John Locke - The Love You Crave

She starts to move, but Carmine puts his hand on her arm. Shirl stops, but looks as though she might pee her pants, she’s so frightened.

“Don’t be rude,” Carmine says.

“We’re about to play PNQ,” she says, by way of explanation. “I’m up first.”

Carmine nods. “Okay. After that, you come back down.”

“I’ll ask Roy.”

“You’ll what?” Carmine says.

Shirl realizes she’s made a big mistake. By fearing Roy more than Carmine, she’s disrespected the old Don.

In front of me, a good friend.

She’s in full-blown panic mode. It’s pitiful to see.

I know what’s going on here. Carmine’s older than dirt. Roy’s the young tough. They’re about to butt heads. Carmine, needing to prove he’s still got it. Roy, not wanting to be disrespected. I’m in a position to prevent it. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit either way, but Carmine did me a favor telling me about Gwen. And this little girl shouldn’t have to live in fear like this.

“What’s PNQ?” I say.

Carmine’s about to blow up, but my question simmers him down a bit. He actually starts to chuckle.

“PNQ stands for penny, nickel, quarter. It’s a game our friend Gwen made up when she used to work for me. Since you never played, I don’t wanna give nothin’ away. You’ll like it.”

“I’ll walk Shirl back up on stage,” I say.

Carmine starts to say something, then looks over at Roy, who’s scowling at both of us. Then says, “That’s good.” He smiles, and adds, “That’s real good. And Creed?”

“Yes, Mr. Porrello?” I say, showing him respect in front of Shirl because I, too, am old school.

“Have fun with it,” he says.

“You know it.”

“Whatever you’re about to do on stage,” I say to Shirl, “You don’t have to.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me too. Of all the things I have to do, this is the easiest. It’s no big deal, and it’s fun for the customers.”

“What about afterward?”

“After PNQ?”

“Yes.”

“That part’s not so much fun. But it’s work, you know?”

“I do.”

By now, Shirl and I have climbed the side steps to the stage, and Jimmy comes over to meet us. The Emcee has been watching this mini drama unfold, and he’s stalling, telling jokes, to buy a little time.

Roy’s furious. His reptilian eyes have narrowed to slits, and the veins in his temples are pulsing. But he doesn’t say anything yet. He doesn’t know me, but figures I’m connected, since Carmine called Shirl over to meet me. But he’s connected too, and he’s a certified tough guy, something I can tell by the scar tissue around his eyes, and the fact his nose has been broken at least twice. Up in his hairline I see a thin line where he’s had surgery. If I’m guessing, that’s from a beer bottle. Bouncing’s a tough life. Roy’s got to be happy he’s moved up a step, running strippers. Helluva lot easier beating up young girls than tough drunks.

The three of us are standing on the stage, just beyond the steps. Shirl’s nervous. I’m sizing up this young, stocky warrior, and Roy’s probably doing the same to me. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m in no hurry. They’re on a time clock here, not me.

Roy says, “Get your ass center stage, you piece of shit.”

Shirl moves quickly. As she passes him, he puts his leg out and trips her. She stumbles, but shows remarkable athleticism correcting her fall at the last second. She manages to keep from hitting the stage. He snarls, “You and me are gonna have a little talk tonight.”

She looks at me.

I nod back.

“You got something to say to me, asshole?” he asks me.

“Nope.”

“Then get your ass back with grandpa before I kick the shit outta you.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’re still here.”

“I am?”

He pauses. Then says, “You don’t want to piss me off.”

“Of course not.”

“Then get the fuck outta my club.”

“Wait. I thought you wanted me to get my ass back with grandpa.”

He shows me that look people give when they wonder if I’m some kind of wise ass.

“What’re you, some kind of wise ass?” he says.

“Yeah, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

He makes a sudden move, hoping to catch me off-balance, to push me backwards. There are only four steps, but we’re high enough that a push could cause serious injury.

No matter. I’ve been expecting the shove since Roy joined us. Most bar fighters want to shove you before launching their power shot. It gets you off balance, gets your hands away from your face, so they can inflict the most possible damage before you can retaliate. If they get you on the ground it can be a rough night if you’re unskilled.

Unfortunately for Roy, I’m plenty skilled. Before his right hand makes contact with my chest, I reach up and grab it with my left hand and start squeezing. Roy’s been around tough guys all his life, but he’s never had his hand stuck in a vice grip like mine, and it shows in his expression as I crush the bones in his hand. He screams in pain and tries to get his hand away, which only makes it worse for him, because it gives me the opportunity to clamp down harder.

In the background, I hear the emcee go quiet. The whole club is watching us, but Carmine’s holding a hand up, to keep them from interfering. I turn my attention back to Roy. His eyes are bugging out. As he begins to panic, he makes another blunder by moving his body into mine, attempting to muscle me down the steps. But before Roy’s chest makes contact with my body, I grab his belt with my right hand and spin us around to where our positions are reversed. I continue squeezing his hand, but now I’m also grinding the broken bones together. Tears are pouring from his eyes, and he’s holding his left hand up in supplication, trying to get to his knees. I lower his hand enough to accommodate him.

Now, with Roy on his knees, I lean over and whisper in his ear, “You don’t hit Shirl, you don’t touch her, ever again. You got that?”

I squeeze his hand harder, for emphasis. Then back it down slightly so he won’t pass out.

“I got it!” he gasps.

“If you so much as raise your voice to her, I’ll hear about it, and you’ll regret it. Tell me you understand.”

He nods his head, vigorously. “I understand,” he says.

Roy really is a tough guy. I’ve crushed the bones in his hand so badly it’s going to require extensive surgery to correct. In a few years he’ll probably end up with the worst case of arthritis imaginable. Roy’s at a point where I could make him do anything. I consider making him sing Mammy, by Al Jolson. I mean, he’s already on his knees, right? But that would be cruel. And anyway, I have a better idea.

“One last thing,” I say.

Roy’s trying not to cry in front of the whole bar. His tough guy persona is really taking a beating tonight, and he’ll probably have to maim some drunks to re-establish his rep. I just hope he doesn’t treat the other girls worse because he’s angry at Shirl. I’m not going to threaten him about it, though. These girls, they come and go. They’ve been around the block. I’m not going to warn Roy not to pick on them. I don’t know the other girls. They could make something up about him, and I wouldn’t know the difference, and that wouldn’t be fair. But there is something I need to warn him about that will be easy to monitor.

“You’re disrespecting Carmine,” I say. “And I won’t have it. He made his bones before your parents were born. In other words, he’s earned his place. I’m going to let go of you, and when I do, you’re going to walk over to Carmine and kiss his ring. And Roy?”