The little jack made as if to accept the offer and the Neeyanderthal pushed him back down, all the force of his open hand on the man’s face.
Don’t raise your hand to me, you little shit.
And he laughed and said No no, sorry brother, I was being a dick, here, get up, we’ll talk.
Little slick conched himself into his tiny shell of a world there on the sidewalk and the Neeyanderthal smacked him again.
Answer when you’re spoken to.
Enough, Neeyan, the Redeemer said from his own piece of sidewalk. It’s not like the little prick doesn’t have motive.
We’re just having a chat, the Neeyanderthal replied.
The Redeemer himself had been shitkicked in seconds, so who knows how the Neeyanderthal had managed to take the two of them down with no help from anyone. Maybe he should feel guilty for mixing his friend up in fights that weren’t even his, but some time ago he’d decided that if the man wanted to kill himself anyway, why worry about it. I am one lowly sonofabitch, he thought.
From the corner of his eye he glimpsed something stirring, but by the time he turned to look, the heap that had accompanied little slick was already on his feet and wielding a blade with the resolve of a man who doesn’t carry it for effect. He lunged at the Neeyanderthal, who for a split second made no move, his face saying Whatever shall be shall be — like this was some sort of favor — and when the tip of the blade was almost to his stomach he snatched the heap’s wrist with one hand and twisted, but the rest of the body failed to turn at the same speed and you could clearly hear how his wrist went snap before the whole heap of him slammed against the sidewalk.
The Neeyanderthal looked happy, as tho just bathed, or even born.
Maybe it’s not that he wants to die, the Redeemer thought, but that what he wants is not to stumble.
Damn, Neeyan, he said, We ought to get you on TV.
Nah, the Neeyanderthal replied. No point being famous; then they’d just say I never existed.
The Redeemer got to his feet and said to the two bruisers: Go.
The heap crawled a few feet, then pulled himself up and quickly scampered to the corner. Little slick sat still in his own world, exploring the insides of his arms. Finally he stood and went to the Big House door. On seeing him Three Times Blonde slammed it shut.
You think you’re coming in here? Look at you!
What?
There’s an epidemic out there and you got nothing on. I bet you’re already sick.
I had a mask on, whined her beau. But that bastard smacked it off.
There ensued a brief silence. Three Times Blonde cracked the door for a sec and stared him in the eye.
That’s what they all say, she said.
And closed it again.
The minute Not-so-slick took his leave, Vicky turned up. She saw them all in the distance, standing before the Big House, and surveyed the terrain on approach. Before saying a word she followed him with her eyes, then looked at the Neeyanderthal, then at the bloody splash-up on the sidewalk, and finally at the Redeemer.
Want me to tell you about it? asked the Neeyanderthal.
Vicky scanned the scene again with something like a surplus of sadness and began to examine the Redeemer, feeling his neck, looking at his eyes, the cut above one brow, the split lip. The Redeemer’s ribs were still shaking but she didn’t think they were broken.
Open your mouth, Vicky said. The Redeemer opened his mouth and Vicky prodded a canine with one finger.
This tooth’s done for, she said. But the rest of the prick’ll survive.
One more thing, said the Redeemer: Check and see if I have anything here.
He pointed to his neck. Vicky tilted his head a bit and looked. She stood back, looked at him again.
What do you think you have there?
You see a welt?
Vicky looked again.
I see something, but it could be a heel mark. If you were going to die you’d feel awful by now. That’s what I’ve been seeing at the hospital. Things don’t usually escalate this quick, but sometimes these fuckers can remember if they’ve been in a certain place before, and that makes them really hard to stop. Things do more damage the second time around.
If it was merely a question of feeling awful, the Redeemer was infected as shit, but for now he felt the contamination was contained to the places he’d been kicked.
Let’s go look at Baby Girl, he said.
I’m staying here, the Neeyanderthal said. More fun.
He opened the door and at that moment a call came in. Vicky went ahead.
Friend — it was the Mennonite — all good over there?
All good, why?
Just got word the Las Pericas place is on fire.
What the…? he thought. How would the Mennonite even know to associate Las Pericas with Dolphin?
The place is on fire… And you’re telling me the Castros aren’t behind it, the Redeemer said.
I’m saying the Castros aren’t behind it, the Mennonite replied. Been here the whole time. All the father wants is his daughter back, and at a time like this his boys aren’t about to do anything without his say-so.
Got it. All good here. Anything happens I’ll give you a call.
They hung up. It was time to try Gustavo again. He dialed and found him in. Come on over, the man said.
He walked into the Big House. Inside his apartment, Vicky was washing one of Baby Girl’s arms with a wet rag. Some bodies need to be assessed; this one needed to be dressed.
I’m leaving you here with her, he said. Won’t be long.
Vicky nodded without turning to look, and the Redeemer walked out.
Be right back, he said to the Neeyanderthal.
Where you off to?
Going to see Gustavo, but I need you to stay here.
Bet you’ll smoke a blunt, the Neeyanderthal said.
The Redeemer got into the Bug and drove off. On the way to Gustavo’s he stopped a second in front of Las Pericas. The facade was still standing but the flames inside the place were devouring it all and already licking at the windows. No firemen or onlookers to distract the fire.
He got to Gustavo’s. His was not a hood but a neighborhood, a bit better painted but equally as deserted as where the Redeemer lived. He got out, knocked and after a few seconds a girl came to the door. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, and was pregnant. Come in, she said quietly, and turned.
The floors, walls, furniture, doorknobs, all of it possessed a soap-scrubbed shine, less a clean house than some sort of mausoleum holding the outside world at bay. Gustavo was sitting in an armchair in the living room. You could tell he’d just come from court because he’d yet to take off his coat and tie. The Redeemer hadn’t laid eyes on him for a couple years. The man was still in shape, but his chin-sag and dark-circled eyes said he’d seen the better side of sixty some time ago. The girl handed the Redeemer a facemask. She looked sleep-deprived or anemic.
Mamacita, bring the attorney here a beer, Gustavo said.
On his way in, the Redeemer had not noticed that behind her was a boy with a baby-walker. Something was the matter with him. He was smiling and moving his legs but not making much progress, his eyes unfocused.
So, you working too?
Fraid so.
At the foot of the sofa sat a metal pail of marijuana. Gustavo took out a sheet of rice paper, then another, and licked the length of both to make one long sheet. He rolled a leisurely spliff as fat as a churro and when he saw the Redeemer eyeing it said I’m not giving you any; feel free to roll your own.
And toed the pail over to him.
I’m good, said the Redeemer.
So. How can I be of service?
The Las Pericas place.
What about it?
It’s on fire.