Drone Command

FORTY

Fat JoJo sat spread-legged on a stool, hovering over a customer. His thick fingers deftly guided the tattooing needle over the man’s forearm, filling in the details of a flaming skull. Two of JoJo’s men had draped themselves on the torn vinyl waiting seats, thumbing through worn biker mags and smoking cigarettes. They were both heavily tatted — a perk of the job. One was tall and lanky with wild, bushy hair. The other was shorter and broader like a fireplug, his shaved head offset by a scraggly goatee and a silver-skull earring. JoJo’s custom ’66 Chevy 4x4 was parked out front, riding high on its six-inch lifted suspension and thirty-six-inch knobby tires, still midnight black with orange flames raking the hood.

Troy marched into the shop, straight toward JoJo. The fat man didn’t budge. Kept working his needle.

JoJo’s tallest man leaped up to block Troy’s path. “Wait your turn, bud—”

He swallowed the last syllable as the heel of Troy’s hand crashed into his jaw, snapping his mouth shut and shattering his front teeth. He grabbed his face, stifling a scream. The other man jumped to his feet but didn’t make a move toward Troy, who was four inches taller.

Troy stood over JoJo, hands flexing. JoJo motioned for his customer in the chair to get up, which he did, then he raced outside. The heavy skin artist shut off his needle and finally looked up. “What the fuck is this?”

“My old man is dead.”

“I heard. Something about a brain tumor. That’s too fucking bad.”

“You hit him on the head when he couldn’t fight back, you cowardly shit.”

“And you knocked me out cold. I figured we were even.”

“You figured wrong.”

“You want me to throw him out?” the other man said.

JoJo laughed. “If you can.”

The shorter man reached behind a counter and grabbed a baseball bat. Pointed it at Troy. “Get the fuck out now.”

Troy glowered at him.

The man raised the baseball bat up, ready to swing. “You think I’m kidding?”

“You’re wearing an earring,” Troy said. “I thought maybe you wanted to kiss me.”

The bald-headed man shouted and raised the bat over his head as if he were going to chop Troy down like a tree. Troy charged at him and caught the bat above the man’s gripped hands before he could bring the bat down. Troy easily twisted the bat around and grabbed the barrel and handle, the man stupidly still holding on to the bat, trying to win the wrestling match. Big mistake. Troy easily pushed the smaller man back toward the chairs against the wall until the man fell into one. Troy kept pushing the bat against his throat until the man’s face turned red and he finally let go. Troy pointed the bat at him. “Don’t move.”

Troy turned around with the bat in hand, ready to start pounding JoJo with it. But JoJo had other ideas. He stood by the doorway, pointing a long-barreled Colt .357 Magnum at Troy’s chest. A smile twisted his pockmarked face.

“Looks like a robbery to me. Self-defense, too.” His fat thumb moved toward the hammer to cock it.

A hand grabbed the pistol around the cylinder, locking down the hammer, then wrenched it hard in a vicious 180-degree turn. The heavy steel pistol twisted so fast it broke JoJo’s wrist and trigger finger.

JoJo dropped to a knee, yelping, his fractured hand empty of the gun that was now in the steady grip of the man from the graveyard.

Troy raised the bat to brain JoJo.

“Troy,” the man said. The authority in his voice checked his swing.

“What?”

“He didn’t kill your dad.”

“What’s that to you?”

“He isn’t worth going to jail for.”

“He needs to pay for what he did to my old man.”

“He just did. He won’t be inking anybody for a while now with that broken hand.”

“Nobody asked you.”

The man’s fierce green eyes didn’t ask anything, either.

“Listen to him, boy,” JoJo hissed, teeth clenched in pain.

Troy looked around. The two other men had hobbled to the back of the shop, tending their wounds, no longer a threat. He gripped the bat tighter. Wanted to piñata the fat man’s skull and watch the candy spill out.

“Knowing when you’ve won is half the battle.” The tall man opened the pistol cylinder and dropped the big shells onto the floor. “Killing him will only hurt you in the long run. Trust me, kid. If I thought he needed killing, I’d do it myself.”

They left JoJo on the floor, alive.

But two minutes later, JoJo’s big custom pickup with the orange painted flames was burning to the ground.

The man had to give Troy at least that.