Ray

LVIII

TWO thugs were looking for me when I got off work today.

Here’s something.

“We got reason to believe you let our uncle die when he coulder been saved.”

That old case several months ago. I was guilty.

“One of them nurses that was close to our family told us,” said one guy.

“We going to make you a flat doctor,” said the other one.

They were bikers and wore leather and studs and wrist guards. Two black-and-silver Harleys behind them. I felt very sleepy.

I said, “Yes. I let the old mean son of a bitch die.” I was too tired to lie. I said, “Come on, boys. One of you will get hurt bad, but there are two of you.” I was staring them down. They were huge, grimy creatures. The huger one was wearing a tattoo on his arm — skull and crossed swords.

Death is everywhere. Why do these killers on motorbikes think they have the corner on it?

“Come on,” I said. “I’m full of death,” I said. “Come and get it.”

“Huh?” said the grimier thug. He was one of those hairy men who go out of their way to be ugly. His hair was to his shoulders and he had a bald spot on the top of his head.

“Yes!” I shrieked. “I come from the Navy and I know how to kill in a fight! One of you is going to get it. I don’t right now have the energy but to kill one.”

“Kill?”

“Come on!” I hollered. “Give it to me I” I took off my jacket.

They were not moving. Then they both moved fast and they slugged me around, mainly half-jabs to the belly. I never got a lick in and I fainted.

I guess this was justice in a way. I was sore when I came to, but to be truthful, I felt good. I was bleeding a little, but I felt fresh as sweet sixteen.

Such was my relationship with Westy at the time that she withdrew in disgust when I came home with the damage to my cheeks and forehead. There is a streak in some women that beats the shit out of a response to pain if the wounds are really sloppy. Even the old joys we knew could not abide against Westy’s sense of the sanitary.