Jonathon King - A Killing Night

"Richards says you dated two women who are now missing, not a trace," I said. "What was the saying in the academy, Colin? Twice is a coincidence, three times is a felony?"

The bartender left her busy station and came and set down two shot glasses of honey-colored liquor and fresh beers. It was the first table service I'd seen in the place. She put her fingertips on O'Shea's shoulder before walking away.

"Look, Max. I date a lot of women. I go to a lot of bars. Hell, I dated Tracy a few times," he said, tipping his head to the bartender as she left. "And there she is, in the flesh."

"Yeah, how about Amy Strausshiem?" I said and the name made him turn his face away. He sipped at one of the whiskeys.

"So Amy's one that your new friend Richards is looking for. Who else?" he said.

I didn't answer and just shook my head. Even if Richards had given me the other names, you don't give information to suspects. Besides, it wasn't my case, I kept telling myself. All I did was agree to talk with the guy. O'Shea seemed to accept the silence.

"I heard Amy's mother was in town," he said and I almost believed the sound of sympathy in his voice. "I went out with her. Nice girl. Smart. But she was too much of a challenge for me if you know what I mean."

"No," I said. "Tell me what you mean."

"She liked excitement. Liked to get her adrenaline up, which is fine to a degree, but Amy was walking a wire. I don't need that challenge, Max," he said, finishing the shot and winking at me. "I don't date women for the challenge."

O'Shea had a reputation as a ladies' man back in the day. The dark curly hair and the smooth talk. But I remembered a time at McLaughlin's, a cop bar in Philly, when three of us watched him try to work a woman at the jukebox. No one warned him it was another cop's girl and when the guy got back from the men's room an anticipated confrontation went flat in a hurry when O'Shea tucked tail and slunk away.

"You ever date my ex-wife back home, Colin?" I said, surprising myself, but suddenly wanting to know. The question made him laugh.

"Christ, Max. Everybody dated your ex-wife," he said and then watched my face.

"Look, only time that woman took a break was the months she was married to you, Max. But once that conquest was done, she kept right on mowin' through 'em."

I tried to keep my face straight, just stared at the booze sitting in the tiny glass in front of me.

"Is that an answer, Colin?"

"OK. Yeah, I went out with Meagan. The girl was like a dominatrix without the whip, man. Goddamn control freak. Everything was about her. First sign of weakness-Bam!

"You know that television show, Highlander?, tough guy with the sword who lops some other guy's head off and then sucks the guy's power in to make himself stronger? That's your ex, Max. No way. I bailed quick on that one."

I was shaking my head, watching the ripple my own movement set up in the amber whiskey. Maybe I let a wry grin of my own move the corner of my mouth, remembering.

"Hey, Maker's Mark," O'Shea said, signaling the shot. "Have some good stuff with me, Max." But I was thinking and didn't respond.

"Hey," he said again. "I'm serious." I left O'Shea at the table with the glass still full. I shook his hand, told him to stay out of trouble in a half jovial way, and made my way outside. On the sidewalk I took several deep breaths of night air to get the stink of cigarette out of my nose and looked up to find the moon. It was nowhere in sight and the city lights obscured even the brightest stars. I looked at my watch, almost eleven, and weighed the effort it would take to get back out to my river shack. The world seemed infinitely more complicated now than when I'd started my day.

I went down the street to my truck and for some reason noted the deep shadow cast by the intracoastal bridge. I flashed back on Fulton Street where we played summer basketball in South Philly in the shade of the I-95 overpass as kids and where we would then hang out and smoke stolen cigarettes in that same darkness. Simpler times, I was thinking, when I made the corner and came upon two men breaking into my truck. The sight deeply soured my mood.

The larger of the two was standing at my driver's door, his weight leaning into the panel, his attention on something inside. The other one was up in the truck bed, actually sitting on the far rail, elbows on his knees like he was waiting for something. They were either the laziest car thieves I'd ever seen or weren't car thieves at all. I glanced quickly behind me and then stepped out into the street.

The smaller one saw me first and hissed and nodded to his friend. When the big man turned I saw the baseball bat in his hand and I could feel the adrenaline start to simmer in my blood.

"You guys looking for a ride to the game?" I said.

The big one turned and squared up. The other stayed seated up top and sniggered, nonchalant, like it was no big deal, like the chickenshit backups always did. I wouldn't have to worry about him unless I went down, then he'd come in with the steel-toed boots for the cheap shots.

"They said you got a smart mouth," said the bat man.

I stepped up closer, within ten feet, about the size of a small boxing ring, where I felt more at home in a possible ass-kicking.

"They were right. Maybe you'd like to give me their names, I'll send them my apologies," I said, stepping two feet closer.

"Only message they need is that you're gonna lay off dealing with the cruise ship workers," Bat Man said.

I checked the one up in the truck bed. He was still seated.

"What? You two shit-heads make a left at Haymarket Square? Busting unions with a stick?" I said, taking one more step and rolling my weight onto the balls of my feet. The bigger one choked up on his bat at the "shit-head" slur. "I'm impressed with your sense of history, boys."

A frown of stupidity barely flickered across the big man's face while I assessed his one-handed grip on the middle of the bat. He'd be quicker when he swung it, but the blow wouldn't have nearly the impact. From the corner of my eye I saw the other one stand up. He was looking down, but behind me, and then I heard O'Shea's voice.

"Yo, Max. You forgot your change ole buddy," he said, wading right in. "And boy, it looks like you need it. What, the meter run out, fellas?"

The smaller man fought his cowardice and started to jump down to even the odds but it was dark and he misjudged the distance to the street. When he landed it was on the side of his heeled boot and his ankle went over like a crushed aluminum beer can and he yelped in pain. When Bat Man turned to see his partner go to one knee, I charged him.

I went low, head into the sternum, my elbows out, legs driving. His big body gave for two feet and then slammed to a stop against the door of my truck. Immovable object. I heard him whoof when we hit, but he was solid and didn't go down. I tried to grab a fistful of shirt for leverage and that's when I felt the whip of the bat across my shoulder blades. If he found the back of my head I was done.

My face was still pushing into his chest and when he stretched his arm free for a better aim, I flexed my knees. He must have swung down at the same instant I drove my full six-three up. The top of my head hit something blunt and square that gave in with the crackling sound of someone chewing ice. The bat blow landed low on my back without consequence, but a shard of white pain shot down from my head into my spine. I almost lost consciousness, but there was no almost for Bat Man. He slid down the door of the truck into a heap with me on top of him.

When I blinked my eyes to clear the spinning flecks of light in them I heard the repeating sound of someone kicking a wet sack of leaves and breaking the sticks inside. After too many blows the noise stopped and someone took me under his arm and helped me stand.