by
Robert T. Tuohey
Walt was barely listening. Occasionally, he glanced up to the front, into the barroom mirror some few feet away. The kid was talking, slow, sincere, but with hesitation.
No, it just wouldn't cut ice. Transitions were damn tricky things. The shop needed an experienced man, or at least a guy with a good track record behind him. An honest look and a new tech diploma just weren't enough to gamble on.
Walt stood, placing a bill on the counter with a nod to the bartender.
“Sorry, kid,” he said. “You know, I've got nothing against you. But for that job, I've got to be sure. I just don't know if you're up to speed for it.”
Before Eddie could say a word, Walt had turned and was walking toward the door. Confused, Eddie half-stood. At least he had wanted to pay for the beers. He hadn't even managed that.
Quickly making up his mind, he moved toward the already closing door. Although the man had decided, he could say thanks for hearing him out.
When Eddie pulled open the heavy, red leather-padded door, he was surprised to find three rough-looking characters blocking his way. All were tall, heavy-set, and grimy to the bone. They didn't seem to notice Eddie; all three were looking at Walt, who was standing just a couple of steps away.
“Watch it, old man!” snarled one of them. He pointed a thick finger at Walt's face, taking a step toward him.
Walt's jaw tightened and his eyes set. Three to one, with a lot of years in their favor, is bad odds. Well, shit happens. And then there's nothing for a man to do but stand his ground.
A tense moment passed.
“Right,” Walt said, and turned to walk away.
And just as he did, the hoodlum let go his best sucker-punch. It caught Walt on the side of the head. The impact was glancing, but it had some weight behind it. Stunned, Walt stumbled, but his fists came up and he turned into his attacker, swinging hard.
All three now closed on their victim, fists and boots flailing.
With a bellow, Eddie launched himself forward, firing a straight, solid right at the nearest punk. The punch slammed into the man's ear, causing him to fall away, howling in pain. Eddie now made to grab for the next man, but a tremendous crashing from behind caused everyone to stop dead.
The bartender, with a much-scarred baseball bat, was banging on the side of a huge metal garbage dumpster.
“Cops are on the way, boys!” he yelled threateningly.
The right words, in the right place, with the right amount of force behind them, are a magical combination.
Scrambling, cursing, slipping, the three punks piled into a battered pick-up truck and roared out of the dark parking lot.
The bartender heaved a sigh of relief (he'd never touched the phone), and stepped up to Walt.
“You alright, Walt?” he said.
The side of his face was a bit swollen; he moved his jaw tentatively.
“Yeah, Tommy, I'm ok. Thanks.”
Walt then looked at the younger man, standing to the side.
“Your name's… Eddie,” he said slowly.
Eddie nodded.
“Yeah, Eddie, show up tomorrow morning, we start at eight.”
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