mirror a tired man, his skin losing the glow
of health. He needed to get out of this city. He heard Pinto banging things around.
Victor dried his hands. He put his gloves on and took the scissors from the table. He walked into the bedroom. Both dresser
drawers had been dumped on the bed. Pinto flung clothes into his old scarred trunk, a trunk they’d lugged for many miles in
his Chevy. Victor knew he deserved better than this.
“We are ended,” Pinto said. “No longer partners, no longer friends. I am driving to Florida in my car; you get your own car.
Get your own limo. That’s what you see about yourself. Big boss in the limo.”
Victor plunged the scissors down into Pinto’s back, but the blow lacked force, and his hand slipped off as the metal struck
bone. Pinto jolted straight up, arching like an angry cat. The scissors loosened, dangling down toward the floor.
“What are you doing!” he bellowed, reaching behind him.
“What do you think, you dumb bastard,” Victor said.
Pinto twisted away and ran for the door, scissors flopping, his legs kicking high like a startled deer. Victor grabbed a fistful
of the Russian’s hair and spun him around, and the scissors clattered to the floor. He slammed Pinto down on his back and
fell on his chest, knees first, with all his weight. “Ooomph!” came out of the Russian. Victor sat on his chest, his knees
pinning the Russian’s arms as he wrapped his hands around Pinto’s throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength. Victor’s
arms and hands were weakened, but the Russian was no match. Pinto kicked wildly behind him. Victor held the pressure steady.
A knock at the door sent a surge of adrenaline into Victor Nuñez and he squeezed harder on Pinto’s skinny neck, the veins
in his forearms popping like blue electric cords. The knock at the door became louder. “Everything all right?” the landlady
said.
Pinto surged and tried to throw Victor off. He rocked him hard, bucking wildly. Thirty long seconds ticked off the clock as
the kicking slowed, then stopped. The gurgling sounds came softer. She kept knocking. “What’s going on in there?” she said.
Pinto’s breath stopped.
Victor rose and stripped off the bloody shirt and pants. Down to his underwear. He took off the gloves, picked up a dumbbell,
and went to the door.
“What is going on in there?” the landlady said.
“Lifting weights,” Victor said, still breathing hard. “Hurt my shoulder… muscle locked. It scared me and I yelled. Sorry I
disturbed you.”
“Do you need the ambulance?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He opened the door enough to allow her to see he was dressed in his underwear, his chest soaked with
sweat. She looked away.
“I don’t know if I like any weight lifting on my floors. All the iron banging down on my hardwood.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, closing the door. “Very careful.”
He leaned back against the door and breathed deeply. When he put the dumbbell back under the weight bench he could see blood
on his forearm. He wondered if she had noticed.
It was after midnight when he finished cleaning the blood off the walls and floor. Nothing worked on the stained throw rug.
He dragged Pinto’s old trunk across the floor and set it on the rug. It covered the stain completely, in case the landlady
decided to snoop. He knew she couldn’t move the trunk with all that dead weight inside.
14
A nthony Ryan stood in his second-floor bedroom, looking down at the moonlight shining on his backyard. Spring rains had spawned
a jungle of unknown foliage growing out of control along their back fence, a spot where they’d planted hedges years ago. Rip
had named it the green monster after the left field wall in Fenway Park. Unpruned and untended, it turned untamable. A deflated
basketball protruded from underneath. Rip’s bike and all the sports equipment he was supposed to store in the garage found
itself behind the
of health. He needed to get out of this city. He heard Pinto banging things around.
Victor dried his hands. He put his gloves on and took the scissors from the table. He walked into the bedroom. Both dresser
drawers had been dumped on the bed. Pinto flung clothes into his old scarred trunk, a trunk they’d lugged for many miles in
his Chevy. Victor knew he deserved better than this.
“We are ended,” Pinto said. “No longer partners, no longer friends. I am driving to Florida in my car; you get your own car.
Get your own limo. That’s what you see about yourself. Big boss in the limo.”
Victor plunged the scissors down into Pinto’s back, but the blow lacked force, and his hand slipped off as the metal struck
bone. Pinto jolted straight up, arching like an angry cat. The scissors loosened, dangling down toward the floor.
“What are you doing!” he bellowed, reaching behind him.
“What do you think, you dumb bastard,” Victor said.
Pinto twisted away and ran for the door, scissors flopping, his legs kicking high like a startled deer. Victor grabbed a fistful
of the Russian’s hair and spun him around, and the scissors clattered to the floor. He slammed Pinto down on his back and
fell on his chest, knees first, with all his weight. “Ooomph!” came out of the Russian. Victor sat on his chest, his knees
pinning the Russian’s arms as he wrapped his hands around Pinto’s throat and squeezed with every ounce of strength. Victor’s
arms and hands were weakened, but the Russian was no match. Pinto kicked wildly behind him. Victor held the pressure steady.
A knock at the door sent a surge of adrenaline into Victor Nuñez and he squeezed harder on Pinto’s skinny neck, the veins
in his forearms popping like blue electric cords. The knock at the door became louder. “Everything all right?” the landlady
said.
Pinto surged and tried to throw Victor off. He rocked him hard, bucking wildly. Thirty long seconds ticked off the clock as
the kicking slowed, then stopped. The gurgling sounds came softer. She kept knocking. “What’s going on in there?” she said.
Pinto’s breath stopped.
Victor rose and stripped off the bloody shirt and pants. Down to his underwear. He took off the gloves, picked up a dumbbell,
and went to the door.
“What is going on in there?” the landlady said.
“Lifting weights,” Victor said, still breathing hard. “Hurt my shoulder… muscle locked. It scared me and I yelled. Sorry I
disturbed you.”
“Do you need the ambulance?”
“No, I’m fine,” he said. He opened the door enough to allow her to see he was dressed in his underwear, his chest soaked with
sweat. She looked away.
“I don’t know if I like any weight lifting on my floors. All the iron banging down on my hardwood.”
“I’ll be careful,” he said, closing the door. “Very careful.”
He leaned back against the door and breathed deeply. When he put the dumbbell back under the weight bench he could see blood
on his forearm. He wondered if she had noticed.
It was after midnight when he finished cleaning the blood off the walls and floor. Nothing worked on the stained throw rug.
He dragged Pinto’s old trunk across the floor and set it on the rug. It covered the stain completely, in case the landlady
decided to snoop. He knew she couldn’t move the trunk with all that dead weight inside.
14
A nthony Ryan stood in his second-floor bedroom, looking down at the moonlight shining on his backyard. Spring rains had spawned
a jungle of unknown foliage growing out of control along their back fence, a spot where they’d planted hedges years ago. Rip
had named it the green monster after the left field wall in Fenway Park. Unpruned and untended, it turned untamable. A deflated
basketball protruded from underneath. Rip’s bike and all the sports equipment he was supposed to store in the garage found
itself behind the
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