“Reallllllly.” Moose sat forward, too, his bulk turning the sizable six-top into a Post-it note. “Amy wants her?”
“I don’t know. Whatever.”
“Come on, man. Tell me.”
“I don’t know nothing.” Danny made a point of nodding toward the pool tables. “We’re up next on number three.”
“Yeah, after those Brads. Did they buy everything at the Polo outlet before they came here?”
Danny measured the loafers. The watches. Those haircuts. “Moose, buddy, those boys do not shop at outlets.”
The set of four matching preppies, aged twenty-one to twenty-five, had sauntered into Timeout about twenty minutes before, and he was guessing they had boated to the New Brunswick Yacht Club under sail, parked in a private berth, and were slumming it here after having dined on lobster thermidor and baked Alaska with Mumsey and Dads. No doubt they were hoping for some hot, raw townie sex before they went back to their oceanfront mansions and their two-entry-only Daughters of the American Revolution fiancées.
He’d seen the type before. And they’d come here again because these Brads were like the social equivalent of the rhinovirus. Bound to show up from time to time, but nothing that was terminal, and by reducing exposure, you had less a chance of catching one.
So yeah, he was going to give ’em plenty of time at that pool table. Until they moved on on their own.
“You drive me batshit.”
He refocused on Moose. “Usually I just try to piss people off. I’m over-succeeding with you without meaning to.”
“If you know something about Amy, why aren’t you tell me?”
“Go talk to Chavez directly.”
“He never goes into his personal life.”
“So guess you’re screwed.”
“Fucker—”
A whistle broke through the argument, and both he and Moose looked toward the pool table.
“More beers,” one of the frat boys said over the din. “Now, not later, chiquita.”
Danny frowned and sized the kid up with the mouth up. He looked like law school material. Or med school—i.e., more forehead than jawline. With that gold watch and those Bermuda shorts, it was also an easy guess he had some roman numerals after his last name.
Subtly turning his body in the direction of the pool game, Danny swallowed some beer and told himself not to get involved.
Two minutes later, Josefina walked over to the quartet with, oh, of course, some craft bullshit on her round tray, and the James Spaderses, circa Pretty in Pink, stared at her in a way he was sure Chavez wouldn’t appreciate.
“Get anything good at the hospital?” a male voice said.
As Duff pulled a chair out, Danny nodded a greeting, and then realized the question was to him. “Nope. Just a co-pay I gotta get reimbursed by the department.”
“You need any respiratory rehab?”
“Nope.”
“Where’s Chavez?”
“He’s coming,” Moose said. “It’s early.”
Over at the pool table, Danny refocused—and watched Josefina bend down and pick something off the floor. As she made her way back to the bar, she was frowning.
“Oh, great, Rizzo’s in the house,” Moose muttered.
Sure enough, Rizzo and some of the 617s were filing in, and as usual, they went in the opposite direction, to the booths by the front windows.
“You want another one, Dannyboy?”
Danny looked up at Josefina. “I didn’t know I was done. Yeah, I do.”
The woman smiled. “When you want me to turn you off tonight?”
“Not until I pass out.”
“You make me sad, Danny.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You are with your friends, though. They always take care of you—”
“Hey! Chiquita! Where’s our shots.”
Danny slowly pushed his chair back a little farther from the table—but as he did, Josefina shook her head. “Danny, it’s okay.” More loudly, she said, “Coming. I bring them right out—”
“You better, or I’m calling INS—”
Danny was up on his feet in a heartbeat. “What did you say.”
Instantly, the other fifty people in the bar cut their chatter, nothing but the music filling the background. The yachtsman with the mouth didn’t seem to catch that drift, though. The Brad smiled, flashing a perfect set of bright, pearly whites.
“I told her”—he emphasized each word—“to bring me our shots or I was going to get her deported.”
A thick arm shot around Danny’s pecs, and Moose’s voice was low in his ear. “Sit down. We’ll wait until they leave and catch ’em in the alley. No witnesses that way.”
“Danny, it’s okay,” Josefina said. “It’s not bothering me—”
“Apologize to her.” Danny nodded at the door. “And then get the fuck out of here.”
“Do you own this place?” The rich guy looked at his buddies. “Your father must be so proud. Then again, he was probably a lawn guy. Garbageman. Oh, wait—was he a mason? ’Cuz maybe you could get him to work on that wall we need in this country?”
As the man nodded at Josefina, Danny lunged forward with such force, he snapped even Moose’s hold.
The next thing he knew, he had the kid down on top of the pool table, his hands around that throat, his pumping arms driving the back of the asshole’s head into the hard felted surface over and over and over again.
“You’re going to kill him!” someone was yelling.
“Stop!”
And then Moose’s more reasonable tone: “Christ, Danny, I told you—wait until we got them in the alley. It’s cleaner that way.”
* * *
Vic Rizzo hadn’t even ordered his beer before the fight broke out, and as he looked over, he was not surprised that Dannyboy Maguire had mounted some yacht club member’s son like the bastard was a sofa during Monday night football. And yeah, Danny was teaching the one-percenter about concussions firsthand.
Meanwhile, Moose, that fat fucker, wasn’t doing a damn thing on the sidelines. Neither was the pretty boy Duff. Nope, those two geniuses were just going to let their buddy kill a guy in front of a bunch of cops—
“Yo, Italian.”
He glanced over. Speak of the devil. “How you, Greek?”
Officer Peter Andropolis thumbed over his shoulder. “You going to let this go on over there?”
“Why it is my problem?”
“It’s your boy.”
“These are my boys.” He nodded at the three from the 617 he’d come in with. “You know that’s four-nine-nine over there.”
“Whatever, Rizzo. We’re going to have to arrest him if this isn’t taken care of. As a professional courtesy, we’re willing to let you handle it if you act now. Otherwise, we’re going to take him in. Gotta be like that.”
Officer Mikey Lange came over. “Well? What’s it going to be, sparkers? And by the way, that’s my favorite pool table. He’s going to ruin the felt with the back of that asshole’s head if he hasn’t already.”
As all eyes settled on him, Rizzo wondered why he was always the one who got called in when someone needed a babysitter. He despised children—especially the kind who had driver’s licenses and problems with impulse control and alcohol.
“Goddamn it.”
Rizzo slid out of the booth and plowed through the other patrons of the bar, all of whom were front and center with the fight. Given the money that was being exchanged, clearly there were bets being laid down, but not on whether sailor boy was going to make a comeback. Nah, more like whether or not there were going to be manslaughter charges or a simple felony assault with grievous bodily harm.
As he passed Moose, he glared at the diesel, who was planted in front of a trio of tight-asses in Polo merch. “You should be dealing with this.”
“I am.”
Yeah, by keeping those anemic reinforcements from helping their Walking Dead candidate buddy. Or from calling 9-1-1 was more like it.
Rizzo didn’t waste time presenting the legal and rational arguments for Danny to release the hold. He just wrapped his arms around the man’s upper stomach, made a fist of his left hand, and wrapped that in the palm of his right.