The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

whom black jeans and a black T-shirt can only be accessorized with black boots and a black belt, both sporting pointed silver studs that had mostly fallen out like rotten teeth.
    Sitting on one side of the two girls was a beefier version of the same guy, also in black but his T-shirt had words printed on it, so he was probably the brains of the outfit. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the scene that must have ensued just prior to Jimmy’s backward tumble. Two greasy guys try to move in on the girls, ignoring Jimmy because he was about as intimidating as a Calvin Klein underwear model. Jimmy attempts to make the bad boys back off, and one of them changes the nature of the exchange with a quick punch.
    â€œHey,” I observed, using my best bouncer voice. I stepped over Jimmy’s prostrate form and he stared up at me blankly, not yet capable of processing thought. “That’s enough of that.”
    The guy with the goatee sized me up. I was considerably larger than he, but he looked anything but intimidated: Delighted, would be the best description. “Who’re you?” he challenged, his voice quavering with something I swear sounded like joy.
    â€œI’m the guy who’s telling you to leave,” I answered quietly, stepping into his space. I was aware of Jimmy’s playmates standing just behind him, their eyes wide as they regarded this exchange, and sucked in my stomach a little.
    The guy with the goatee didn’t back away, even though he had to tilt his head to look at me. He still had an odd smile playing across his lips, as if he had a secret he was dying to share with me.
    A change settled over the both of us, a realization. With twin motions we glanced over our respective shoulders—my opponent at his buddy still sitting with the girls, and me at Becky, a slight head shake telling her to take her hand off the telephone.
    â€œSo you think—” I started to say, but with a fast motion he struck me in the ribs hard enough to erase the rest of my sentence. The sparse crowd, most of them my friends, gasped a little.
    I rubbed my side and stopped talking, watching my opponent dance back on his feet. I stepped forward, following, bringing my arms up. I jabbed hard and hit the air where his head had been an instant before, which put me in a bad mood. He slid sideways, feinted with his open hands, and then slugged me with something. No, I realized as I staggered away from the blow, he kicked me. In the head, the guy actually kicked me in the head!
    I fell as hard as big guys are supposed to, the whole room echoing with the impact. Little points of light danced in a conga line across my vision, and the back of my skull joined the chorus of pain as I struck the floor. For a moment, the room seemed to grow dark, and as I lay there I imagined I was looking up at a hole in a large oak tree.
    He’s dead .
    No, I’m not .
    When I thought about it, I rolled away from his feet, but he wasn’t a stomper; it was too much fun to knock me down. So that was the secret he’d been so eager to share with me; he was some sort of martial arts guy.
    I reconstructed my stance a segment at a time, unhinging legs, then waist, then chest. Finally erect, I raised my hands.
    â€œCome at me, fat boy,” he snarled.
    â€œFat boy!” I halted and stared at him. “I weigh less than I did in college, for God’s sake.”
    â€œCome on, college boy,” he suggested.
    â€œBetter,” I muttered. I followed him around the room, accepting a couple of light hits to the face in order to set myself up for a gigantic, fight-ending punch, which arrived long after he’d jumped out of the way.
    â€œYou’re fighting his fight. You can’t do that,” the bear’s voice whispered in my ear.
    I whipped around. “Who said that?” I demanded.
    The crowd of watchers glanced at each other nervously. One of the women raised a tentative hand,