Page 18 of Domino
He gives me the finger, making me laugh. I take another swallow of beer and slam the bottle down on the bar. Getting off my stool, I walk to the doorway and step into the billiard room. Rip is there perched on the edge of one of the tables, talking on the phone. He looks over, but his eyes slide right off me. I lean against the wall, slipping my hands into my pockets, and wait for him to notice me. He finally looks up at me and I give him a nod.
“Yeah, lemme hit you back.”
He disconnects the call and slips the phone into his pocket. Rip stares at me for a long moment, sizing me up. He’s a short, lanky guy with acne-scarred cheeks, and limp, greasy hair. Rip doesn’t look exceptionally intelligent and I have to wonder what he’d be doing if he wasn’t out slinging dope. Probably flipping burgers.
“You Rip?” I ask.
“Who’s askin’?”
“Lookin’ for a taste of somethin’ good.”
“What makes you think I got what you’re lookin’ for?”
I shrug. “Word gets around.”
He licks his lips nervously and looks around. Rip looks unsure of me as he runs a hand through his hair, but the allure of money keeps him where he is rather than heading out the door like he should be doing. In his line of work, having a stranger roll up on you asking you to sell them some dope never ends well. These pricks are all the same… stupid.
“You a cop? Because by law, you gotta tell me if you’re a cop.”
Pretty sure that’s not how it works, but I pointedly look down at myself, at the way I’m dressed, then back up at him.
“Do I look like a cop? Seriously?”
“That’s what a cop would say.”
I snort and shake my head. “It’s what somebody who’s not a cop would say too, dumbass. Now, do you have some candy or not?”
He stares at me for a minute, swallowing hard. He’s clearly still on the fence about me, so I let out a long, annoyed breath.
“No, I’m not a cop,” I snap.
He frowns, but then nods as if he’s accepting my answer. Because you know, a cop would totally admit to being a cop when he’s trying to do an undercover drug deal. That makes total sense.
“So, like, what do you need then?” he asks.
“Whaddya got?”
He holds up a plastic baggie with white powder in it. A neon green smiley face is embossed on the front of the bag. Heroin, most likely.
“Fifty bucks,” he says.
“Come on, man.”
“Fifty. Take it or walk.”
I pull some cash out of my pocket and approach him like I’m going to hand it over. When I get close to him, though, I reach back then drive my fist forward. The sound of my punching him sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt. At least until the crack of his nose snapping fills the billiard room.
Rip staggers backward, dropping the baggie as he covers his nose with his hands. Blood squeezes out between his fingers, spilling onto and soaking into his black t-shirt. But then, Rip reaches under the flannel that’s wrapped around his waist, and knowing what’s coming next, I close the gap between us. I lash out with my foot, connecting it with his hand. He yelps in pain and the gun goes flying across the room, hitting the ground with a clatter as I deliver another kick to his ribs, forcing another wheezing cry out of his mouth, the air driven from his lungs.
Reaching down, I grab him by the hair and pull him up. I drive my fist into his gut, doubling him over with a choked gasp. Pulling him up again, I lean close to him, forcing him to look me in the eye.
“Blue Rock is our town, Rip. There ain’t no dealing in Blue Rock. None,” I say, my voice low and menacing.
His lips waver, and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, licking his lips. But he tries to stiffen up. Tries to make himself look unafraid of me. It’s a weak attempt, but hey, kudos for trying, I suppose.
Snatching his hand in mine, I twist it awkwardly. He grunts, an expression of agony etched into his features. Giving it another hard twist, I force him to cry out.
“I’ll snap your fuckin’ wrist right now. But I won’t stop there, asshole. I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body.”
