Inside Outt

little slow about that kind of thing. Maybe you can explain it to me.”
    Ben could tell by a dozen tiny signals the guy wasn’t a fighter, just someone who’d gotten used to intimidating people with his size and demeanor. Some guys like that, when they realized they’d treed a bad one, would find a lame way to back off and save face. But Ben didn’t see any of that kind of recognition in Dreadlocks’s eyes. Well, every would-be hard-ass fucks with the wrong guy eventually. Looked like Ben was going to be this one’s first.
    Dreadlocks looked at Ben and frowned. Ben thought of something one of his instructors had once taught him, something he’d already known from innumerable street fights as a kid. But he liked his instructor’s formulation anyway:
    When faced with violence, make sure you hit first, soon, early, and often.
    Didn’t look like Dreadlocks had received that particular memo. Well, it was never too late to learn.
    Dreadlocks uncrossed his arms and stepped in closer. Ben knew the stance was supposed to look confident, and he supposed it did. But it was also extremely stupid. It left the guy’s whole body open to attack.
    “I’m gonna ask you—”
    Ben didn’t wait for the rest of the question. He threw a hand forward like a guy pitching a softball. There was a nice, satisfying impact as his palm connected with Dreadlocks’s package. Dreadlocks made an
oomph
sound and doubled forward, his eyes bulging. Ben spread his fingers, raked in everything in the neighborhood, and squeezed extremely hard. The sound Dreadlocks was making changed to
huuunnnnhh,
and his face turned as scarlet and stricken as that of a man having a coronary. He wrapped his hands around Ben’s wrist but Ben didn’t let up for a second.
    Ben looked around to make sure Dreadlocks didn’t have plainclothes backup and that they hadn’t drawn the attention of any of the uniformed security up front. He didn’t see anyone. They were lucky the bar was relatively quiet at this hour, the security posture accordingly relaxed.
    “I’m sorry, what did you want to ask me?”
    “Hnnnnuuuunnnnnhhhhh,”
Dreadlocks said, grimacing.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t speak
hnuh.
But let me ask you something. Answer in English, okay? Is Taibbi here?”
    “He’s… here…” Dreadlocks said, sounding like a human steam kettle.
    “Good, I thought so. Now, in a second, I’m going to let you go. You try asking me any more questions after that, I’m not going to be so easy on you. Okay?”
    “Okay,” Dreadlocks wheezed.
    Ben let go and Dreadlocks dropped to his knees, clutching himself and making retching noises. Ben stepped past him through the curtain. Paula caught up and said, “What the hell was that?”
    Ben glanced at her. “Just trying to break the cycle of violence.”
    “You call that breaking the cycle of violence?”
    “Well, there’s no more violence, is there?”
    “How are we going to get any cooperation after that?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t usually think that far ahead.”
    Ben swung open the door and stepped into a small, rectangular room, only slightly better lit than the bar outside, Paula just behind him. A man was sitting in an enormous leather chair facing the door, leaning back, his legs up on a wooden desk, tooled-up cowboy boots crossed at the ankles. He had a head of shaggy gray hair, and small, strikingly blue eyes set back deeply under a craggy, protruding brow. He didn’t flinch when Ben and Paula walked in. Instead, he pulled a few leaves off a plug of chewing tobacco from a pouch and casually eased them up between his gums and cheek. He closed the pouch and tossed it onto the desk. Then he slowly worked the wad into place with his tongue, watching them silently.
    Taibbi,
Ben thought. In his experience, any man who could be as relaxed as this one when two strangers barged into his office had a weapon within arm’s reach. If the guy’s hands went under the desk or into a drawer or anywhere else, Ben was ready to upend the desk and dump it on him.
    “Who are you?” Taibbi said after a moment, in a deep Texas drawl.
    Ben looked at him. “Friends of Harry McGlade.”
    “Harry McGlade doesn’t have friends.”
    Ben realized that was probably true. “Acquaintances might be a better word.”
    Taibbi squinted. “All right, Harry McGlade’s acquaintances. What the fuck do you want?”
    Ben said, “Information.”
    Taibbi cocked his head and regarded them for a long moment, as though trying to