shortening of the tendons caused by overtraining with weights. I was going to have to put on a second pot to make any sort of dent.
One of the hands came up. I stepped back to get a good swing with the carafe, but he was only looking at a scrap of paper stuck between his thumb and forefinger. “Your number’s down.” His voice was shallow and a little high, a waste of all that room in his chest. “Right place for Walker?”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
He chuckled. That floored me. I wouldn’t have thought even a good joke would make it through all that muscle and bone. “Yeah. The girl in the office said you weren’t long on straight answers.”
“Which girl and which office?”
“Tracy. ABC Tool and Die?”
I’d half worked it out before he gave me the name of Wilson Watson’s front in Warren, but I’d wanted to make sure. Watson was a small man physically who liked to surround himself with big men, like Stalin, and had done all his recruiting from the Mr. Universe block at Jackson. Between the weights and the steroids smuggled in by crooked guards, it was a wonder this one hadn’t just pushed down the west wall.
I said, “I’ve always wondered. What does a tool and die shop do?”
“I don’t know. I never been inside and neither has Wilson. We can come in, right?”
He was the least pushy strongarm I’d ever met and the closest to polite. He was a big dog you could lay your headon and listen to its heart thump in its deep hollow chest, that could gobble you up bones and all. “We meaning you? You’re big, but you don’t qualify for a group rate.”
He turned a quarter inch and made some kind of gesture. I couldn’t see it because he still filled the door. A car door thunked, gravel crunched. The eclipse passed. When his tame elk stepped aside, Wilson Watson hopped up onto the front stoop.
He was short, a round torso perched on spindles that turned out at the knees, a textbook example of a vitamin A deficiency in early childhood. He wore an eight-ball jacket that made me sweat to look at it, a suede cap with the bill cocked over his left ear, and black leather pants swiped from the fashion department at Toys ‘R’ Us, two hundred bucks of NBA advertising on his feet, which were the largest thing about him and turned out also, anchoring him to the ground. He looked like one of those stuffed lacquered frogs they prop up on their hind legs and sell in souvenir shops, holding fishing poles or strumming little guitars.
My poker face must have slipped, because a pair of yellow eyes stared up at me from a round puddle of mediumbrown skin with a stringy Fu Manchu moustache and a tiny pubic patch in the hollow of the chin. “The fuck you gawking at?”
“I just got out of bed. I dreamed the eighties were over.”
“Funny joke,” explained the big man to the side of the door. “Man don’t know from retro.”
“Let’s inside. You got Zima?”
“Scotch and beer,” I said. “I’m not sure about the Scotch. It’s got a Little Rock accent.”
“That went out with Reagan. Just pour me a cup of shit.”
I realized then I was still holding the coffeepot. Outside,the Hummer’s speakers were still humping the frame. Between percussions the engine continued to idle. “You should lock up your ride. The neighborhood’s on the downhill run.”
The big man spoke up. “Wilson’s name’s on the plate. That’s way better than the Club.”
I stepped out of the path and Watson crabwalked inside, swinging his arms for momentum and setting each foot square with a loud slap. The temperature dropped five degrees as his companion dragged his shade over me, following. The big man swiveled his head from side to side on the way through the living room. “I was wrong,” he said. “The man do know from retro.”
“It was all new when I brought it home.”
Watson went straight through to the kitchen, which said something about his background, and sat down in the little breakfast nook. The
One of the hands came up. I stepped back to get a good swing with the carafe, but he was only looking at a scrap of paper stuck between his thumb and forefinger. “Your number’s down.” His voice was shallow and a little high, a waste of all that room in his chest. “Right place for Walker?”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
He chuckled. That floored me. I wouldn’t have thought even a good joke would make it through all that muscle and bone. “Yeah. The girl in the office said you weren’t long on straight answers.”
“Which girl and which office?”
“Tracy. ABC Tool and Die?”
I’d half worked it out before he gave me the name of Wilson Watson’s front in Warren, but I’d wanted to make sure. Watson was a small man physically who liked to surround himself with big men, like Stalin, and had done all his recruiting from the Mr. Universe block at Jackson. Between the weights and the steroids smuggled in by crooked guards, it was a wonder this one hadn’t just pushed down the west wall.
I said, “I’ve always wondered. What does a tool and die shop do?”
“I don’t know. I never been inside and neither has Wilson. We can come in, right?”
He was the least pushy strongarm I’d ever met and the closest to polite. He was a big dog you could lay your headon and listen to its heart thump in its deep hollow chest, that could gobble you up bones and all. “We meaning you? You’re big, but you don’t qualify for a group rate.”
He turned a quarter inch and made some kind of gesture. I couldn’t see it because he still filled the door. A car door thunked, gravel crunched. The eclipse passed. When his tame elk stepped aside, Wilson Watson hopped up onto the front stoop.
He was short, a round torso perched on spindles that turned out at the knees, a textbook example of a vitamin A deficiency in early childhood. He wore an eight-ball jacket that made me sweat to look at it, a suede cap with the bill cocked over his left ear, and black leather pants swiped from the fashion department at Toys ‘R’ Us, two hundred bucks of NBA advertising on his feet, which were the largest thing about him and turned out also, anchoring him to the ground. He looked like one of those stuffed lacquered frogs they prop up on their hind legs and sell in souvenir shops, holding fishing poles or strumming little guitars.
My poker face must have slipped, because a pair of yellow eyes stared up at me from a round puddle of mediumbrown skin with a stringy Fu Manchu moustache and a tiny pubic patch in the hollow of the chin. “The fuck you gawking at?”
“I just got out of bed. I dreamed the eighties were over.”
“Funny joke,” explained the big man to the side of the door. “Man don’t know from retro.”
“Let’s inside. You got Zima?”
“Scotch and beer,” I said. “I’m not sure about the Scotch. It’s got a Little Rock accent.”
“That went out with Reagan. Just pour me a cup of shit.”
I realized then I was still holding the coffeepot. Outside,the Hummer’s speakers were still humping the frame. Between percussions the engine continued to idle. “You should lock up your ride. The neighborhood’s on the downhill run.”
The big man spoke up. “Wilson’s name’s on the plate. That’s way better than the Club.”
I stepped out of the path and Watson crabwalked inside, swinging his arms for momentum and setting each foot square with a loud slap. The temperature dropped five degrees as his companion dragged his shade over me, following. The big man swiveled his head from side to side on the way through the living room. “I was wrong,” he said. “The man do know from retro.”
“It was all new when I brought it home.”
Watson went straight through to the kitchen, which said something about his background, and sat down in the little breakfast nook. The
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