Undaunted, in fact, highly motivated now, Frank charged in and faked a swing at the big man’s head. When the dude’s hands went up to block, Frank double clutched and slammed the knob end of the tire iron into the man’s sternum, Frank thinking, Now there was a forehand even Larry Richards would admire.
The blow stunned the big ape. And as he swayed on his knees, both hands on his chest, Richards wiggled out from under. Then Frank launched a drive to the side of the big guy’s head and the knob connected with a dull thud.
Guy toppled over.
Richards was on his feet now. “Hey, Frank,” he said and then ran toward the office building.
Frank turned quickly toward the BMW.
Thug 2 was down off the roof and coming on.
Frank was having massive déjà vu and also wondering where the hell Richards went off to. Without an answer, he braced for the attack. Baseball bat was a lot bigger than a tire iron.
Frank hopped in a circle, searching the bat-wielder for an opening.
He saw none and the big guy kept closing in.
Frank backed up, waiting for an opportunity. To slash, to hit, to kick—whatever, it didn’t matter. Something. Anything.
Then he heard the pop of a gunshot.
The white John Henry stopped his swing.
Frank and the thug both jerked their heads toward the sound.
Larry Richards had shot into the sky and was now running toward them with a long-barreled pistol in his hand,
Looks like a Colt 45, Frank thought, the gun that won the West.
Richards pulled the hammer back on the hand cannon and pointed it at the bat wielder’s large torso.
The big man lowered his hands and the bat slowly, as he studied Richards and stared at the pistol.
“I’m not likely to miss from this range, asshole,” Richards snapped. “And although it’s only a .22, I think it’ll do the job. Just drop the bat and drag that other asshole outta here before I get a ticket for leaving garbage on my lawn.”
The big guy’s hands massaged the bat handle. He was thinking things over. Had an odd twisting of his lips that Frank thought might be a smirk.
Either that or he had gas.
“You’re not going to shoot me out here in broad daylight, man. I’ll take that little popgun away from you and shove it up your ass.”
“Ever heard of self-defense, you fuckin’ cretin?” Richards said, a familiar wiseass look of superiority wrinkling his face. “Let’s see—property damage,” eyeing the BMW, “physical assault, trespassing, terroristic threats, intimidation—I think I’ve got a case, don’t you, Frank?”
“Looks like a lock, Larry,” Frank said, tapping the tire iron into the palm of his left hand and staring at the big guy.
“All right,” the man said, sweat stains widening on his beige polo shirt. “But Burt ain’t gonna be happy with you, Richards. If you think this is gonna end it, you should know better. We’ll be back, and next time you won’t be so goddamn lucky.”
With that, he turned and started walking away, shaking his head at the other guy, who was struggling to his feet now. They limped away together. Frank watched them get into a big navy blue Lincoln at the end of the block.
As the Lincoln sped away, Frank looked at Richards. “Jesus, Larry, what the hell was that about?”
“I’m afraid I’ve run afoul of a local gangster, Frank,” Richards said, looking around nervously. “And you came just in time. Thanks for helping.”
“Glad to be of service, Larry. That got my blood flowing.”
“You always did like to fight, Frank.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Had a few in high school I s’pose, but—“
“Let’s hold off on the reminiscing. We need to get out of here before the boys come back with bigger guns than my little Wild West replica here. I’ll lock up the office and we’ll hit a bar, I could use a drink or ten.”
“I could use a little something to take the edge off, myself,” Frank said. Then he squinted at the dented BMW, all the glass shattered, the mirrors hanging loose. “I guess we’ll need to take my car.”
“I think your assessment is accurate, Frank,” Richards said, eyeballing the brown and white Ford station wagon idling in the middle of the street. “That thing made it all the way to Denver, huh?”
“You see it, don’t you?”
“Reminds me of my parents’ old sled. The one we used on our infamous night of mooning. Remember?”
“I’ll never forget it, Larry. It was the last time my old man ever tried to muscle me.”
Richards’ head bobbed around nervously, his eyes wide and swollen, blood trickling from his mouth and nose. Then he seemed to remember he was holding a gun. He slid the revolver into his gray sport coat and jogged back to the office building.
(End of Chapter 5)
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