The smaller one saw me first and hissed and nodded to his friend. When the big man turned I saw the baseball bat in his hand and I could feel the adrenaline start to simmer in my blood.
“You guys looking for a ride to the game?” I said.
The big one turned and squared up. The other stayed seated up top and sniggered, nonchalant, like it was no big deal, like the chickenshit backups always did. I wouldn’t have to worry about him unless I went down, then he’d come in with the steel-toed boots for the cheap shots.
“They said you got a smart mouth,” said the bat man.
I stepped up closer, within ten feet, about the size of a small boxing ring, where I felt more at home in a possible ass-kicking.
“They were right. Maybe you’d like to give me their names, I’ll send them my apologies,” I said, stepping two feet closer.
“Only message they need is that you’re gonna lay off dealing with the cruise ship workers,” Bat Man said.
I checked the one up in the truck bed. He was still seated.
“What? You two shit-heads make a left at Haymarket Square? Busting unions with a stick?” I said, taking one more step and rolling my weight onto the balls of my feet. The bigger one choked up on his bat at the “shit-head” slur. “I’m impressed with your sense of history, boys.”
A frown of stupidity barely flickered across the big man’s face while I assessed his one-handed grip on the middle of the bat. He’d be quicker when he swung it, but the blow wouldn’t have nearly the impact. From the corner of my eye I saw the other one stand up. He was looking down, but behind me, and then I heard O’Shea’s voice.
“Yo, Max. You forgot your change ole buddy,” he said, wading right in. “And boy, it looks like you need it. What, the meter run out, fellas?”
The smaller man fought his cowardice and started to jump down to even the odds but it was dark and he misjudged the distance to the street. When he landed it was on the side of his heeled boot and his ankle went over like a crushed aluminum beer can and he yelped in pain. When Bat Man turned to see his partner go to one knee, I charged him.
I went low, head into the sternum, my elbows out, legs driving. His big body gave for two feet and then slammed to a stop against the door of my truck. Immovable object. I heard him whoof when we hit, but he was solid and didn’t go down. I tried to grab a fistful of shirt for leverage and that’s when I felt the whip of the bat across my shoulder blades. If he found the back of my head I was done.
My face was still pushing into his chest and when he stretched his arm free for a better aim, I flexed my knees. He must have swung down at the same instant I drove my full six-three up. The top of my head hit something blunt and square that gave in with the crackling sound of someone chewing ice. The bat blow landed low on my back without consequence, but a shard of white pain shot down from my head into my spine. I almost lost consciousness, but there was no almost for Bat Man. He slid down the door of the truck into a heap with me on top of him.
When I blinked my eyes to clear the spinning flecks of light in them I heard the repeating sound of someone kicking a wet sack of leaves and breaking the sticks inside. After too many blows the noise stopped and someone took me under his arm and helped me stand.
“Whooo-wee, Max. Aren’t you some trouble, man.”
O’Shea was breathing hard, but the other man was curled into a pile, maybe not breathing at all.
“Shit, man. That was some rock ’n’ roll,” O’Shea was saying. “I haven’t stretched those muscles since I left the street.”
I staggered a couple of steps but wobbled and felt the pavement start to tilt.
“Whoa, big guy,” O’Shea said and helped me to the curb behind my truck and set me down. The top of my head felt like it grew in pain and size with every pulse of my heart and I was still blinking spots out of my eyes.
“Got some blood coming off that scalp, Max,” O’Shea said. “Old Sammy Sosa