Yesterday's News

worried about me competing with them to take over when Bunny goes, and so when it’s time I can get them before they even think about getting me.”
    “I didn’t get the impression from Bunny that you guys were in a growth industry. One worth preparing for and protecting against competitors.”
    “It is if you do it right.”
    “Meaning kiddie porn, that sort of thing? For the VCR crowd?”
    “I don’t know nothing about that.”
    “Then how about an answer to my original question. How the hell did Jane Rust ever get involved with somebody like Coyne?”
    Teevens took a minute. “I think maybe for Charlie, this Rust broad was the real thing. But she had another boyfriend, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Guy over to the Redevelopment Authority.”
    “So I understand.”
    “Yeah, well, I understand from Charlie that there were some problems there.”
    “At the Authority?”
    “No. Well, maybe. I don’t know about that. I’m talking the boyfriend himself.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The Rust broad told Charlie about it. ‘Confidentially,’ of course. That fuckin Charlie, he run off at the mouth like a sewer.”
    “Told him what?”
    “About the boyfriend. Seems there was more heat than meat.”
    “You mean the sex was bad?”
    “The worst. The boyfriend just couldn’t get it up.”
    “Impotent.”
    “That’s what they call it.”

    I left Duckie at the bar and said good night to Bullet-Head at the door. Turning left, I walked to the closest of three liquor stores in sight. I bought a pint of cheap rye whiskey and circled around the block to the mouth of the alley behind the store.
    The alley was about fifteen feet wide. I heard some scuffling and laughing down aways. As my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I could see half a dozen pairs of legs sticking out from behind overflowing dumpsters and overturned trash cans. Then I picked out the source of the sounds.
    Three teenagers in matching varsity jackets were playing “keep-away” from a derelict. They tossed a booze bottle one to the other, the victim stumbling from boy to boy, always a toss slow.
    I walked down the alley toward them. The kid nearest me, who seemed about my size, stuck his foot out as the bum went blindly by him. Tripping, the derelict sprawled into a pile of loose trash. He slipped a couple of times as he tried to get back up. The laughing got louder.
    “What’s the joke?” I said.
    The nearest kid, the tripper, gave me a quick glance, probably seeing the brown bag in my hand. He said, “Fuck off, hairball. Unless you want to be next.”
    “Harsh words. But challenging.” I came even with Tripper, who squared around to face me. I set my bag on the ground. “There’s my bottle, boyo. Who’s gonna get the game started?”
    Tripper took a step backward, shaking his neck out and using the motion to check the position of his mates. The guy with the original bottle was turning it in his hands, a little shakily I thought. The other kid was looking back up the alley behind him, confirming his line of retreat. I guessed that Tripper was the only initiator in the trio.
    “Come on, fellas,” I said. “You guys are lettermen, right? I’m just the next level of competition. Who’s first?”
    Bottle said, “Cliff, maybe we oughta...”
    Cliff the tripper said, “Shut up.”
    Edging backward, Retreat looked behind him again. “Seems to me the team’s a little shy, Cliffie. Maybe you’ve got to lead by example here.”
    Cliff said, “Why don’t you fuck off before we hurt you, man?”
    “Hurt me?” I inclined my head toward the derelict in the trash, who was barely moving. “I thought this was just a little game you guys were playing. Just for laughs, you know? I didn’t realize you wanted to hurt anybody.”
    “I’m warning you, man.”
    “You’re gonna have to do better than that, Cliffie.” He tried to. He made like he was turning to review the troops again, but instead brought his right in an uppercut from behind his back. Sucker punch.
    I parried it inward with my right palm, shunting my body left and following with a half-force side kick to his stomach. He doubled over and dropped to his knees. I grabbed him by the back of his collar and crab-walked him over to the nearest pile of trash, pitching him forward into it. As he raised back up on all fours, I said, “You get the urge, Cliffie, better to throw up into the garbage.”
    He obliged me.
    I turned to the other two. “Cliffie here got a little too