“A year?” Bob said. “My goodness! Probably has a belt or two, right?”
“Already got my orange in judo,” Diego said. Then he frowned, unsure if he was being mocked. Then he screwed up his features angrily, jabbing a forefinger in Bob’s direction. “Mister, you got a real big mouth for someone who’s been here nine seconds.”
Bob’s temptation was to point out that at least he’d still be conscious in nine seconds. But three against one was never a sensible fight, and all three were big men. Don’t start getting cocky now, Bobby. You’re getting older, not younger. “Well now, I don’t mean nothing by it, Diego,” Bob said. “But as an attorney, I have a responsibility to my client…”
Jonah flexed his biceps, hands ahead of him. He stepped forward until he was looking up at Bob slightly. “Then perhaps we need to teach you what folks think of slimy lawyers,” he said, jabbing Bob in the chest with his index finger once, twice… “Perhaps you need to pack up your shit and get on out of here, or else.”
His index finger shot out to jab Bob in the chest one more time for emphasis. Bob snatched it with his left hand, grasping it and the middle finger together, twisting them over and then pulling them back, both fingers snapping at the knuckle bone.
“AIEGGH!” Jonah screamed, stumbling sideways, doubling over as he grasped at his broken hand with his free left. “SUM’BITCH!” he bellowed. “AIEGHGH! FUCK! FUUUUCK! DIEGO! FUCK HIM UP!’
Diego stepped into the punch. Bob was expecting it, adrenaline kicking in, violence slowed to a rhythmic pattern he’d seen so many times before as the ‘zone’ kicked in. He bobbed away, turning a few degrees, the punch whistling by his cheek.
Diego’s momentum threw him slightly off balance but his MMA training kicked in. As he stepped back, he half-turned and threw his elbow towards Bob’s face, trying to salvage something. Bob turned his head in time with the move, the elbow barely grazing his cheek as he took a step out of range.
Diego paused, shocked that neither blow had landed.
“I’ll give you this,” Bob offered. “You’re not completely shit. I mean… by pro standards, you’re not even the fly that lands on it. But for an amateur…”
Diego’s face reddened. He and his friend charged forward. Bob dropped low, driving both fists upward in perfect unison, aiming two inches past his targets, the double groin punch catching both men flush. Diego clasped his knees together and tried to maintain his balance, bellowing loudly as his friend collapsed.
“My… my junk,” he moaned.
Bob righted himself.
Jonah’s anger was overcoming his pain. He strode towards the older man, reaching into his rear waistband with his unbroken hand. Bob sprinted at him, not giving him time to draw the gun, turning side-on to lock up Jonah’s arm as it came clear.
He wrenched downwards, smacking the man’s hand against his knee, the gun popping loose even as he headbutted Jonah across the bridge of the nose, the bone snapping.
The pistol bounced to a standstill on the asphalt.
Colt Gold Cup Trophy nine mil. Hmmm. Nice gun.
The ex-jock dropped to one knee. Bob hit him on the side of the chin, just a tap on the mental nerve, enough to turn his legs to rubber.
He collapsed to the ground, stunned.
“Now… in case I haven’t made it crystal clear, I’m not going anywhere without my friend. Take that back to whoever sent you.”
The three men moaned as they dragged themselves to their feet. Bob picked up the pistol and popped the magazine, tossing it sideways, into the scrub of the adjacent lot. He wiped the pistol down quickly with his shirt, then chucked it in the same direction.
The men began to crawl and stagger towards the truck. Bob rushed up behind Terry and gave him a hard boot to the rear end. “Go on, get out of here!”
Two of them climbed into the cab. Jonah leaned against the door frame, panting, blood streaming from both nostrils. “Broke my fucking hand! This ain’t over!” he threatened.
“You might want to rethink that,” Bob said. “I like you the least of all. Your parents may have named you Jonah, but come back here, and I’ll wail on your ass.”
Keep them thinking. Plus, it was a good line, and it would’ve been a shame to waste it.
Jonah glared at him, one hand trying to stop the blood flow from his nose. He climbed into the cab after his friends and slammed the door. The pickup kicked up gravel as it peeled out.
A few feet away, the office door opened. Mel Feeney peeked out from behind it. “I saw it all through the window. You want me to call the police?”
Bob shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road, wary of a return or shot from the distance. “From what I’m told, I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be. Besides, I’m guessing the three of them got the message.”
“Uh huh. I saw that. You’re one mighty strange example of a lawyer, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Yeah… well, I’ve always figured a good defense starts with self-defense,” Bob said. “Something like that.”
“Uh huh. Sure. And you just picked all that up at your local YMCA, did you?”
Bob glanced over. “Why, Mr. Feeney, do I detect a note of sarcasm? Isn’t that against your local tradition of plain-talking, homespun directness?”
“Uh huh. You could say that. But in return, I’d note that you just kicked the whole hardy living shit out of three large local boys in about one minute flat. I get the sense I’m not the only one massaging the truth a mite. Most lawyers don’t hit that hard, I reckon. You a former cop, or athlete or something? Green Berets or some such?”
“Or some such.” Bob looked over at his room. “I can’t stay here, obviously.”
“Ptthh!” Feeney waved a hand at him. “Don’t you fret! This is a big city now, but it ain’t that big. Everybody here knows me. Ain’t none of them coming after me.”
“No, but they’ll come after me again. What if they torch the place or something?”
“Well then… I get the insurance and get to retire to my little cabin near Merida on the Yucatan, and we’re all winners. Except maybe whoever does the torching, after what I just saw.”
Bob shook his head. “Look, it’s not that simple. I have a history with this kind of thing, a friend in Memphis who—”
Feeney cut him off. “Not up to you,” he said grumpily. “My place. You’re staying.”
“Fine.” Bob tried not to sound exasperated. The man was just trying to be hospitable, albeit stubbornly.
