I ignored the darn thing. Hey, after staring down so many gun barrels lately, the knife seemed downright nonviolent. "Listen, asswipe," I said, "you were home that night, and your window faces the backyard. I think you looked out there when you heard screaming. I think you know who killed Pop."
Zapper just lifted his thumb and inspected the nail for dirt. His forearms were thicker than my thighs. If size was all it took, he could have hit more home runs than Mark McGwire.
"Or maybe you killed him yourself," I went on. "Maybe that's why you're scared shitless." He didn't actually look scared, shitless or otherwise, but hopefully I could rile him into talking.
And the truth was, maybe Zapper really did kill Pop. After Tony, he was my best suspect. What if Pop caught Zapper selling crack and tried to bust him?
Or what if they had a landlord-tenant dispute that turned physical?
Or—
"I know you," Zapper said quietly, and finally focused straight into my eyes.
We gazed intently at each other for a few moments. What the heck, maybe I should give the male bonding thing another whirl. "Sure, you know me. I live right next door. My younger boy is just a little older than your kids."
Zapper nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I know you. You the dickhead keeps calling the cops on me."
I nodded politely back. "Yeah. And you're the dickhead sells drugs and abuses his wife and children." I suppose this was male bonding of a sort, though it would never make it as a beer commercial.
"Bitch ain't my wife. Think I'd marry that ho?"
"Let me ask you something. Do you hate me so much that you want me to go to jail for a murder I didn't do?"
"Don't hate you, man. Just plain don't give a ladybug's ass about you."
"What about my kids? You've seen them around, playing hockey on our driveway. You want them to grow up fatherless?"
"Fuck your kids." He grinned at me, showing a couple of gold caps. "Yo, bro, you mind getting out of my way? You blocking my moonlight. An' Jupiter, too. Shee-it." He slapped his knee and started chortling. "Man tries to be my friend, tells me about fucking Jupiter."
He thought that was utterly hysterical, and his body shook with laughter—which was his mistake. I was beyond desperate, and hearing this pimple on the face of humanity get witty at my expense just sent me over the edge.
Zapper was so busy cracking up, he let down his guard. Using the roundhouse karate kick my children had taught me, I thrust my leg out sharply—and kicked the knife right out of his hand.
It went flying into the bushes. Zapper jumped up to grab it, but I was already standing and it was no contest. I grabbed the knife and pointed it at his chest. My Ninja Turtle sons would have burst with pride. My wife would have flipped. Macho man returns!
Zapper backed up, eyes widening with panic. I had a sudden flash that for all his trash talking and all his henchman muscles, the guy was still nothing but a punk. Maybe he was a brave man with a gun in his hand, I couldn't say, but without it he was just a 250-pound weakling. "Sit down, turkey," I spat out. He stumbled on the steps and sat down.
I stood there brandishing the knife and panting with rage, feeling like I was foaming at the mouth. What the hell had gotten into me? Leftover adrenaline from getting beaten up by those guards? Whatever, it sure was fun being the one holding the weapon for a change. Poor Zapper better hope my kids weren't watching out the window, or they were liable to come outside and stomp him into the sidewalk.
"Yo, chill, man," Zapper whimpered. "I was just funning you, that's all."
"You better tell me what happened that night," I snarled, "or I'll stick this knife from your belly button straight through to your asshole." Not bad, I thought to myself. That time in jail had clearly sharpened my dialogue.
"I didn't see nothing, man!"
"Then you're one dead motherfuck—" I began, but I was stopped by a voice from behind me. "What's going on here?" it rumbled.
I
Zapper just lifted his thumb and inspected the nail for dirt. His forearms were thicker than my thighs. If size was all it took, he could have hit more home runs than Mark McGwire.
"Or maybe you killed him yourself," I went on. "Maybe that's why you're scared shitless." He didn't actually look scared, shitless or otherwise, but hopefully I could rile him into talking.
And the truth was, maybe Zapper really did kill Pop. After Tony, he was my best suspect. What if Pop caught Zapper selling crack and tried to bust him?
Or what if they had a landlord-tenant dispute that turned physical?
Or—
"I know you," Zapper said quietly, and finally focused straight into my eyes.
We gazed intently at each other for a few moments. What the heck, maybe I should give the male bonding thing another whirl. "Sure, you know me. I live right next door. My younger boy is just a little older than your kids."
Zapper nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I know you. You the dickhead keeps calling the cops on me."
I nodded politely back. "Yeah. And you're the dickhead sells drugs and abuses his wife and children." I suppose this was male bonding of a sort, though it would never make it as a beer commercial.
"Bitch ain't my wife. Think I'd marry that ho?"
"Let me ask you something. Do you hate me so much that you want me to go to jail for a murder I didn't do?"
"Don't hate you, man. Just plain don't give a ladybug's ass about you."
"What about my kids? You've seen them around, playing hockey on our driveway. You want them to grow up fatherless?"
"Fuck your kids." He grinned at me, showing a couple of gold caps. "Yo, bro, you mind getting out of my way? You blocking my moonlight. An' Jupiter, too. Shee-it." He slapped his knee and started chortling. "Man tries to be my friend, tells me about fucking Jupiter."
He thought that was utterly hysterical, and his body shook with laughter—which was his mistake. I was beyond desperate, and hearing this pimple on the face of humanity get witty at my expense just sent me over the edge.
Zapper was so busy cracking up, he let down his guard. Using the roundhouse karate kick my children had taught me, I thrust my leg out sharply—and kicked the knife right out of his hand.
It went flying into the bushes. Zapper jumped up to grab it, but I was already standing and it was no contest. I grabbed the knife and pointed it at his chest. My Ninja Turtle sons would have burst with pride. My wife would have flipped. Macho man returns!
Zapper backed up, eyes widening with panic. I had a sudden flash that for all his trash talking and all his henchman muscles, the guy was still nothing but a punk. Maybe he was a brave man with a gun in his hand, I couldn't say, but without it he was just a 250-pound weakling. "Sit down, turkey," I spat out. He stumbled on the steps and sat down.
I stood there brandishing the knife and panting with rage, feeling like I was foaming at the mouth. What the hell had gotten into me? Leftover adrenaline from getting beaten up by those guards? Whatever, it sure was fun being the one holding the weapon for a change. Poor Zapper better hope my kids weren't watching out the window, or they were liable to come outside and stomp him into the sidewalk.
"Yo, chill, man," Zapper whimpered. "I was just funning you, that's all."
"You better tell me what happened that night," I snarled, "or I'll stick this knife from your belly button straight through to your asshole." Not bad, I thought to myself. That time in jail had clearly sharpened my dialogue.
"I didn't see nothing, man!"
"Then you're one dead motherfuck—" I began, but I was stopped by a voice from behind me. "What's going on here?" it rumbled.
I
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