Shot of Tequila (6 page)

“Why should I pay to try and teach that dumb bitch retard something she’ll just forget anyway?”

“Then I’ll get a job and send her myself.”

“You little faggot. How you gonna get a job when you spend all your time in the gym, playing on the mats with all your tights-wearing, dick-sucking, homo buddies?”

Tequila got a job during the weekends, sweeping floors. He saved his money, and eventually was able to send Sally to a special school twice a week.

But the old man refused to let her go.

“I said she ain’t going, so she ain’t. Use your money to buy a pair of those lift shoes, so you ain’t so goddamn short.”

When Tequila turned eighteen, his father called Sally a retard for the last time. Puberty had come, and though he didn’t sprout up tall, all of his years working out and practicing gymnastics had turned Tequila’s body into a rock. Tequila liked making his muscles bigger, almost as much as he liked working the rings or the high bar. And he was getting noticed for it. Colleges began actively recruiting him. Even professional gymnastic coaches came calling, scouting for the Olympics. Tequila, for the first time in his whole life, was finally being appreciated by someone other than Sally.

“You’re too stupid for college, and you won’t make no money on the Olympic team. It’s non-profit, dummy. You should quit that crummy janitor job and come work for me at the plant. We can start you on the line making $6.35 an hour. Maybe if you do that I’ll think about sending your retard sister to school.”

“I’d rather eat shit than work for you,” Tequila told his father. “And if you call Sally a retard one more time I’m going to kick your fat ass.”

His father did a double-take. He’d been talked back to by Tequila before, but never insulted and threatened.

“All those trophies gave you a big head, you little prick. That will be the day when you kick my ass. And your retard sister can…”

That turned out to be the day. Tequila hit him hard enough to dislocate his father’s jaw. He shouldn’t have gotten up off the floor, but Ben Abernathy was a pig-headed man. He went for his son, anger masking pain. Tequila ducked his father’s punch and gave the man ten broken ribs, a busted nose, a fractured pelvis, and a concussion before he finally stayed down. Then he dragged his father into the street and left him unconscious in an alley.

Ben Abernathy was discovered by a jogger. He was rushed to the hospital, but died en route. Of a heart attack, which may or may not have been a result of his fight with Tequila. When Tequila was given the news he felt nothing. No guilt. No resentment. No elation. The fact that he might have been the one that killed him didn’t bother Tequila a bit.

Tequila hadn’t expressed any emotion over anything since childhood; happy, sad, or anything in between. He laughed occasionally, if something was funny, but true joy always eluded him, even when he won gymnastics championships. Tequila had fought so long to control his emotions that sometimes he wondered if he had any left.

He sold his father’s house, and with the money sent Sally to a live-in institution for the mentally handicapped. It was in Nebraska, and he’d looked at a dozen schools before finally deciding on this one. Its reputation was excellent, and its staff seemed to genuinely care.

He signed her up for two years, visiting every weekend that he could. Then he went off to pursue Olympic gold.

Two years later he picked up Sally with two bronze medals and a silver medal to his name. With the money he had left over from the sale of his father’s house, Tequila rented an apartment and hired a weekly care-giver. Then he got a job teaching gymnastics at a local YMCA.

A case of mistaken identity changed his life.

The apartment Tequila and Sally had been living in was in a bad neighborhood, all they could afford. After four years without visitors, Tequila was awoken one night by someone banging on the door. He got up to investigate just as the door burst inward.

Standing in the doorway were two large, burly men. They wore tailored suits and each boasted enough facial scars for an entire football team.

“We want the money, Jackson,” one of them said to Tequila.

“Then go find him. I’m not Jackson.”

The thugs snickered. They had never seen the man Jackson they’d been sent to collect from. But they were told that this was his apartment, and that Jackson was a short man. A very short man.

“Not Jackson, huh? Who are you then? One of Santa’s little helpers?”

The thugs snickered again.

“My name is Abernathy. Tequila Abernathy. You guys have the wrong apartment.”

“Sure we do, Mr. Tequila. Couldn’t you think of a better name than that, Jackson?”

“Marty sent us,” said the other one. “We want the three gees, or we have to break your legs for you.”

The thugs stepped into the apartment. Tequila considered his options. The building was seedy enough that no one would have bothered calling the police when the men broke in, out of fear of getting involved. But if Tequila could prove to these guys that he wasn’t Jackson, he might be able to avoid an incident.

“My wallet is on the kitchen table,” he told them. “It has my ID in it. I’m not Jackson.”

“It better have three grand in it,” the thug on the right said. He walked past Tequila and entered the kitchen, picking the wallet up from the counter.

“Seven lousy bucks.” He frowned. “I hope you have more hidden around this dump, Mr. Jackson.”

“Look at my Driver’s License. My name isn’t Jackson.”

“Sure it ain’t.” The thug pocketed the wallet without looking at it. “Now where’s the money?”

“Kill-ya!”

Both hoods spun at the sound of Sally’s voice.

“You got a bitch in here, Jackson?”

“My sister. She has Down Syndrome.”

“You mean she’s one of those mongoloid freaks? How is she gonna kill us? Does the retard have a gun?”

“Don’t call her a retard,” Tequila said.

“Or what? You’ll throw us out?”

“I’m going to throw you out anyway. But if you call her a retard again I’ll break your legs first.”

“Louie, you go take care of the retard. I’m gonna kick this little shit’s—”

Tequila took two quick steps and scissor kicked the big man in the face. The thug fell hard, and Tequila rolled to his feet a heartbeat later and threw a quick jab into his partner’s soft belly. The partner doubled over, and Tequila snapped an elbow up into his chin and knocked him onto his ass.

The first guy sat up, shaking his head.

“You little—”

Tequila didn’t let him finish. He did a handspring and landed directly on the man’s knees, breaking them both. The man screamed in horror. Tequila silenced him with a chop to the throat.

The other thug rolled drunkenly onto all fours, and Tequila focused all of his energy into his right hand and power-fisted the man in the side of the head, knocking him out as well.

It was all over in less than fifteen seconds. Tequila searched the men, taking their ID, their guns, and his own wallet back.

“Kill-ya!”

“Hold on, Sally!”

Using their ties, he knotted their hands behind their backs and then used their belts to bind their feet. Then he called the police.

When the cops came the thugs were still out. An ambulance had to haul them away.

The next morning Tequila got a phone call.

“You the guy that beat up my two men?”

“Yes. Not only were they slow, they were stupid. They had the wrong guy.”

“I know. Sorry about that. A misunderstanding. Is it true you’re a midget?”

“I’m five-five.”

“And you did that to my two best guys barehanded? You into karate or something?”

“Or something.”

Tequila had been taking classes in karate, judo, and boxing at the YMCA over the last few years, and found he was equally adept at the fighting arts as he was at gymnastics.

“No shit. Can you shoot a gun?”

“I’ve never tried. Who is this?”

“Name’s Marty. Marty Martelli. You know, I could use a guy good with his fists. I’ve got a shortage now, since you put two of my people in the hospital.”

“I said I’ve never shot a gun.”

“You can learn. I pay my men seven hundred a week, plus percentages. Meet me over at Joe’s Pool Hall over on Fullerton if you’re interested. I’ll be there until six.”

“How do I know you won’t try to kill me?”

“Buddy, I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

And Marty hung up.

After the care-giver showed up for the day, Tequila called in sick at the Y and went over to Jimmy’s.

The place was a grimy little hole in the wall, boasting only six pool tables, all badly in need of repair. But it was full of people. Bad people. Seedy people. Gang-bangers and ex-cons and low-life Italians with nicknames like “The Knife” and “The Weasel.” They all turned and eyed Tequila when he entered, several of them snickering.

“I’m looking for Marty,” Tequila asked the man closest to him.

The man motioned with his head over to the rear of the room. Tequila wove his way through the crowd, enduring several height cracks and giggles. In the back of the room, seated on the only chair in the place, was a pudgy, mustached man sporting thinning black hair slicked back over his scalp with some kind of oil. Around his neck were several heavy gold chains, and on his fat pinky perched a two carat diamond ring. He wore an expensive silk suit, open at the collar. His eyes were two cold black marbles, and they regarded Tequila impassively.

“You Marty?”

Two men flanking Marty’s chair reached into their jackets. Marty raised a hand to stop them.

“You that guy I just called?” Marty asked.

“The name is Tequila.”

Several of Marty’s entourage laughed.

“Well, Tequila, if you’re as talented as I’ve been led to believe, you’d be quite valuable to me. I’ve got a surplus of meanness in my little army, but a severe shortage of actual skill.”

“And what is it that you do?” Tequila asked.

More laughter.

“I like to think of myself as an odds maker.”

“You’re a bookie.”

“A very well-connected bookie.”

“And you want to hire me as a collection agent.”

Marty grinned. “Correct. If you think you can do the job.”

The large man on Marty’s right butted into the dialog.

“Come on, Mr. Martelli. This little shrimp couldn’t collect forty cents for a toll.”

“Do you think you can take him, Vincent?”

“No problem, Mr. Martelli. I’d squash him like a bug.”

“I’ll make you a deal, Tequila,” Marty told him. “If you can knock Vincent down in less than sixty seconds, I’ll hire you.”

“At the rate we discussed?”

“Yes.”

Tequila thought it over. That was four times as much as he made at the YMCA. It would mean a new apartment for him and Sally, around the clock care, maybe even a car. Tequila didn’t see any downside.

“Fine.”

Vincent stepped forward, shrugging off his jacket. He was a big man, with the over-developed chest and arms of a weightlifter. Everyone formed into a small circle, surrounding them.

Tequila looked for vulnerable spots on the man, but even his neck was thick and corded with muscle.

So he went for the one spot that he knew wasn’t muscular.

Tequila did a hand spring, landed on his knees before Vincent’s feet, and drove all of his weight into a fist aimed at the weightlifter’s balls.

He connected and Vincent screamed falsetto, swinging a big arm to swat Tequila away. Tequila rolled to the side, made his feet, and jumped up and twisted in the air, spin-kicking Vincent in the side of the head.

Vincent went down and didn’t get up.

The entire pool hall went silent.

Tequila, who hadn’t even broken a sweat, turned and faced Marty.

“How long was that?” Marty asked one of his goons.

“Six seconds.”

“I got five seconds,” said another.

Marty grinned, offering Tequila his hand.

“You’re hired. You start tomorrow. Be here at ten a.m. And let me have your Driver’s License.”

“Why?”

“Can’t learn to shoot a gun without having a gun permit, right?”

Tequila handed over his license. The next day he had his Firearm Owner ID and began his five years of employment under Marty the Maniac.

Which ended that night as Tequila slept.

M
arty Martelli was not your typical bookie. He didn’t have a head for numbers or point spreads or odds. He didn’t follow sports much. In fact, he hated gambling, except for an occasional game of poker with the people he paid to be his friends.

But Marty was exceptionally good at ordering people around. Not leading; a leader was someone who took charge and inspired hope and confidence. Marty had about as much charisma as a bowl of vomit. But he got things done. Partly out of fear. Partly out of a natural ability to delegate authority to the persons most suited to complete particular tasks.

Marty surrounded himself with talent in every field. He had three of the best accountants in the world, all constantly checking each other’s work. He had ins with all the important odds-makers and Mafioso. He had a dozen beat cops, a sergeant, two police captains, two Mayor’s aids, four aldermen, the assistant superintendent, and a judge, all happy to help out with any little problem he had. If they couldn’t help, even with all the money he gave them, Marty retained two very famous lawyers who could do everything but turn water into wine. And even that, with the right jury, was possible.