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Highball.”
    Prouty touched his chin. “She appears to have suffered a mild contusion of the zygomatic process and upper-right maxilla region.”
    “Shit, she got her grill busted for some pain-in-the-ass bitch-city yaw-yaw,” Case Piece corrected.
    Paulie winced. “What’s bitch-city yaw-yaw? ”
    “You know. Yappin’, motor-mouthin’, jib-jabbin’ the way girls do.”
    “Oh, you mean, she was whinin’ so she got her clock cleaned.”
    “Yeah, Paulie, yeah.”
    Paulie peeked behind the couch, where Highball lay out cold. “Christ, man. She looks fuckin’ fifty. ”
    “Oh, sure, she be a little wore out in the face, but, shit, Paulie, she be our top dro’”
    “ What? ”
    “You know. Real dingo, man. Get’cha a ringer in yer dinger, get some motch in yer crotch. Queen’a bitch city, you know, our crownest dawgie drop. ”
    “ What? ”
    “I think he means she’s the gang whore, boss,” Argi said.
    “Oh, but…man,” Paulie continued to observe. “Her face is all wrinkled! She get many johns with a face like that?”
    “Shitload, Paulie, ’cos it ain’t the face, it’s the bone-covers, you know, the skin-suit. Highball, she be the boo boo head who got a pwizzle put some sizzle in yo swizzle’n make ya wanna drizzle.”
    “ Huh? ”
    “You know, got a pinktown honkie-monkey real boo-ya, uh-huh.”
    Paulie frowned.
    “Means she’s a good lay, I think,” Argi said.
    “Well, fuck,” Paulie said. “Lemme check out the melon-stand, as they say,” and then he reached down to unbutton the girl’s overcoat.
    Before the first button could be unfastened, Highball abruptly regained consciousness. She glared at Paulie, then glared at Argi and Cristo, then jumped up, fuming. “Keep your fuckin’ hands off me, you asshole! Nobody touches me unless I say they can! Fuck! Who the fuck are you! You look like a bunch of greaseball, wop, olive-oil goombas!”
    All brows rose as silence fell swift as a guillotine blade over the room.
    Case Piece cleared his throat. “Highball. You the dopest poo-putt bitch I ever seen. This Mr. Vinchetti and his crew.”
    “Fuck them! The fucker was feelin’ me up while I was knocked out!” she yelled.
    Case Piece cleared his throat again. “These the dudes I jawwed about earlier. We work for them.”
    The silence thickened.
    “You mean, you mean,” she stammered. “The guys who…,” and then she cast a terrified glance toward the stump-grinder.
    “Yeah. Them dudes. So what you need to do and I mean, like, real split-lickety, is apologize to Mr. Vinchetti and his friends.”
    Highball’s blooming eyes beseeched the mafioso. “I-I-I-I’m sorry, sir.”
    Several moments ticked by, then, in visible disconcertion, Paulie walked slowly over to Case Piece, inclined his head, and whispered, “Case Piece. Your squeeze just called me an asshole, a greaseball, a wop, and an olive-oil goombah. Nobody calls me that. So you know what that means, right, pal?”
    Highball was already screaming as Argi hauled out the stump-grinder. Cristo grappled her and with very little effort abated her screams by the deft application of duct tape across her mouth. Next, he had her pinned to the floor by standing on her shoulders.
    Argi pulled a cord, and the stump-grinder revved up, belching exhaust.
    “Aw, fuck, Paulie!” Case Piece yelled over the motor-din. “She didn’t know who you was. This a bit… harsh, ain’t it?”
    Argi’s preposterously large muscles hefted the grinder’s roaring blade-head by means of the pivot and positioned it right over Highball’s face. The prostitute’s eyes couldn’t have been wider, and she bucked, kicked, and convulsed beneath Cristo in sheer fucking terror.
    “Yeah, maybe is it,” Paulie considered. “Besides, the blades on these things are expensive as fuck. Gotta replace ’em every couple of jobs.” He made a cut-throat gesture to Argi who, in turn, shut off the stump-grinder.
    “Thanks, Paulie,” Case Piece said, relieved.