The Lost Coast

boots was leaning against the building, a cigarette burning in his hand. Larison logged him reflexively, noting long, greasy hair and a bad case of acne. A cook or bartender, ducking out back from one of the bars for a tobacco break? Maybe, but he wasn’t near a door. And he was watching them, not with idle curiosity or bored disinterest, but with a kind of focus Larison didn’t like at all. The hobos he’d seen out front had felt like regulars. They wouldn’t try to rob someone so close to where the cops would roust them for questioning. A drifter, like himself? Maybe. But he looked more like a student. Which would have downgraded him on Larison’s threat assessment scale, but there was that focused way he was watching them.
    They made a left past the shack, stepping off the paved alley and onto bare gravel. Larison didn’t like that their footfalls were now causing audible crunching while the guy against the wall would be able to approach quietly from behind. He glanced back and sure enough, the guy had come off the wall and was moving in their direction. He was holding something long in one hand—a lead pipe, Larison thought. Which meant he didn’t have a gun. Ordinarily, this could have been fun, in a
retard-brings-a-pipe-to-a-gunfight
kind of way, but tonight it was a problem. The bouncer had seen his face, twice. He’d actually talked to the bartender. And of course there was Seth. Whatever happened, he couldn’t just shoot someone. He couldn’t kill anyone, period.
    There was a faded wooden shed on their right, a small parking lot with a half dozen cars, one of them presumably Seth’s, just beyond it. Larison was about to warn Seth there was going to be trouble and pull him around to the other side of the shed, from where Larison would be able to ambush the guy with the pipe, when another guy in a hoodie stepped out from the spot where Larison had been planning to go. This one, too, gripped a pipe. He smacked it against his palm and grinned, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “What the fuck do we have here?” he said in a weirdly squeaky voice.
    Larison stopped short and resisted the urge to create distance and draw the Glock. The pieces all fell instantly into place:
Not muggers. Muggers don’t display pipes because a pipe isn’t a psychologically terrifying weapon. And a mugger’s interview opens with a distraction question or victim-suitability-test question
—hey man, got a light? Hey man, you know how to get to 8 th Street?—
not with an overt challenge. No. Not a mugging, just a game of Bash the Fag, and shy, sweet-faced Seth, or whatever the fuck his name really was, with that beautiful smile and eyes that had flashed eagerness at the prospect of leaving the bar with an interested stranger, was the bait.
    All of which Larison understood in less time than it had taken Squeaky to finish talking. And he understood, too, from that time when he was a teenager, that the object of the game for these guys wasn’t just to inflict a beating. That was the actual act, yes, but they would also want to enjoy the foreplay of fear and humiliation.
    Which was a shame for them, really. Because Larison had never been into foreplay. He was all about getting straight to the main event.
    He heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. In his peripheral vision, Larison saw Seth edging away. Squeaky smacked the pipe against his palm again and looked past Larison at his approaching buddy. “You see this?” he said. “We’ve got—”
    Larison stepped in. He swept his left hand up, outer edge forward, taking hold of the pipe alongside Squeaky’s grip, and shot a right palm heel up under Squeaky’s jaw. Squeaky’s head snapped back and Larison raked his eyes with his fingers, simultaneously twisting the pipe counterclockwise, ripping it free from his grip. Squeaky made a weird squawking sound and Larison changed direction with the pipe, getting his shoulder under it, bringing it up like a surface-to-air missile and stabbing it into Squeaky’s balls. Squeaky rose up on his toes from the force of the impact and the breath was driven out of him. His eyes bulged so violently that if Larison hadn’t known better he would have thought they might pop out.
    Larison pulled back the pipe as though reversing a sword thrust and spun to face the first guy. Acne Boy’s face was a mask of confusion and fear. He had skidded to a halt when he saw what happened to his buddy, and was now starting frantically to backpedal.