Six Easy Pieces Read Online Free PDF Page B

his keys to the garage for the night.
    I unlocked the side door and turned on the radio in the mechanics’ office. I switched on the office light and left the rest of the garage in darkness. Then I set myself up in a corner to the left of the door. Between my knees I had a baseball bat. On my lap was the .38. That was eight-fifteen.
     
     
    IN THE DARK I HAD TIME to ponder my situation. There I was, waiting for more trouble than most citizens ever know. I had taken on Mouse’s name and I was acting like him. It felt good, way too good. I expected Emile Lund to come in that door and see the light and hear the music. He’d be with one or two henchmen, but I had the element of surprise. I was a fool, I knew I was a fool, and still I didn’t care.
    Raymond Alexander had been the largest part of my history. My parents were both gone before I was nine. My relatives treated me like a beast of burden, so I ran from them. I fought a war for men who called me nigger. The police stopped me on the street for the crime of walking. Raymond was the only one who respected me and cared for me and was willing to throw his lot in with mine, no matter the odds.
    I was sitting in that drafty corner because I didn’t want Mouse to be dead. Somehow by using his name I felt that I was making a tribute, even a eulogy, to his meaning in my life.
     
     
    THE IRIDESCENT GREEN HANDS on my watch said 11:03 when the door cracked open. Lund walked in alone. That worried me. If he’d come with a friend, it would have meant that he was cautious. A cautious man is more likely to be reasonable when facing a baseball bat and a pistol.
    Lund was wearing jeans and a windbreaker, further proof that he was the man who bombed my classroom. I let him take two steps before pressing the gun barrel against the back of his neck.
    “Hold it right there, man,” I said in a husky, threatening tone.
    Lund grunted and spun around, pushing my gun hand to the side. While he was concentrated on trying to disarm me, I hit him in the head with the bat. It was glancing blow and merely slowed him down. I hit him on the nose with the butt of my pistol, and he slowed a bit more. Fear was working its way into my gut because I realized that even though I was using Raymond’s name, I’d never be able to inflict the kind of pain that he dished out. I pushed the angry gangster and he fell hard.
    “Hold still, fool,” I said.
    But he ignored me and reached under the windbreaker. He was disoriented, so it was easy for me to kick the pistol out of his hand. He tried to crawl toward the gun, so I kicked him in the ribs. By this time I was getting sick. Nothing seemed to stop Lund. He struggled up to his knees and spat as if that would hold me off long enough for him to get his bearings. Blood was cascading from his nostrils, a high wheeze coming from his throat.
    “Stop!” I yelled, but he got up on one foot.
    I realized that I could either kill this man or run from him, but that I’d never subdue his spirit. He reminded me of a welterweight I’d seen, Carmen Basilio. That man would take punishment for twelve rounds or more, but he’d always come back, and in the last minutes he’d always win because his opponent was exhausted from waling away at the Italian boxer.
    I unleashed a right uppercut that lifted Lund to his feet. Then I hit him with a straight left hand. Mouse would have hit him with the bat, repeatedly. I knew then that I would have to honor my friend in some other way.
    Lund was unconscious, or nearly so. His eyes were half open and he was muttering something. I searched him and came up with his black book. I didn’t think that it would help me much, but it was all I could get from him.
    As I was going out of the door, Lund had gained his feet. He was still wobbly, searching the floor for his gun. I hurried out to the street.
     
     
    DRIVING UP CENTRAL, I pondered my foolish actions. I thought that I’d just flash a gun at the gangster and he’d give me