Page 89 of Antihero

He punched them now.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Yuh?”

The kid could barely talk. His brain, rotting inside the skull.

“You stupid motherfucker,” Manny hissed. “You fucked me.”

“Wha? Wud happened?” Taz didn’t sound particularly concerned. In fact, he sounded stoned.

“I’m in fucking MDC is what you did. ’Cuz of that dumb bitch you grabbed off the subway. She has a scary fucking friend.”

Bobbling sounds as the phone was handed over.

A different voice. Harder. “Dude, relax, relax.”

“It’ll blow over,” a third voice said.

He was on speaker.

Someone else: “Like when we dealt with that one crazy pastor.”

“This is no fucking pastor,” Manny said. “Far from it. And you guys are next.”

“No way he finds us. We’re fine.”

“You’re not fine. My whole operation is burned.”

Stuttering laughter, slow and medicated. “We’re fine. We can do this ourselves. We got the cameras. We got the dicks.”

More stoned sniggering.

The connection broke. A lobster-claw hand had hooked over the cradle switch. Meat swayed beneath the forearm, thick as a thigh. From behind, a yielding wall of flesh shoved into Manny, a stink like mildew wafting over his shoulder. A wash of cold shuddered through him, his sphincter tightening. He was afraid to turn around.

“I tol’ you to hang up, ese.”

Manny stepped away, eyes lowered. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

The fat man faced him, head cocked back, looking down his nose, breathing noisily through his nostrils. Manny felt the breeze of the exhalation. On the side of the man’s neck, 13 was inked in a Roman font. Three dots at the corner of his eye. Ms on his chin, both cheeks.

Mexican Mafia.

“Word is you a chomo.”

“Chomo?”

“A skinner, bitch. Diaper sniper. Kiddie fiddler.”

“No.” Manny backed away, glancing around for a correctional officer. “No, no, no. I was just a middleman. The money guy—an editor, bro. Like: film editing. Coding. A producer. That’s it. That’s all. Just a middleman.”

“So you make kiddie porn?”

“No, no, no. I didn’t. I don’t. None of the girls were underage, man.”

The fat man wet his lips. “Girls,” he said.

Manny was crying. He couldn’t help it. He’d shriveled up right there against the wall. “No, not like that.”