New Orleans Noir

silence, until he added, “Look, Mikey, that was a real stand-up thing you did, come back to get me.”
    “Sure.”
    “No, I mean it. Four of them, one of you. Even if you had a gun. You didn’t know what kinda weapons they had. You saw a knife. Hell, they had crowbars, sledgehammers, all kinda stuff.”
    “I never thought about it.”
    “That’s what I mean. You come back for a guy you don’t know, some fare you picked up. You coulda just gone home. That’s real stand-up stuff.” He brushed his knuckles across Mike’s arm. “I appreciate it, man. I mean it.” He limped along, grunting every few steps with the effort.
    It was true, he’d gone back without a thought for his own safety. He couldn’t just run away from a man getting kicked like that, who could have been killed. He would never have known whether the guy was dead or alive. His thoughts careened around his brain, and his emotions with them—afraid when he shouldn’t be, not afraid when there was good reason. Maybe he didn’t think right, not like other people. Maybe he’d gone back because the guy was a fare, no other reason than still hoping for a payday.
    Christ, where was that button on the side of his head? He needed to turn it off.
    “Yeah, I guess they could have killed you.”
    “Nah,” the guy said, “I’m the meal ticket.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Not much of a businessman, are you, Mikey?” The arrogance—Judas Priest, Mike wanted to kill the asshole. “I get the work, collect the money, they gut the houses, I pay them.”
    “The way I read it, you’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”
    “Whatever you say, Mikey. You saved my life, okay? I’m telling you I appreciate it.”
    He said that, and all Mike felt was the weight of the gun against his back. “I didn’t save your life. They let you go before I ever got back.”
    “That’s what I mean. They could have killed you.”
    “You’re right, they could’ve. Instead, they took all their belongings, all those crowbars and sledgehammers, their ice chest, clothes, and they took the first ride out they could get.”
    The guy stopped dead. “So what’s your conclusion here? You scared them off?”
    “No, hombre , I’m suggesting that you need to reconsider just who the meal ticket is. The Mexicans have vamoosed . They aren’t coming back.”
    “Okay, I get it. You don’t need to tell me three ways to Sunday … Fuckin’ asshole,” he added under his breath. He started walking again.
    Mike clutched the guy’s shoulder and stopped him. “You calling me an asshole?” He held the lantern up so it lit the man’s face.
    “Get that thing outta my face.” He pushed Mike’s arm away and started moving again, limping down the street a little faster, trying to get away from Mike.
    The lantern swinging at this side, Mike took a long step and caught up with him. “What’s your hurry? We got a long way to go. You better pace yourself.”
    “Pace myself right outta this goddamn place,” he mumbled.
    “What—back to Jersey?”
    The guy walked, his head down. He grunted with each step.
    “You mean you’re leaving the land of opportunity? One small setback and that’s it? What about that house back there? The one the Mexicans didn’t finish gutting.” Mike had read all the warnings about rip-off contractors.
    The big businessman tried to go faster, but Mike lengthened his stride and walked comfortably next to him. “All you have to do is go down to Lee Circle and hire another crew at the gas station.” The illegals gathered there every morning, holding up signs for work.
    The man wouldn’t talk to him. He was going to leave the city, leave people who had paid him in good faith.
    “You have any other houses lined up?” He waited a second then went on. “How ’bout it, buddy. You gonna return the money?” He held the lantern up again, leaning so he was in the man’s face.
    He didn’t see it coming. The guy from Jersey back-fisted him. Mike felt a tooth go. Blood filled his mouth.
    The man grabbed the lantern from Mike’s hand. “Who’s gonna make me, huh? You?” He swung the lantern and threw it. It shattered against the side of the house they stood next to. Mike smelled gas. All the dry debris beside the house burst into flame. It pushed Mike back several steps, into the street.
    The man was on him, hands all over him, feeling for the gun. As hard as he could, Mike kicked him in the shin of the bad leg. The guy landed full weight on his