The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(33)

So he pulled his head back out of the way and gave Nino’s arm a push as it went past, adding momentum to the weighted fist on its plotted path. This encouraged Nino’s rotation, Nino having overcommitted because he was counting too much on the knucks.

And on top of it he hadn’t kept his chin tucked.

Peter had no sympathy for a guy with brass knuckles.

He could feel Oklahoma Ray winding up somewhere behind him, so he made it quick. Before Nino could unwrap himself, Peter stepped in close and hit him with a short, hard left to the side of his thick neck.

It knocked Nino back, choking and off-balance. Peter pivoted toward Oklahoma Ray, who was hard up on the toes of one foot, the other already airborne fast toward the side of Peter’s head.

At least the guy had put on some shoes, thought Peter, watching the foot approach. He knew he was too late to get completely out of the way of it, but he was still willing to try. He bent his knees and turned away from the blow, catching just the toe of Ray’s red boxing boot high on his cheek. The pain bloomed like a midnight rose.

But Peter had been hit before. Pain was just information. Information that should not interfere with your ability to do the job at hand.

He kept his focus on Ray, whose second foot followed faster, with more momentum.

He was fully airborne, nearly horizontal, his form perfect until Peter dropped beneath his scissoring legs and punched him hard in the crotch.

Ray landed badly, one elbow on the pavement. Peter kicked him in the head, not unkindly, saw Nino staying down with both hands clutched at his neck, then turned, all charged up, toward Lewis, who stood ten feet away with a flat black automatic pistol in a perfect two-handed marksman’s pose.

Awash in adrenaline, Peter touched the forming bruise on the side of his face.

“Now you’ve got three mamas to call. And what have you got to show for it?”

Lewis gave Peter the same faint, tilted smile. “One dead jarhead is what I got. I’m not calling anybody’s mama.”

Peter held his hands away from his body.

“I’m not carrying,” he said, glad of it now. “Want me to turn around so you can shoot me in the back?”

“Depends whether you want to see it coming.”

The muzzle of the pistol didn’t waver. Outside the circle of the bar’s door light, it was almost invisible in his hand.

The night was dark, the streetlights broken and the moon in hiding.

Peter wondered if he would die outside a corner bar in Milwaukee, after everything he’d seen and done.

It didn’t bother him as much as he’d expected.

At least he wouldn’t die bored. Or wondering if he’d ever have a normal life.

Then he thought of Dinah.

With the paper bag of money tied up with string, and the man with the scars driving past her house. Maybe finally stopping and getting out of his big black Ford, the chrome pistol in his hand. Walking up the new porch steps and rapping on the front door.

Okay, that bothered him.

It bothered him more than almost anything.

He put down his hands. “Don’t you want to know who got shot in the head?”

“Don’t b’lieve I care,” said Lewis. “Long as it ain’t me.”

“Somebody sent a shooter my way. Not you?”

Lewis shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I sent a shooter, you’d be dead six times.”

Peter believed it. He angled his head at the two men trying to pick themselves up off the sidewalk. “Then why this?”

Lewis shrugged, the tilted smile wider now, showing a little of who the man was. The gun vanished into a coat pocket. “Thought it’d be fun. See what you got.”

“Now you know.”

Lewis nodded, thoughtful. “That I do.”

Nino was clearly having trouble breathing as his throat swelled up. Ray, still blinking off the sparkles, hadn’t yet risen past his hands and knees.

Peter said, “How’s your health plan?”

“We vet’rans, man. Uncle Sam got our back.” He turned to Nino. “Can you drive?”

Nino opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He nodded.

Lewis angled his head toward the Escalade parked across the street. “We working next week,” he said. “Better go see Saint Mary. Tell ’em you got in a fight over a woman.”

Which maybe wasn’t too far from the truth, thought Peter. Nino and Ray were just collateral damage.

The Escalade drove away. Peter thought about their conversation earlier in the day. He said, “What about Dinah? Will you still keep an eye on her? Discourage the guy with the scars?”

Lewis stared at him. “Told you I would,” he said. “I keep my word.” The tilted smile was gone. His tone was casual, but he was serious.

Peter nodded. “Good.” Somehow it was the answer he knew he would get.

Lewis regarded Peter like an object of great rarity. “You get that,” he said.

Peter shrugged. “What’s not to get?” His cheek throbbed. He would have a nice bruise tomorrow. It was traditional to put a steak on it, but Mingus would just eat it, then lick him to death. A bag of frozen peas would be better. The dog was not a vegetarian.

Then he had a better idea. “Hang on a sec,” he told Lewis. Went inside, pulled on his coat, and paid the barman for a six-pack of PBR in longneck bottles. Went back out, handed a bottle to Lewis, and opened one for himself.