“Curly, Larry and Moe over there.”
Conrad swivels, hikes his arm up over the back of the booth and twists his jaw to look back over his shoulder. He sees three tough-looking punks drinking beer at the counter. “Uh-huh.” He looks at his watch. “You know that’s what I hate about theater. You bust your ass to get there on time and the fuckin’ curtain never goes up when it’s supposed to. Fifteen, twenty minutes later they get all the stragglers seated and some dickhead gets on the mike and says please turn off your fuckin’ cellulars and pagers. Where the hell’s our leading lady tonight?”
Back in a doorway, half hidden in shadow, Don the waiter swigs beer and watches everything.
Now a slim woman enters—attractive, blonde, thirties, well put together and nicely dressed; too sophisticated for this place. She looks around nervously.
Radford glances at the woman, looks away, continues to mop the floor.
Conrad says under his breath, “Curtain going up.”
And now—quickly …
Conrad and Gootch look toward the counter where the three punks sit.
The three punks—Curly, Larry and Moe—drain their beers and get up. Their path toward the exit just happens to take them near the blonde.
Don from his shadowed corner watches everyone.
Curly, the leader of the three, does a take as he play-acts recognizing the blonde.
She doesn’t look at Curly; she’s seen them out of the corner of her eye and she’s alarmed. Abruptly Curly shouts: “Your brother owes me two large.”
The blonde at first doesn’t look at him. Then, startled to realize it was addressed to her, she tries to conceal her fear. “Were you talking to me?”
Curly bellows, “He owes me money!”
Curly jerks the blonde forward roughly, his face an inch from hers.
“Let go!” She looks around frantically for help but there’s only Radford, mopping the floor.
Curly grips the blonde’s throat. She tries to fend him off but Larry grabs her wrists and stands behind her, immobilizing her arms, and Moe moves in close, menacing. The blonde whispers, “Somebody please …”
Curly says, “Let’s take it one more time from the top. Start with where’s your brother at?”
The blonde in terror finally blurts, “I don’t have a brother!”
Radford watches but makes no move.
Curly slaps the woman’s face hard and tightens his hold on her throat. Larry pulls her arms up behind her back. She cries out. Moe kidney-punches her from the side and Curly slams his fist hard into her midriff, doubling her over. “Let’s try one more time.”
The blonde can barely gasp. “What’re you talking about?… Please …”
Moe gets set to hit her again and then suddenly rocks back—something has hit him hard in the back—and as he falls away from the blonde his fall reveals Radford. He’s jabbed Moe with the end of the mop-handle.
Radford says, “Hey man, please.”
The punks react. All three turn on Radford. By the swiftness of their reaction, and the way they suddenly ignore the blonde, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see this whole set-up has been rehearsed. The one they’re really after is Radford.
As the three attack him he stabs the mop handle toward Larry’s eye and it makes Larry flinch away and in the flow of the same motion Radford swings the pole against Curly’s cheek, hard enough to knock the man off his feet, but now Moe has recovered from the kidney punch and he swarms toward Radford and all of a sudden the three of them are on him like bears on a honey pot and the pain in his head is beyond unendurable but still, somehow, moving faster than anyone ought to be able to, Radford protectively pushes the blonde into a booth before he swings to face them and speaks before any of them can nail him:
“Hey, guys, I don’t want to hurt you.”
That provokes Curly’s harsh laugh. They come at Radford and he backs away, looking for a way out, really a coward … And all three punks pile on him, beat on him, lock him in a hold that a crowbar couldn’t pry loose …
Conrad and Gootch are watching with keen interest. They see when Radford knows he can’t get out of it and begins to give in with unhappy resignation.
Conrad speaks under his breath to Gootch: “Now we see if he’s a player.”
The three punks have Radford pinned. His mind is screeching, running off the track now—All of a sudden he’s in a chilly fog as he comes heaving up out of a basement under some derelict building like a monster creature. He’s young, in combat fatigues, hauling his sniper rifle—he tries to slip away in the night but abruptly there’s the gleaming point of a bayonet against the back of his neck and he reacts … turns his head slowly to see a child holding a rifle at the other end of the bayonet. A boy, not more than twelve or thirteen, looking half stoned, wearing wretched street clothes but a soldier’s kepi on his head.
A blank mask descends over young Radford’s expression. With resignation he lifts his hands in surrender.
Curly is whipping toward the blonde’s booth while Larry and Moe keep Radford locked in their grip but now, seeing where Curly’s headed, Radford explodes. He hammers backwards with one heel against somebody’s shin and, with that opening breached, skillfully kicks his way out of their hold and now he goes after the three punks with the silent cold precision of a demolition ball. There’s no question of “fighting fair;” Radford swings a leg toward Curly at the booth, kicks Curly in the groin and flashes around to face the other two. He uses anything as a weapon—steel paper-napkin holder, table, bottle of ketchup, chair, his own hands and feet—this isn’t a neat clean choreographed thing. It’s a brutal fight; Radford fights dirty.
The blonde watches this, wide-eyed. Conrad and Gootch watch with clinical interest. Don the waiter stares, inscrutable. Charlie the owner comes from the kitchen scowling, drawn by the racket; picks up a kitchen knife and comes around the counter lofting his prosthetic hand, but by then the fight is over. Charlie is pleased with him—pleased for him. “O-kay.”
Radford has knocked the living shit out of all three tough guys.
Charlie says, “Finish ’em, C.W. Bust up their kneecaps.”
But the three are down, and Radford backs away.
Curly and Larry painfully pull themselves together and try to rouse the semi-conscious Moe.
Radford hardly even seems to be breathing hard. The scar on his face glistens with sweat.
Don the waiter fades back, disappearing silently.
The blonde seems to be looking for a way to sneak out without being noticed.
Curly and Larry help Moe outside.
Radford watches Conrad and Gootch as they cross to the door and exit.
Outside on the street, the redheaded dealer appears from shadows while Conrad flicks his cigarillo into the gutter; he and Gootch get into their van. This time Conrad takes the wheel (it’s his van). He says to his companion, “That’ll do it. They do a background, they’ll find out he just about beat three guys to death.”
Inside, Radford looks out through the cafe’s big picture window at the three punks who’re staggering away down the sidewalk. His attention is drawn to the van when its engine revs up. What he sees, reflected in window glass, is a puddle behind the van. In the puddle he can see an upside-down backward reflection of the van’s license plate—a reflection within a reflection. The plate number is 7734 OL, and seen upside down and backwards it reads quite plainly “To hell.” Even Radford may remember that …
The van drives away, rippling the puddle, destroying the image.
The blonde comes toward Radford’s shoulder. “Hey, I really—I’d like to …”
Ignoring her, he carries his mop back toward the kitchen.
Mystified, the blonde looks at Charlie. “He always so sociable?… What’s his name?”