bellied up to the bar next to the
balding guy and ordered a beer. “This the fella needs a bodyguard?” I asked
Duke, tossing a thumb in the direction of baldie. His face was slack, drained
of color.
“Sure is. You saved him a bundle, Eddie. He’s carrying
jewelry samples from Chicago. If those guys got the case, he’d be sunk.”
“That right? Chicago, huh?” I gestured at the case. “What’s
hot in Chicago these days?”
“I’m not, uh … I’m not at liberty….”
“Forget it. I understand.” The guy was in the jewelry
business, that much was probably true. I could picture his conversation with
Duke earlier, setting the stage, boasting about his expensive freight, must
have dropped a casual jest about how he should hire himself a bodyguard, ha ha.
Too bad for him Duke took it seriously and I stepped into the middle of his
play. It was supposed to look like a random stick-up in an obscure dive with
baldie just happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, got his
baggage lifted, when actually it was an insurance scam. I had little doubt
they’d try it again elsewhere, and maybe succeed this time, or maybe get popped
by an overzealous bartender with an itchy trigger finger. Made no difference to
me either way. As long as it didn’t happen in the Lost Weekend.
“This your wallet, Chicago?” I plucked a brown billfold from
the pretzel basket. He nodded his head resignedly.
Inside were eighty-seven dollars. I extracted three
twenties. “My fee,” I told him. “For one night of bodyguarding. Enjoy your stay
in New York.”
