As she rides by

Ford, one from each side, emerged Phil and Ted. Both were large. Both were wearing slacks and short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses.
    “Hi, there, boys,” I called out gayly. “Gee you guys got a sensational outfield this year—Van Slyke, Bonilla, and that guy Bonds, he’s murder.”
    “Who the fuck’s this clown?” the one who’d been driving said. His pal shrugged. “Well, we better fucking well find out, and fast,” the driver said. His pal gave him a look and began innocently drifting off to one side.
    I dropped the bag, pulled out my weapon, assumed the classic stance—legs apart, knees slightly bent, free hand supporting the gun hand’s wrist, and said, from a distance of maybe ten feet, “Hold her right there, boys.” They both froze for a moment, then the talkative one straightened up slightly and put on a big grin.
    “Shit, man, what’s all this?” he said. “You gone nuts? We just want a word, is all.” He began to take another step toward me; his pal remained motionless. I put a bullet into the gravel right between his two expensive sandals; he stopped in his tracks.
    “Hands on your heads, boys,” I said. They complied. “Now, you,” I said to the chatty one. “Nice and easy, unbutton your shirt. Use your left hand, if you know which one that is.”
    “Fuck is this?” he said.
    “Time for a few rays,” I said. When the shirt was unbuttoned, I said, “Now take it off and chuck it behind you.”
    “The fuck are you, anyway?” Off came the shirt; all he had under it was a hairy chest.
    “Interflora,” I said. It took an exceedingly careful five minutes before I had them both stripped down to the buff, the total buff, too, and aside from their clothes, that included one hunting knife worn by the big mouth in a leather sheath strapped to one leg, two watches, four rings, two pairs of sunglasses, and one gold coin on a neck chain. Oh yes: There was also one belt, leather, with fancy buckle, in which, in a so-called secret compartment in the back, I discovered thirty $100 bills, each folded in half lengthways. When I folded them in half the other way, they just squeezed into my worn old pigskin wallet. I then used the belt to make one tight bundle of all their belongings, figuring they’d be easier to dispose of later that way. Then I sat the boys down on the gravel a few feet apart, back to back, and leaning against the uncompleted front wall of the house.
    During all this, the mute remained silent. His associate did not. His associate seemed to be annoyed at something. He used vile language. He blustered and ranted. When I stood up to chuck their stuff into the Mercedes, he shouted, “Shit, man, not my Rolex, too, it’s worth four grand, easy!”
    “Bet the reward’s five,” I said. I left them sitting there while I went to check out their car; where could they go, even if they wanted to see how accurate I was with a handgun from, say, thirty feet? It was me or the sea or a bare-ass scramble up one of the cliffs on either side. As it happened, they stayed put. I didn’t find any artillery in the Ford (I’d found none on them, either), but I found a set of golf clubs in the back seat—no law against that, and slightly more plausible than baseball bats for boys of their age. I broke three of them bashing up all what I could bash of that nice powerful V-8 engine I found under their car’s hood. Worked up quite a glow, too. And Louis the Lip’s genuine bone-handled hunting knife sure sliced through those radials like butter! When I was done, I pocketed the Ford’s keys and strolled back to them.
    “Got the time?” I asked. The mute almost smiled. “Oh, god, I forgot,” I said, checking my own watch, which was not a Rolex Oyster, by the way, but a Miss Piggy timepiece Santa had left in my stocking the previous Noel. “Already? How time flies, eh guys? What time’s your appointment? Noon, isn’t it? Let’s see. It’s ten-thirty now. Wonder how long it’ll take you city types to walk three and a half miles over hot gravel? Then of course, you got that lane to go down a couple more miles before hitting the first house. Bet the little woman is going to be mighty surprised when two naked men knock on her front door and ask if they can please use her telephone. I bet she’d call the cops in a minute. Hell, she’d probably call in the National Guard, too, one look at you two.”
    “Have your fun, fucker,” said guess who.
    “Do not worry about me,” I said.