Dirty Words

The Long Count

'Ponk'

That was the sound in Rusty's head. Just like one of the cartoon sound effects on the Batman show. Unfortunately, it was also the sound of the big guy's pinky ring as it bounced off his upper left canine.

When the chirping birdies cleared, Rusty managed a response to the somewhat unexpected blow. "Ow."

The shot to the mouth was only somewhat unexpected since Hermes, the flyweight who had been working the heavy bag under Rusty's tutelage, took the first swing. Hermes was on his back, down for the long count.

"Aw hell," Rusty said, less in pain for his mouth than at seeing yet another prospect unconscious on the mat. Granted, Hermes was a flyweight and the puncher was clearly a heavyweight, but still. He should have been able to take one goddamn punch. Or had the reflexes to get the hell out of the way. "Look what you did to my boxer. That ain't right."

"Do I have your attention, Mr. Cobb?" The voice was a syrupy Texas drawl. Rusty leaned around the heavyweight to see its owner.

Jesus, Rusty thought, I'm being rousted by Hopalong Cassidy. The guy was standing in a Brooklyn gym wearing an embroidered western shirt and a brown ten-gallon hat. "Chaps."

"Excuse me?"

"You need chaps to finish that outfit, Pardner."

The cowboy nodded at the heavyweight, who grabbed Rusty by the front of his sweatshirt and backhanded him across the mouth. Small blessing, but the second shot cleanly knocked out the canine that was cracked by the first punch. At least he'd save on the dentist bill.

"Nobody likes a smart mouth, Mr. Cobb."

"Please, we've shared so much already, call me Rusty." He spat out his tooth, which bounced once and landed on Hermes's limp glove.

"This isn't a Sunday social, Mr. Cobb." The cowboy took his hat off and wiped his sweaty brow.

It was hot in the gym. Rusty kept it that way on purpose. A page he stole from the old Kronk Gym in Detroit for conditioning fighters. Maybe if he waited long enough, his two visitors would pass out from heat exhaustion. "So I shouldn't bother with the fine china, then. You mind telling me what this is about?"

"Don't insult me by pretending you don't know why I'm here." Cowboy bit the end off of a cigar the size of a biscuit can. He spit the wet tobacco right on Hermes's forehead. Hermes didn't even stir. One time contender, now human spittoon. The goon whipped out a lighter that looked like it cost more than a Cadillac. Cowboy puffed a few times, rolling the cigar for an even burn. "Don't insult me by telling me you don't know who I am."

Rusty tried. He didn't have to try hard. He was sure that he'd remember such a ridiculous character. Something about the goon itched at the back of his head, but that was it. As far as Cowboy was concerned, nothing. "Sorry, Hoss. Never really listened to The Village People."

Cowboy waved his hand wearily at Rusty. "Hurt him", he sighed.

The goon palmed the lighter like a roll of quarters and came forward for round three. Rusty was ready this time. It had been almost three decades since he'd been in a ring, but the moves were still there. Like riding a bicycle. A late middle-aged bicycle in desperate need of oiling, but still able to out-speed a heavyweight.

Rusty ducked the haymaker, crouching low and bringing his fist up and under the big guy's ribcage. The goon woofed as Rusty drove his fist deep into his sternum. Then Rusty brought his left straight into the guy's balls. What the hell. They weren't in a ring, so Rusty wasn't worried about losing a point. The goon dropped to his knees.

God bless steel-toed boots, Rusty thought as he punted the goon's chin. The kick lifted him off the floor and on his back, splayed out next to Hermes. Knockout, Rusty thought proudly before he put weight on his kicking foot. Not being in fighting condition, the kick had wrenched his ankle. "Ah, shit," Rusty yelled as he dropped, clutching his foot.

Either way, he was just about to get up and hobble himself over for some cowboy ass-kicking when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun.

Jeez. The guy was actually carrying a six-shooter. Cowboy had it pointed directly between Rusty's eyes. "Nice moves for an old man, Mr. Cobb. I'd applaud, but I might accidentally pull the trigger and blow your face off."

"Please then, hold your applause until intermission."

"There is no intermission, Mr. Cobb. This is a one-act. At the end, you either return what you stole, or you disappear."

"Oh, it's like Tony and Tina's Wedding, then."

Cowboy didn't get that one. "You have three days." The big guy groaned and got up groggily. Cowboy shook his head disgustedly at his thug.

"That's a long play."

"You seem to be the only one playing here, Mr. Cobb. I'm not." Cowboy pushed the still staggering goon out the door.

Rusty was a thief. A petty thief, at best. Stole petty items. Petty cash, for instance. Nothing worth the trouble that Cowboy seemed intent on causing him. No fine art. No heirlooms. Shit, more often than not, the jewelry that he pocketed fell into the categories of costume or out and out worthless.

Like a lot of serviceable but non-contender boxers, Rusty needed work not long into his thirties when it became obvious that his minor talents were heading south. He delivered packages for a messenger service. Sometimes, those packages were C.O.D. When the receptionist went into the little metal cash boxes, Rusty made mental notes. The next day, dressed in his only decent suit, Rusty would walk into the offices early while the cleaning crews were still working, stuff the box in his valise and walk right out. If he had to sign in at the security desk, he just wrote in S.R. Leonard. Rusty wondered if Sugar Ray had ever been questioned about the thefts.

His record low was $14.75 at a small dot-com. His record high was almost a grand out of some big entertainment manager. Fuck 'em, Rusty would think. He'd worked with a manager/agent for a few years. He even managed to get Rusty a cameo in a Chuck Norris flick. Granted, Rusty just got kicked in the head and played dead, but it was still pretty cool.

The sonofabitch dropped him faster than a handful of shit the second the ref counted to ten in Rusty's last fight. Rusty got a quiet enjoyment out of burglarizing those bloodsucking pricks.

If he came into an office that had expensive little laptop computers, Rusty would help himself to a few and pawn them for a couple extra hundred. It was that money that eventually enabled him to buy the old gym in Brooklyn. Nowadays, if he pulled a grab, it was more for shits and giggles than actual need. Some people liked blackjack for their gambling; Rusty enjoyed a little trespassing and B &E.

And it was all little. Little was the operative word. Worst came to worst, Rusty would only have to suffer minor legal consequences. Even when he hooked up with Dante, they made sure they took only cash and easily pawned items. For reasons he couldn't figure, Cowboy seemed to believe that he had something that belonged to him.

And he wanted it back.

Unfortunately, Rusty didn't have clue one what that item could be.

"A cowboy?"

"A cowboy," Rusty sighed. Dante wasn't an idiot. He could sometimes be slow, or dull or…ah hell, who was he fooling? Dante was an idiot. But he was an idiot that could open safes faster than the people who knew the combinations. He was like Rain Man, if Rain Man had criminal intentions.

"Like Cowboys and Indians?" Dante asked.

"No, like Cowboys and Spaghetti-O's," Rusty yelled into the phone.

"Cowboys and Spaghetti-O's? I don't get you, Rusty."

Rusty shook the phone violently in his fingers, imagining Dante's thick idiot neck between said fingers. "Just listen to me, will you, dipshit? Has anyone been into the shop lately? Maybe wearing a cowboy hat? Walking his pet gorilla? Carrying a six-shooter and a lot of questions?"

"A gorilla?"

Rusty slammed the phone down. Dante was obviously off of Cowboy's radar. Dante had accompanied him on his last five jobs, going back three years. One morning, Rusty walked into an office and found Dante under the desk, looting a floor safe. He was dressed in a jumpsuit and looked as scared as Rusty felt. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Dante offered Rusty the glittering contents in his left hand.

"Halfsies?" he offered hopefully.

From that point on, they worked as a team. Rusty would scout the offices, determine which ones were worth hitting and bring in Dante for the safes. Dante brought his skills and Rusty brought his brains and helpful advice. Such as the suggestion that the retard didn't wear his A-1 Computer Service jumpsuit when he was going to rob a fricking office-the one with his goddamn name embroidered on the chest.

So Dante was out. Stupid, maybe, but Rusty doubted that he would just forget encountering the cowboy.

Next step; information.

Information meant Jameel and the Candy Boys. The Candy Boys were a scam that ran its fingers through most of the city. A small army of kids roamed the streets, selling candy bars for their sports team at a buck a pop.

There was no sports team.

Jameel was the local sergeant for the Brooklyn troops. The kids got five dollars for each box they sold. Each box had forty candy bars in it. Buying gross, the boxes cost five dollars each. Thirty dollars profit on every box sold. There were more than a hundred kids selling box after box, 365 days a year. Nobody knew who was at the top of the heap, but whoever he was, he was one rich bastard.

Now the underbosses, like Jameel, ran a little side business. That business was information. Hundreds of eyes and ears across the city was an amazing resource. For the price.

"Two hundred."

"One hundred, just for the name." Rusty was uncomfortable standing on the open corner. Even though Jameel probably had a couple thousand on his person at the time, Rusty wasn't worried about getting caught in the middle of a robbery. A while back, one of their sergeants got rolled. Less than twenty-four hours later, three teenagers were found under the bridge, throats cut, cheeks stuffed with M &M's. No, Rusty just worried what his neighbors might think.

"Don't have a name. Got something else. A hundred fifty for it." Jameel scratched at his belly. The front of his basketball jersey lifted, showing the hilt of a gravity knife in his waistband.

Rusty took the money and palmed it into Jameel's hand. Christ, he hoped nobody was watching.

Without even looking, Jameel rolled his fingers around the paper. "The top bill's fake."

"What?"

Lifting up the hundred to the sunlight, Jameel said, "See? No watermark. It's counterfeit, yo. You trying to play me Rusty?"

Rusty held it up, looked at it.

Shit.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills and handed them to Jameel.

"Only eighty-three here, Rusty. Falls a little short."

Rusty gritted his teeth. "That's all I have."

Jameel thought about it, then stuffed the money away. "Okay. The man's a Bleecker Street player. Don't know what his business is, but my boys see him at that blues club all the time."

"The Queen of Diamonds?"

"It's on the second floor, right? Above that Thai place with the big ugly ass orange awning?"

"Yeah."

"That's the one."

Rusty knew the club, but for the life of him still couldn't figure any connection. "How did he get pointed in my direction?"

Jameel chuckled. "Shit, man. How does anybody get information in this town?"

Rusty swallowed the hard lump that formed in his throat. "You told him."

Jameel grinned wide. "Damn right." Jameel could see the tension in Rusty as he clenched his fists. "What?" Jameel opened his arms wide, challenging. "You got a problem with that? The man had the cash and he paid. Not the bullshit scratch that you got, either."

Following his best survival instincts, Rusty turned and walked away fast, before he did something stupid.

"Nice doing business with you, Rusty," Jameel catcalled down the street.

Rusty wanted nothing more than to turn back and beat the snot out of the punk. He knew however, besides being suicidal, it just wouldn't look right, a grown man roughing up a twelve-year old like that.

"Ah! My friend!" came the deeply accented bellow from the back of Abboud's Pawn. Rusty never liked the way Ali called him "friend". First off, he called everybody friend. Secondly, there was a slight undertone, as though he could replace it with "sucker" without missing a beat. "What do you bring for Ali today?"

"Just got a couple of questions, pal-o-mine." Rusty walked over to the plexiglass and chicken-wire cage that Ali cocooned himself in. For such good friends, Ali never even unlocked it so much as to shake Rusty's hand in twenty years.

"This no good information booth Rusty. Maybe you try Times Square." Ali hooted at his own joke. Rusty felt blood rush to his ears. "Maybe you go see Rent." Ali cackled harder. The only thing that ever emerged from Ali's box was his breath. The laughter pushed a wave over Rusty that smelled of yogurt and chickpeas.

"I'm serious Ali."

"So am I. Rent very good show. My children love it."

"I'm more interested in cowboys."

"Then see Annie Get Your Gun. Why do you bother Ali with no business? I'm busy man."

In those same twenty years, Rusty had rarely seen another human in the shop. More often than not, it was Ali's wife, who was usually screeching Arabic at him in a voice that reminded Rusty of a cat with Strep.

"I don't want to see a fucking musical, Ali. I got guys asking questions."

Ali's eyes made a quick flash from their usual greedy glow into fear. "What? What questions? What did you tell them? I run honest business."

"No you don't"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. They think I took something from them."

"What did you take?" Ali scratched his stubble, intrigued.

"I don't know."

"They no tell you?"

"They seem to think I should know."

"Ah! Is like movie Marathon Man. Great movie. 'Is it safe?' Did they ask you that? Did they ask you if it was safe?"

"Goddamn it!"

"Never mind. Okay, okay. What do you want to know from Ali?"

"Have I ever brought you anything…? Was there anything that you ever got from me that might have wound up worth more or wasn't what I thought it was?"

"No, Rusty. Ali would never cheat you like that."

Truth was, Ali would cheat anybody like that. But the reason that Rusty did business with Ali, apart from his moral ambiguity regarding purchase and resale of stolen goods, was that despite it all, he was a terrible liar. He was too greedy. Whenever he tried to pull a fast one or short-change, he would break out in a sweat faster than a pig in a sauna.

Ali wasn't sweating.

Rusty fingered the hundred dollar bill in his pocket. "I need a gun then."

Ali brightened back up. "Ah! Ali have many guns. Give old friend deep discount. How much?"

Rusty held up the hundred.

"Hundred is fake."

Rusty muttered a stream of curses as he stormed out the door.

Ali was still yelling as the door shut behind him. "Ali give you nice set of steak knives for bad bill! No gun, but you stab somebody good!"

Walking down Houston, Rusty turned into a quiet bar. He ordered a scotch, downed it, ordered another before the cute bartender put the bottle back. First luck he had all day. The bartender didn't catch the fake bill. God bless New York's bar scene, where perky tits outweighed brains and skill any day.

He sat in a cloud trying to think. Who was he kidding? He had nothing. He was five miles north of nothing and three west of clue one.

It couldn't have been anything that the cowboy wanted public, or else why not just send cops?

Weapons? By his best estimation, he'd acquired about a half dozen guns or so over the years. All of them went to Ali. Maybe one of them could have been evidence in a murder case? Nope. Figuring in the cowboy's style and readiness to draw, none of the guns he'd stolen were six-shooters.

Drugs? Nope. Couldn't have been. In many a safe, Rusty found the gamut from Valiums into what looked like a half-pound of uncut Colombian. They always left it behind. He and Dante agreed that drugs weren't any direction they wanted to head in, business-wise. Dante may have been an idiot, but he wasn't stupid.

Computers? Dante took care of the computers. He wiped out the hard drives, then sold them in his computer shop. Maybe there was some kind of damaging file on one of the computers. It still amazed Rusty that someone as mentally and physically clumsy as Dante could have such careful fingers on a keyboard.

Deft fingers that were capable of pocketing something before Rusty knew what was in the safe. Jumpsuits had lots of pockets.

Before Rusty could leap up and run over to strangle himself a retard, the bartender squealed and ran to the door. "Yancy! Get in here! You better not be walking by without saying hi." In the doorway, she leapt into a pair of arms, peppering the face with affectionate kisses. Very big arms. The cowboy's goon carried the girl back into the bar, placed her down and sat in the stool next to Rusty.

"Hiya Rusty," he said.

"Hiya Yancy. Funny coincidence isn't it?"

"What? Oh. Well, to be honest, yeah." Yancy actually blushed.

The bartender started pouring a pint before the tap sputtered and died. She clucked her tongue. "I got to go down and change the keg. Don't you leave." She pointed an admonishing finger at Yancy before she walked out back.

"Cute kid," said Rusty.

"Yeah. I used to work the door here. I was following you. The coincidence was that you came in here."

"This before or after Tua?"

Yancy looked surprised. "I guess it wouldn't have taken you long to figure it out at this point. Did you see it?"

"In person." Yancy Benevides was a young heavyweight who made the mistake of running into six too many of David Tua's hooks one night in Vegas. Rusty watched the whipping from the front. The fight was on the same card as one of Rusty's not-so-hopefuls. That was why he looked familiar. "Was that your last?"

Yancy tapped his right eyebrow. "They removed part of my ocular bone. Nicely dislocated my cornea too. Fucking Hawaiian hits harder than a mule kick."

"He's Samoan."

"Either way. Was Hearns your last?"

Now it was Rusty's turn to be surprised. "Yeah. The famous right. Did you see it?"

"Over and over. Broke my Dad's heart. You were his Great White Hope. In a way, I was kinda honored when you punched me in the gym. Until you hit me in the balls."

"Sorry." Rusty wasn't sure if he was apologizing for the low blow or for Mr. Benevides's broken heart.

Yancy shrugged. "S'okay, I guess. I'm gonna stop following you now, since you know I'm here and all."

"All right."

"Mr. Queen wanted me to tell you that you got one more day." Yancy caught himself. "Forget I said that." He tapped his eyebrow again as he stood in explanation of his gaffe.

"Already knew," Rusty lied. "Queen of Hearts. That where you met him?"

"Yup. Working the door."

"So, boxer, to bouncer, to goon? Dad must be proud."

Yancy shrugged. "Pays better than either of the first two. How much does thief pay?"

"Touché."

"Oh, and I owe you this." Yancy brought his huge fist down onto Rusty's crotch, mashing his testicles into the bar stool. Rusty moaned and slumped to the floor. When he found the strength to open his eyes, he was looking up at the bartender.

"You're gonna have to leave, Mister."

They are remarkably perky tits, Rusty thought as he wondered whether his balls would ever work again.

The hole was small and right between Dante's eyebrows. Dante's vacant eyes were crossed, as if trying to look up and into the hole that had opened there. Rusty fought the crazy urge to look in the hole for any evidence of a brain. Instead, he rooted through the pockets of Dante's jumpsuit. Seventeen hundred dollars. Not bad. Rusty knew the old adage to be true. Nobody was more paranoid about theft than a thief. Lucky for him, Dante wasn't bright enough to find a hiding place anywhere but on his body.

It all came together in Rusty's mind. He'd been fighting the wrong fight all along. Never go toe-to-toe with a puncher when you're a boxer.

Last round.

Ding.

Rusty left the message at The Queen of Hearts that he'd meet them there at five a.m. After closing, but before Bleecker Street would have any morning traffic. Rusty got off the train at Second Avenue and jogged the remaining mile, feeling his blood pump, the muscles loosen up. He felt good. He jogged up the stairs to the club, marveling at the god-awful orange awning as he passed it. He knocked on the wooden door. Yancy opened it and stepped aside.

Mr. Queen smiled a big Texas grin as he came in. "Mr. Cobb. I'm so glad that you decided to do business here, clean up the mess you made, and such."

Rusty pulled the metal box out of his backpack. "First of all, let me apologize for any inconvenience this has caused you. I didn't know what it was when I took it and I sure as hell didn't know how important it was when I did."

Queen smiled wider. "Bygones and such. Yancy?"

Yancy took the box from Rusty and with his other hand grabbed the hood of Rusty's sweatshirt, choking him.

Queen took the box and stepped back. "Just so's were sure you're not trying to pull a switcheroo here."

"Suit yourself," Rusty croaked.

Queen thumbed the lock on the box.

Three.

Queen opened the box. Rusty spun, catching Yancy with a hook right on the eyebrow he'd pointed to. Yancy let go of the hood and wobbled noticeably.

Two.

Queen looked up, his face a mask of rage. "You sonofa-" He dropped the box and reached for his gun. Rusty threw the dazed Yancy into the space between Queen and himself. Yancy stumbled and fell into the gun. His body muffled the shot, but a red blossom opened on his back.

One.

Rusty dove out the second story window into the ass-ugly orange awning.

BOOM

The explosion blew out all the windows facing Bleecker.

Rusty never figured out just what he was supposed to have stolen.

Dante's money had been enough to buy a timing cap and a small quantity of plastique from Ali. Small, but enough for one good bang. With ultimate caution, Rusty attached the cap to the lock on the box and stuffed the lower part of the tiered box with the explosive, turning the metal casing into a great big shrapnel grenade.

The concussion nearly threw Rusty over the awning, but he caught the edge, rolled, and came down hard on the street. He was covered with shards of glass, but the thick sweatsuit had protected him from any major cuts.

He lay on the concrete for as long as he could afford, did a quick mental inventory of his parts, decided they were intact and carefully got up. Time to go. His ears rang loudly and he feared he wouldn't hear approaching sirens.

On the corner of LaGuardia, Rusty found a slightly burned cowboy hat. He stuffed it into his backpack and started the jog back to Brooklyn.