Ric peeled himself away from the bar and the guy with the big arms took out a short-barreled Ruger .38 revolver. He showed it to me, then put it in his coat pocket just like they do in the movies. Ric didn’t bother with the 10mm. I guess he just brought it out on special occasions.

Charlie DeLuca was turning away as if he were going around the table to finish his tongue when he hit Joey Putata a wide, looping right hand that caught Joey blind and knocked him over a couple of chairs and down to the floor. Joey covered up and DeLuca kicked him in the kidneys and the back and the legs, yelling, “Piece of shit, rotten piece of shit.” He grabbed a fork from somebody’s plate and stabbed Joey in the fleshy part of the shoulder. Joey Putata screamed and Charlie went back to kicking him. Tudi and the bartender and the other guys watched, but took a step back as if they didn’t like what they were seeing and they were frightened that they might be pulled into it. Except for Ric. Ric glided up behind Charlie and put his hands on Charlie’s shoulders and mumbled until Charlie stopped kicking and cursing and was finally standing there, breathing hard and finished with it. Ric the cooler, talking down the nut case. Charlie went back to the table, sat, but stared at the plate as if he didn’t recognize what was in front of him.

The little bartender said, “Jesus.”

Ric straightened his jacket, then came back over to me and pushed me through the red naugahyde door out into the light. It took Tudi a couple of steps to catch up. I said, “He gets sort of carried away, doesn’t he?”

Ric said, “Shut up and let’s go.”

We went up along the street, then turned into a little alley. The alley was black and wet and gritty, with dumpsters and steel garbage drums sprouting like mushrooms along the base of the buildings. A couple of six-wheeler vegetable trucks were parked to the side, enveloped by restaurant steam venting from greasy pipes. Surly white kids and Puerto Rican kids in dirty aprons hung around outside of the kitchen doors, smoking and scratching at tattoos that someone had cut into them with Bic pens and sewing needles. Rotten cabbage was the big smell. I said, “Gee, fellas, I think I can find my way from here.”

Tudi said, “We get finished with you, mook, you ain’t even gonna be able to find the hospital.”

Ric didn’t say anything.

Tudi took the little .38 out of his coat pocket and pointed it at me and that’s when Joe Pike stepped out from behind one of the vegetable trucks, twisted the gun out of Tudi’s hand, cocked it, and pressed it against Tudi’s right temple. It had taken him maybe a tenth of a second.